No Way, No How, No McCain

I wrote this Tuesday night. It is still very much where my head, mind, and heart are...

Here's what made up my mind. It wasn't something that Obama said, because we haven't heard from him yet. It was first Teddy Kennedy reminding me that my core beliefs were those held by the Democratic Party. And then Hillary tonight, laying out again the specifics of what I believe and asking if I had supported her because we had shared ideals or because I wanted her to be president. Yes, I wanted her to be president, but that is because we share ideals. That being the case, I would betray myself if I voted for another four years of the Republican way of life.

And even as I write that, I think: but is that what McCain promises? Certainly it's effective rhetoric, but is there another side to see? I'll watch next week, and listen, but at this point I already know that I dislike McCain's domestic policies. The Republican rhetoric will have to sparkle to dim issues like choice and failed economic policies from my vision.

Death and Dying - at Midlife

I was out of sorts yesterday. Just felt meh-ish, after a several week period in which I was up-and-at-em. Am I crashing, I thought. Oh no, oh woe. But then I did what I have learned to do at such times (at least when I can remember) and that is to just accept that I'm feeling meh-ish. And know that it too will pass. While I was working at achieving this pseudo-Zen state--and wishing, really, that I could have a Stepford button installed in my brain because who needs to feel meh-ish even if you know it will pass--I realized the source of my state of mind. The day before my friend M called to tell me that our friend Sharon was dying.

I saw Sharon when I was in LA a couple of weeks ago. It was a reunion of sorts of our book club and Sharon, who hadn't been feeling at all well, particularly wanted to come. She needed to see her friends. The group of us hung out as we have done so many times in the past, and we talked, really talked, 'checking in' with each other as only women who have history together can do. My check-in was to relate not only the ghastly year I've had, but also the much more promising one that seems now to be taking place.

Sharon checked in with her medical report. The doctor saw a spot on her lung and said it was probably sarcoidosis. Or maybe lung cancer. Sharon wasn't buying that diagnosis; she much preferred the sarcoidosis, which is an immune system disease that is rarely fatal. She would do what she has always done (sometimes with disasterous results, it must be said) and trust totally in Alternative non-Western medicine. She was refusing the steroids that would be prescribed for the sarcoidosis and she was refusing the second CAT scan that would rule out cancer. But oh, she was so tired, and so weak, and so very very depressed. The doctor wanted her to go on anti-depressants and until now, she had refused them as well. But we, her girl friends (some of whom were loaded up on Prozac and Effexor themselves) urged her to reconsider. Think of the mind-body connection, Sharon, we told her. How can you hope to get well without your full emotional strength. And she finally agreed. When I hugged her goodbye, it was with the knowledge that she too would soon be loaded up on Effexor and feeling 100% in just a matter of time.

I don't think she ever got that prescription filled. The next day I'm told she was so weak that her sister came to take her to the doctor. She had the second CAT scan. Stage IV lung cancer; metastasized already to her bones. She died yesterday, just three weeks after I last saw her. When M called to tell me, I thought, Aha--the meh-ish feeling made much more sense than I had originally thought.

I've reached the age when I'm starting to lose my friends, all of whom are midlife women. Not that cancer doesn't take young people as well, but I am suddenly aware of how vulnerable we all are to the ultimate breakdowns in the body. How vulnerable I am. And it makes me feel--well, very vulnerable.

Heirloom tomato sandwich with bread baked ByJane

Heirloom tomato sandwich with bread baked ByJane
Originally uploaded by ByJane

I was going to sell my old bread maker, but first I had to see if it worked. And it does. And I ate the whole loaf in less than twenty four hours. So I won't be selling it. But I won't be making bread with it very often either. Obviously, I am not to be trusted around homemade carbs.

#DNC08 - Some tweets and more

Night One of the Democratic National Convention, America's answer to the Olympics. Every four years, we hold a major competition and the winner gets...not a gold medal, but a chance to fuck up the world. Or at least that's what's happened the past eight years.

Seriously, I'm struck by the similarity in handicapping between, say, Chris Matthews and Bob Costas. If process is what counts in this world more than product, than what difference does it make if the topic being masticated is Barack Obama's chances or Michael Phelps? Barack has Michelle; Michael has Debbie. And who might we cast as Hillary in this scenario? Probably the Chinese--that nation willing to do anything to win the gold, or so would say Clinton's detractors.

Michelle Obama gave a helluva performance tonight. Moved a lot of people to tears--or at least enough that the control room had more than one or two to pick out of the crowd. Me, I was moved to admiration--for her performance. Did it, as the pundits say, do the job? I don't know, because the job for me was done by Teddy Kennedy. He reminded me of why I'm a life-long Democrat. He made me feel proud to be one. Will that translate to my making up my mind for Obama? I dunno. I'll wait and see what the man himself has to say on Thursday night.

There is a hagiographic bent to the coverage of Obama, of that there is no question. Chris Matthews and Keith Oberwhatever were absolutely creaming their drawers over the whole Michelle Obama package. It was a little embarrassing; like watching two grown men have a wet dream in public. It will be interesting to see how their journalistic integrity reasserts itself when the Republican convention begins.

I AM SO SICK OF ALL THIS TALK ABOUT CLINTON's SUPPORTERS. Like they're accolytes in the convent of Hillary. Bull twaddle. Here's how to really screw women to the wall: set them against each other for imagined slights. Insist that they are operating on emotion, rather than reason. Demean their beliefs by refusing to acknowledge their right to those beliefs. Ask them if they're PMSing. Wonder if they have the balls to have balls. And then when they do, attack them for it.

Is it any wonder I get cranky when I'm exposed to "alleged" political coverage? And yet, I can't seem to stay away.

It's The Economy, Stupid!

While I have been neglecting you, I have been attending to my house. Here's the story behind the headline (and oh, parenthetically, forgive me if I'm repeating myself...). My fact finding trip to LA revealed these two facts.

1. Regarding my career as a Marriage and Family Therapist: The internship in LA would/will be a fantastic opportunity and I am still jazzed about it. Basically, they train you and mentor you and guide you and etc. etc. you in creating a private practice. Bbuuuttttt, it doesn't pay for the first three months. And then it pays a portion of the fees you take in from your clients. And you pretty much have to find the clients, which is indeed a major part of building a practice and you get lots of support, etc. etc., but it takes time. And the current economy is not one in which people, even in LA, are lining up to see their therapists. "Let's see, shall I put gas in my car or pay my shrink?" So we're talking three months without any income and then however long with however limited income.
   
2. My foray into the rental market in LA revealed, as I've told you, the fact that I've passed the point in life where I'm willing to suck it up lifestyle-wise. That being the case, I would have to pay about twice what I could get for renting my house to lease a "do-able" place in LA. Ah, but you over the in the corner, waving your hand wildly: Why, you ask, don't I just sell my house? As Husband #1 used to say, "Good question, Batman." (Isn't it funny the things that stick with you decades after a relationship is over?) And the answer is that I live smack in the middle of the most depressed housing market in the United States. If I could sell my house, it would mean pricing it to compete with all the foreclosures, which (a) would mean a HUGE loss, and (b) wouldn't be enough to buy a place in LA.
   

So you do the math. No income plus major outlay for rent equals gross spending of capital--or as I have come to think of it, major money down the toilet.

Having done the math myself, I came to the conclusion that I must stay put until the market evens out. I have to be able to take enough out of my house to buy a condo in LA. That's not an unheard of exchange of real estate; I just need to have patience. And surprisingly, having made that decision, I am feeling quote hopeful--about, I dunno, my life or something. Which just goes to show you--something. Or not, as the case may be.

Portrait of the Author as a Young Girl

My Date With Fabian, byJane

Once upon a time in a land far away lived a young girl who in today's world would be called a geek, but then was just known as a creep. She was tall, very tall, seemingly taller than everyone else in her ninth grade class. This was not actually a fact, given the truth of pubescent growth spurts which were just now hitting a few boys in her class. But it's the way she felt and that, after all, is what counts the most when you're fourteen.

She was, our young heroine, a girl who lived a lot in her imagination. One consequence of this--and of the fact that she was known as a creep--was that she had never been on a date. No boy had held her hand or kissed her cheek, and as far as anything else went--well, this was a land far away when such things were unheard of until you were seventeen or eighteen at least. This did not, however, mean that she had not lusted in her heart, as far as her heart knew how to lust. In fact, she had seen the movie Gidget eight times. This was not, you must remember, a time of video tapes or CD-ROMS. To see the movie Gidget eight times, our heroine had to go to eight different showings on eight different days. But such was her love for James Darren, the Moondoggie of this Gidget that she eagerly spent hours alone in a darkened movie theatre imagining that it was she and not Sandra Dee that Moondoggie was kissing. There may have been some part of this where she actually wanted to be Sandra Dee, that is, petite and blonde and Protestant, but that is what happens when you give a young girl an imagination that knows no bounds.

Now it happened that in the summer before her freshman year of high school, she spent some time in Atlantic City, staying with her mother in a rooming house owned by the mother of her father's brother's daughter's husband (this detail is only of interest to those who would like to know that said husband eventually ran NBC, but then, he was just a lowly lawyer whose mother ran what was called a cochalein. This is Yiddish for a rooming house where the ice box (yes, ice box) was shared by a number of different women, each of whom had their section of a particular shelf.

Our heroine, who we shall call for expediencies sake, J., never knew why this was one of the few she things she remembered from that summer. Another was that her mother shoe polished her white Keds, which you all must know was, is and will always be a fate worse than death. And the last thing J remembered from that time was--Fabian.
He was appearing at a concert in Atlantic City and somehow J. was going. She can't remember who with, although she thinks there might have been a fix up there by her mother and another woman at the cochalein. She has vague memories of some faceless young man who was, it seemed, the reason why J's mother applied the white shoe polish to J's Keds. But more than that is lost to time, gone with the wind, as it were. What J. remembers about the concert is screaming. She clearly sees herself standing in a mass of other young girls and screaming. She doesn't know if she screamed at the sight of Fabian or at the sound of his voice, but she opened her mouth wide and screamed. It was a primal response. After the evening was over, she was returned to the cochalein a somewhat changed girl, not the least of which was her raspy throat, and life as she knew it would never be the same.

(To Be Continued....)

I Won! I Won! I Won!

The stars must have been aligned for me on Sunday, because I could not go wrong. Not only did I win a wonderful souvenir from Japan from Merlot Mom--which, of course, I will feature here when I get it (ahem!). But I won this
shooting water into a balloon at the State Fair. And these
in similar games of extreme skill and cunning. Aren't you impressed?

You should be, because I haven't won anything since I won a date with Fabian back in 9th grade (which gives my age away if nothing else does). I enter all competitions just assuming I will lose. And when I win, I assume that the contest was rigged in my favor. For example, I'm sure that the bowl from which MerlotMom's son pulled my name was filled with pieces of paper, all of which said "byJane." And I'm certain that I won the banana--and the car--and the shark (or is it a dolphin?)--because the person running the game was pushing a button that made my seat the winning one.

I realize that this is a rather sad commentary on my sense of self. I'll have to think about that for a while before I can offer up a shrink-worthy analysis.

A Confidential Confession

Of course, I know I'm the only person to feel this way: I love Michael Phelps. I also love Dara Torres. I love that they are superhuman and yet seemingly supernormal. I could never do what they each have done, but the fact that they've done it makes in some way and for some reason my world a better place.

I think it's the integrity of their intention that I admire. And somehow that gets placed for me alongside the Chinese in these 2008 Olympics . The Chinese, while producing some amazing results both in events and the show itself, do not have integrity of intention. Theirs is more the win at whatever cost that I normally associate with The American Way.

Funny that, isn't it. Sad, too.

My Olympics

...is purely a spectator sport. I watch, I don't know why I watch, I don't know why I'm so fascinated that I will do nothing for that two week period in the evening but watch the Olympic coverage. I know nothing about sports--any of them, really. What I do know, however, is that I could never be a contender. I don't have the mental wherewithal, never mind what my body would do. Actually, I've been told over the years by a number of independent voices that I do have an athlete's body. My father was a professional athlete, and I guess I inherited something from him. The body type, that is, but certainly not the mental goods to go along with it. The repetition that is the hallmark of a training regime--I could never do that. I would get bored; I would whine; I would come up with a million and one reasons why I couldn't train that day. I don't know how the world-class athletes can bear the sheer tedium of swimming laps again and again and again and then again. Or marathon running: that training schedule of endlessly plowing up hills and down hills, around the block and into the countryside. I understand the mentality that goes into that about as well as I understand Chinese, which is to say not at all.

In the '80s, I did a profile of Mary T. Meagher, the famous Madame Butterfly, who still, I believe, holds the Olympic record for the 200 'fly. As part of the profile, I went to training with her one day. Oh, god, the absolute tedium of it. On the blocks, into the water, 'fly the length, haul body out of the water, walk around to the blocks and get in line to do it all over again. And again. And again. All afternoon and well into the evening. I escaped about 8 p.m., and Mary T. was still at it.

You know, it just occurred to me that I probably could learn Chinese sooner than I will ever understand how these athletes do it. Maybe that's why I watch them incessantly even though I haven't a clue what they're doing. To try to get some glimmer of what it is that drives them--and doesn't drive me.

Wanted: The Single Person's Life

Now that's a totally new concept to me. I heard it the other morning while talking to a friend who was commiserating about my burial in suburbia. "I know exactly what you mean," she said. "I had to leave the suburbs because I wanted a Single Person's Life, and the chances of my finding it outside of a city were nil to none."

I ignored the fact that her statistics were somewhere south of the Georgian steppes (I am math-illiterate myself, not to mention geographically-challenged). I was totally taken with this idea of the Single Person's Life, which emerged as a full-blown vision And since as a writer, I write, I set about making a verbal doodle of exactly what that life would be.

A Single Person's Life is one of contentment, pleasure even, in the solitary nature of day-to-day events. That is, no one else is about to crap on your fantasies or complain about the way you made the bed. If you snore, you only wake yourself. If you get up at 3 a.m. and must have a bowl of cereal, no one is there to say, "What the hell are you doing?" You don't have to wait for the bathroom to be free and the only smelly old sneakers in the closet are yours.

A Single Person's Life is one in which you star. What do you want to eat? What do you want to watch? When do you want to go to bed--and really, what do you want to do once you're there? Here, give me that remote; it's mine to program at will. Sated with the Olympics? Move on over to Flip That House or, better yet, Final Cut/Shear Genius where you can enjoy the sheer/shear bitchiness of the hairdressers without anyone sneering at your choices.

A Single Person's Life is one where you don't have to worry about whether your partner likes your sister, best friend, or the couple down the street. Nor will you ever be concerned about his or her antisocial tendencies relative to alcohol imbibed and conversations had. When you go to a party as a Single Person, you are free to skulk in the corner or flirt with the host, leave early or stay till dawn, as you wish. If you get into an intense philosophical conversation about the relative worth of free range eggs, there is no one over in the corner giving you the high sign, I want to go now. Conversely, you will never be at a company event of your partner's where you must endlessly endure the boss's sexist jokes and the rancid clam dip. If you wander by chance into such an event on your own, you can, without qualm, hightail it out at the first sign of a stale chip.

I have an image of myself in this Single Person's Life. I am, of course, somewhat slimmer than now, mainly because I actually do yoga and actually use my Pilates reformer. I am happy and carefree and entertain a lot in my Single Person's home (using, it must be said, my formerly married person's china and silver). My friends are my family. We actually like each other, which is more than I can say about my family--and therefore holidays spent together are pleasant events, which again is more than I can say about my family.

Yes, this is a fantasy, and I realize that reality does in fact bite. But still, this Single Person's Life is a worthwhile goal, is it not? It's a life in which self-actualization is completely in your control. You are who you are, without any addendum modifying you. And your life, your Single Person's Life, is now an object of desire rather than shame or scorn.

Blog World Expo

I think I'm going. Yes I am. I'm just following my heart on this blogging thing...don't know if it will ultimately make sense, but it sure makes me happy.

Blog World Expo - Home

Food

I rarely write about what I've eaten, unless it's some superior thingie that I made and I've taken photos of it and I'm offering it up in a Martha-ish way. That is not the case with today's post. Today I am standing up in front of the group and saying, My name is Jane and I can't keep my mouth empty. You'll notice I have not used the traditional Twelve Step thingie of admitting to an addiction. That's because I'm not addicted to food. I just use it in a mildly damaging manner as a substitute for whatever else is or is not happening in my life. And don't tell me that's an addiction, because I AM NOT ADDICTED.

Can you tell I have a problem, a slight issue with the whole Twelve Step thingie? This made me tres popular in my Drugs and Addiction classes. It's not that I don't believe in the theories or whatever behind the Twelve Steps; it's that the people I know who participate seem to get, um, addicted to the Twelve Steps. They trade one compulsion for another. Is that such a good thing? Shouldn't a Program be working on getting a person to understand the source of their compulsion?

Take me--for a very good example (please, someone, take me). My compulsion to cram food of any and all sorts into my mouth today was a function of--if I keep that mouth busy, it won't have time to scream. See, that's the source of my compulsion. Now all I have to do is deal with the tiny details in my life that are making me want to scream. Easy peasy....or not, as the case may be.

So: today: I ate: a big fat piece of white layer sheet cake with sprinkles on it, purchased for a mere $2.79 at the local Raley's. The same cake, same sprinkles, is $5.99 at the Nugget, our new holier-than-thou, grander-than-Whole Foods market. Sane cake, same lard frosting, just a tad difference in cost, owing no doubt to I'm not sure what. So--I had that cake for dinner. That's how I justify it. Nine million calories--just another steak and potatoes meal, but without having to cut the meat and digest the potato skins. The cake, rather, is psychologically satisfying because (a) IT'S SWEET, and (b) it's mooshy, so I can squish it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

Now I've moved on to itty bitty baby heirloom tomatoes. Much better for me, indeed. And satisfying unto themselves, because they pop and squirt itty bitty tomato seeds into my mouth. An explosion of vegetable glory--and heirloom, as well. Good for the environment, not to mention that organic foods and family farms business.

But the night is young and I'm not done yet. Before I waddle off to bed, I've got some chocolate-cherry soy icecream waiting for me. It's soy, for chrissake. It's healthy. And then there's popcorn in my larder. Did you know that popcorn is the broom of the digestive tract? And, of course, I finish every night with a ritualistic nightcap--glass of milk and piece of chocolate.

Doesn't everyone? Admit it--let he who is without sin cast the first whatever....

Movus Interruptus

...well, it sure as hell wouldn't be coitus now, would it. Seeing as I haven't been near a coit in I don't know how long.

I've got half-filled cartons and a lack of will to finish the job. It's an odd thing that happens to me; or maybe not. Maybe it happens to everyone and no one ever talks about it. When I get out of my comfort zone, I become very uncomfortable. Discombobulated, one would say. I actually have a hard time feeling myself, and certainly I can't tell what I want or don't want. Beyond, let's say, the corned beef sandwich, rather than the borscht and sour cream.

Does this make any sense? No? Of course not. The disparate thoughts are united only by proximity in my brain. That is, I was in LA and out of my comfort zone. That I was breathing was merely a function of my autonomic nervous system (or is it the central? I get them mixed up). I am trying to describe what it feels like to be, as I say, discombobulated. It is as if I am plodding through some murky cherry jello. No, not cherry; lime perhaps. And it's jello before it has set up, when it's still mostly watery with just a bit of the jel beginning. I am able to keep on keepin' on because my brain is telling my legs to move. And I am not totally without decision-making powers in that I can order from a firm preference the corned beef on rye at Canter's Deli. And eat it, the whole thing, more bread and meat than I am used to consuming at one meal. But it goes down because I cannot feel myself and so I don't know that I am full. Until afterwards, when I am in great pain from a severely distended stomach. Not to mention great shame from having Gorged on The Whole Sandwich (plus a couple of pickles).

This discombobulation is why I don't get out a lot. I'm much better spending my days and evenings alone. Even though I say I'm not. Even though intellectually I know it's not such a good thing for a person to be alone so much. But you know, it's safer. I don't discombobulate myself. Other people do it to me.

So movus interruptus, according to the dictionary definition, is when a person says they're moving, buys moving boxes, puts things into those boxes, and then loses the will. Was it anything specific that happened when I was in LA? On my fact-finding trip (my recce, as the Brits call it)? Well, perhaps. Let me just vomit it all out there and you try and make sense of it. Or not, as the case may be.

I stayed with my friend M. She lives in the house next door to my old house. Was it weird being next to my old house and it not being my house? One would think so, wouldn't one? But I felt nothing. Nada. Zip. Is this because I am so over that house. Or is it that my feelings are such that I cannot allow them even an breath of life? I don't know. Either one is pefectly plausible and therapeutically correct, at least in terms of an analysis.

M's house is similar to the state of my house when I lived in it. Late 1920s, Spanish bungalows. Cute. Not without charm. Crumbling infrastructure. I walked around making judgment after judgment about peeling paint, jerry-rigged plumbing, sad floors. M's animals are geriatric as well, which may have something to do with the sadness. Making do.

I went to see the apartment I'd hoped to rent. It was a box with windows that faced interior walls. It smelled like a bar at 9 a.m. the morning after, in the days when we could still smoke in bars. The complex was built in the 1970s, and upgraded last year. But there's just so much you can do changing out a granite slab for formica. If you watch any of the Flip My House programs, you know what can be done on the cheap. I couldn't live there.

I packed to come home in two minutes. I drove the 300 plus miles in six hours. I am breathing again. I can feel myself. I am home. Amid the boxes.

MidLifeBloggers.com: Want to Write For Us????

It's finally up, the never-definitive, ever-almost ready guide to

Writing for MidLifeBloggers.com: A How-to, Why, & When, etc. etc.

If you're a midlifeblogger and you want to write for us, this is what you need to do....Go look!

The Newly Single Woman Starts Over Again

So I've been to LA--tra la! tra la! Here's what I found:

• When I wake up in the early morning--or late night--with panicked thoughts about my life, I need to PAY ATTENTION. There is a difference between taking risks and conquering fear and going askew from where I'm best meant to be. In other words, I'm stepping on the brakes, pulling on the reins and sliding to a gravel-spinning stop with this move of mine. What I found in LA is that I'm trying to do it too fast.
• Like it or not, living in a brand new place has ruined me for going back to living in whatever. I need my clean, spacious shower, my nice kitchen, my high ceilings. I can't bear cracked tile, crumbly gray grout, make-do bathroom fixtures. Consequently, I can't just pick any old place and move in. I'm old enough that I need what I need, and if I have to wait a while to get it, then so be it.
  

This thing of being in midlife and starting all over again is "interesting." Fill in the blank for what the word may mean. Actually, it changes depending on the day, time, and situation. So I'm going to chronicle it here...because that's what I always have done with my life, write about it, and because it may be helpful to others who woke up one day in midlife and found the rug pulled from under them and the floor beneath not too firm. I'll write it as it happens--and if you want to know anything, just ask.....

letter from LA

A Warning...

So I have been less than attentive this past weekend for which I do humbly apologize and warn you that there is probably more of this to come. August is here. I am packing. By. Myself. And. Freaking.

When I freak, I tend to hide. Curl up in a proverbial ball and shut my proverbial eyes. If I can't see the world, then the world can't see me. Right?

But I don't have that luxury this time. I must keep moving because I am packing. By. Myself. And anticipating moving. By. Myself.

Yes, yes, yes, I know. It's the anticipation that will get you everytime. Gotta stay in the moment, in real time, here and now. Do this today. Do that tomorrow. Day after tomorrow will be what it will be whenever it comes.

And breathe. Also a good idea.

My yardsale was relatively successful in that I (a) made some money, and (b) got rid of some stuff I wanted to get rid of. The rest of it I'm shit-canning.

Molly is at Betty's getting beautified. We're going to LA tomorrow. Getting my hairs cut on Wednesday morning. Going to CGI to hammer down the internship position on Wednesday afternoon. Seeing a place or two to rent on Thursday. Further ahead than that I cannot go....

MidLifeBloggers Bling

If you join MidLifeBloggers and you write for us, you get to put this on your blog.

Public Service Announcement

It is eleven forty-one--do you know where your children are? This chillin' is off to bed....

Thoughts on the Relativity of Relatives

I have to say that these days I'm finding blood is not thicker than water. That is, the people who are getting and giving me the most these days are not at all related to me. And those who are, by contrast, the most heartless in their abject indifference are.

Nashville Star vs American Idol - The Judges

Here's the difference: Nashville Star, the judges are Serious with a capital S about critiquing the singers. America Idol, it's pretty much a joke, as we all know. The three judges on Nashville Star--Jeffrey Steele, John Rich, and Jewel--are working hard; they are not just stage dressing (that would be Billie Ray Cyrus). They're coming up with thoughtful, articulate, professional critiques of the particular performance and the singer generally. There's a sense, particularly with the two guys, that they see themselves as gatekeepers to Nashville; they don't want anyone in who doesn't really belong in the Country genre. That makes the show a real learning experience for the singers and for the audience, which adds a dimension that American Idol, with only one serious judge, can't achieve. The numbers are down on AI and I wonder if it's that it's become so very predictable. Who cares what Randy and Paula have to say since they don't ever say anything of substance. They've been coasting on cute and cute gets boring after a while.

A Funny Thing Happened On My Way to a PhD

This was written as a guest post for my friend, Nina, of ReaderWrites, whose dad died last week.

So the order of the day is to be funny, crack wise, amuse the crowd so they won't get too totally bummed out by the fact that we're all here because of--hushed tones, Addams Family music--A Death In the Family. And wasn't that a novel by James Agee? Or one of the Agee's. It sticks in my mind, halfway there obviously, as are any number of other works of fiction. My mother gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday, along with five or six other classics that she now considered I was old enough to read. Hah!

Like Nina (or perhaps that should, grammatically speaking, be As with Nina), I am a dropout from a PhD program in literature. We are, Nina and I, what's known as ABDs. All But Dissertation, that is, standing between us and the world calling us Doctor. I gave up the ghost long ago, admitted I would never finish that damn thing and thus condemned myself to, if I choose to teach, a lifetime of Freshman Comp classrooms. If you read Nina regularly, you know that that is somewhere south of purgatory. I don't know if Nina will finish hers. She might get a growth spurt in the fall and just go for it. Or maybe not.

I think statistically there are more of us ABDs than there are PhDs. Those of you who are unfamiliar with the hell that is graduate school may wonder why that is. Why don't we just get on with the fucking thing and finish it (words that I believe my dissertation director, not to mention my department chair, said to me often). Well, here's the truth of it: the easy part of getting a PhD is the course work. It's structured. There are assignments and exams and deadlines that Mommy and Daddy Herr Professors are setting for you. You go through term after term, picking your courses, buying your books, going to your classes, doing your readings, writing your papers, taking your exams and counting just how many credits more you need until you are Done With Your Coursework. And when you have amassed the requisite number of credits, you get shoved into the PhD Exam stage.

It varies from department to department and university to university, but suffice to say, it entails reading EVERYTHING written by and about and even tangentially remotely related to your topic. And then you get to write these horrendous exams written by faculty who are still sulking over (a) their career disappointments, (b) their age, (c) the horrendous exams their profs put them through all those years and years and years ago. Sometimes you're lucky enough to be in a department that has Orals, when those same sulky faculty are now quizzing you face to face about why you didn't put this or that arcane point into your exam answers. Or, as did actually happen to me, one of your examiners will fall asleep while you're responding. Oh, and did I mention that the chair of my committee was certifiable? But even so, the PhD exams are a cakewalk compared to what comes next.

The dissertation. It is not, as many of our relatives think "a really long paper," like maybe forty pages instead of a mere twenty. It is a book length original work of research. See that word 'book'--yep, that's what you're writing, a flippin' book. And for this, you are almost totally on your own. No Mommy and Daddy Herr Professors telling you what to do and when to do it. Just you. Alone. No deadlines, except what you set for yourself. And no one really cares if you keep them. Or not. No one cares about this thing that is taking up your whole life. And no one ever will. The point of it is that you've done it. It's the final hoop you must vault through before you get your degree. I faltered at the last step. I tripped on the final jump. And thus I am, forever and a day, ABD. A vast repository of now-useless knowledge about one minute speck in the world of literature.

In Which I Dutifully Account for My Luncheon With Rocco

I had lunch with Rocco Dispirito last week. Yes, I did. Me and Rocco...and a bunch of other BlogHers. Bertolli has three new microwave in the bag how easy is that pasta sauces--see, here they are.


And here is Rocco, who is every bit as cute and hunky and funny and did I mention hunky as he seems on TV. Truth in advertising is that boy.

Moving--In Which I Am Reduced To Tears

I have moved many times as an adult. I think I've said before that I seem to last about five years in a place before circumstances push me onward. You would think I'd have the process down pat. You would be wrong.

In the past, I was never on my own when I moved. I had either parents or husband by my side. This time it's just me--and Molly, of course, but she hasn't mastered wrapping glasses to put into cartons--and it's daunting. More than daunting, it's petrifying. If I was one of those really well organized people who rose at dawn and worked non-stop throughout the day and evening (which is, I am sure, how normal people do things), I might not be in such trouble. But I am a person with ADHD, which means that my attention...wanders. I have great intentions that just fray out in the doing. I start and stop fifteen things, and it's no use telling me to just finish one at a time, because I CAN'T. THAT'S WHAT IT MEANS TO HAVE ADHD.

I've got all those boxes that I bought (buying, I'm good at) and now it's time to fill them. One I've already got loaded with all of my knitting projects. It's a large carton, marked WIP, for Work In Progress. Some of these WIPs have been with me for several moves, from Amador to Pennsylvania to Los Angeles to Elk Grove, and those are just the ones I really do intend some day to finish. I've been quite stern with myself, so about half of the rest of my stash is being giving away or sold (anyone wanna buy some yarn?) or just--horrors!--tossed. I've gone on at great length about this carton because it has been my sole achievement in the packing department. I know myself; this could be my state in two, three, four weeks, forever.

This afternoon I was determined to get another box done. But which one? I put together a Medium box. But what should go in it? Okay, I'll start with a Small carton, because that I know should be filled with dishes. I get out the flattened carton and damned if I can figure out how it goes together. Must be a defective box, I decide, and go out to the garage for another. They're all the same. A defective design? Some secret of the moving box that I'm not privy to? And, of course, everyone else is, because I'm the only schmuck who could be so dense.

I wandered around in circles, literally, getting more and more frustrated and, it's also true, feeling more and more sorry for myself. And this is where I end up in tears, for good reason I think. In my family, we did for each other. If my sister and I knew nothing else, it was that our parents would always be there to help us in whatever way they could. My mother was with my sister for all three of her babies. My parents spent their vacations with the grandkids, so that my sister and her husband could get away for theirs. That's just how I was brought up. When my nephew had surgery as a kid and was in the hospital for months on end, my parents and I took it in shifts to be with him at all times so that he wouldn't be alone. I've taken care of my sister's kids and of their kids for weeks at a time--because that's what families do. That's what my parents raised me to do. But somehow that message skipped my sister. And it totally skipped her kids.

Knowing that I would be totally alone for this move, I asked my niece if she and her family could come help me. The response I got didn't actually say the word No. It was a breezy note about how August is just such a busy month for them. There's their anniversary to celebrate and their kids day camps to go to, and she's got some minor medical procedures that need taking care of. And she wishes me good luck with my move.

So I really am alone in this. And I'm mad and I'm sad and I'm incredibly hurt and disappointed. And even more, I really know how very pissed my parents would be. That's not the family they thought they created. But it's the family that I have.

My Final BlogHer'08 Post

The thing about being a blogger is that you see the world and all its events through the lens of your blog. Thus, whatever happens to you gets revisioned into a snippet or so for the blog. At least, that's the way it is for me. So much of what I experienced at BlogHer'08, I've already written up in my mind. And to be honest, my mind is being a bit chary about letting loose of the good stuff. I've done some party blogging and some MidLifeBloggers blogging, and frankly, Scarlett, I'm boring myself. Perhaps I am that much more witty when it's just me and my mind. Or perhaps not, and I'm imagining it. Whatever--I will cough up the few snippets that are on the surface floating to the top, and then call it a day.

1. This was the best BlogHer conference for me. I've said before that I went to the first two in a state of neediness that almost guaranteed I would not be satisfied. This time, thanks to the many stern admonitions I gave myself, my head seemed to be screwed on right and, goddamit, I could enjoy the thing.
2. I feel fiercely protective of the three Founders and of BlogHer itself, so the bitching that I'm reading from PEOPLE WHO WEREN'T EVEN THERE just pisses me off. And you know how I get when I'm pissed off. I would say to all of you who have issues with the conference being "like high school" etc. etc. etc., Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. In other words, you're projecting your own shit onto other people. Don't do that. It makes you unhappy and causes frown lines that no Botox can resolve.
3. My favorite session was "Women Without Children and the Blogosphere." I wasn't going to go because I thought I had said on my blog everything there was to say, but Suebob Davis is a friend so I went to support her. And I ended up staying through to the end and being fascinated by the rush of warmth that came from a lot of women talking about how they really, really felt. For years, I thought I was the odd person out because I don't have kids. At that session, I found my tribe--and learned that I do have a lot more to say about it on this blog.
4. My experience--and what I heard from others--is that the breakout sessions were the most successful because they were more focused that the general sessions. For example, I went to the "Writing Workshop", but left because it seemed to be Writing 101 (and I'm at least in 301!). The same for the "Photography" session: I left when I realized it was mainly about taking pictures of your kids.
5. I do think that this year the conference was much more mommy-centric than in the past. It wasn't just that there was an entire Mommyblogging track. The emphasis among the sponsors and the exhibitors seemed to be on moms, particularly moms of young kids. Last year I spent a lot of time in the Exhibition Room, looking, listening to spiels, signing up for stuff. This year after a couple of circuits round the room, I had run out of exhibitors that offered anything I could use or relate to. I'm wondering whether this conference is going to continue that focus and the BlogHer Business conferences will end up being an equal, but different partner. I hope not, because I love the idea that all of us get together this one time every year--but really, from what I hear, even the mommy's are not wanting so much mommy stuff.
6. More technology next year, please.
7. The best part of the conference is--that it exists. Thank you, Jory, Elisa and Lisa.

THE END -- until 2009.

BlogHer'08: MidLifeBloggers' A Room of Your Own

To be honest, I tried not to think about what the Room of Your Own (ROYO) might turn out to be. I'm too much a child of the '60 and '70s, when we knew (and this was pre-Oprah) that what you visualize, you will actualize to even chance a negative vibe. However, in that corner of my mind where I didn't want to go was a glimpse of me and maybe one or two other loyal friends, sitting in a meeting room, trying not to notice that we were the only ones there. Consequently, I did very little prep for the event, which is why, if you were there, it was less than well-organized. I had the swag I had brought with me

but I just tossed it on the tables anywhichway so that no one, god forbid, should think that I cared. And I had the MidLifeBloggers Giveaway prize in all its orange glory, but I never stopped to figure out what the contest actually was or how I'd give it away. I really did think that I'd end up handing it to Merlot Mom or Average Jane as the three of us shuffled our lonely way out of the empty room.

My refusal to visualize must have worked because, in fact, the Room Of Your Own was pretty nigh full. Too many, I think, to do the "go around the room and introduce yourself" which is always a good way to get a group going. The ROYO only went from 1:30 - 2:10 and we might still be there (!). So I talked (yes, can you actually imagine that), and gave a brief history of the genesis of MidLifeBloggers, explained the overwhelming orange (which is easier to do if one can wave one's hands a lot), and that this site lives and breathes by its members. My question to everyone there (and to those who weren't) was: What do you want MidLifeBloggers to be for you.

Here are some of the points that were made, in no particular order:

• We are about inclusion. If you identify as being midlife, whatever that means to you, then you're one of us!
• Some of us love tech stuff; some don't, but wish they felt more at ease with it.
• Most of the posts are and will be written by MidLifeBloggers. I will be writing more about this, the how to's, later in the week.

Of course there was more said...but if I didn't prepare to say it, do you think I prepared to remember it? I took no notes and I was amped on adrenalin so you're lucky I even remembered to take these:

I can see in the photos that some people were taking notes, so maybe they'll comment and fill in the gaps gaping holes in my recitation.

And who won the MidLifeBloggers Giveaway? I don't know. I thrust it in the arms of someone as she left the room. Maybe the Mystery Midlifer will identify herself soon and tell us what she got....

Cross-posted from MidLifeBloggers.com

BlogHer'08: Just the first night...

Shallow as I am, I must confess that the parties and the socializing were the raison d'etre of BlogHer'08 for me. But then I announced that ahead of time, didn't I.

I meant to go to the Guy Kawasaki/Kirtsy party on Thursday night, but it was a tad difficult to get to. They had hired buses to take us from the St. Francis to Guy's house in Atherton. Good thinking, that. Not so good was the rush hour traffic, the 30 mile trip, and the bus driver who got lost. I got to the appointed pickup area at about 5:15 or so. Evidently I just missed a bus. The one with the bus driver who got lost. At 5:30, someone came out and told us the buses were "running slow and late." The earliest the next one would be there was 5:45, if then. And it would take, oh, another three quarters of an hour, if not more since it was smack in the middle of rush hour, to get to Guy's. Why didn't we wait inside, it was suggested, since this was San Francisco, and it was cold and windy outside. I did some mental math and decided that no matter how much I wanted to meet Guy (and thank him for putting the Midlife category on Alltop), I probably wouldn't be all that pleasant when I finally got there. So, yeah, I bagged it. And it was my loss, as I hear from those who went.

The two parties I did make it to on Thursday night were BlogHer's Newbie Party and The People's Party. The Newbie Party was quite lovely. Open bars...waiters passing endless amounts of finger snacky things--which was good, since I'd missed dinner. I feared, this not being my first but my THIRD BlogHer Conference, that I would be turned away from the Newbie Party. But would BlogHer do that? No way. I wish there had been a Newby Party the year I was a Newby, although that year we all hung out by the pool at the San Jose Hyatt, so meeting people wasn't that much of a problem. Still, it's nice to have the weekend begin with a celebration. I was with Melissa Silverstein at the Newby Party and we talked to Stephanie Klein, who told us about her new book, Moose: A Memoir of Fat Camp. Clearly Stephanie has mastered forever the days when she needed Fat Camp, and she is now working on the tele- (or is it screen-?)play of her first book, Straight Up and Dirty. However, Melissa, who blogs about Women and Hollywood, was itching to meet some radical feminist BlogHers, so we went to The People's Party to see if the bra burners were hanging out there.

Everyone was hanging out at The People's Party, which was in a smallish room. Consequently, the noise level was ab-so-lute-ly unbelievable. The People's Party was loud, people. Make that LOUD. Make that Ear Assaulting Pain Inducing Loud. I must confess that I was somewhat embarrassed, nay humiliated even, that a room full of my fellow female bloggers sounded like the aural definition of the word cacophony. Our voices hit a decibel register that, well, that approaches a cackle, as heard through a superbowl sized megaphone. A Superbowl Cackle, a chorus of Cackles.


This noise level issue was a problem at the St. Francis all weekend. I cannot believe that a room full of men sounds so dreadful. If it did, I'm sure the acoustical engineers would be trotted out instantly to do whatever was necessary to amend the problem. But since it was just a room full of women--like, how often is that going to happen? Let them eat cake, as it were. Let them go deaf listening to their shrill selves. Let them.....whatever.

BlogHer08, The Aftermath

So I'm back. I have done conferred with the masses and now I'm standing in my living room with three different sized boxes 'cause I'M PACKING. Except I can't decided what should go in which sized box, and it's all too confusing, and when things get confusing, I get sleepy, and this sentence could go on forever, couldn't it, yes indeedy I havent spent years reading Faulkner not to pick up something useful. But I digress.

BlogHer08: There were too many people (ONE THOUSAND of 'em, count 'em) to do the traditional BlogHer shoutout post where you link to everyone you met, or at least gathered a card from. Instead, I'm visiting all of you wonderful women, and I shall post on your sites in the next day or two. There were also too many experiences, impressions, whatevers to do the traditional BlogHer Recap Post. Instead, you'll get this piecemeal, whenever it hits me. Think of it as the Continuing Saga of Jane at BlogHer08. Don't know if it will last two days or two weeks. Stay tuned to find out.

I have uploaded the photos I took to Flickr. Done it quick and dirty without titles or even making sure they're the right way around. So in the next day or so, I'll be using Picnik's amazing (truly, I've tried it) photo editing service, which just coincidentally happens to be bundled with Flickr to make some silk purses of the sow's ears that I shot. Really, I am a good photographer...artsy even (see my pic of clams at Redondo Beach that Schmap.com is using for their LA photo Guide). But stick a camera in my hand at an event like BlogHer and I might as well be shooting with the back of my head, using my left foot to hit the shutter. Yes, that bad. Part of the problem--maybe the whole problem--is that I forget to take pictures. Just don't think about it. And then when I do, well, the scene in front of me seems so boring and predictable and couldn't we buy a postcard that does a better job. So I rush to focus on something vaguely visually interesting, but then I'm somewhat embarassed to be taking pictures in public, so I don't focus properly or frame well, and the results are something like this:

If you crank your head sideways, you will surely see the cookies from Day One's Cookies and Milk midmorning snack. In my mind I had an image of a closeup of all the cookies, but that image never made it to my viewfinder. Whatever.

I did eat one of those cookies, but did not take the milk because I'm lactose-intolerant but very tolerant of the well-being of those around me. I ate a cookie because I did not eat breakfast. I did not even see breakfast. I can only believe, because others have told me, that the hotel provided breakfasts on both days, but damned if I knew where. Breakfast began at 8:30. I got there about 9:15. Is it possible that they cleared the whole thing away by then? I asked one blogger who was carrying a plate full of croissants (as well as a belly full of baby) and she graciously shared one with me. So Stephanie Precourt of Adventures In Babywearing, if it was you who took pity on me--thank you.

More anon.....

...and at MidLifeBloggers, there's a new post up on Bodysnarking. Do you know what that is? Do you do it? And I'll be posting about MidLifeBloggers at BlogHer'08 tomorrow...and that's a promise, I think.

A Little of this, a little of that....

Oh--was I supposed to post something tonight????

I have nothing to add to the BlogHer noise that is rampaging over the nets. It's great...all the excitement, all the men trying to do a dick wiggle virtually (check Twitter and you'll see what I mean), and on the actual BlogHer site, a blogger posted a looonnngggg Abortion is Murder post. It ended up on the front page (just proof that BlogHer isn't all a nest of commie liberal babykillers) -- and when last I looked, there were 90 comments. I haven't read through them all--or even some--because, frankly, my mind is made up. As it has been since long before Roe v Wade. How long are we going to keep arguing this shit????

MidLifeBloggers Great and Glorious Grand Prize @ BlogHer '08

Come to the Meetup:
Friday, July 18 - 1:30 - 2:10 pm
Register to win
Talk to us
Get some more schwag!
Have a say in planning the direction of MidLifeBloggers.com

Edited to add: We're scheduled for the Essex Room and there will be signs

Dental Emergencies--Is there a moral to this story?

This post really should go over at MidLifeBloggers because my dental adventures are all a function of my age. Well, that and the fact that I didn't floss for much of my life. And also that my father had good gums and decay-ridden teeth (he was still having fillings at 86) and my mother had great teeth but lousy gums--and I inherited her gums and his teeth. As a consequence, I have spent a lifetime in the dentists' chairs. And I am not a friendly patient. I am not even a patient patient, as I have no zitzfleish, which loosely translates as the ability to sit still. Finally, I've managed to find several dentists who will listen to me, do what I tell them, humor me, laugh at my jokes, hug me when I come in and leave, and generally give the impression that, hey, they like me, they really like me. The fact that both of them are Persian is--well, I don't know what it is. But they are, and one's a Muslim and the other's a Jew and we all get along really well. This being the case, there was no way in the world I was going to find new dentists in Sacramento. Really. I've made periodic trips to LA just to see one or the other or both of my dentists. Mostly this has worked out relatively well. But every so often, I have a dental emergency, and then I cry like a baby for them to save me. Which they must do long-distance, since I'm here and they're there.

Like yesterday, when appropros of a nectarine and some cheese and crackers, I bit down on something alien. It was, it turned out, the crown from one of my lower teeth. I have lots of crowns because I have lots of implants because of my mispent dental youth and bad genes. And here one was, on my tongue, a vision in porcelein and gold. If I were in LA, I would have called my dentist and he would have told me to come right over and I would have and he would have glued the thing back in my mouth. But I'm not in LA...

...and I just happen to have some dental glue that he gave me a while back. So late last night I mixed it up, troweled it onto the crown and shoved the little bugger back in my mouth.

Backwards.

This morning I called my dentist. I've got good news and bad news, I told him.

Please, he said, give me the good news first.

I'm moving back to LA at the end of the summer--and you know that last crown you put in my mouth last year well it fell out yesterday and I glued it back in place. Backwards.

I could hear him sigh--and laugh, because he does know me!--and then he proceeded to give me step by step instructions on how to get it out and please please please call him when I do. The process involves a lot of wiggling of the tooth until the glue loosens. Which it hasn't yet. But it will, goddamit, it will.

In Which I Smack Myself About The Head...

Quit whining, Jane.

Do I have too much on my mind, or not enough on my mind? Vote A or B...

Time's up; the correct answer is A. So let me just clear my cache, which seems to involve some sort of purge.

Such as:

• Considering that I still have multiple many things to do to prep for BlogHer, not the least of which is decide what to wear, why then did I spend much of yesterday and today playing with my wire and bead stuff?
  
• Is this a good thing--as in, I have ADD and the scattershot attention is one way in which it manifests itself and so what, I get stuff done; it just takes me three times as long as most people.
• Is this a bad thing--as in, this is how I'm dealing with the pressure of BlogHer, by ensuring that, yet again, I am not fully prepared to do the best job that I can?

• What actually is it about this conference that is tweaking my already twirpy sense of well-being?
  
• Am I feeling ambivalent about it because I am ambivalent about participating in a gigantic group grope?
  
• Is it that I fear I will be overwhelmed by the mass energy of a thousand people, each of whom has an agenda, both practical and emotional, that is somewhat or a lot different from mine?
  

I must confess that the past two conferences have left me feeling more than 'eh'. Of course I went to the first conference after the Big Move from LA and six months of a job in which I felt invisible. And last year I went after a year in which my entire life got turned upsidedown, not to mention my self-esteem being ground into the, well, the ground. And this year? Is this year different? I think so. I hope so. I'll let you know.....

Mea Culpa, Sorta

I have been derelict in my duty to this blog, for no good reason, just because--I didn't wanna.

You're all bloggers. You know what it's like to just not want to twist the words and turn the ideas into something at least vaguely interesting, if not outright scintillating.

So tough. Deal with it.

It's Such An Honor...too much, too much

Ms Meta has bestowed upon me the famed and renowned Arte Y Pico Award, henceforth to be know as The AYPA. It is, I am told, a token of one's style and substance as a blogger. That's me: both style and substance.

However, unlike some foofoo awards, such as the Bloggies or the Oscars, the Aypa comes with some serious responsibilities. They are:

1) You must choose 5 blogs that you consider deserve this award for creativity, design, interesting material, and contribution to the blogging community, regardless of language.

2) You must publish the name of each award-winning author as well as a link to his or her blog.

3) Each award-winner must post a picture of the award and link back to the blog that has given the award.

4) Both the giver and the recipient of the award must link to the “Arte y Pico” blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.

5) You must post these rules.

My winning blogs, all in English I regret to say (for the sake of diversity, doncha know), are:

Average Jane
Good & Plenty
It's A Mad Madge World
MidLife's A Trip
Twentyfour At Heart

Have at it, you lucky bloggers; long may be reign....

I Can't Keep My Fingers Out of the Pot...

I've been stirring the CSS pot, as you can see, on the look of ByJane. I'm not done yet (hah!). But I've added a second sidebar, which I've wanted for forever. I end up deleting stuff from my sidebar, like badges from all the awards I have not won, and a ByJane blogroll that isn't linked to Google, and--

Well, the first new thing is my new BlogHer'08 badge. I got rid of the "I'm Wearing Cute Shoes" to BlogHer because "I'm Drinking At BlogHer" seemed much more appropriate to my intentions for the conference. The more I look and listen to the one thousand people attending--ONE THOUSAND, Jesus, we'll tip the boat!--the more I realize that my focus is a tad more narrow than what I'm hearing from most people. I'm not going to find out how to improve my blog or get more readers. I won't be giving any elevator spiels because I don't have one. I don't really know what sessions I'll be going to because--I don't really know what sessions there are. I'm just going for the sake of going--and for the schwag.

Didn't I say all this before? Yes, I did. I'm saying it again. For myself. Repeating it. To get it into my head. So that I don't get shoved off course and end up miserable. I'm sure I'm not the only one who's knee jerks when someone in the know starts talking about how to Build One's Blog. I become like a little chicken pecking after my mama hen, "tell me...I'll do it...tell me...." But I end up not doing it and then I feel like a failure, a deflated balloon of a blogger who is listing aimlessly about.

In moments of sanity, however, I realize that I end up not doing it, because I DON'T WANT TO.

I think I've said this before here (god knows I've said it often enough elsewhere): the greatest lesson I learned as a freelancer was that just because I could write a piece didn't mean I should. Then, too, I was like some baby chick, but the mama hens were my editors. Oh you want me to write 3000 words on Blech for next month. No problemo. Can do. Hideyho and pip pip.

So I know there are lots and lots and lots of things I could be doing to make my blogs other than what they are. I'm just not interested. If I was, I would. That's another thing I've learned along the way: we really do do exactly what we want to do. Even when we think we don't want it.

So this is a Memo to Myself, which you are just reading because you're along for the ride, lucky you. And in other news--

The contest, the contest--yes, we have a winner. The first correct answer was MerlotMom's, but the fullest correct answer was Jan's. That was a photo of the 25 plus boxes I bought (for $50 + dollars) yesterday nestled in the trunk of my car. I am indeed packing. I am indeed moving back to LA. Send me your addresses, ladies, and your prizes will soon be wafting your way.

What Is This?

A very nice prize to the first person who guesses correctly. Hint: A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words.

It's A Dog's Life

They're funny, these animals that we have half civilized and half not. This is a photo of Molly eating a crunchy. Crunchies are nuggets of dog food, Science Diet mind you, that are always in a bowl by her water. She doesn't eat the crunchies at the bowl, as she does her wet dog food. No, each crunchy must be personally selected and brought to the Crunchy Eating Pillow. That plaid thing is the Crunchy Eating Pillow. The process is this: she trots off to the other room to get a crunchy. She returns to the office with her crunchy. She deposits said crunchy on the Crunchy Eating Pillow. Then she circles the crunchy, going 'round in several circles until she finds the best angle. Her goal is to bury the crunchy and she works mightily at nosing the fabric of the Crunchy Eating Pillow over it. This is, of course, impossible. The crunchy remains in view. She tries again, nosing more aggressively. Still, the crunchy will not be mastered; it sits there like the cherry on top of the sundae. What to do? What to do? What to do? Aha! you can almost see the thought bubble above her head. To get rid of the crunchy, she must eat it. Right now. Yes, that will definitely deal with the recalcitrant crunchy. Which she does, and it does--whereupon she trots off to the other room to get another crunchy and begin the process all over again.

Atavistic dog behavior: she knows she must hide her food from the rest of the pack. And she knows how to do it. She just doesn't know that she's totally in the wrong setting.

Punk Rock Mommy has died....

I write those words through a blur of tears. Andrea Collins Smith was an incredible woman who blogged the last year of her life. You can read her final post here. She was so honest and so plain-spoken about a time that tends to get lost in a fog of sentimentality. It was as if she was taking us by the hand and saying, This is what will happen. This is the truth of it. When my mother died, as I sat with her during her last hours, I saw that there is no scary Other beyond breathing. I have said that that is the last lesson my mom taught me. And what Andrea taught me was that there is no scary Other in the process of a fatal illness. Both of these are gifts immeasurable, for freeing me of fear, they enable me to live my life more fully.

Ocean's Thirteen

I think it was Thirteen. Maybe it was Twelve. No, Thirteen, I'm sure. The one with Ellen Barkin. That one. Not that I'm sure of much else that went on in the film. Just that 86 or so minutes with George Clooney is all I need to make me smile. And Brad Pitt, who I'm liking a whole lot more now that he's with Angelina. She's given him some ooomph. You know, oooommmph? Not to mention a bunch of kids.

The advantage to being out of the movie circuit these past almost-three years is that the films HBO and Comcast are showing gratis? I have seen nary a one. So whenever I want, it's movie night for me. And, yes, I do have popcorn.

The Newly Single Woman Celebrates the Fourth

She holds a barbecue. For herself. Because she loves the idea of being an American grilling meat outdoors. Even though she doesn't do it very well. And she toasts marshmallows afterwards on the dying embers. And gets tipsy from drinking a Raspberry Beer concoction that she made up herself. And life is good. And she is happy.

July 3rd...

...mah birfday, and the first one in a lllloooonnnnggg time when I didn't wake up feeling oh-so-sad. Time passing, the fleeting nature of life, and all that crap.

In honor of the day, the mailman brought me a thick envelope with a cover letter reading, "Dear Jane: Enclosed is a copy of the letter we sent to D today, serving him with the commencement documents...." Commencement documents? Is he graduating or being divorced? Lawyer-speak is so odd, isn't it.

Also in honor of the day, I bought myself a huge whipped cream and fresh raspberry with chocolate cake confection at the Nugget's bakery. You will no doubt hear me speak about the Nugget often as it is now the sole reason why Elk Grove is worth living in. Think a privately-owned Whole Foods where the service is so good that they are something like the eighth best company to work for in ALL OF AMERICA. Which is why I wasn't surprised when after I told the checker that it was my birthday (hey, I've been singing to myself all day), he closed his register, said "don't move," and came back a couple of minutes later with a huge bouquet of flowers. Not surprised, but very very pleased and honored. I even put them in water when I got home.

I am, I must say, a happy camper.....

New Post Up at http://midlifebloggers.com

Never Mind Your Age; What's Your Developmental Stage???

Bodybuilding, ByJane

All my adult life, I've waited to find that one sport that I would be good at; no, not good at, but have a natural talent for. I have worked my way through the usual suspects: tennis, racquetball, softball, bowling. I've tried them all to no avail. Yesterday at the gym, however, my trainer (!) told me that I had the natural goods to be a bodybuilder. A bodybuilder? Seems that my muscles are dense, or something like that. They are not, she added, strong. BUT if I were to take up the program, the diet, the lifting--then, she said, I could be a contender on the competition circuit.

What a hoot!

The Big Buildup to BlogHer'08

Tomorrow is July 1st--Holy Shit! just seventeen days to get ready for the big event. Some of us are going on extreme diets and some of us are having our hair cut, colored and what-evered. The boys are moaning about the dumb luck of Mommybloggers and a dozen or so contests have sprouted all over the blogosphere. The air, she is palpable, as is the excitement. What shall I wear? Who will talk to me? What if no one does? What if I end up sitting in a corner all weekend like a crumpled ball of Kleenex. There is no way that the event could ever match the anticipation, but every year we hope it will. Is this the eternal hopefulness of the damned? (And what does that mean? It just slipped out).

This year I have high hopes for BlogHer'08. Mostly because I am working hard to have no hopes at all. No expectations. Not for me. Expectations, as Pip could tell you, are a trap. I will not be going out the day before I leave to get a Really Cool Haircut that was a REALLY BAD MISTAKE, requiring that I have it immediately amended at Supercuts. I will not be staying by myself, because, damn, that's lonely, even if I don't have an extra bed for all my schwag. I will not try and make of my blogs anything, anything at all. They are what they are and--are you ready for this incredible insight?--they will be what they will be without any grandiose efforts from me. My goal this year is simple: to have fun.

Yes, indeedy. After the year I've just had, I think fun has to be at the top of the agenda. And laughing. Lots of LOLing. And maybe a serious conversation or two. And meeting people I know on-line but not in person. And people I don't know on-line. And just hanging out. And laughing--did I mention that?

Is The Food Channel Dumbing Down?

I think so. I just watched the latest episode of The Next Food Channel Network Star (or whatever it's called). Between the episode itself and the commercials, it seems clear that The Food Channel is looking to appeal to the common mom cook without much time (or talent?) in the kitchen. I don't mean to be snobby, but when I watch a cooking program, it's to be taken to a higher level in the kitchen. Rachel Ray doesn't cut it with me. Bobby Flay--eh, he's cute, albeit somewhat damp looking, but he doesn't inspire me to new culinary heights. Thinking about it, the only Food Channel programs I really enjoy are the ones with professional chefs doing high concept cooking. The other stuff--the easy, peasy in the kitchen stuff--nah, I can do that myself without the laugh track.

New Post Up at http://midlifebloggers.com

Why Orange?

Morning Pages, the Canine Version

Molly and I have just gotten back from our Morning Walk. This is the doggie version of Morning Pages, and her daily output may be more meaningful than mine. Molly likes some dogs, is disinterested in others, and some she seems to be extremely wary of. Generally the strong, silent ones; the little yappers she figures she can bat out of the park. Every once in a while, though, she seems to be struck from afar with the beauty, the very charisma of another canine on another leash who is some distance away. This morning it was a dog who looked like this:

Molly was stopped in her tracks--and I, not knowing that, continued to walk until our full sixteen feet of leash had played out. I had been deep in thought (cogitating, as it were), so I didn't realize what was happened until the leash jerked me to a halt. Then I saw the dog and then I looked at my dog, and what I saw was: I am in love.

Even now, she is dreaming of him.

It's 11:46 p.m.

...which gives me about fourteen minutes to fulfill my Blog 365 responsibilities. There--consider them fulfilled.

The Hard Part of Deciding...

...is not making the decision, or even setting out the options. The hard part of deciding is being able to wait until the time to make the decision is right.

Witnessing for the Lord

I am such a sucker for these people. Because I'm nice and my mother raised me right and when someone comes to my door, I may not let them in, but I at least give them the courtesy of listening to their spiel. But they're not satisfied with my courtesy; they want nothing less than my soul. When they find out that it's a Jewish soul, oh my my my, do their evangelizing hearts beat faster. They whip out their Bibles and start quoting Isaiah to me and take me point by point through this verse and that to prove that the Prophesy is true, and I could be saved if only I'd listen. And read the literature which they left me the last time (which I threw out, but not without some guilt that I was tossing someone's Word of God). I stand in my doorway and nod and smile and give the same mindless comments I'd trucked out in high school when a date would start talking about his car.

The irony of that does not escape me, that I'm still putting on a happy face so a male should not know how pitifully boring I found him. But it is my choice; I could cut them off at the pass (which is what my mother would have done, without a second thought). I don't because they care so much. I find that kind of intense good will a rare quality in today's world; therefore, in the spirit of tikkun olam (to heal the world), I listen.

MidLifeBloggers: a new post is up

Adventures in MidLife: You're Going Out Looking Like That?

Ta Dum.....

New Post Up at http://midlifebloggers.com

Climbing That Ladder to a Satisfying MidLife

The Wayward Wind

PhatMommy has writer's block. Me two...or rather, too. All of the wonderful things, the pithiest of my normally pithy comments, have gone the way of the wind...and it's a restless wind, that's born to wander......

Ahem--in today's mail I got a Xeroxed notice from the Family Life Center. At first, I thought it was one of the many varieties of Christian churches that have come to minister to Elk Grove's needs. But no, t'was an Employment Opportunity, two of them actually. The first was for a "mature couple" willing to minister in a "highly respected residential treatment program" for adolescents in "the beautiful countryside of Petaluma." Indeed, Petaluma is quite lovely, and since the job came with "Housing in a beautifully furnished country home including utilities, food and household expenses," I was enticed. Alas, I am not part of a couple, so that job could not be mine. But wait, wait, on the other side of the marigold sheet was another Employment Opportunity, and this one was for a mature, caring MFT Intern. Doesn't that just sound like me. I'm mature. I'm caring. I'm definitely an MFT Intern.

I got quite excited--was the universe offering me something new? I've been of a mind to move to the Bay Area and, hey, I think Petaluma qualifies. Or near enough. Plus this position offered the same beautifully furnished country home and a "competitive salary." In return, I would provide a "nurturing, stable home environment for four male students." Yes, I would, because I was mature and caring AND an MFT-Intern AND I like boys (I actually prefer them to girls, who I find to be rather MEAN). My imagination took of like a tumbleweed along the Texarkana border.

Yes, yes, I would apply for this job. I'm good with kids. Particularly wayward male kids. I would move to Petaluma and and and---.

I'd have to get up early, wouldn't I? And probably prepare three meals a day. And would I be keeping that beautifully furnished country home tidy? Oh no no no, that is so not me.

For I'm a wayward wind.....

Now I'm Up--Now I'm Not

It amazes me how quickly my sense of self can teeter off the board. Today was a good day. I got MidLifeBloggers accepted for BlogHer Ads and I wrote a Belated Intro to the site to post on BlogHer.

Maybe the teetering started when I couldn't download the second part of the BlogHer Ads app. Maybe it got a little worse when I couldn't get the intro uploaded without some strange code attached to it, despite trying twice, and so I deleted it, twice. Frustrating, yes, but ultimately fixable.

Then I read Dooce and her friend Carol's twin posts about the diet they're doing together, and I thought I want to go on that diet too. But I immediately realized that it wasn't the diet I envied, but their friendship. It's been a while since I've had that kind of closeness with another woman where you can absolutely trust that she wants what is good for you--and cares enough to say so.

The coup de grace happened when I sat down to dinner. I had a plate full of food, chicken arriabiata and basil pasta and fresh green beans that I was enjoying, I thought, when suddenly my perspective changed. It was as if I had an out-of-body experience, and I looked down and I saw myself as I was, sitting alone, working my silent way through the chicken and green beans. The thought flashed through my mind: is it worse to always be sitting alone, eating alone these nutritious meals. Or would I feel less pathetic if I was eating on the fly, just grabbing whatever, like I did when I was in my twenties?

That's a rhetorical question, by the way; no need to answer with encouraging words about respecting oneself and caring for one's body. I know all that. Hell, you don't get to this stage of midlife without having internalized a whole heap of magazine articles and books about How To Live Successfully Alone. I'm really just registering that instant of altered perspective and then only to say how it was as if the lights went out.

I know what my problem is, and I know how to solve it. It just takes time, but patience has never been my strong suit.

I'm a D-list Blogger with a Dilemna

...and I need to know what you think. Every once in a while I get sent something to review, a book or a film usually. I don't pretend to think it's because I have such salient wit. I know I'm just a D-list blogger and I've gotten on the rolls of some similarly-situated PR people who are hoping for that Viral Thingie to happen for their client. My problem is this: D-list PR people tend to get D-list writers for clients. That means that the works that I am sent are not so much without merit as flawed, in some cases fatally so.

Now if you know anything about me, it's that I have a rather skewed view at times. And I like to laugh. And I tend to see juxtapositions that other people don't, until I point them out. Add all that up, pour it into a flawed novel or film and you get me ripping off a series of cogent comments that are pretty darn funny. And while I'd love to write them in a review post because they are often just too, too good to go unsaid, I don't. Because I know that at the other end of that book or film is a writer. A writer who has pinned a lot of hopes and plans and ambition on the particular work. In short, someone like me.

Maybe that's why those who can do and those who can't write about it. It's not too hard to be upfront honest when you have no stake in the races yourself.

But the horns of my dilemna are these: am I faithful to my integrity as a reader or am I faithful to my loyalty to other writers? In the past, I've managed to walk a narrow path. I squelched my better bon mots, focused on what was good about the work, and alluded to some of the Problems with the text. But now I'm reading a review copy where I'm falling off the path. The intention of the writer was with merit; the realization was without. My choices, then, are:

1. Lose the book. Forget I got it. Pretend to myself that it was lost in the mail.
2. Write the truth, even though it hurts me to think of the writer reading it.
3. Do one of those la-di-dah reviews where you basically just summarize the plot.

The problem with the first is that it's a lie and believe it or not, I do have issues with lying. The problem with the second is that I end up feeling really, really bad. The problem with the third is that I sneer at critics who through ignorance or laziness end up copping out with a summary.

What would you do? What do you do?

New post up at MidLifeBloggers.

Death and Insomnia

If I only included Orgasm, I could have titled this Les Petit Morts (and forgive me if I'm off on the gender of my French...you say la, I say le...whatever).

I've been slow on the uptake and off on the posting since this weekend. First, there was Tim Russert dying on Friday. Then a local man was killed by a sheriff's deputy when he wouldn't stop beating his kid to death. The kid was a baby. The local man was his father. He took the baby out of his carseat (this was a responsible parent!) and just stomped him to death on a country road. One man who was unsuccessful in trying to stop him said that his eyes were empty and you could see all the way to the back of his head. And Monday, on my way to the gym, just around the corner from my house, I passed a blanket-covered body oozing blood. Just his paws were showing. The German shepherd from down the street. The kids in the car that was, to judge by the skid marks, going too fast when it hit him looked chastened. His owner was inconsolable. And now I have to avoid that corner.

Edited to add: New post up at MidLifeBloggers

Is it any wonder that I have a hard time falling asleep? And that I'm groggier than hell now, and probably making little sense?

New Post Up at http://midlifebloggers.com

Announcing: Three New Features