I Can Take A Hint

"Age wrinkles the body.  Quitting wrinkles the soul."

Yeah.  That's what I said.  I can take a hint.

Now, I'm not saying that when I take a hint, I act on it right away or anything.  I'm just saying I can take one.   Kind of like a nap, I'm thinking.

Wait.  Nothing like a nap, because it is well known that I cannot take a nap.  Bad analogy.  Oh man, and that's even the part of the SAT that I aced. 

By saying this, I don't want to imply that this is the first hint I've had, the first tug, the first nagging pointed finger in my back telling me to start blogging again.  But this one, well, it's a doozy (is that how you spell doozy?  doozie??).

It's not like I haven't been lonely.  Or missed writing.  Or reading.  Or all the ridiculous reading and linking and tagging and networking that leads to blog readership which in turn leads to motivation to keep writing.  Okay, I haven't missed that last one, you got me there.

It's been a long time, hasn't it.  Yup.  It has.

It's a common malady.  I'm seeing that.   As you know, I was all gung ho there for awhile.  And then it died out.   Or my life changed.  Or something.  As I've been considering coming back, I've meandered around the web, visiting some of the blogs that I loved and frequented during my gung ho days (which should be distinguished from my Gunga Din days, which are a completely different thing, though they do both involve a fair amount of carrying).  And, well, a lot of them ain't what they used ta be.  I'm pretty sad about that--they were great reading.  Some have just grown sparse, bare around the edges, while others have disappeared all together.  I guess what I'm saying is that I feel like I'm in some pretty damn good company (in the disappearing if not in the returning).  Hey, it's a first step with that loneliness thing, right?

But this isn't about going away.  It's about returning.  Again.

Believe you me, I'm asking the questions.  Why am I back?  Why am I trying to do this again?   Why say so, rather than just starting again?  Huh?

Well, first, because I can take a hint.  I told you that already.

Second, because the other night, I found myself watching Julie and Julia again (on TV this time--with ads, which I do NOT recommend, which is why I only wound up watching part of it).  I liked that movie.  And I remembered going to see it with friends--back in the day before they had a child and could do things like see movies--and smiling and laughing knowingly at her talking about doing a blog, getting comments, having "readers", and finding a construct that would move her to write daily rather than whenever she felt like it, which is really important because, as we well know, in today's ADD world if you don't have a structure for doing something all the time, it often doesn't get done, which is what Julie knew and so she decided to work her way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking.  I remembered how much fun it was, how much work it was, how it represented a tiny leap of faith that took place every single day, when I pressed "Publish", sending my words out into the middle of nowhere and everywhere, with trust.  It was a big deal.  I remember that now.

(by the way, Julie Powell's last blog post was more than  year ago (unless she's moved somewhere else, I'm lazy tonight so I'm not doing much digging).  So there.)

And third, because (this is a secret...shhhhh), well, I never stopped.  Yeah, I know that it looks like I stopped.  And I can't prove that I didn't, because there's no secret place --or worse yet, another blog, which would just be like infidelity, that would be wrong--where all the writing I did while I was stopped is located.  But I did write.  Every day.   Sometimes multiple times a day.   I even stayed on topic.   I wrote about the things I didn't (don't) get.    The trick was in getting them to come out the tips of my fingers.  Just wasn't happenin'.

So there I was, watching Julie and Julia and trying to keep track of the couple of hundred blog posts that were written in my head, or at least trying to get myself to stop writing them if I wasn't actually going to write them down, you know?, and then I got an email.  Because way back when, when I needed the structure that Julie Powell had (at least in her fictional persona) I found it in Nablopomo.  Write every day.  For a month.  Who can't do that?  It's 30 days, give or take a couple.  Sheesh.  If I can't do that....well then.  I have friends who do Nanowrimo, ferevvinsakes (and god bless 'em).

Yeah, that's who sent the email.  Nablopomo.  Because every month, they send a cordial little note saying what the theme for the upcoming month is, just in case you want to jump back on board (how nice of them!).  You don't have to follow the theme, it's just a crutch, in case you can't figure out what to write about, in which case you can write about the theme, which always seems harder to me than writing about something else, but there ya go.

So there they were.  In my mailbox.  And what did they say the "theme" was for September?

"Return"

Get that.   Like I said,  I can take a hint.

And so, as they say, I shall.

30 days.  Returning.   I can do that.

I'm Changing My Name To Bambi and Moving to the Woods

Once, a pretty long time ago now, one of my sisters told me a joke. No, it wasn't only that time that she told a joke, but you know what I mean. Grammar is an evil taskmistress. Now, I don't remember the whole joke (don't you hate it when people say that? Don't they know how to tell a joke?), but I remember the basic punchline, and I remember she thought it was really funny. As a youngest sister with an unacknowleged idolatry for those older, I proceeded to tell it ad nauseum, laughing loudly at the end, just like she did. (As I read this, I'm thinking it must have been a LONG time ago). For the most part, people just looked at me blankly.

Note to smart asses out there: No, that doesn't always happen when I tell jokes, even though I don't really tell jokes all that often--I tell stories, and they usually go over pretty well, unless I'm kidding myself, which is entirely possible.

Occasionally, after a pregnant pause, they'd say "I don't get it". And then I'd explain. Which, as you know, is pretty much like the crawling-on-your-belly-in-the-slime of jokedom.

The joke concerned one Fifi LaRue (occupation unnamed though implied), who introduced her parents, Mr. & Mrs. LaRue. That's it. Yeah, that's it. The whole thing. Are you laughing yet? Yeah, I didn't think so. No, I'm not gonna explain it to you.

Factoid: It turns out that there are nearly 10,000 people in the United States with the last name LaRue, which means "the street" (get it?). That pretty much shoots the whole thing to hell, even if you got it in the first place, which frankly, would make you an outlier, not that there's anything wrong with that.

Now, none of that is what I wanted to talk about, but was simply what they call, in my line of work, "the lead-in". Oh. Wait. Not in my line of work. But in somebody's, I'm sure. I'm referring to the title of this post in which (if you read it) I announce that I'm changing my name to Bambi. Now there are a subset of you gentle readers who, for lack of a better expression, have your minds in the gutter. You saw that title, and you thought I was ditching the glamorous life of blog-writing, consulting, responsible parenting, and all-round child development geek to take up the womanly art of stripping. If you know me in person, I'm sure it's something you've considered suggesting to me as a career choice, but you've just been too shy to mention it. That's okay.

(Wait, I have to catch my breath. It's winter, I have rhinitis, and I cough whenever I laugh too hard)

Maybe, to you, it comes with the name. You know, like Ms. Fifi there. Well, get over yourself, I am talking about the movie. Yeah, the deer one. Specifically, I am talking about a line: "I'll do it because you want to but not because you tell me to."

I guess what I'm really trying to say is: That's me. Obnoxious, right? Aw, go ahead, I've heard it all before. Sticks and stones, all that nonsense.

See, the thing is, I'm not really one for expectations. Or rules. Or authority. Or pressure. Or being supervised or watched. You get the idea. No (since you asked), it hasn't worked out all that well. But a leopard doesn't change its spots [apologies to Kipling]. And the thing is (True Confessions....ooh), I'm not like one of those normal people who dislike authority. Nope. Such things tend to stop me dead in my tracks. It's a little like that famous line of Groucho Marx about not wanting to belong to any club that would have me as a member. Kinda.

It's not exactly a source of pride (except when it is). Admittedly, it can really screw things up. And it has. Most importantly (and most unfortunately), it even happens when the feedback is positive. If it carries expectations, I'm out. Now, before you panic, don't get me wrong. I'm highly responsible and dependable, even though it sounds paradoxical in this context. I'm loyal, capable of tremendous commitment. Maybe it's just that no one could possibly have higher expectations of me than I do (or so I'm told). Or maybe not. I just like to set my expectations myself, that's really all.

The reason I mention this here is that, as some of you know, I was writing a daily blog for quite awhile. And then I stopped (for reasons not unrelated to this post). And then, just a couple of weeks ago, I came back. I'm glad to be back. And I started getting the kindest emails and comments, reminding me that people like my writing and are glad the blog is up and going again. You'd think this would be affirming. Encouraging. Well, sure. Instead, I couldn't write. And if I tell you this, you'll all stop telling me this stuff because I've just told you that it stops me, but it's also what sustains me. Hey, I told you it was messed up.

I'm gonna figure it out.

So that's why I'm sayin'....I'm changing my name to Bambi and moving to the woods. If they have wifi there (gawd, I hope so), I'll let you know how it's going.

Oh.

Uh-oh.

Hmm.

I just found out that the line is not from Bambi at all, but rather from Mrs. Piggle Wiggle. Oh. I've always heard it in Thumper's voice. I guess I should stop that. I mean, I understand where I got confused. Bambi is about a baby deer [insert visual and auditory image of children singing as they skip through the Alps dressed in drapery] that is traumatically separated from his mother and all the cute little animals that accompany him (even though I always think he's a her, just goes to show you how unnecessary that whole gender thing is) on his romps through the forest, and Mrs. Piggle Wiggle is about an older woman who lives in an upside down house surrounded by neighborhood children and who provides parents with magical cures for their childrens' obnoxious (but perfectly developmentally appropriate--I told you I was a child development geek, I can't help it) behaviors. See? It's practically like the same story! And it wasn't a rabbit that said it, it was a bird. A parrot. Both animals! See?

Shoot. Never mind, then.

Wow. I mean....Wow.

Oh, gawd, I can't believe I'm still talking politics. This isn't like me. I'll probably be sorry. I don't know what's come over me.

It's just that it's not all that often that I come across something that really makes my head spin. I mean, by this point in life, having been out for going on thirty years now, there's just not that much that is very surprising. The arguments against equal rights are the same, basically boiling down to "if we give gay and lesbian people civil rights, then everyone's going to want them!", a sentence that makes me laugh every time. Oh, to be sure, they're still there...the "next thing you know people are going to want to marry their pets" or "children are going to be taught the mechanics of homosexual sex in public schools". I bask in their extreme absurdity, which only weakens the stance of those who oppose equality.

The one thing that may have changed, though, is the public rhetoric. You see, the other side is aware of the irony as well, and they have shifted the discourse over the year, or, more to the point, they have dressed it in a more universally acceptable vocabulary (of course, the vitriol lies beneath a thin surface, but it's awfulnice of them to coat it with frosting so it takes a wee bit longer to burn one's ears off, gosh thanks.). You know the ones. Love the sinner, hate the sin. Some of my best friends.... What people do in their own homes is their own business, I just don't think the government should sanction it.

So, every once in a while, when someone really lets loose and speaks the words that blatantly and transparently expose that this is truly about fear, and about wholly irrational fear at that, it's really quite refreshing. I'm really all for honesty, so it's all good.

In this case, I am speaking of the defendant in the Prop 8 case that hid his tails between his legs, turned, and ran today, one Hak-Shing William Tam. He's withdrawing, well, because people are being mean to him. He says that he's starting to be recognized, and that's a problem because he gets harassed--it was so much better (yeah, this is actually what he's saying) when he was basically anonymous. Poor guy. Coming out of the closet can be rough. Don't we know it. So, he's going back in. Hey, it's happened before.

But get a load of this. This is it. The big tomato.

When speaking of the reason he felt it was important that California not legalize gay marriage, he said: ""Every child, when growing up, would fantasize marrying someone of the same sex." EVERY CHILD? Wow. (I know, I just can't stop saying it). You mean there are NO children who have a natural heterosexual orientation? Wow.

I have to say, I did not know this. I did not know that underneath, everyone, everywhere, secretly wants to be gay or lesbian, and that all they need is a little permission from somewhere--anywhere--and it's a done deal. I didn't know, really! I didn't know that heterosexuality was so inherently unappealing that the slightest temptation or opening (no pun intended) would turn the tables so that the 10% (or so) would be shifted to the other foot, so to speak, with the enormous majority being queer. Wow. And again, I saw Wow. That is interesting, no?

Next time I see my mom, my sisters, my in-laws, nearly all the folks I have worked with, my neighbors, I'm gonna ask them. I mean, I'd like to put all their (and their children's!) eventual coming out dates on my calendar. Wouldn't want to miss it or anything.

Tell ya what. Some of those very same purportedly heterosexual people are reading this, right here, right now. Just so you know, my door is open. There will be a prolonged amnesty period, don't worry about it. You know what they say, admitting it is the first step. Feel free to use the comments section. I'm here for you.

Oh, and 100 points (and valuable prizes) to the man who comes out as Mr. Tam's longtime or childhood crush. I'm so excited, I can hardly contain myself. Stay tuned, more wows to come.

As the Crow Walks

Some days, you need a reminder that the fastest way isn't always (or ever) the best way, that not all who wander are lost.

Some days, metaphors just appear, right in your front yard, just to make sure you get the point. Like a personal delivery service. Kinda handy, I gotta say.

I don't know exactly why I love this so much, but I do.

En-Couraging

Mary Daly died yesterday.

This wouldn't be my blog if I didn't write about her passing, and so here I am, doing my best to ignore the internal tug that would pull this blog out (waaaay out) of the sorts of things I usually write about and into the intense tension that is radical feminism. Yup, I could go there. Quietly, I do. Most of the people I know don't know that about me, that I could happily live and breathe the air of that discussion. I choose not to, probably because I am too sensitive to withstand the fight without crumbling, which does not mean I can't or don't or won't stand up for myself.

Most people know her as the woman, the theologian, who taught Feminist Ethics at Boston College, a Jesuit institution, and was eventually fired because she would not allow men to attend her course (she did offer them separate independent study). Actually, it's a little bit (or a lot) more complicated than "she was fired" but you can read the story yourself, so I won't belabor the details, except to say that the spark that lit the flame came from the hands of two male students who enrolled in her course not out of interest or desire to learn, but expressly to challenge her policy (neither had fulfilled the course prerequisite). One of the students was backed from the start by a right-wing conservative think tank, which proceeded to sue BC. 'Nuff said. And let's not even get started on the irony therein.

I thank her for her objection (vociferous, ever, always) to the term "forcible rape", as if there is any other kind.

I thank her for the deep humor expressed in Websters' First New Intergalactic Wickedaryof the English Language. I was a young woman when it was published, and I heard her read from it at Mama Bear's Books in Oakland, California. I was transfixed. Yeah, these days we all talk about "reclaiming" words, but I had never heard anything like it. Her discussion of dis-ease, gyn/ecology, and sin-tactics made me laugh, made me wonder, made me think. They still do. I gotta dig up my copy of that book.

Oh, yes, I know that she was and will continue to be immensely controversial, that many disagree with her, that she was criticized for her omission of people of color and for her negative statements about transsexualism. She wasn't afraid of critique. I admire her courage. As she said: "...courage is like -- it's a habitus, a habit, a virtue: you get it by courageous acts. It's like you learn to swim by swimming. You learn courage by couraging."

You learn courage by couraging. Who else could have said that?

The thing that strikes me most about her writing and thought is that it embodied a movement, an era, of which I was a part. A place that no longer seems to exist, or if it does, it is deafeningly quiet. She said unpopular things, but she said what she thought. That's what fierce means to me.

You know, we joke about "political correctness". We think we've transcended it, so many of us. We think we (and our politics) are progressive, sometimes even radical, and we are happy to flash our credentials through our use of "code words", our adoption of inclusive labels that reproduce like rabbits, our marches. And while all of that is going on, we have private conversations. I've been privy to many of them. Conversations that reveal that, individually, there are many of us that have problems with things we 're not supposed to have problems with. Few of us will say it out loud. We smile, we nod, we say "absolutely", we protest for the "right things" . We'd be outcasts, within our own communities, no matter how thoughtful the analysis or commentary.

Like someone else we know, eh?

Light a fire for her. And while you're at it, light one for truth and courage, too.

"There are and will be those who think I have gone overboard. Let them rest assured that this assessment is correct, probably beyond their wildest imagination, and that I will continue to do so."

All we ever get is Gru-EL!!

No, this picture isn't what I made. I wish.

So, if I post twice in four days about food, does that make me a culinary blogger? No, I didn't think so.

My friend Jane's blog, now that's a food blog. And then, of course, there's that one that sparked that little movie about Julia Child. Oh, I think we can safely call that one a food blog too. What? You mean all of our blogs are not going to be turned into multi-million dollar films? Sure.

But today, I just feel compelled. So here goes.

So, the other night, I was feeling all ambitious-like, and I thought I'd make some thai food. In the past, I've made some killer good peanut sauce, which is important because I am one of those people who judge thai restaurants based solely on their peanut sauce, which, honestly, is really crappy about 90% of the time. I've rarely had a great one. One time, I made a great one myself, but it was through experimentation. A little of this. Taste. A little of that. Taste. It was kickass great. But of course I didn't measure anything and I don't even know what the this or that are anymore because I don't even remember which recipe I started from, which wouldn't really matter anyway since I didn't follow it. It was good though. No. It was Good.

Maybe it's that I love Asian food. A lot. And I'm really working on cooking more and saving money, so I figure I'll make it myself. Mostly, I was spurred into action a couple of weeks back (and a couple of weeks before that) when the holiday craft cooperative of which I am a member (I make jewelry) closed up for the season. Oh. I guess that was just last week. Well, whatever. It doesn't really matter because this isn't about the gallery (well, then why did you mention it Robin? Well, I'll tell you!). It's about the Chinese restaurant next door to the gallery.

On opening day of the gallery this year, which was back in early November, I had a customer who I liked a lot. She is an artist herself, making these fabulous things with eyes in them...oh, never mind, it's too hard to explain. But she was great, as was her husband. They came into the store, as did many people, while they were waiting for a table at the restaurant next door. I asked her if it was good, and she said it was pretty good, but that there was one standout item that I had to promise her I would order because it was the best one in the universe. I promised her. When it was time for me to leave the gallery that evening, I stopped in next door. And did I order what she told me to order? No. Of course not. What does she know from Chinese food? Please. So I ordered something else. It was so-so. I stepped on to the get-over-myself train just as it was leaving the station, figuring that my so-so food was punishment from the gods for breaking my promise to this anonymous customer who liked my jewelry, so she must have good taste in everything. I should have thought of that.

The next time I went in, I ordered them. I had to. I'm bold, but I don't really like to tempt fate too many times, ya know? Oh. My. God.

Thank god the gallery was open for almost two months. I was ready to trade shifts...hell, to volunteer to take shifts at the gallery even when they didn't need me...just so I could be there more often so that I could order the chicken dumplings in peanut sauce. This may have been the closest I have ever been to being a junkie. Oh. My. God. I know, I said that before. But it's now been more than a week since I have had them and I just can't be responsible for what I say anymore.

Oh. This isn't what I was going to write about. Oh, well.

Now, the location of the gallery this year is not somewhere that I typically frequent. It's not really close to home and there's just not that many reasons for going there....other reasons, I mean. And the gallery, which moves around from year to year, might not be there next year. So this is it. Me and the dumplings. We're through.

I'm just not that strong.

I figured I'd better learn how to make them. I figured out (I think), through an internet search, that they are called Hunan dumplings. Not at this place, mind you, but in general. They're kind of like the Szechuan dumplings in oil that I've had in New York, but they're in peanut sauce, which I think the ones in oil are, too, which doesn't really make any sense, but there you go. I researched, I found what sounded like a good recipe. I bought the ingredients, made the dumplings, put them in the fridge because I had to run my daughter to some activity, and they sat there for a few days because things got hectic and busy and then I was worried about the chicken and disease, so I threw them out. Yes, I know people are starving in India, but that doesn't justify salmonella.

I never even made the peanut sauce. I know, I didn't know this was going to be such a sad story either.

So, what I'm saying is that I had peanut sauce on the brain. And I thought of that other great peanut sauce I made way-back-when sometime that I also don't know how to make, and I got the great idea to make thai food for dinner. I'm actually known as a pretty decent and adventurous cook, so this isn't as out there as it sounds.

I made the peanut sauce. Not the dumpling one. The satay one. It was bad. And too spicy. I made genuine sticky rice, which turned out great with a couple of exceptions. I made a chicken in lettuce cups-larb kinda thing with basil which was yummy. I made some fried wontons for the girl, as a nod to the whole dumpling idea, and because she loves them. And I made some broccoli, because we love veggies. It was ambitious. It was so-so. But let's get back to those couple of exceptions in the sticky rice department.

Making real sticky rice like the restaurants serve is a big process. It involves a lot of soaking, steaming, and cheesecloth. I soaked too much rice, so after I filled the steamer, I still had some left over. I had read on the web that some people made their sticky rice in rice cookers, so I thought well, hey, I'll just make the rest in the rice cooker and see what happens. This is where the plot thickens, so pay attention.

I'm not going to go into the part where the cheesecloth that was hanging on the outside of the steamer basket caught on fire. Yeah. Fire. I'm not going to talk about that, except to say that it was handled so suavely that the kid in the next room never knew about it. Point for me.

The sticky rice (the sort of traditionally steamed one) was good, though it stuck like crazy to the cheesecloth, which I don't remember happening before. Did you know that little tiny threads of cheesecloth are indistinguishable on the palate from sticky rice? Now you do.

The meal was not memorable, but it was a good effort.

But I bet you're wondering, hey, Robin, how did that sticky rice in the rice cooker turn out?

Well, lemme tell ya.

In the true spirit of world community and true friendship and cooperation between nations, let me tell you that the result was a fascinating (Euphemisms R Us) blend of mochi, risotto, polenta, and congee. Mmmm. I threw it in a rubbermaid container and put it in the fridge.

Remember how, at the beginning, I said that I'm trying to cook more and save money? Yeah. I am. So I can't just be throwing out an entire pot of rice (or what was rice when it went in, anyway). I'll make something out of it! Again, to the computer. What do people do with....let's just say overcooked rice. (Oh, important detail: This is Thai Glutinous Rice. Not sushi rice. Not brown rice, not basmati rice...with the emphasis on the Glutinous, just so you know). One guy on some site said "Turn it into risotto"! It was the most palatable-sounding idea I had encountered. I know how to make risotto, I like risotto, I have all the ingredients.

Here's what happened:


And here's what it looked like coming off the spoon:


Yeah. I ate it. What's it to you?

For some unknown reason, I sang songs from Oliver all evening.

Now I just have to figure out what to do with the leftovers. Anyone?

Feel THAT Power!

I'm not sure exactly what it is about this story that I just love so much. I mean, it's not every day that I post something from CNN, that bastion of the liberal elite media, owned and run as they are by messes of Republicans. All I've got to say is: any company that would hire or retain Nancy Grace (aka Satan) has red flags flyin' all over the place. So shoot me, this one's a good piece, watch it.

Is it that, in this era of instant fixes and short memories and action films, a significant portion of a third grade class from 1990 remembered this specific time and date, and went out of their way to show up and greet their teacher?

Is it that, in this time when the promise of a good job, the promise of till-death-do-we-part, the promise that no one in this rich country will go hungry--in this time of relatively empty promises, this teacher made a class of 8 & 9-year-olds a promise, kept it clearly in his mind for twenty years, and showed up, with faith that students would appear, even when he had no actual evidence that any of them would remember?

I don't think so. I'm not certain, but I think it's about the place that genuine loving kindness plays in a child's education. While we're so busy worrying about standardized scores and international competition, while we're so busy worrying about male teachers hugging students (yes, that is still an issue), while we're concerned about the fact that kids are always texting and "just don't read or write anymore" (isn't texting writing?), we forget about the role that love and admiration and respect play. Facts are one thing. Motivation is quite another. There is no question, in watching this video, that these now-almost-30-year-olds love their teacher, and that he feels the same. Who do you have in your life that knew (and respected) you in third grade and can still reflect that pride back to you?

And I think it's about the power of a great teacher. I have wracked my brain today, and I can't think of a damn thing more powerful than an amazing teacher. That's right. Nothing.

I bet you had one. Or maybe you have one now. It doesn't have to be a school teacher, of course. It could be a mentor, a guru, someone who taught you how to live through loss, a foster parent, a mom who made you feel like you could do anything, a friend who stood by you through thick and thin, teaching you what it means to have a real friend. Teachers come in all stripes.

Which brings me...you guessed it...to something I don't get. Words. As Enemies.

As you know if you have read my blog, I'm not, in general, a big fan of traditional schooling (yes, even alternative models). I'm not a fan, in short, because I have seen very little evidence of children being encouraged to think and direct their own learning rather than to meet some sort of arbitrary standard, be it standardized or generated by one person's view of "how things should be".

In that vein, I am a big fan of unschooling. I belong to several unschooling listserves, have attended an unschooling conference, and am still convinced that it is a phenomenal, if not the best, way to grow and learn and develop. That being said, there's one thing that bugs me. Many of the people on the lists that I read thoroughly reject (avec nausea) the verb "to teach", in all its conjugations. They seem unable to separate the word from its traditional form, which, come to think of it, could be a result of their not being encouraged to think critically or reclaim words. Hmm. I mean, a word is just a word, isn't it? For example, someone once said to me that, through our actions in relationships, we "teach people how to treat us". All socio-economic-political arguments aside for a moment, it's an interesting thought to consider. Unless, of course, you jump up in alarm, scream "No! We don't teach!!!". I don't get that. Okay, back to our regularly scheduled programming. Sorry. I do that.

I have had a few great teachers.

My first grade teacher, Mrs. Corbett, taught a first/second grade "split class". Her mother used to stop by--I don't remember why, but she greeted us warmly. In that age of times tables and Little Red Book/Little Green Book/Little Blue Book readers,


there were hands-on toys galore, a dress-up area, a zither with pages of tunes that one could pick out, and a 1950's counting abacus, which I have just got to say is aesthetically stunning.
I remember them like it was yesterday. I can feel those little round plastic discs in my hands, the nice little click they made when you moved them over to the other side (come to think of it, they were probably bakelite, and would make some darn fine jewelry....hmm....note to self). I remember the freedom to get up from your desk and go use them if you needed help figuring out a math problem. We had a patio (it was California) and we built an entire airport out of wood. My assignment was to bring in tinted cellophane for the windows on the control tower. And I built a plane. Yes, with real wood and nails. Yes, I was six. I gave Mrs. Corbett mints from Chicago that my dad brought home from business trips, with his suit smelling of airplanes (which I now realize was the smell of cigarettes) and his pockets full of tiny Chiclets boxes, the kind that used to be in those marvelous little dispensers.


She made us all gifts at the end of the year. I remember that either me or my friend Dea got a special ruler, I think it was in a felt case. She took us in. She loved us.

I brought Mrs. Corbett mints every year at holiday time for years, even all through high school. Everyone I knew who had had her as a teacher at White Oaks Elementary felt similarly. I said "I want to be like her when I grow up". When I was 14, I started working with young children. Several graduate degrees and almost 40 years later, I have never had any other career. I owe that to Mrs. Corbett. And it wasn't because she taught me how to read.

There are others, to be sure. Tom Brown, my history teacher in high school, who I had the privilege to help when I was a candystriper and he was in the hospital. Shirley Eglington, who was our faculty chaperone at Yosemite Institute when I was a freshman in high school, and who treated me as a peer. Jane Welker, who helped me challenge the system to remain working with children in college and who taught me more about observation of young children than I ever imagined possible--I can't overstate the importance of that skill. And last, but far from least, Judy Singer at Harvard Graduate School of Education, who in one semester repaired 20 years of "I'm no good at math", erased forever my D in undergraduate statistics, and made me feel smart for the first time since elementary school.

And those are only the "school" teachers. There have been and continue to be many others, no less important. They are irreplaceable.

Maybe that's what it is about this video. You can see it in their faces. He was irreplaceable.
And they were irreplaceable to him as well. The power in that gift is...well, phenomenal.

Do me a favor. You know you had one. We all have at least one. My daughter may even have one this year--I can see it in her eyes. See that "Leave a Comment" section? Tell me about a teacher that changed your life. Write as much as you want.

And think about that. Making a promise for 20 years out. A day, a time. Wow.

Blowin' in the Wind

So today I found out that it isn't only my skin that has gotten loose and old, and subject to blowing every goddamn which way like it's not even attached, like it's not even mine, as it sits on my hand (just for fun, apparently) under that snarky little "Feel the Power" arrow on the evil hand dryer at Target. Yeah, I went there today, and I used that dryer. I did it for you, because I wrote about it last night, and I just kept thinking about it, and wanted to touch base with reality, have the real gale force wind blowing across my skin rather than just trying to wrap words around it. Okay, that's not true. I did it because I happened to be at Target (yeah, I know they're politically incorrect, but they're not quite as politically incorrect as WalMart, where I NEVER shop, and not quite as hey-this-is-cute-let-me-wear-it-for-two-days-before-it-falls-apart as KMart, so there). Okay, that's not really true either, because it sounds like I went there by accident, which I surely did not. Geez, this truth stuff is taxing.

The real reason I happened to subject myself to the torture of the Xlerator is that there is a powerful phenomenon that has taken root since we last spoke (or whatever it is that we do). Target keeps me regular. There. I said it. And Jamie Lee Curtis isn't even sitting on my couch (damn).

I know! I don't understand it myself. When I shop at Target, I unfailingly need to go to the bathroom while shopping. Sometimes more than once. I know, I know, this is way more than you needed to know. But hey, I'm just trying to explain why I dried my hands, give a girl a break. At least I'm not pontificating about the many things I notice in public bathrooms, though come to think of it, that's a good idea for a future post, thanks for bringing it up.

That's what you get for wondering.

Anyhow, back to what I learned today. I learned that skin ain't the only thing that blows around in this "season of life", let's call it. All kinds of things blow by, whoosh around, vanish completely while we look the other way, even disappear right in front of our eyes. Yesterday's post was one of those times.

I had it all worked out, this re-entry thing. Like I said yesterday, this coming back in is not the simplest of feats. Witty. That's the ticket. That's what I told myself. I wrote and wrote (in my head, mind you, you didn't miss anything) for several days, experimenting with my first post back. And guess what? They were ALL about the blue moon that we had last night. I posted on facebook that I was returning, and people asked me when, and I said yesterday, December 31. And the REASON I was coming back on December 31 was because there was a blue moon and there was something poetic about that "once in a blue moon" thing and the fact that I had not written here in several months, and boy howdy, I was gonna take advantage of that, you know, tie it together real pretty with a purple ribbon. I had it all written. It was witty, I tell ya. I was all ready to go, and I sat down for my first post back, and what did I write? Roy Rogers, hand dryers, relationship pitfalls, and fully shame-indoctrinated cartoon rabbits. Not a damn thing about the blue moon. Whooosh. There it went.

(I gotta say, I am thoroughly impressed with myself. Only one day back and I'm into full judgment mode again. Wow, that was so easy. And they say that it takes a while to get back into the groove. Pshaw.)

The blue moon was cool, though, wasn't it? Happening on New Year's Eve and all? Portentious, kinda. I mean, I couldn't see it, but I knew it was there. I made a blue moon cake (green cake inside, bien sur) for the occasion. Here it is, even though there's not a darn thing that's witty (or portentious) about a green cake with bluish-grey frosting. Yummy, though.


As for resolutions, well, you know that old story. No need to put undue pressure on myself (which explains why I signed up for Nablopomo, I guess, yeah?). I dunno. Become less bitter? Write every day? Find a kernel of something to write about every day that is fit for public consumption so that I can once again seat myself comfortably and happily in this blog? Figure out what I'm going to be when I grow up? Eat Froot Loops (which have fiber now, in case you haven't heard, just to tie the whole post together, doncha know) more than once a year just for the heck of it?

Sure. Those'll work.

It's going good ("it's going WELL, Robin!") so far.

Hi Ho Silver!

It's as good a time as any, this eve of a New Year, what with resolutions, new starts, and all that. So I'm figuring....what the hey, get back up on the horse and ride off into the sunset...or maybe the sunrise, since it's already dark and the sunrise will officially be that new year full of promise and resolutions and great plans and unforeseen adventures. Whatever. I'm back.

As you may notice, I have even gone so far as to sign up for Nablopomo, that little devil on my shoulder that keeps me going. I know, I know, I shouldn't be so dependent on external motivation, I should write if I want to write and not if I don't, adoring fans be damned (of course, I don't mean you), not that I don't appreciate adoring fans, 'cause man I really do, but even in my really-doing, it doesn't get me to write.

You may wonder why I left, why I've stayed away, what happened, was it the proverbial writer's block, did someone piss me off, did someone scare me, did I really have nothing to say for five months (fat chance), blah de blah. Yup.

It's been an interesting time. Every time I sat down to write, and believe me, I did, especially when thinking of my fellow bloggers with whom I had forged such warm connections, I was stuck. I was mostly stuck because, as irreverent and goofy and irrelevant as this blog may sometimes be, it's really never been about anything but the truth. My truth, that is.

Hot tip: If you are a new reader, and the hair stood up on the back of your neck when you read those words "my truth", and you're pawing your hoof in the dirt getting ready to leave me a comment about relativism and how morality is absolute, let me just say more power to you, but just fair warning, this blog is gonna piss you off pretty much every day. If you're into that, by all means feel free to stick around. Just don't say nobody warned you, k?

And the truth, at least for the past several months (I can hear you saying, Robin, you don't have to explain yourself, but I feel like I do, in the same way that it's difficult to come back when you've run away from home (not that I've ever thought of running away from home, oh, no, that doesn't sound like me at all) or re-enter a room when you have just vanished for an indeterminate amount of time. Come to think of it, that's one of the things that is most annoying to me, that has been the death of me (and some relationships)...that is, people who renew relationships and conversations as if a breach one of sort or another has not occurred. That bugs me. In the spirit of integrity, then, I feel like I gotta say. Okay?

Which is not to say that I wasn't dying to write about a gazillion things that happened, because as you know by now, there's a lot of things that I don't get. Don't think I didn't want to rant about that new hand dryer they have now at Target (and elsewhere, I'm sure) that offers you the oh-so-special reminder of our mortality (which is something you definitely want to do while in the bathroom) by blowing all that skin around that you coulda swore was attached, but you now realize otherwise. I might still write about that in the coming days, so go try it out if you haven't yet, 'cause I love them comments, they're infusions, keep 'em comin. And don't tell me you won't have something to say about them. That's just impossible.

But here's the thing. There was something in this time span that just wouldn't allow it. When my fingers get going, they pretty much say what they want to say, and as any of you who are writers know, those digits have a little independent connection of their own to the mind and heart, which is a good thing, a fine thing for journals, but not quite as swell in blogs, at least in my view.

I sat down to write. I did. And then I heard it.

So I guess what I'm saying tonight is that I'm over that now, with full awareness that that might mean that I now have nicer things to say (ya think?). Or maybe I've just decided that Thumper is full of shit. I'm not sure which one.

I figure we'll find out, right? Stick around.

Adhesives, Fasteners, and Other Tools of the Evil Empire

Lest you be concerned that I have, in my ventures into the deep world of contemplation, cogitation, and M&Ms, forgotten the true spirit and original intention of this blog, here is my offering for today:


Here's what I don't get. I don't get why they put adhesives that would stick a wing onto a 747 well enough to last a polar route flight from the west coast to Europe on the back of labels on food containers. It's not like other adhesives don't exist. We've all gotten those products where you reach for the label, grab a corner, and peel and that nice little "riiiiip" sound accompanies the easy and complete removal of the label. Niiice. And then we've probably all bought nice little salad containers (or something kind of like them) like the above where the label is just tucked inside the container--not adhered AT ALL. What a concept. You just take it out, throw it in the recycling (you do put all your paper in the recycling, right?), wash the container, and then you're all set. And then you have this. Yeah, the this in the picture. The label that will never come off. Not with that goo-gone kinda stuff (not that I love using that nastiness anyway). Not with soaking in hot water. Not with the dishwasher. The print just fades and fades and years later you've still got a thin paper coating around the outside of the container. What the hell is that adhesive they're using? And for the love of god, WHY do they use it??

Which brings me to bread ties. What's up with the bread ties? Yeah, I own those clippy things, probably a hundred of 'em. I even know how to use them. So there. But you know, you get that nice loaf of bread home, and you want to open it up and make yourself a yummy piece of toast, and you look at it, and dammit, it's got this thing on there:


I don't get that at all. Common denominator, anyone? Adhesive!!

What is with putting this kind of tie on a loaf of bread (or in this case, Portugese raisin English Muffins, ohmygodyum)? It's not even a tie. It's a little adhesive tag thing that is not possible to separate and nearly impossible to cut off, so you inevitably end up ripping the bag open just to get the tag off, so now the bag is not only not recloseable but also the contents has to be put into an entirely new bag that can be resealed for freshness. Like I've got money for ziploc bags growing on trees. Whatever happened to those little impale yourself so you need a tetanus shot paper over a little wire twist ties? Or even those stupid little plastic things that are on bread from the grocery store (I don't really get those either, but all things are relative, and they do reclose bags, if poorly, so they've earned their omission from this rant)? You'd think the person or company who made the baked goods would actually like us to get into the bag so that we could enjoy the fruits of their labor, rather than simply admiring the baked goods from the other side of a semi-impermeable barrier, no? Or maybe their only real interest is in our buying it--once we get it home, it's none of their concern ("let it rot, see if I care"). Capitalism. Sheesh.

Glad I'm back? :)

Me too.

Well.....Hi. Here, have some M's.

I've been away. Maybe you've noticed.

I've got a lot to say about why I've been away, why I stopped writing, what stopped me, and what I learned from it. For the moment, let's just say: A lot. Okay?

The good news (at least on my end, can't speak for you) is that this is one of those things. You know. It's like jumper cables. Once I've started again, I'm back (at least I think so, that's the way it usually works, we'll see). I hope so.

At the moment, I just have to sit and shake my head and wonder at the utter irony of what is actually bringing me back to this space, right here, right now. The thing, the huge thing, that got me to write again. Because you know, there have been a lot of close calls. It isn't like I haven't had things to write. I have. Every day. I've had a "ooh, that's a great post for today" feeling every day. But I haven't been able to get myself to get here and write. Until today. And so this day, this motivating event, carries with it some sort of heft. What is it that could move me so?

M & M's.

Yeah. Really.

Well, and a little irony, too. I love irony. Can't claim to know it had jumpstarting powers, but hey, there are plenty of mysteries remaining in the universe that elude our understanding. Can't know everything.

So. M&M's. I have always known that M&M's had some sort of deeper role to play than simply being a snacky delicious good thing that melts in your mouth not in your hand, which is not really quite true, but it was a catchy slogan. I always knew, since my childhood days in which, whenever I got my grubby hands on some M&M's, I would arrange them in little pyramids by color, which I know will prompt you to wonder if I am that anal about everything, which will prompt me to tell you that I am the least anal, like the-other-side-of-the-world-from-anal, person you have ever met, it's just that I really like to line up M&M's in little pyramids especially on the little glass table in the TV room in my parents house, and now I'm going to stop using the word anal because it's starting to really gross me out when I'm trying to focus on the deliciousness of M&Ms. I will say, though, that the brown ones are always the base of the pyramid because there's the most of those in a package, which really isn't right, but there are some things in life you can't control, and that's one of them. I will also say that when you make pyramids, you sometimes have to go back to the bag to get a few more M&Ms so that you can complete the pyramid neatly and symmetrically, which I think is kinda self-reinforcing for making M&M pyramids. I'm not sure, but I think so.

Now, mind you, this was in the days before blue M&M's. And there was even a time when there were no red M&Ms (I'm wondering if I'm making a serious faux pas capitalizing the M, when they are more lower case kinda things, but I'm in over my head now, so I'm sticking to it). And there certainly were no buy one color that you like or print your goofy little wedding logo on an M&M kind of things. There were just the regular old colors. And when they brought in blue, well, I just didn't think that was right. But, trusting in the gods as I do, I knew they must have a reason. So I didn't send them a letter or anything, even though I would have preferred purple.

And now, here we are today. July 28. And the mystery has been revealed. If you wait long enough, it always happens. I think it's called faith, although I think for most people faith and M&M's are really two different conversations. Their loss.

This morning, I was bopping around on facebook like I sometimes do, and I took a look at an article that a friend posted about the false goodness of Vitamin Water. I like Vitamin Water, especially the new 10 calorie kind, which is really 25 calories if you drink the whole bottle, which you obviously do, but still. So I read it, and basically, I thought they were going a little overboard comparing it to Coke (which I also love but very rarely drink and which, coincidentally, I used last week to get rust off my daughter's old bike). I cogitated a while on the extreme reactions of people these days to additives and artificial stuff and the return to locally grown goodness, all of which I think is important and a good thing, but is kind of a turnoff when people are hysterical about it rather than informative. And you know, one of the things people are most hysterical about are food colorings. That's why the red M&M's disappeared. Red Dye #2. And they've got a good point. There's plenty of evidence that food colorings seem to be associated with behavior issues in kids, which is really interesting and is a REALLY good reason to monitor them more carefully and, when possible, avoid them.

Which brings us to the headline I witnessed as I continued to bop around the web.

Warning: If you are an ardent animal rights advocate who cannot tolerate the idea or any images of animals used for medical research, you should probably not go on, because there's a picture and a description you really won't like. And if that scares you because you think there's gonna be terrible pictures of disfigured animals so you don't want to go on even if you aren't an AARA, don't worry. It's not that bad.

Today, my friends, we are talking about Brilliant Blue G (aka BBG), which is very similar to the food coloring compound used to color those newfangled blue M&Ms.

Come on. You knew it too. You knew that M&Ms were gonna save the world. Admit it.

So (drum roll please)...it turns out that BBG, administered promptly (it has to be given right away, it's just given by IV) after spinal cord injuries, produces a powerful and significant benefit. In rats, it restored mobility. It allowed them recover and walk again.

The only side effect is that the rats temporarily turned blue, which, if you can get past the animal research thing, is actually kinda cute and it's temporary anyway. (Would I trade turning temporarily blue for being able to walk? You betcha.)


There is currently no, I repeat NO, standard treatment available for people who arrive in an emergency room for a spinal cord injury. This one is hopefully going into clinical trials shortly. And the reason that they thought of trying it out in the first place is that BBG is similar to the coloring in blue M&M's (Ii already said that, but I thought it bore repeating) and so has been approved as safe.

How does it work? Well, of course you should read one of the articles, either the summary on CNN or, for the nerds among us, the abstract of the actual study, (and actually, if you visit the site of the journal, you'll also get to read a really cool article in the latest edition about why dinosaurs were big). It's really interesting, but just in case you don't wanna do it, here's the deal.
Because you should be informed. Yeah. You should.

So when there is a spinal cord injury, ATP (adenosine triphosphate), which is like the molecular currency of energy between cells, rushes to the site of the injury. ATP kills healthy motor cells, which makes the injury even worse. Our spinal cords have a lot of molecules called P2X7, which allows the ATP to latch on to motor cells and send messages to kill those cells (including the healthy ones). BBG (the colorant) blocks the function of P2X7, so the ATP can't find a home where it can destroy cells.

Aren't scientists cool?

(which prompts me to give a special shout out to my friend and chorus sister Emily, who is both a scientist--see above--and who also sorts M&Ms by color, thereby offering indisputable proof of said coolness)

Damn. Now I gotta go out and get some M&Ms and a Vitamin Water. See? That's why I haven't been writing. Blogging makes you fat.

The Wormhole Called Starbucks

Ya know, it's not every day that you discover a portal to a parallel universe.

In Starbucks, no less. I had to fight off four guys in black suits and military IDs just to let you know, but that's how devoted I am to you, the readers of this blog. You're welcome.

Here it is.


I know, it looks harmless. Just a simple chair. But here's a tip. Don't sit there. Unless you're really up for some kind of adventure. I mean, I can't testify, I didn't try it. I'm not sittin' there. But I am a witness, so I wouldn't advise it. Just sayin'.

So here's what happened. There I was, all set up to work for a couple of hours at one of my many local Starbucks. No, I don't drink Starbucks coffee. But I have largely succumbed to the fact that they are everywhere, and they have free wifi and comfortable chairs, so I found something I like there (though I still haven't found a single food, including desserts--to which I am generally favorably inclined--that I find appealing) and sometimes I camp out there to work. They don't throw you out, and I can carry a card so if I can't, er, find any money, I'm all set for awhile and that's enough for me.

Today I went to the Starbucks with the notoriously stupid parking lot. It's the only one like it. I don't get it, but it was nearby. It was a beautiful day today--it's about time, so I thought about sitting outside, but the only seating outside was taken, and I had a lot of loose papers to deal with, so inside it was.

I was lucky to snag one of the Comfy Chairs (despite being unwilling to confess to heresy by three counts: thought, word, deed or action), and I settled in for a bit of work. And here's where it gets interesting.

In the two hours that I spent in the aforementioned Comfy Chair, a series of six people (including two Starbucks employees) came and sat in the other, adjacent, Comfy Chair. Apparently, this other chair (not mine, thank god) is a portal to the netherworld. Because three of the six people who sat in it (in a row, mind you) proceeded to talk extensively to themselves. Or more likely, to some invisible beings, because they were not mumbling, they were taking turns, laughing, definitely carrying on a conversation.

Now, as you and I know, our assessment of people talking to themselves has been altered significantly by the proliferation of those tiny little phone headsets that people can wear almost invisibly. Don't' tell me you know don't know what I mean. You remember how it used to be. You'd be walking down the sidewalk, and you'd see someone approaching, talking away, and you would think okay, that person is hearing voices, and you'd have whatever response you had to encountering people who hear voices--hopefully, compassion, and frankly, sometimes evasion or discomfort. Well, that's out the window now, because now everyone and their brother talks out loud to themselves. It seems like a good thing, actually--puts people with associated disabilities in a more normative position. But there's no doubt about it, we're getting used to it. I'm willing to wager that once or twice, you have looked to see if they have a little wire running down their shoulder. Come on, admit it. I sure have.

So when this happened once, then twice, then three times in a row, especially with the degree of animation and turn-taking present in the conversations, I presumed that they were simply on the phone. And then it turned out that none of them were.

I've been trying to figure this out (not that there's anything wrong with it, it just defies statistics, and I'm interested in those kinda things). Maybe there is a group home or a treatment program that is located very nearby that Starbucks, and maybe their clientele prefer the comfy chairs. I know I do. Maybe that's it. Maybe there was some kinda energy over in my part of the store. It's been known to happen before. For now, in the absence of information, I'm just going with the most likely explanation: a wormhole.

And besides, they were playing Hawaiian music. It was coming out of a speaker right above my head. I ask you, who does that in Boston? When I went to ask the ever-helpful manager what it was, he said "Oh, the playlist is in the back somewhere, but I can't find it" (was he looking?). I asked "Well, is this the playlist playing in all Starbucks stores (thinking I could just look it up online)?" His reply? "If they have the same player as we do, then yeah, but I don't know.". Very helpful. Now, is that the aloha spirit?

I tell ya, there's something weird going on here.