Out Write Girl

Slow roll

2012-02-13T22:10:00.000-08:00

My Facebook status currently reads: "Did you hear my non-Washington friends? Gay marriage bill was signed into law today. That's how we roll in the great Northwest."

In fact, that upbeat reaction is overstating things a bit. I wrote it trying to pump myself up, trying to believe it's actually happening, that I could get married to my sweetie just like my best friends, my neighbors, my co-workers.

I've spent my adult life not daring to image that right would be given to me. Even as six other states have passed equal marriage laws, the opposition is so vocal that I've remained emotionally detached. Molly and I had a beautiful wedding ceremony in 2006 that symbolized our deep commitment to each other and to our family. And yet. It meant nothing in the eyes of the state.

Washington's path to this law has been steady, methodical. First, an anti-discrimination law was passed by lawmakers, domestic partnership cleared a legislative hurdle in 2007, was expanded in 2008, and survived a repeal effort in 2009.

When we registered as domestic partners, we gained protections that we would have otherwise had to spend hundreds of dollars sorting out with a lawyer. DPship, however, does not come with understood recognition. Molly and I have carried state-issued ID cards for five years proving that we, for example, have the right to visit each other as family in the hospital or that we are the first line of decision-making for each other in a medical emergency.

What straight couple has to carry proof of marriage?

When Gov. Christine Gregoire announced in January that, after much reflection and a change of heart, she would introduce the bill to the Legislature, the Washington LGBTA community erupted in excitement. Could we be lucky number 7? The seventh state to afford same-sex couple marriage rights?

In the days since the governor's announcement, my excitement has waned out of self-protection. Opponents made it clear they would initiate a referendum effort, which indeed was launched today. If I don't get my hopes up, the dashing of dreams won't hurt as much.

Signature gatherers will be out in force, attempting to get a repeal measure on the November ballot. In other words, the law signed today is in suspended animation. The roll we are on has been slowed down, and I will remain cautious.

But, in the meantime, I'm going to frequent as many retail establishments and public events as I can and gleefully decline signing the petition!

Why not tri it?

2012-01-29T19:01:00.000-08:00

If a person can be rejuvenated, shouldn't that mean we can also be juvenated? At least once anyway, then every time after that we are rejuvenated. I wish juvenated were a word. It seems just right to describe what I'm feeling tonight.

Twice this weekend I have rocked the bike on my indoor trainer. Yesterday, the spin was preceded by a walk. Both days it was followed by a good stretch and some core exercises. January overall has been a decent month for practicing tai chi, walking on my lunch hour, spinning at home in the evenings. In other words, I've been relatively consistent with working out, so tonight is not about feeling rejuvenated after being out of shape or out of the routine of exercise. Rather, it's about something fresh and new.

What I feel is excited, inspired, possessing muscles that are well worked. Juvenated, I say!

Seven years ago, about this time in the calendar, I resolved to compete in a sprint distance triathlon. Thoughts of doing another crossed my mind today. The swimming and running are not easy for me, and therefore make a triathlon more of a mental and physical stretch than a long distance cycling event.

It's a good way to live, wouldn't you say? Stretching yourself just enough to feel inspired and excited on a daily basis. My memory of post-race seven years ago was that it felt like the hardest physical endeavor I'd ever accomplished. Between then and now, I've had a hysterectomy, which was done through major abdominal surgery, and whether it is natural aging or the results of being thrown into menopause, I just don't feel as strong as I used to. So, there again, a triathlon would stretch me.

Nothing so far this month has diminished my New Year's sense that 2012 was going to be a big year, and I dare say this feeling of juvenation is the next natural step. Choose a tri, the little voice in my head is saying.

Birthday sweetness

2012-01-25T23:13:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow morning, at precisely 7:16 am, my phone will ring. It will be my mom. Every January 26 for years now she's called at the exact hour and minute I was born. Each time I hang up, I chuckle to myself and thank the stars I wasn't born at 2:53 am, or some other unearthly hour. Next year, when my birthday is on a Saturday, I might have to put in a special request for a call, say at the precise moment that my dad arrived at the hospital. He was at work on that ghastly rainy Sunday morning in 1969, and apparently I was born within 15 minutes of my mom walking through the doors. I figure my dad must not have made it until 8:00 or 8:30.

Molly knew a family while she was growing up that would tell the birth story of each kid on the annual celebration of their birthday. She does it sometimes for A and R. I can tell they like it. Since I've been around to hear the stories, the conversation has turned more than once to questioning about who had the most hair and who weighed the most.

Sometimes I think with awe about how amazing it would be if we had memories from our first hours, days, and months. I would love to be inside the brain of 3-month-old me. What made me decide to put my thumb in my mouth? What did that stuff in the bottle taste like? How, when I was 9 months old, did I decide to walk instead of crawl?

Knowing my birth story is a nice substitute for an absence of memories. Is that why we celebrate birthdays? To remind ourselves that we really are alive, to make memories that we can keep?

My birthday memories from this year started a couple of weeks ago when my officemates completely surprised me with a giant chocolate cake. It was the middle of the first day of winter quarter classes on our campus and I had been meeting with students nonstop for hours. Our secretary finally convinced me to go into the break room and there were all kinds of people, festive signs, and the happiest cake I'd ever seen. Two other colleagues have January birthdays, so it was for all of us, but something about being the last on the scene made it feel all about me (insert smiley emoticon here)!

Tonight, an equally brilliant cake greeted me upon my arrival home. Four layers of chocolate cake from scratch with homemade buttercream frosting. So tall that LEGOs are propping up the cake dome. That is a memory and a half. It is the cake that my grandma made for the first 19 years of my life. When she passed away, my mom and I realized she had never written down the recipe. Through trial and error, we figured out the cake is the recipe on the Hershey's cocoa can. Molly has reproduced the closest to the frosting we've ever come, but the ultimate secret for frosting with just a touch of sweetness and that hardened ever so slightly will remain with Grandma Wagner.

The cakes have brought me much joy, but really, it's the people behind the cakes who bring the greatest joy, who make the memories all the sweeter.

Untouched

2012-01-22T20:40:00.000-08:00

Turns out, discs fly just as well in 30-degree weather as in 80-degree temperatures, and hiking through the hills and trees of our local disc golf course is super fun on snowshoes. It especially appeals to me because there is no dust and grime coating hands, shoes, legs. We tried out a few holes today and it was a blast.

Snow Jabba minus Princess Leia

Yesterday we spent an hour or so in the front yard, building a snowman that turned into Jabba the Hut with a pipe and button eyes. Being outside has been delicious. The winter can wear on me with spending so much time inside. I really appreciate the warmth of indoors, and the safety of dry floors (no ice to slip on or slush to slop over the tops of your shoes), but sometimes I just need to feel small.

With a ceiling always close overhead, furniture, cabinets, and other obstacles in my home and my office, I sometimes get to feeling just too big, too much of a human in an artificial space. Today, at High Bridge Park, I felt especially free and insignificant. The pine trees soared above me, the clouds blew aside to reveal blue, vast expanses of white, untrampled snow replaced what is normally grassy open spaces. Even when we tromped around in our snowshoes, leaving oblong tracks, plenty of snow remained smooth as hospital sheets snapped crisp across a bed.

I like knowing there are spots out there left untouched by people. Uncluttered. So many times, in the 11 years I have lived in the Northwest, have I exclaimed about how much I love the snow. Tonight is the first time I've understood it's because freshly fallen snow leaves a yard, a neighborhood, a park, utterly uncluttered.

Teenage wisdom

2012-01-18T22:50:00.000-08:00

R rested his arms on each of my shoulders and his chin on top of my head. He gazed briefly at the blank screen before which I sat, then, still over my shoulders, poised his hands above the keyboard and typed this:

"everything in the world is just changing, all of a sudden. theres now the new elections, the new laws coming into state, and things at home keep changing. we are getting older, my son will soon go into high school, my eldest is all grown up, but still has terrible grades. i just stop and laugh at these passing events, because there is nothing else i can do but laugh."

The words appeared letter by letter on the screen and I thought I was witnessing a sort of confession. I took the voice of the narrator to be the same as the 14-year-old who had just listened respectfully to my explanation about why I shouldn't hear the podcast blaring through his ear buds as if I were listening to it myself. But, then I realized, it was me talking. The writer of the story was not the same as the narrator.

R was imagining what I might have to say on this Wednesday evening. Still, I can't help but wonder if it is also a little bit about what he is thinking. He has revealed on several occasions that the prospect of high school seems weighty. He has lamented the reality that adult responsibilities just keep getting closer and closer.

When he finished the paragraph, my first reaction was, "That's wisdom." The takeaway message being, just go with it, changes may be scary, but we can get through them if we keep our humor, avoid being overly serious. The wisdom is not in the idea's originality, but rather in R's clever way of expressing it to both me and himself.

The essence

2012-01-08T11:55:00.000-08:00

At the sink, with a metal colander filled with cheery-colored LEGO bricks, I submerged the toys of my childhood into hot soapy water and swished. Specifically, I used Dawn Dishwashing Liquid. It is said to cut grease and odor better than any product out there. My LEGOs had survived an apartment fire and I was being paid to wash them.

About 25 percent of my belongings had survived the blaze, and most were in the possession of a fire restoration company. I owned renter's insurance and my company treated me with the utmost care and kindness. They offered to pay me $10 an hour to try and salvage my own LEGOs when the restoration company balked at the enormity of the job. The company workers weren't lazy, I think they were just afraid of losing pieces or getting the parts from various sets mixed up.

The sink was in a kitchen filled with sunshine. My home for the moment, though it never came to feel like mine. My girlfriend at the time invited me to live with her after the fire, but she wasn't terribly interested in integrating what I did still own into the household. I am preserving history, I thought while methodically washing set by set. I am saving my life.

On the one hand, possessions are just things. Things we buy, perhaps things we make or that are made for us, things received as gifts. But in truth, they are inanimate objects that could be destroyed at any time in any number of ways. Without notice.

In another view, the things we own tell a story. If we own them long enough, like the LEGO set with the very first people ever designed by the Danish toymaker, they mark history, they speak to who I am and who I was at 8, 9, 10 years old.

The past week or so, I've delved into history some more. For years, bins of pictures, letters, and cards have followed me from San Diego to Spokane, into a dozen different apartments and now a home we own. They survived the fire because I had them carefully stowed in Rubbermaid plastic bins. But it's time, as mentioned in an earlier post, to carefully un-clutter. And so, I sort. I look at every picture and correspondence and decide, keep or toss?

The ones I keep speak to my history. My best friends and I (who are still my closest pals) celebrating birthdays, visiting Disneyland, throwing our first alcohol-laden New Year's Eve bash. My mom and grandma growing older and more beautiful from year to year. My official Little League photos. Letters from cousins in Michigan imploring me to visit. Notes from both my grandmas.

I like the notion of preserving history. Of saving pieces of my life to share with Molly, A, and R. To be selective about what pieces to save feels great, less weighty, more accurate. As if to say, here are the stories that speak the truth, that get to the essence of who I am.

Merry about marriage

2012-01-04T22:59:00.000-08:00

Our wedding ceremony, held in Spokane on July 8, 2006, with about 100 friends and family in attendance, was missing one thing. A marriage license.

Washington Gov. Chris Gregoire intends for that to change. This year! Molly and I just may be celebrating our sixth anniversary at the County Courthouse. Gregoire announced today that she will introduce legislation to legalize marriage for gay and lesbian couples. The state legislature convenes on Monday.

If approved, Washington would be the seventh state to grant full marriage rights to same-sex couples.

I do realize that getting excited (and, yes, even a little teary-eyed) may be too optimistic, but I can't help it. After so many years of news reports, letters to the editor, event protests, and personal emails about how twisted I am because of who I love and because I'm interested in protecting my and my family's rights, I'm going to indulge in just a wee bit of joyful, hopeful celebration.

Here's a person, a governor no less, who has been willing to consider the many sides to gay marriage, who has been willing to have her personal views challenged, and who today stood up for me.

Thank you, Gov. Gregoire. Thank you.

The first

2012-01-01T19:55:00.000-08:00

Starting a new year on a Sunday feels just right. The year my Little League team was champions, I wore the number 12. Part of me believes that is why it is my favorite number, but I have a vague memory of choosing the number at the start of the season, which means it was my favorite number before we even logged an inning against our competitors, before we had any clue we would dominate the league. Eleven years before that glorious season, I was born on a Sunday in January. So, starting 2012 on a Sunday fills me with good hope.

It is my 25th high school reunion year. A, our oldest son, graduates from high school. R, our youngest son, will start high school. It's a summer Olympics year. I love watching the sports we only ever see in Olympic years - swimming, track and field, diving, gymnastics. Molly and I will celebrate our 8th anniversary. Eight is my second favorite number. Good things are in store.

Since writing the previous post about clutter, I've thought even more about ways to build and maintain a sense of simplicity. Those good things I sense ahead will come if I keep things simple. Just this morning I decided to avoid lists. For the home-related stuff. At work, I have detailed, extensive lists that serve me very well. But the ones I make for home, whether of chores that need doing or fun things I want to engage in, I always write too many things at a shot and end up feeling completely disheartened with what wasn't accomplished. Even when, as a family, we've decided to do something a bit spontaneous, I find myself tense as the list of things not getting done runs through my head. That's just twisted.

So far, today, without a list in sight, I've done all that I set my intentions on when falling asleep last night. Even slept in much past what I had envisioned, and it's all falling into place. I dare say it's because I kept the number of things to do small. Ever heard of that silly saying, Keep It Simple, Stupid (KISS)? I don't like it, but we could change it to Keep It Simple and Small. Nice.

On pondering

2011-12-27T11:18:00.000-08:00

Vacation gives a girl ample time to ponder, especially when her kids are with their dad for the winter break from school. When I was single, I perfected pondering. I'd wander through our downtown park, slowly cruise the library stacks, sit in a cafe and write. I never seemed to tire of the quiet, inward thinking.

I don't really miss those days, but in the last week of having taken vacation time from work, I have thoroughly enjoyed long hours to sort through my own mind. It can get cluttered in there. And I hate clutter, the real and the metaphorical kind.

In prep for the start of a new year, I've taken steps to diminish the physical clutter. Traded in my little-played Nintendo DS, am giving away my old iPod mini, trashed the alarm clock that stopped working. Do you see a theme here? Electronic gadgets, so ubiquitous in our lives, pretty much can't live without them, but really, do we need all the old ones hanging around?

I've also taken a hard look at all the little crap stored in my backpack. I carry the thing to work every day and finally decided that I should be able to get by with a more compact bag. Sure enough, when I put some of the gadgetry that I kept to work at its full capacity, I can have a book, my list of to-dos, and a notepad ready for meetings all in one thin tablet. Not to mention a deck of cards for solitaire, in case reading on the bus isn't my choice for the day.

As for the metaphorical clutter, a certain amount is inevitable. Our culture makes it hard to escape the merry-go-round of things to do, being a parent, employee, and even half-hearted member of a community spins the thing even faster. My goal in 2012 is going to be to manage the whirring barrage of to-dos, to work with my strengths.

Like my mom and dad, I am a do-er, which can get a person in trouble. I think it, I plan it, I do it. But I think about too many things to do, and then get upset when my planning falls through, or when I don't plan at all. My strength is being an organized completer of tasks, and how great it will feel when I better manage how many tasks I should take on, therefore completing them all!

Speaking of which, one of my tasks today is to shut my long-held checking account at Wells Fargo. All is humming along with my newly-opened credit union account, so today I rid some more of that clutter and say so long to irritating fees and constantly changing regulations.

Looking forward to an un-cluttered 2012.

Missing my garden

2011-12-03T19:30:00.001-08:00

The easel near the piano was empty, my painting gone. It was an original work by Sally Eaton titled "A Garden for Jill," given as a gift last Christmas. It had been on display at Sally's memorial and less than 15 minutes earlier, I had seen the cheery abstract painting resting safely on the easel.

I walked quietly, but quickly, to scout around the baby grand and found nothing. Next, I rushed to Molly, sitting with our friend and my co-worker, and tried to explain, but could barely talk because of the quaver in my voice. Sally, a friend, an officemate, and absolutely lovely person, had died suddenly the Tuesday before and with the disappearance of my painting I felt bereft, frantic, utterly lost.

"A Garden for Jill" by Sally Eaton

It was at that moment that I fully understood what Sally had meant to me. So many things I have lost in my life, so many things taken from me, and in this instance I could not imagine ever feeling whole again without the little canvas Sally had so generously made for me. It was like losing her for a second time that week.

Without me even noticing, several of my friends still in the room were alerted to the calamity and did the work of Sherlock Holmes. They formed the very plausible theory that the pianist had taken the painting by mistake. Sally's daughter had thoughtfully brought a dozen or more of her mom's works to give away to friends at the memorial. What apparently one of those folks did not realize was that the art on several easels around the room was not up for grabs. Those paintings were very special pieces Sally had given to those of us who worked directly with her over the years.

The theory was on the button. By Monday morning, my garden had been restored. The pianist felt terrible, and rushed to get it from her office once she was back on campus.

But now that it's back in it's place in my home, I notice I avoid looking at it. Tears form when I do and most days, I just don't want to cry anymore. Knowing it is there is enough for now.

Talent agent

2011-10-26T22:57:00.000-07:00

The erstwhile mother was a talker. She approached my table with hand outstretched and an eager smile. Her son, she explained, is a percussionist, an artist, a theater backstage specialist. We met at a performing and visual arts college fair where I was representing Eastern Washington University, and she was no less than a promoter, a talent agent.

After several minutes, her son appeared and she took a breath. I seized the moment to engage the prospective student, but he remained silent. Perhaps our school wasn't of interest, possibly the entire event was the last place he wanted to be (his outfit did look like a half-hearted attempt to clean up after practice - flannel shirt, basketball shorts, topsiders with shorty socks!)

One of my co-workers observed once that recruiting events often take on a theme. Two nights ago, in Seattle, the theme was parents. So many parents doing the research, asking the questions, taking the notes. So few kids looking even half interested.

I have no doubt most of the high school students roaming the hall filled with dozens of universities want to attend college. It's just that they must be thinking something along the lines of, Hey, if my parents will do the work, why put out any additional effort to talk to these strangers standing behind a table filled with handouts?

But what I wonder is, who will fill out the applications or complete the financial aid paperwork? Who will do their laundry or wake them up in the morning? Who will do their homework?

New goal

2011-10-12T22:07:00.000-07:00

The rented minivan still had that new car smell. Five women motored southwest to Pasco, Washington, in the cloud blue van that boasted six cup holders in the front seat alone. I piloted the Chrysler Town and Country, three fellow academic advisors and one Residential Life staffer alternated between gabbing with each other, checking email and texting, eating chocolate Cheerios, and sleeping. We were headed to a community college for a day of recruiting transfer students to our four-year university.

There you have it. A very brief scene that came pouring out as I opened the blank page of a new blog post. Where it goes from here, I haven't a clue. A writer could get lost in the maze of scenes like this. Little snippets that are fun to write, but that ultimately add up to an incoherent conglomeration of tales.

Ah ha. I have just reminded myself there is a whole genre of literary nonfiction called nonfiction shorts. Brevity, an online journal, is the premiere publisher of these works that are generally 750 words or less.

Here's a quote from the deftly designed, easy to navigate web site: "Bernard Cooper suggests that short nonfiction 'requires an alertness to detail, a quickening of the senses, a focusing of the literary lens, so to speak, until one has magnified some small aspect of what it means to be human.'”

Losing community

2011-10-11T23:20:00.000-07:00

National Coming Out Day got lost in the completion of many tasks. First at the office, then at home. I managed to remember to put on my "Gay? Fine By Me" T-shirt this morning, but otherwise didn't make time to attend the hourly reading of coming out stories by students and staff on the EWU campus or the community celebration this evening at Riverfront Park in downtown Spokane.

It's easy to put obligations ahead of socializing and partaking in community, but I'm beginning to wonder if there is something deeper that is keeping me away from so many nifty events that are offered up in the Cheney-Spokane-Coeur d'Alene region. And I don't just mean gay pride affairs. There are great museum exhibits that come to town, theater productions, neighborhood festivals, live music at little hole-in-the-wall coffee bars, poetry readings.

Parenthood might explain at least part of it. There has been a cultural shift toward putting kids always first. Plan things that they would like, avoid things that will make them whine. Lose ourselves in trying to raise kids with healthy self-esteem and the tools to be successful. Lose our desire to be adults with other adults, to nurture our own hobbies and interests.

I miss being an adult.

Stop the bashing

2011-10-09T17:56:00.000-07:00

Facebook was on fire yesterday morning with friends from Spokane posting and commenting on an alleged gay bashing that happened Friday night near Dempsey's Brass Rail, a popular downtown gay bar. It was the third assault on an openly gay person in three weeks.

Several people suggested we need to stand up as a community. Find big and small ways to dampen the spirit that foments hate, that makes someone believe violently attacking another human being is OK.

Then, a short piece in the Spokesman-Review this morning suggested that both men who engaged in the altercation were fueled by overheated emotions. And alcohol. The gay man didn't help things by allegedly hitting with his hand, then kicking, the car of the other man.

I agree with my Facebook friends. We need to stand up as a community. But not only as a gay community. We need to stand up as human beings against the use of violence toward anyone. That goes for their property, too.

Poetry and bathtubs

2011-10-06T06:26:00.000-07:00

Poetry is terrifying. Mystifying. And the more I read it, the more I long to write it.

When I studied poetry as a reader, a literature major, it became less terrifying when a friend suggested the analysis of Keats, Donne, Wordsworth, or Tennyson was a bit like being a private investigator. Look for clues, she said, find evidence for why you feel and think a certain way about a poem. If you dig deep enough, the clues begin to connect, the evidence builds on itself, and a clear picture emerges of what the poet was trying to accomplish.

Eight years later, as a graduate student in literary nonfiction, my thesis advisor suggested I take at least one poetry writing workshop to hone my precision with language. It was then that I began also to listen to poetry, at readings by my professors, classmates, and visiting writers. My attempts to pen an ode, or quartet, or several stanzas that combined into a whole poem, could not match my friends who came to school specifically to study poetry, but I did like the emphasis on imagery and stretching my skills to pack each line with words that counted.

Contemporary poets became household names and though I did not read any of his work while in grad school, Billy Collins kept finding his way into conversations. He writes for the people, those who knew his work explained. He was an insurance salesman for years and professed to want to make poetry accessible to his co-workers, to people who may not have read a poem since grade school.

Collins observes. That's the best I can describe what his poems feel like. Then he describes and invites the reader to see an ordinary, everyday moment to the very depth of its meaning. Billy Collins' poems invite us to have fun. Here's one I read this morning, from his 2008 book Ballistics.

Bathtub Families

is not just a phrase I made up
though it would have given me pleasure
to have written those words in a notebook
then looked up at the sky wondering what they meant.

No, I saw Bathtub Families in a pharmacy
on the label of a clear plastic package
containing one cow and four calves,
a little family of animals meant to float in your tub.

I hesitated to buy it because I knew
I would then want the entire series of Bathtub Families,
which would leave no room in the tub
for the turtles, the pigs, the seals, the giraffes, and me.

It's enough just to have the words,
which alone make me even more grateful
that I was born in America
and English is my mother tongue.

I was lucky, too, that I waited
for the pharmacist to fill my prescription,
otherwise I might not have wandered
down the aisle with the Bathtub Families.

I think what I am really saying is that language
is better in reality, so it doesn't have
to be bath time for you to enjoy
all the Bathtub Families as they float in the air around
your head.

Stolen, again

2011-10-05T05:56:00.000-07:00

Molly's car was broken into. In our driveway. All they took was the garage door opener. It happened Monday, the day after our yard sale, which made the whole thing even creepier. Could it have been someone who visited the sale and wants something they spied in our garage?

We learned that the neighbors across the street also had their car pilfered, which lessened the feeling of being targeted, however R's question was a good one. "I don't understand. Why would they make all the effort to break in and then not take the quarters?" We keep very little in our cars, but Molly did have some quarters for parking meters and those were untouched.

I tried to explain to him that out-guessing the mindset of a person with such disregard for the law is nearly impossible. Maybe the punk got spooked before noticing the loose change. Maybe the thief was high and not thinking clearly.

Fortunately, we have new enough garage door openers that the codes are easily reprogrammed, which we learned just a few months ago when my car was stolen in April (from a downtown park and ride lot). Within an hour of discovering the theft, I realized the assholes had my garage door opener and my address.

I'm really really tired of a lesson that for some reason the universe feels compelled to teach me over and over again. My stuff is not my own.

A burglary, a fire, several car break-ins, and a stolen car over the course of 18 years. Makes me want to not have stuff.

Sunshine all weekend

2011-10-03T05:56:00.000-07:00

Rain woke me at 5 a.m. on Saturday, 6 a.m. on Sunday. The first weekend in October is a lovely time for showers, a perfect moment to snuggle into the covers and sleep longer, drift off to the patter. But this weekend, the sound of the opening skies sent my brain wheeling. Mental calculations and measurements ensued as I attempted to solve the puzzle of laying out our garage sale items inside the garage. How will I display our 19-inch TV without obscuring my in-laws coffee mugs and cassette tape holder?

Not far into the puzzle-making, I took a deep breath and resolved to avoid panic. Both Saturday and Sunday, we waited an hour past first hearing the rain, opened the doors to discover much of the cloud cover has passed, and began our strategic product placement on the driveway. Not another drop fell either day.

The sale went fabulously. It was our first since moving into our own house and it made me love our neighborhood even more. Several neighbors came by, many folks were in their front yards working on projects, R and I spent a good while playing with the tennis rackets we were trying to sell and a lightweight Nerf ball, running hither and thither as we invented variations of tennis and baseball.

The payoff for hours and hours of sorting, hauling, pricing, and patiently awaiting customer arrival was $374 to us, $40 to R, who sold his X-Box and homemade cookies, and $252 to Molly's parents. Then, there was the people watching. That was priceless.

There was the 30-something lady who arrived with her mom and daughter. The mom sang aloud as she browsed our tables, every once in a while calling out to "Sunshine!" Could that really be the 30-something lady's name? They bought all three tennis rackets, a '60s era kitchen table, and some other small item.

A man on a bike with an old school helmet stopped by both days and chatted for a while, then left without dropping a cent.

Countless kids talked their parents into cookies. Actually, they didn't have to work too hard, the choice of chocolate chip or No-Bakes was hard to resist.

The days just kept getting better as our big items sold and the small ones steadily got scooped up. The TV was one of the last things to leave, nestled in the back seat of a little sedan, one of the three shoppers squeezed in next to it, his arm resting on its top.

Hear ye, hear ye

2011-09-30T05:46:00.000-07:00

TGIF! I say this for less obvious reasons than you might think. This will not be a weekend about sleeping in, kickin' it on the couch to watch sports, playing with the family, or resting in any fashion. It's a weekend about our garage. Our cars have spent two weeks in the driveway because the garage has been progressively filled with items for a sale this weekend.

What a mess!

I can't wait to move it all out into the yard in the pre-dawn light tomorrow and start the selling to the early birds. Molly's parents initiated the idea - their planned community does not allow for yard sales - and I am so happy to have had inspiration to sort through our "stuff" (anyone remember George Carlin's riff on stuff? Hilarious routine on what he preferred to call all our "shit.").

Between now and the start of the sale, there is a fair amount of pricing still to do, signs to be made and placed, and then of course the move out to the driveway, all of which makes me anxious and fidgety, wanting to just get to work. I'll be home from the office in about 12 hours, and then my weekend will start!

For any of you in the Spokane area who might want an ironing board, a 19-inch TV, a bucket of reflective RV roof paint, or a push lawn mower, come on by!

Beautifully said

2011-09-29T06:17:00.000-07:00

Here are some tidbits shared with me by a dear friend that I can't resist sharing with you.

No one ever gets talker's block. No one wakes up in the morning, discovers he has nothing to say and sits quietly, for days or weeks, until the muse hits, until the moment is right, until all the craziness in his life has died down.

Why then, is writer's block endemic?

It's an insight from Seth Godin, posted on his blog a few days back. Such a perfect description of why many writers don't write. We think we need that craziness to go away, or the muse, whoever she is, to show up.

We could make the craziness go away. Turn off all our connected devices. Avoid social engagements. Take time off work. But for most of us that's just not practical.

Not talking is also not practical. So, instead, we do it every day, a lot, sometimes poorly. We practice talking, Seth points out, we make adjustments, we learn from all our talking. Approach writing with the same principle, he suggests. Write poorly. Often.

Reading about writing is something I find fascinating. Learning about the habits of fellow writers is a curiosity I love to satisfy. Many a time I have been inspired and resolved to start fresh with my own habits, my own practice of writing.

Many a time my resolution faded. My practice ended. But, even though I am a relatively quiet person, I never truly stop talking. Indeed, I don't get talker's block. Which means, I don't get thinker's block. Thoughts are the stuff of writing. Therefore, I always have material.

Writer unblocked.

Sleep aids

2011-09-28T05:46:00.000-07:00

The irony of my post yesterday - the part about coming home from work exhausted - is that most nights I sleep terrible. (And, yes, it is duly noted that waking at 5:15 every morning to write means that my fatigue isn't all office-related.) R, our youngest son, suggested a simple solution last night.

"You should tire yourself out," he said. Meaning physically. Exercise after work is something I often do, usually before dinner. Thinking R had a pretty good idea, I waited to ride my bike on the indoor trainer until 10:00 p.m. Then I stretched, got my lunch for today ready, ate a small bowl of Cheerios with nonfat milk, took a warm shower to rinse off the sweat, read for 15 or 20 minutes, and finally curled into bed.

I slept the best I have in weeks. But I don't think it was all from the physical preparation. The music streaming through my iPod was Mozart, instead of my usual hip hop. The choice was designed to help relax my mind, slow me down, even while pedaling away. In other words, I concentrated for 25 minutes on letting the stories of the day seep out with the sweat.

Not that I'm wishing the hours away, there is plenty to do (multiple meeting day at work) and enjoy (prepping for our garage sale this weekend), but I can't wait to try it all over again tonight!

Unnatural rhythm

2011-09-27T05:55:00.000-07:00

At our house we take turns walking the dog each morning. Today it's my turn. I like the quiet of the neighborhood at 6 a.m. Some mornings it feels more sleepy than others. As the days get shorter, and the mornings darker, the mood changes some. Not as many runners or cyclists are about the streets. The flowers, trees, and grass don't seem as vibrant, but that's the natural cycle, right?

Gradually life is pulling in, getting sleepy, fixin' to go dormant for several months. Except us humans. We've figured a way to keep going, never slow down, turn on the lights, crank up the heater, and keep on working. Yesterday was only the fourth day of classes at the university and my co-workers and I were already feeling wiped out. It wasn't just Monday morning malaise, it was, I think, fatigue from not stopping all summer. In the dean's office we are 12-month staffers, no long summer breaks like the faculty get, just a few days of vacation squeezed in between new student orientation programs and other planning projects.

The mantra for a couple of years now has been, "Well, at least we have a job." It reverberates across the nation and is supposed to make all of us stop our whining. No doubt, I feel blessed to be able to pay my bills, blessed that my family and I enjoy eating at home (it's cheaper!), blessed to have easy access to buses (saves on gas!), privileged to live in the Northwest where so many recreational activities are free. But after a while, when work dominates our lives and we come home every day exhausted, the blessings seem fewer.

Those of us Americans who are working are working ourselves into the ground. I don't see anything in our future as a society that is going to create healthier, more rested, more alive humans. We are less like biological beings who follow the rhythms of nature and more like robots working until all our parts wear out.

Tea time

2011-09-26T06:18:00.000-07:00

When asked if I would like some coffee, whether for breakfast, at work, or at the end of an evening meal, I politely decline. If pressed, I am fond of saying I come from a long line of non-coffee drinkers. My grandpa spent a career in the Navy never touching a cup of joe. My dad boasts 55 years in the television industry, where free food and drink are plentiful just off-stage, with nary a drop of coffee passing his lips.

It's not that we are shunning caffeine or choosing to avoid java for health reasons, it's that we simply don't like the flavor. I, though, have come to adore tea. Primarily, I enjoy iced tea, regardless of the time of year. No sweetener, no lemon, just straight black tea frosty and refreshing. Since moving to the Northwest, there are usually several months each year that I get in the mood for hot, freshly brewed tea. I am currently in one of those moods.

A recently acquired piece of antique furniture is stirring the interest. My mom gave us a china closet that's been in her house since before even I came along. It is the perfect spot for 21 bone china tea cups, some of which I inherited from both of my grandmothers, others that Molly picked out for a tea party we hosted last year, and one from a dear friend in Spokane with whom I often share an afternoon of tea. They had been on the top shelf of a kitchen cupboard, used occasionally, but now I use a different pattern each time I brew some jasmine or peach black tea.

One of the most lovely things about tea in a china cup is the delicacy of the vessel. A person does not take long swigs of tea from a rose-patterned cup like we might from a grande vanilla latte. We cannot clutch the gentle curve of the teacup's handle in the way we grip beverage containers with cardboard sleeves. The fine china slows us down, encourages sipping, gives us time to breathe, think, and enjoy the experience. Personally, the act of drinking tea becomes a connection to my past and inspires fun memories of my grandmas. Now that the cups are in the china closet, each time I gently open the glass doors I catch the scent of weathered wood, a scent I have known for 42 years.

Google bike beginnings

2011-09-25T10:05:00.000-07:00

Prior to a couple of weeks ago, the only time I ever walked into a pawn shop was when my apartment in San Diego had been burglarized. Completely cleaned out. We're talking electronics, bikes, jewelry, wine, sheets, broom, crazy stuff. My girlfriend at the time and I figured because the theft was committed in broad daylight, the perps were trying to make it look like they were moving out.

The next weekend, we made a tour of pawn shops, hoping against hope we might see our bikes, her camera equipment, or my guitar. No luck.

So, it was with some hesitation that I entered a cluttered, musty-smelling storefront in Moscow, Idaho. Molly and I took a day trip to the little town south of us, me to attend an advising symposium at the University of Idaho, Molly to wander the hip downtown shopping area. As most folks do who attend conferences, I skipped out on one session and joined Molly for some tea and a little wander. A rack of seven or eight bikes crowded the sidewalk in front of the pawn shop and I glanced at them, thinking I might see a potential Google bike.

Several weeks ago I posted about seeing a picture of the cheery, customized one-speeds that Google has strewn about their campus for employees to ride from building to building. It's my goal to Frankenstein my own Google bike and have been on the lookout for an old frame with which to start my project.

My future Google bike

Well, I missed it, but hawk-eyed Molly spotted a fuchsia beauty squeezed between two mountain bikes. I was expecting to find a bike that I would use only the frame, but this little gem even has handlebars that are about what the Google bike sports. I had to wait my turn (who knew pawn shops were so busy!), but eventually got to the clerk who agreed to take $30 for the bike rather than the asking price of $50.

Turns out the pawn shop man is a bike-lover and had just worked over the little two-wheeler, so the chain, wheels, and tires are all in great shape. The purple forks and purple pedals are hard to resist keeping, but I'm definitely going to strip and paint the frame and handlebars. The Google bike uses the primary colors of the tech giant's logo, but I could come up with my own color scheme that incorporates the purple. Also, a longer stem for the seat post and handlebars will raise everything to grown-up dimensions. I'm also thinking a little longer neck for the handlebars to push them forward.

Looking forward to keeping you posted on my progress!

Girlie Girls on BMXs

2011-09-24T09:26:00.000-07:00

To say times change is the pinnacle of cliche. To be wistful about how things used to be back in day is expected. And still, there are moments when shifting cultural trends pop out as beautiful change.

Yesterday evening, in the very warm though waning sun, I jogged slowly through the neighborhood. Ear buds firmly in place, Lady Gaga helped me keep a pace just above fast walking. One rather large square block boasts an elementary school and park-like open space where neighbors play fetch with their dogs, kids shoot hoops or play on slides and swings, and friends gather to hang out.

Three girls, somewhere between 10 and 12 years old, congregated on the northeast corner of the park last night, each of them straddled casually on a BMX bike. A BMX! Girls! Back in my day, I dreamed of owning a Redline, the coolest BMX out there. Mostly, though, girls didn't get the sweet trick bikes.

Our two-wheelers sported heavier frames and pineapple-shaped seats that made going off jumps a bit like heaving a sack of cement up stairs. Though I did get wicked good at pop-a-wheelies on my JC Penney special. (There's a back-in- the-day memory, JC Penney used to sell bikes and tools and things.)

I came closer to those neighborhood kids and felt so happy that they were embracing the fact that in 2011 girls can be sporty and do "boy things" without backlash from their friends, families, classmates, or strangers who happen to be jogging by. I keep my music at a level that guarantees I will hear cars as they approach, which means I can also hear conversations of folks I pass. The girl who looked to be the oldest blurted to one of the others, "I love your shoes!"

Beautiful change, indeed. Girlie girls on BMXs!

Morning routine

2011-08-29T21:46:00.000-07:00

Three months of mornings to myself have not been what I imagined them in the days leading up to June. Without the responsibility of driving R to school every week day, I thought I would take up reading the paper several times a week, writing in my journal, exercising, and most definitely enjoying breakfast on our lovely deck. I've done most of these things at least once, but not with any sort of deeply satisfying regularity.

Awesome deck, if I do say so myself.

Routine is not something I seek in many areas of my life (partly because I find it very hard to keep), but I sure do thrive on a morning routine. Specifically, a regular plan of action means that I am not rushing in the morning, or risking being late for the public bus that I catch downtown at a park-and-ride lot. It also means I arrive to work with a clear mind, ready to jump into whatever is at the top of my to-do list.

Since becoming a parent, I've decided through empirical evidence, that a solid morning routine is as essential for the young ones in the family as a balanced, nutritious breakfast. (Heck, maybe even more so. Let them eat cake at 7 a.m., but make sure you leave at the same time every day!) If they know what to expect, it takes the anxiety out of the start of the school day. There are so many things in modern life that leave kids feeling anxious and worried (homework from the age of 5, high stakes testing, acceptance by their peers) that anything to send them into the fray with a sense of calm is worth doing.

Could it be that not having the responsibility of chauffeur mom threw me off all summer long? This idea of having time to myself is such a foreign concept now that I am seven years into parenthood that I feel adrift without the kids in tow?

High Bridge High

2011-08-27T17:49:00.000-07:00

Two days running now we've played disc golf. I introduced the rest of the family to the game yesterday, one of the hottest yet this summer in Spokane. Soon enough, our brows dripped and our shirts soaked through. But High Bridge Disc Golf Course affords ample shade from ponderosa pines.

Jem eyes our new discs,
hoping they are for her!

Like the course I learned to play on in San Diego, High Bridge fairways follow the natural terrain. Latah Creek is the eastern boundary in the wooded parkland, but thankfully for us newbies, no one hole gets close enough to the water to risk losing a disc.

Molly, A, R, and I sailed, tossed, and rolled our discs through trees, over logs, and along ancient asphalt roads. The park is on acreage originally meant to be a housing development. "It's like hiking and golfing," Molly said joyfully as we negotiated our way down a rocky slope.

Only now, when describing our adventure, do I realize I was playing with abandon! No other thoughts worried or invaded the moment. Dusty, sweaty, and happy. That's abandon come naturally.

Seeking abandon

2011-08-20T22:26:00.000-07:00

After all, one can’t write with abandon if one is worrying about the consequences. And to have children is to always, always worry about the consequences. -- Dani Shapiro in The New York Times Sunday Book Review.

Shapiro, a memoirist, is reluctant to let her 12-year-old son read her first book, one she wrote before meeting her husband, well before she became a mother. Her words rang true for me when I read them yesterday. On several levels.

First, I realized I hadn't written with abandon since graduate school, and maybe not even then. Partly, the trained reporter in me comes out every time I sit down to craft a blog, an essay, an email, or note to my family. This journalist, she is very deliberate, strives for precision and accuracy, and she absolutely does not allow for unnecessary verbage.

But at least in grad school I was writing often, I was drafting and crafting. I was re-visioning. Now, I can hardly get myself past the fourth paragraph of a new essay idea. The worrying Shapiro mentions definitely bogs me down. What will my family think? Am I portraying these events and personalities correctly? Am I being too rosy? My life is not all that, even if I universalize the experiences, touch on themes that we all empathize with, who the hell do I think wants to read about the shit I and they live through every day? Lately, I find myself revolted by the idea of trying to make sense on paper of the shit. No one topic or style or form seems right.

I get so irritated with my kids and my partner when they start something and don't finish it, when they are inconsistent in their responsibilities. It's a harsh criticism, one that I am very good at leveling because, well, I level it on myself nearly every day. I have not published, nor even sent anything out, since my last column ran in The Spokesman-Review in 2008. I am a nonfiction writer, yet am not writing. Not all that different from R, our youngest, who takes bass guitar lessons every Saturday, but otherwise ignores the beautiful Paul McCartney replica bass he bought two years ago.

How does one learn to infuse abandon? Wait a minute, learning abandon seems counterintuitive. It should come spontaneously and naturally. I think abandon must come when we are completely absorbed in doing one thing. Like riding bikes and luxuriating in the pine-scented morning air, or building Diagon Alley out of LEGOs and marveling at the new brick colors specially designed to evoke the world of Harry Potter. Care-free abandon comes with emptying the mind of other cares and irritations, then turning all focus on the moment.

Culturally, sustained focus on one thing is not so prized anymore. Writing with abandon truly means a leaving behind of other thoughts and tasks and desires. Not an easy thing to do in the face of expectations to be constantly connected and available to whomever pings you next.

Homegrown sunflower

For about the last week, as beauties like this sunflower bloom along our fenceline, I've stopped a couple of times a day to gaze out our living room window and take a moment's rest in their bright, cheerful aliveness. I can see the same flowers from my writing studio window. They will be my reminder, my inspiration, to take long moments of abandon and write.

Keeping the ticker-tape at bay

2011-08-08T05:56:00.000-07:00

Hands down the best part of our recent vacation was how being at the beach helped me feel like a kid again. I hopped from rock to rock, light on my feet, and humming a little ditty. The first morning we explored the shore in front of our lodge, I found a driftwood stick that so closely resembled the shape of a wand that I was sure Ollivander must have made it.

Rock hopping and agate hunting

My goal is to keep that feeling alive back home. The boys came home from their dad's house this weekend, so our summer with them has just begun. A and R are teenagers, 17 and about to turn 14 respectively, but remain fairly amenable to hanging out with us. It shouldn't be hard, keeping alive the lighthearted kid-ness.

Like when at the Oregon Coast, where the implements for fun were at our disposal (boulders, sand, tidepools, waves, walking trails, fudge shops), I am surrounded by possibilities. Two longboard skateboards, a touring bike, several not-yet-built LEGO sets, a croquet set, an invitation from a friend to spend the day at her lake cabin. But the problem with maintaining a light-heartedness is not the materials, the problem is my infernal thinking.

I keep an extensive todo list, with the aid of an awesome website (www.goodtodo.com), which in and of itself is not bad. In fact, the designer of the site developed it for people exactly like me so that we could put our needs and wishes out of our head and onto a list that will remind us at the appropriate time to weed the garden or balance the checkbooks. You can add todos as far into the future as you'd like, therefore eliminating the need to remember it or think about it until the time comes. I use this feature, and, still, find myself with a constant ticker-tape of todos running through my mind.

Have you ever noticed, now that TV news and sports stations are so fond of running additional headlines across the bottom of the screen that your attention is often more focused on the rapid stream of words, then on the program you originally sat down to watch? Most of the time, that's how I feel about my stream of thoughts. I am repeating over and over the things that must be done, planning how I might execute them, rather than enjoying the thing I am in the midst of.

Google bike!

Naturally, when away on vacation, it's much easier to set aside thoughts of the future and just imbibe the now. But, I know it can be done even in our workaday lives. When lounging in the common area of our Oregon lodge, I picked up a back issue of Newsweek and discovered this picture. Isn't it awesome!? My bike-loving heart has a new crush.

The cheerful two-wheeler is one of dozens that populate the Google campus so that employees can ride from building to building, rather than using a car. I want me one of those! Think of it. Hop on for an easy ride to the nearby grocery store to grab a fresh loaf of French bread. Or to coast down the hill to the park where soccer and baseball fields, basketball courts, a skate park, and playground await. Or to throw on the front of the bus and take out to the EWU campus, where I, too, can ride from building to building. This could keep light-heartedness alive, no matter what I'm using it for.

My plan is to figure out how to put together a replica from used parts. Kind of like building a model. Maybe I'll choose different colors for the paint job, but otherwise, everything about the design seems perfect for easy tooling around. I feel like a kid just thinking about it!

Tinkering with our brains

2011-08-02T22:40:00.000-07:00

The knuckle on my ring finger is slightly enlarged from what it was six months ago. Arthritis. Most nights, I sleep rather fitfully. What used to be a very sound memory seems lately to slip up. I forget things. Details of books I read in college and loved, the name of the song R and I heard in the car on the way to school.

It's age, I've reluctantly admitted. Then I picked up 'The Shallows' by Nicholas Carr, and he is successfully convincing me perhaps it's not all about being 42 instead of 32 or 22. He writes:

Over the last few years I've had the uncomfortable sense that someone, or something, has been tinkering with my brain, remapping the neural circuitry, reprogramming the memory. My mind isn't going - so far as I can tell - but it's changing. I'm not thinking the way I used to think.

Most of us, Carr argues, are thinking in short bursts. The deep thinking, that say reading a book requires, is fast becoming an antiquated modus operandi. The change agent of this phenomena is in our face an average of eight hours a day. It's so much a part of our movement through work, social activity, and family life that we have ceased to consider it something nifty to access every once in a while, and instead expect it to be at our fingertips anywhere, anytime.

The Internet. It's shaping us as much as we are contributing to and shaping it.

Information is at our fingertips, yet we retain very little of the millions of bits we are compelled to interact with every day. I know. I just did a little frenetic searching myself. Our kids are at their dad's house, but will return this weekend. We have never been camping as a family and would like to take the boys to the woods on Lake Pend Oreille. Within seconds, I found reservation information for two viable campgrounds, including potential site numbers and detailed maps. But when I looked at an overview map of one state park, then at the campground-specific map, I had to teeter-totter with the back button several times before I had a sense of which group of campsites was in which location in the park. The campsite areas have names and are clearly spelled out on the overview map, but I couldn't even remember the names from one click to the next!

By embracing this new media, we are training ourselves away from needing to pay attention. Carr's worry that he was suffering from "middle-age mind rot" soon turned into a much more startling understanding:

But my brain, I realized, wasn't just drifting. It was hungry. It was demanding to be fed the way the Net fed it - and the more it was fed, the hungrier it became.

Our kids don't really know what it's like to not be hungry for this connectedness. But for those of us who remember card catalogs, phone books, and having to wait for re-runs to see the Dukes of Hazzard episode we missed, where do we go from here?

Do we let go of our ability to think deeply and concentrate on one thing for an extended period of time? Or do we try to keep both parts of our brain in shape?

Buoyed by 'The Shallows'

2011-07-31T17:36:00.000-07:00

Yachats, Oregon, July 17, 2011

Day dreams come easily when on vacation. For me, especially so when I recently spent four days on the Oregon Coast, my first trip ever to this storied section of the Pacific shore.

When a person grows up near water, in my case, this very same ocean, but more than 1,000 miles south in San Diego, she never tires of the expansiveness of bodies of water or the rhythmic sounds of crashing waves. Living near water does not drive us away to other environs like extreme heat, traffic noise, or the confines of a small town life. My move to Spokane, which is several hundred miles inland from the Washington shore, was made all the easier with the river smack dab downtown (and relatively clean!) and the lakes in every direction. I wouldn't ever be far from water, from land that gives way to something so much more powerful than us, from the wide open views.

In my love for the Inland Northwest, though, I do forget. I forget the smell of the ocean. Two weeks ago, it was the salty breeze that sent my heart fluttering when we stepped from our car late on a Saturday night to check into the Overleaf Lodge. I stepped lightly up one floor to our second-story room, buoyed by the ocean air, almost as if I were floating in the waves themselves.

View from our balcony

Within the hour, Molly and I were settled on the couch in front of the fireplace, with the balcony slider open, reading quietly so that we could drink in the sound of the waves. My dreams of writing this blog again came fast and sure. They solidified after more than two months of pushing them away. I started feeling ready to take up blogging in May, or so, but kept telling myself it would just add stress, that I'd be mad if I didn't write regularly enough. Oddly, what convinced me beyond all doubts and excuses was reading that first night in Yachats the introduction to Nicholas Carr's 'The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains.' It's a critical (as in not all flattering) look at the impact this new media has on our thinking, yet I found myself wanting to talk about it, think on the page about it, write about it.

And so, I will. Daydreams do come true.

More than I can muster

2010-09-28T22:29:00.000-07:00

Most of today I had in mind a certain topic for this, my 200th post, but things are different tonight. I have admitted to myself what I've been avoiding for months. Maybe even years. Trying to be a blogger, while also a mom and a partner, is more than I am capable of.

Check that. Trying to be a blogger and a good, nurturing mom, a loving, patient partner, is more than I can muster. I could continue on doing all three half-assed (which, ironically, or maybe appropriately, is what I am frequently demanding our kids not do), but I'm not a very happy person when I do things part-way.

So, Out Write Girl will go dormant tonight. I don't want to say I'll never blog again, but I do need to rest.

Thank you for your faithful reading, your thoughtful and insightful comments. I may not be a blogger, but I am a writer. Remember those Morning Pages I mentioned several weeks back? Well, it's been more than two months that I've written every day. I trust that the continued attention to the artist in me will lead to publication - whether individual essays or a book-length project, I still don't know, I just know that I will trust the process.

Farewell for now, dear friends.

Getting resource-full

2010-09-14T23:12:00.000-07:00

The Admissions Office invited me to one day of their week-long training (more like a in-house conference to plan for the year ahead) late last month and I walked away invigorated by mathematics. An expert on organizational leadership and change theory introduced us to a simple and profound subtraction problem.

All living beings, she noted, have in life two basic elements: resources and load. Resources provide energy and needed goods to do a job or live life. Load requires the use of energy, the expending of resources.

Resources - Load = Margin.

Margin is what we have left over at the end of the day. A concept introduced in the eponymous book, "Margin," by Richard Swenson, the equation, according to mathematical law, only has two possible outcomes - positive or negative. Swenson maintains that most humans live in negative margin. In fact, we have become very good at living with a load that is greater than our resources.

Being very good at something, though, doesn't mean it's good for us.

Since that training day, I've been keeping an eye out for ways to increase my resources and decrease my load. It's sort of working. Treated myself to a pedicure after a two-hour dentist appointment. Bought myself a warm, buttery cinnamon roll this morning. Have written at least three pages every day for two months now.

Overload is so common in American culture that it feels like we are expected to be in a constant state of stress. If we aren't overwhelmed and struggling to juggle work at the office, duties at home, the desire to get out and play, then we aren't living, damn it!

Despite all messages to the contrary, though, living without margin, without breathing room is unnatural. To be truly human, sometimes we just need to stop, rest, not think about much of anything.

In our backyard we have blooming sunflowers, taller than the fence, that shine directly toward our wonderful deck. Chillaxin' on the outdoor couch, gazing on the yellow fellows is as resource-full as it gets.

Leaving on a high note

2010-09-04T23:18:00.000-07:00

We are hitting the road in the early a.m. tomorrow. Time for A to return to Anacortes and start his junior year in high school. A year ago this time, we were excitedly registering him to attend Shadle Park High, our neighborhood school. Nine months ago, we watched him pile in his dad's truck at 2 a.m., ending his chance to live with us after he made a series of fantastically poor choices.

It was unclear for most of the time since that cold January night whether A would go back to his regular schedule of spending vacations with us. But, five weeks ago, things fell into place and he returned to Spokane.

We haven't done anything particularly special since A has been here. Good though, to go about our lives and let him fall into step. He's helped with cooking lunch and dinner, washed dishes, mowed the lawn, helped build tomato cages. And he's done these things only having to be told once. Delightfully, A has followed nearly all the rules we set. I've realized this summer that teenagers need to feel like they are getting away with something, and so I've chosen not to pick every small battle with both A and R. It's made for more harmony. And personally, I just appreciate that I know the boys for all that they do, that I don't have a warped sense they are perfect kids.

Thinking about tomorrow feels sad. It's hard when A isn't here because we carry a sense that our family of four is incomplete. For whatever reason, though, he manages better in Anacortes and so saying goodbye until Thanksgiving will feel good because it is on a high note.

Lessons from "Seinfeld"

2010-08-22T16:21:00.000-07:00

Our boys have discovered reruns of "Seinfeld," and as much as their devotion to screen time drives me bananas, "Seinfeld" is a show I can wholeheartedly endorse. My own devotion to it in the 1990s inspires many references to hilarious bits from the sitcom, but until now my family has only sort of appreciated the humor. Even Molly cannot love a joke about the manssiere or a coffeetable book about coffeetables because she was busy working two jobs and raising two small boys during the "Seinfeld" heyday.

I couldn't help but think of Jerry and his pals, George, Kramer and Elaine, when yesterday Molly related a story from work. An openly gay patient had complications that reared during night shift, which prompted two of the nursing staff to talk through what might be afflicting him with Molly. Separately, the other nurses opened the conversation by noting the man is - and this is where they lowered their voice to nearly a whisper - gay. Jerry Seinfeld would have noted the guy was gay, too, then added "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

It's hard to know if Molly's colleagues think there is anything wrong with being gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender. Perhaps they thought it was not their business to broadcast that a gay man lay in a room down the hall. That's a generous reading, though. Molly's instinct told her the whispering had more to do with their discomfort, their inability to acknowledge that being gay is just another trait like being black or white or Asian or tall or short or blonde or brunette. They cannot use the word gay without some sort of flinch.

I will remember this story when in two months I speak to a class of future nurses. As part of their cultural competency course, I have been invited to speak about what the LGBT community experiences when seeking healthcare. Maybe these college juniors won't know much about "Seinfeld" either, but hopefully they have taken note, thanks in large part to a more saavy media, that truly there is nothing wrong with being gay.

It's just going to take more of us speaking matter-of-factly about our lives to completely drown out the whispering.

The grass is always greener

2010-08-15T22:10:00.000-07:00

R didn't need surgery after all. The orthopedic surgeon in Spokane felt slicing open his wrist to set the ulna for proper healing would be overkill. A standard fiberglass cast will do all the setting necessary, the doc said. Clear relief washed across R's face when he heard those words. Now, not quite two weeks into the wearing of a fantastically cool green cast, he is hoping he'll heal just slow enough to require keeping it until school starts.

Both boys, A and R, are doing things when they are told, occasionally even taking initiative, mostly following the rules we have made clear. Some of the rules are specific to A. He so shattered our trust last fall and winter that the rules for him include calling every two hours when he goes out with friends, no girlfriend in his bedroom and coming home by 9:30 p.m. He's here for three more weeks and if this keeps up, I just might lose some of the tension in my shoulders, I just might get rid of the feeling that I always need to be on guard.

When in the grocery store or at the movies and I see other teenagers with their parents, I wonder about their story? How big is their house? Where does their kid sit to do homework? Does the kid avoid chores and sit for hours staring at a screen? Do they trust their son or daughter? Are they happy, the parents?

For all the years I dreamt about being a parent, and was sure that one day I would be, I find these days I am not very happy. It is a devastating admission. Kids are great, right? Parenthood is the most profound thing that can happen to a person, right?

The truth is, kids are the most profound thing that can happen to a relationship. Certainly Molly and I have to work our asses off daily to figure out how to be complimentary parents, how to be consistent, how to send clear messages to the boys that we are of the same opinion about rules and behavior. But even more certainly, my relationship with myself has shifted course since becoming a mom.

At the moment, the course seems windy and unpredictable. Sometimes all is smooth and I am content. Then, my mind turns on a dime and I am spinning with worry or frustration. Sometimes I imagine the course only being righted when Molly and I are empty-nesters. The grass is always greener, right?

That way of thinking is really going to get me in trouble.

Stick figure families

2010-08-08T09:27:00.000-07:00

In the summer months, I don't often drive to work or the park-n-ride lot, but when I do, every single time, I end up behind a car, most often an SUV, with those trendy family unit stickers. You know which ones I'm talking about, right? Cutesy little stick figures to represent each member of the family, including, frequently, the family dog and cat. Rarely do I see fewer than two parents and two kids represented.

Recently, as I trailed some mid-sized, wine-colored SUV down Ash Street, I wondered, what if we put those stickers on our car!? I have a family of four. We could even throw in two cats and a dog. What a lovely, subtle way to say, family is family, no matter the configuration.

The parents represented in those stickers, now as ubiquitous in Spokane as "Marriage: One Man, One Woman" bumperstickers were a few years ago, are always a male and female. How cool it would be to have two moms or two dads represented.

Rainbow stickers or Human Rights Campaign equality signs are cool, but they are more flashy. The family unit stickers would blend in, yet boldly challenge the observer to think about their notions of family.

Now, where do you buy those things, anyway?

Making it weekly

2010-08-01T12:40:00.000-07:00

Much.

An odd little word when seen standing alone at the head of a story, blog, column. It is one of those words I use often. Too much. Much to think about. Thank you very much. Much going on.

The latter is what brings me to the blog today. Much going on. R broke his arm on Thursday evening. We got the call as he was on his way to the ER. He was with A, skateboarding, in Anacortes where the two were spending part of the summer with their dad. After much (see there it is again) scrambling to get in touch with doctors here in Spokane, we picked up both R and A yesterday and are preparing for surgery on Tuesday. If R does not have the two broken bones and growth plate reset by Tuesday, he risks healing with a significantly weakened and shortened arm.

Vacation time I had planned deliberately while the kids were gone will now be spent in the hospital and providing post-op care. There was much I wanted to do with time to myself and time alone with Molly. Such is the fate of a parent.

Much good is happening, too. About two weeks ago I began reading an author I have heard about off and on for years. Julia Cameron wrote The Artist's Way and many other books exploring the idea of creativity and how to harness it, how to embrace it, how to enjoy it. I have been writing the three "Morning Pages" she recommends every morning. I feel like I'm getting closer to actually crafting some of the new essays roiling around in my head, even if that means telling my family, "I'm busy, I'll see you in an hour or two."

Posting to this blog often gets set aside, replaced by the doing of other chores and now writing. Yet, it is a source of much worry. I feel irresponsible when I do not write regularly. I miss the interaction with readers. But, I have to be realistic. I cannot do all that I wish as a writer and a parent.

My new plan is to post about once a week. Similar to my column that so many of you read faithfully on Fridays in The Spokesman-Review. It will relieve the pressure, and, hopefully, make the blog much more fun for me. I will also post a link to it every week on Facebook, so if you'd like, friend me there and you'll get regular updates. Please just note on the friend request that you are a reader of my blog. I have been shy about accepting some requests lately because I wasn't sure who the people were, so if you have asked and I have not responded, feel free to ask again with the note about being a reader.

Until next time, have a great week filled with much fun.

In other news ...

2010-07-15T21:40:00.000-07:00

I didn't run tonight. The heat, not extreme, but none too cool either, deterred me. The desire to research "dissertation to book" deterred me. But mostly, I put off running in exchange for riding to the bus tomorrow. And in the evening, riding all the way home from Cheney. About a 20-mile ride from office to front door. It will be the longest I have done in some time!

Local editor wanted

2010-07-15T21:36:00.000-07:00

I have been reading about writing tonight. One of the best motivators to get out there and write. Or, more appropriately, get in that there studio and start crafting. William Germano is an author now on my radar. He is highly readable and truly insightful about turning dissertations into books. I seek this information for a freelance editing project that I have been offered. A professor at my university has interest from a publisher and he wants a local editor with whom he can meet regularly for feedback.

It's a job I am very interested in, yet I wonder what it will do to my own writing. And how long can I get away with blogging when really what I should be doing is the same as the above mentioned professor - turning my ideas into a book.

Night of no iguana

2010-07-12T23:36:00.000-07:00

Mornings on the deck these past two weeks have included tea, the newspaper, sometimes a bit of breakfast. I've scheduled my morning to make time for these lovelies. It can be rough, though, like right now when I am just beat tired and am looking at the alarm sounding in little more than five hours. But geez, two weeks and no posts is a bit ridiculous.

Boo, the kitty, is doing well. At this very moment she is quiet. No rambunctious tumbling or playing of soccer with a plastic toy. She prefers 4 a.m. for those activities. In our room. On the bed. Definitely a barn cat, she rises with the chickens. Her face is elongating, like her mama's, ears are a deep gray and the rings on her tail are more pronounced. She's growing up and changing, but still a cuddly little squirt, easy to pick up with one hand.

Our older, black and white cat, on the other hand, will soon require heavy lifting equipment to get off the ground. No bones about it, Frosty is a porker. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was dipping into the Flavor Blasted Fish Crackers or Froot Loops stored on basement shelves.

R returned from a week at camp on Saturday, and seemed only mildly interested in the animals. Pretty sure he didn't miss them at all. He did take a picture of Boo and sent it to A. Speaking of whom, we delivered A's iguana to him yesterday. R and Kiwi spent five hours sharing the backseat while we drove west to drop R for a four-week with his dad and brother. Kiwi, who behaved herself in her 36-inch tank perfectly well, is on no vacation. She's back in Anacortes for good. The animal to people ratio in the Spencer-Wagner household is back in balance.

Yesterday was the first time we've seen A since we sent him home with his dad at 2 a.m. on a January morning. It was a quick visit, just long enough to drop R. Molly had to work last night so there was little time to linger on the 14-hour turnaround trip. A was friendly enough. I kept things light, didn't try to strike up any burdensome conversation. He is supposed to return with R in early August for his typical four weeks with us during summer vacation. I suppose then there will be some readjustment, some renegotiating of relationships. Some hard truth that he has work to do to win back our trust.

Lost in space

2010-06-28T21:26:00.000-07:00

Completely lovely night, not just because it is still warm enough at 9 p.m. to have shorts and shirt sleeves on, but also because a big, fragrant bowl of cut watermelon is our first course of dessert. Later comes ice cream straight out of the bucket because Molly, R and I each chose our own flavor and we figured why dish it up when a spoon will suffice?

That's only the half of the loveliness, though. We fired up the barbecue, after weeks of storing it in the garage, and grilled some veggie dogs. Which, was possible because the painting of the house is done! That's right, friends, I am sitting on my freshly painted deck on an outdoor loveseat, surrounded by my family sitting on matching chairs, our watermelon and iced tea resting on the brushed, deep brown aluminum coffee table. Candles in small tin buckets and two strings of paper lanterns light our way. We officially have what Sunset magazine might call an "outdoor space."

R's comment moments ago: "I never knew this part of the house could be so comfortable."

We have toiled a fair amount this spring and very early summer and the house is really starting to have our own personality. The gratefulness I feel for getting this space so early in the summer is boundless.

Lest I get overly sappy, I bid adieu for now. The mint chocolate chip awaits.

Now I get it

2010-06-24T00:01:00.000-07:00

"Gay? Fine by me."

The shirt I wore today for my bike ride to work had the above saying silkscreened in white on bold yellow. The student-led gay pride group from Eastern Washington University sold them at the Rainbow Festival in downtown Spokane a couple of weeks ago. Molly and I each bought one, primarily because I wanted to support the students from my place of work.

I ended up wearing a wind-breaker for the entire five miles to the bus plaza, where I catch a ride out to the EWU campus, and when I arrived downtown to bunches of people making their way to work also, I was glad for the cover up. The message of the T-shirt seems ... confusing.

It's not a phrase that I'd heard before seeing these shirts. Certainly not anything anyone has ever said to me upon learning I am a lesbian. Many pride-related items have a festive, celebratory, or slightly cheeky sense about them. Like a rainbow-colored bumpersticker that reads "Family Van." But this shirt doesn't feel like any of those things. Though, the color is awesome and cheery.

I suppose we could say we aspire to a society full of people who feel being gay is all good, is all fine by me.

Ah ha! I figured out what feels odd ... the question followed by "fine by me" implies the gay person has a choice in the matter. Maybe today I'll choose to be gay or I could be straight.

Let's go to the movies instead of out to dinner. Fine by me. I'm going to leave the dishes until the morning. Fine by me.

OK. So. Before I sounded too ungrateful for the student effort to spread goodwill toward all, I checked in on the phrase, that is to say, I Googled it. The T-shirts were first designed and sold in 2003 by Duke University students who were disappointed their campus had been voted one of the least LGBT-friendly colleges in the country. Now the campaign is carried on by Atticus Circle, specifically targeting students, faculty and staff as a way for allies on campus to help LGBT folk feel welcome. Atticus Circle "mobilizes straight people to advance equal rights for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) partners, parents, and their children."

It's no secret EWU could use a potent dose of LGBT-friendliness. The campaign makes sense to me now. Just knowing the story behind the shirt makes me more proud to sport it. Maybe the word geek in me would have phrased it differently, but the spirit of its birth goes a long way

One sad note, the T-shirts being sold at Pride were leftover from a sale held on campus in April. The leftovers were abundant.

School + home = college

2010-06-21T21:59:00.000-07:00

Sittin' in the studio tonight, paying bills and balancing the checkbook. While opening junk mail that had piled up for five days I made a mental note to teach A and R that credit card solicitations must be ignored. They come rapid fire and offer all sorts of grand ideas about having funds at your disposal, but in truth are dangerous purveyors of debt.

I went upstairs (the writing studio is in our basement) to grab something I had forgotten, and R asked what I was doing. When I answered, he said, "Jill, want to know what I need to learn before I go to college? I need to learn to balance a checkbook and pay bills."

The longer he and I live together, the more often we are on the same wavelength. One moment I'm thinking about teaching to him to avoid debt as a young college student confronted with offers of seemingly free money and the next he's noting that he will need to have some financial know-how. R may spend a god awful number of hours in front of a screen, but he's been surprising me lately and showing me he's a thinker, too. It seems the puzzle of getting from middle school to college is starting to come together in his head. He, Molly and I had a great, unplanned, conversation at dinner a few nights ago about what he wants to do differently in 7th grade to be more successful and disciplined academically. He seems to be adding up all the things he needs to learn in school and at home to be an independent university student.

Now, as for me, I'm going to have to think about how best to teach balancing a checkbook. You tend to forget after 20 years of doing it that it's not as clearcut as it feels.

Running on the brain

2010-06-19T15:07:00.000-07:00

Remember the 10K training I mentioned at the beginning of May? Well, I'm stickin' to it. I mention it only because I'm a little amazed. Exercising is something that I really enjoy, but running has always been the hardest for me. When I trained for a 565-mile bike ride, for example, getting in the saddle four or five times a week wasn't even a question, I just did it. Running, though, takes some mental convincing.

This morning, as I labored through 2-plus miles, I noticed that the same distance was easier on Thursday. Athletes always say so much of sports is mental and boy is it true with running. Two days ago, with the help of Crazy Frog on my iPod, I lost myself in dreams about playing professional basketball, which included visualizing a game in my head. This morning, I spent a bunch of time noticing the weariness in my legs. Runners of marathons have always been impressive to me, but now that I see how mentally demanding the sport is, I'm even more awed. Take that one step further and imagine Ironman triathletes. Holy buckets! What in the world do they think about for all that time?

Our very own oasis

2010-06-16T22:11:00.000-07:00

Our house looks like a wonderfully huge chocolate bar. Delicious! It's in the midst of being painted, brick and all. The body color is "Brevity Brown" and the trim "Mexican Sand." We are covering over not the beautiful red brick that graces many of Spokane's commercial and residential buildings, but a drab white brick that is longer and thinner than traditional masonry. I can't wait to see it this winter when snow layers the roof and leaves us with a chocolate cake with white frosting.

Though we are not doing the labor of painting, this is just one of numerous projects on the family to-do list this spring and summer. Molly and I are working pretty well as a team to redo landscaping in the front, patch leaks in the patio roof, coordinate an energy audit by SustainableWorks, build a hoop house to grow tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers, and plant a garden out beyond the hoop house. R is chipping in with occasional lawn mowing and complete assembly of new deck furniture. We are on track to have a good portion of the summer to enjoy the finished projects, which I hope means lots of sitting in the new furniture, on the freshly painted deck, with a chilled beverage and book in hand.

These changes to the house are making it feel truly like our own. We have lived in it for a year and a half with much about the previous owners still hanging about. The yard was absolutely covered in lava rock and bark, which we managed to clear out by the end of September last year, but only now are really giving it our personality by starting a rose garden along one fence, digging up some of the front grass to design a flower bed and planting hearty hostas along the shaded north wall of the house.

I figured out today that I might actually be able to take two weeks of vacation in a row this summer and seeing as how any traveling money we had is going toward projects, I'm looking at a staycation. But, damn, my own house is beginning to feel like an oasis. I'll gladly hang around here for some chillaxin'.

The Dukes, the Dukes

2010-06-14T22:43:00.000-07:00

Katie Perry may be rising to the top of the charts singing about California girls with "Daisy Dukes, bikinis on top," but someone needs to tell her she's got it all wrong. Just ask R. When Molly said something about the pop song last night, R piped in, "Hey, speaking of Daisy Dukes, there were a lot of guys at the Pride Parade wearing Daisy Dukes!"

At 12, nearly 13, this was not R's first Pride, but hearing he assimilated some of the details of the parade made us proud and also gave Molly and I a good chuckle. Long have the painted on short shorts been the favorite of gay boys, but this is the first Spokane Pride Parade and Rainbow Festival that I remember so many of the locals sporting the cut-offs made famous by the Daisy Duke character in the 1980s hit show The Dukes of Hazzard. The boys are usually in these shorts with not much else on, all the better to see their beautifully sculpted bodies.

They and the great turnout of other LGBT folk downtown on Saturday, and likewise at the Bowl-o-rama Saturday night, got me to thinking how there's one thing about the gay community that doesn't mirror the larger community. For the most part, I believe that the gay community is just a microcosm of all the characteristics, dramas and beliefs of our culture in general. But something about this year's Pride got me to thinking how funny it is that it's the LGBT guys who spend so much time worrying about their looks, and the women who go out in baseball caps, baggy shorts, flannel shirts, whatever they feel like wearing that's comfortable. Yes, that's a generalization, but come on, you have to admit, it's a common enough occurrence to take note.

That assessment, though, doesn't give lesbians enough credit for being incredibly brave. American culture very definitely says what women should look and act like, heck even what we should smell like, and girls in baggy clothes with short hair and ball caps aren't exactly the ideal. The statement in the previous paragraph could be seen to imply many lesbians don't think about their looks and are therefore lazy or careless. Instead, I think gay women who refuse to conform are making a brilliant statement. They are being themselves. But more importantly, they know themselves.

Drunken donuts lakeside

2010-06-09T22:44:00.000-07:00

Donuts, especially those with sprinkles, rank right up there with my favorite foods on this planet, which is why when I saw on the dessert menu last night at Twigs Bistro and Martini Bar an item named Drunken Donuts, I couldn't resist. The fresh dough formed into traditional donut holes was made to order and sprinkled with powdered sugar. They arrived at the table stacked into a pyramid, exuding the warm fragrance of a donut shop. Three small cups of dipping sauce accompanied, all infused with liqueurs. One chocolate, one apple pucker and one amaretto. In my delight I didn't think to count the donut holes, I just knew there were more than the picture on the menu hinted.

Molly, a friend of ours and I sat at water's edge in the patio of the northside Twigs. We had a coupon in hand that requested 10 percent of our bill be donated to OutSpokane. Our server, a delightful Dr. McDreamy lookalike, seemed completely unaware the Pride Week promotion was going on. I tried to hide my disappointment and revel in the break in our recent dreary weather that allowed us to sit lakeside.

When we arrived late in the dinner hour to a full parking lot, I had visions of tables filled with LGBT folk, all taking advantage of the chance to enjoy a chic restaurant while also raising money for the Pride Parade and Rainbow Festival organized by OutSpokane. Didn't so much seem like that's who filled the seats. Now it's true that you can't really be sure if someone is gay or not just by looks, but in some cases, there are telltale signs. Didn't see any of those signs.

The cool thing about this sort of generosity from a local restaurant is that it doesn't cost the non-profit organization much of anything in time, effort or funds to get a return. Precisely why I was disappointed at the apparent low turnout of LGBT folk using the coupon. Think of how much easy money we could have raised!

There are two other Twigs locations, and we stayed not much more than an hour, so ... here's to hoping it was a big haul.

Trial and error

2010-06-07T22:34:00.000-07:00

Boo is talking tonight as she roams about my desk. The thin, battery-charging cord to my laptop is of special interest to the little furry one. She is not in the least ready to sit in my lap and be my writing buddy.

Cats must have a natural instinct to explore high places. Boo is eyeing the window ledge, which is more than one of her body lengths above and away from the edge of the desk.

OK, phew, she decided it is too distant to attempt a leap.

My cat of 18 years had to be put down, geez, already two years ago now. She was a beautiful, faithful calico who moved with me umpteen times. Twelve, to be exact. She and I lived in 12 different apartments, condos and houses in 18 years.

(Oh man, Boo is falling asleep standing up! She's fighting with the heavy eyelids. It's like her little body can only handle tiny spurts of energy.)

Anyway, having a new kitten is something that I haven't done in a long time and I notice a certain attachment that usually isn't there for me with animals. Appeals to my nurturing instinct, I suppose. Perhaps a substitute for the parent I want to be to the boys, but that isn't really working out the way I had dreamed. The more that I assess the struggles we as a family are having, the more I see that A and R are not hard-wired to take advantage of the things I am good at. I love and believe in education, being outside and athletic are instinctive to me, but they don't bend either of those ways. School is good for socializing, going outside is mildly interesting on certain occasions, but mostly it is merely the way to get to the place where you buy stuff. In other words, they don't need or want me to be a parent who requires attention to academics and balance in indoor versus outdoor activity.

This trial of not being a parent that started three weeks ago has to, I think, shift a bit - I am after all still an adult in the same household - but mostly it needs to continue. The boys don't value what I do and I have to stop judging them for that and expecting them to be something they simply are not.

'Hey Boo,' I said

2010-06-06T20:48:00.000-07:00

Hey Friends. Meet Boo. She's our new kitty. Came to live with us just a few hours ago. She was born in a barn. And I mean that with all compliments. She and five litter mates have been weened in my friend and co-worker's big green barn. They were surprises because, well, their mama, Diesel, was thought to be a male.

Lil Boo, named like the puppy Jem for a character in To Kill a Mockingbird, is a big step for me. Don't get me wrong, if I had to say what kind of animal person I am it would definitely be a cat lady. But, by no means do I think a family needs more pets than they have people in the house. Boo is the fourth non-human, counting A's iguana, Kiwi, who moved over with him but has not moved back to Anacortes since A returned to his dad's house. No, fluffy soft Boo represents me being more respectful of Molly and R's wishes. Mostly Molly's. She loves pets and talks often of getting more. When my co-worker mentioned the litter, I knew if I brought the news home there would be no turning back. I could have easily kept mum and no new kitten to cause me angst.

We gave Boo a bath in the kitchen sink and she was great. She found her way under the couch to hide from Jem and now she is curled in my lap in my writing studio. That's a big day for a wee one. Sweet moments and yet I worry that now there's just more hair to get on furniture and clothes. I fret about how we are going to have to pay for a housesitter when we want to travel. I lament that come winter, when Molly's parents go south and we take their cat, yet another fur-bearing, pooping, peeing creature will cross the threshold.

The yin yang of overthinking the impracticality of nurturing another pet and just adoring the petite loveliness of a kitten is a perfect example of my brain on family life. I'm rigid, I'm loving. I'm exacting, I'm lenient. Me bringing home word that six kitties up on Bigelow Gulch needed homes was an attempt to add more yang to my yin. Balance is the beauty of yin yang, but I tend toward the dark side, toward seeing the negative, toward expecting more from my family than they are capable of giving.

Yang is white, yin is black. Yang is summer, yin is winter. Jem is a female black lab named after a boy character. Boo is a female, white kitten named after a male character. Jem and Boo have a little yin and a little yang in them both. This summer, Boo is my yang.

In To Kill a Mockingbird, Boo Radley is a reclusive neighbor to Jem and Scout Finch, who spend three summers of their youthful lives trying to get a glimpse of the puzzling man. He watches out for the two children in ways they only fully understand at the very conclusion of the novel.

Here's what my favorite character of all, Scout, said the first time she laid eyes on Mr. Arthur Radley:

"... as I gazed at him in wonder the tension slowly drained from his face. His lips parted into a timid smile, and our neighbor's image blurred with my sudden tears.

"'Hey, Boo,' I said."

Howdy neighbor

2010-06-05T22:41:00.000-07:00

On our regular dog walking and running route in the 'hood, Molly and I noticed about two weeks ago a new minivan parked in a driveway one block east of our house. It was notable only because a cheery rainbow sticker runs along the bottom of the rear window. We remembered the house at which it was parked had been sold recently and have since been curious. Gay boys? Lesbians? Supportive allies?

When I lived in San Diego through college and the early part of my career life, I always rented in Hillcrest, one of the city's oldest neighborhoods and the center of gay life. Neighbors were across the spectrum of age, race, gender and sexual orientation and I didn't find myself particularly drawn to discover if there were any compadres in my immediate vicinity. Here though, in Spokane, it feels kind of nice to see our 'hood getting a little more mixed, a little more spicy.

An apropos beginning to Pride Week, I was able to meet the one-block-away-neighbors today, thanks to a yard sale filled with kid toys. Naturally, I wanted to see if any Legos were up for grabs. The conversation came easy between the homeowner and I, and soon enough she referred to her girlfriend. It's kind of cool how you just sort of know intuitively when it's safe to out yourself. Their three kids (the oldest of whom is a 12-year-old boy!) flitted about the yard, cheerful, eager to pet our puppy and quite polite. R and I returned later to buy some lemonade from the kids' side business, and the boys tentatively got to know each other.

On the one hand, it's a ridiculously superficial reason to get to know someone. It's not like all gay people automatically like each other. But living in the same neighborhood and having kids, including boys who like to invent and build things, well, that's a pretty good start to commonalities.

Count down to Pride

2010-06-02T21:25:00.000-07:00

When I look at the fleece-lined jacket hanging on my office coat rack, or walk home from the bus praying the ginormous gray cloud overhead won't burst open before I scramble through the front door, I am flabbergasted it is June 2. Weather-wise in Spokane, it does not feel like time for school to be letting out. Rather than dream about a weekend of playing croquet barefooted in the lush backyard, I long to curl up on the couch and read while under a blanket.

Given the dreariness we have been subjected to in the last week or so, it hardly feels like time for Pride Week, either. Hopefully things shape up soon for the annual cruise on Lake Coeur d'Alene this Saturday. But first, an indoor event that promises to be lively and warm no matter what's going outside, is the true kick off to Spokane's Gay Pride celebration. Moved up this year by about two weeks, the Stem and Stein wine and beer tasting is an elegant start to all the festivities. A benefit for the Spokane AIDS Network, the 6th annual tasting is Friday, June 4, at 6 p.m., in the Kalispel Ballroom at the Northern Quest Resort & Casino. Tickets are $40 in advance and $45 at the door. Visit the SAN web site or call 509.455.8993 for more information.

For a complete listing of Pride events, OutSpokane is the place to be. Something sweet I just noticed on the web site, a coupon for Twigs to enjoy dinner or drinks at the hip martini bar and restaurant on Tuesday, June 8. Present the coupon and the bistro will donate 10% of your bill to OutSpokane to help fund the Pride Parade and Rainbow Festival. If the weather shapes up, the northside and South Hill Twigs both have outdoor patios around picturesque lakes. Think about it friends. I'm certain I can convince Molly to take a weekday break from being the family chef. Hope to see you there!

Habit forming

2010-05-31T15:17:00.000-07:00

The pact Molly and I made to spend the summer training for a 10K, and then run it in September, is working. I'm actually sticking to it. We chose Saturday, Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday as running days. On the weekends we are able to get on the road in the morning, and during the week, Molly waits for me to get home from work before lacing up the tennie runners. The balance, I think, is what is working so well. Don't have to squeeze it into my already busy morning routine on work days.

The inspiration of routine got me thinking about writing. Yes, it's true, I'm always thinking about how I can write more, it's just the actual sitting down to craft that I can't manage to do for more than a week at a time. BUT. If the running is going well, maybe this is a turning point. Maybe I can also settle into a writing routine.

Many artists will tell you the way to produce is to commit to your art every day. That would be glorious, but it's just not realistic. And, truthfully, maybe it wouldn't be glorious. I like, you could even say thrive, on variety. Mixing things up a bit within a routine is what gets me excited to put my feet on the ground every morning. One day ride my bike, one day skate, one day walk to the bus. Read a nonfiction book and a novel at the same time. Write in my journal, post a blog, craft an essay. Sip a nice cabernet, enjoy an icy Mexican beer.

Four days a week is a good number to commit to, more substantial than three, not as burdensome as five. Four days is enough to form a habit, not too much to get burned out. Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday then would be excellent days to devote to writing.

Choosing to suffer

2010-05-19T06:56:00.000-07:00

No parenting for a month is going OK. Molly has definitely stepped up. I noticed last night that she asks R to do things instead of tells him. We have talked before about that technique and I've pointed out to her that both boys often ignore her.

Yesterday, in two cases, she noticed about 30 minutes later that R hadn't done the things she needed and she gently asked again. He said, "Oh yeah, I'll do that." I kept thinking all night, I could learn from that gentleness.

Then, my alter ego, the person who thinks about doing things efficiently and respecting your elders, would kick in and I'd think, It shouldn't have to be that way. It shouldn't take twice to ask a person to turn on a lamp that is within arm's reach of where he's sitting.

That's petty of me, isn't it? Much of my parenting, I'm beginning to see, (and probably my "spousing" too) is about noticing the little things. Truthfully, about being irritated by the little things. The Buddha in me knows that this kind of noticing just leads to suffering, primarily my suffering.

Feeling sassy

2010-05-17T22:21:00.000-07:00

Forays into the community have been few and far between for Molly and I in recent months. We have come up with a couple of redundant reasons for not getting out and about town. Kids who are not worthy of our trust to spend the evening at home alone. Money that could be better spent on painting the house or replacing the gutters. But, we took a beginning step last Friday night that I hope will turn into a regular part of our social life again. We went to a play for which the price of tickets was a contribution to OutSpokane.

It helped get me excited for Pride festivities that are just around the corner. And it didn't hurt that one of the OutSpokane folks whom I'd never met recognized me from the days of writing a column for The Spokesman-Review. Flattery can really make a girl's day.

The events are numerous and do require some pre-planning in the case of certain ones, like the annual cruise on Lake Coeur d'Alene that kicks off Pride Week. Or, the LGBT bowl-o-rama that has been moved this year from August to June 12. What fun! Hang out in Riverfront Park for the Pride Parade and Rainbow Festival on Saturday mid-day, then head to the alley with your team of bowling pals. The last time Molly and I joined the event, we won. Our team kicked major homo bootie. I dare you to come try and out strike us. I know you can spare the time!

(Heh heh, I'm feeling sassy tonight.)

Abdication

2010-05-16T07:14:00.000-07:00

I've abdicated the throne. Given up parenthood for at least a month. No driving R to school, no doing his dishes or laundry, no helping with his homework or suggesting we go out to dinner, no inviting him to skate with me or offering to buy Coke in a glass bottle when we go to our favorite Mexican deli. He got pissed off at me yesterday for calling him on lying about homework, told me I'm mean and treat him like crap.

Fine, I said, you don't like me because I'm the primary person who has held you accountable to your responsibilities for the last five years. Your mom has completely left the work of trying to teach you about work ethic, teach you the things that will help you be a successful adult, up to me and you're such a wuss you don't like being called on laziness, lying and cheating. So, I won't do it. But I also won't do all the other things that a parent does.

Molly was a part of this conversation and not long later she congratulated me for standing up for myself. I hadn't realized that's what I was doing, but it did feel good. I realize this kind of abdication is only possible because there is another person in the house. It's not a privilege many parents have. But dammit I do, and I'm taking it.

The risk is, Molly will continue to not check on his homework, not hold him responsible to his chores, let him stick his face in a screen as much as he wants, and they will both be perfectly happy. They may like me not being a parent. Which, I suppose if that comes to pass, will let me off the hook. I'll have more time to write, could ride my bike to work every day if I want, not be so weighted with remembering to provide lunch money, buy R his bus pass every month, plan how to get him to and from birthday parties or outings with friends.

It's a bold move, that I hope at the very least changes the dynamic between Molly and I. It's exhausting being the bad guy and I, not unlike R, am pissed off about it.

On the run

2010-05-06T22:36:00.000-07:00

A lovely day this past Sunday on the 7.5-mile course that is the annual Bloomsday run in Spokane inspired a friend to ask Molly and I if we would like to join her for a half marathon in October. Mind you, we didn't run Bloomsday, we joined thousands of others (50,000+ participants turned out for this year's event) as walkers. The proposal got the two of us talking.

The snow showers this morning notwithstanding, it is a brilliant time of year as the days just keep getting longer. It's hard not to want to set a goal that will motivate us to get outside and get moving in these next few months of daylight. The truth is, though, I only just barely like running. What I like the most is how I feel afterward or even the next day. It's also a convenient sport and our puppy sure likes it. So, Molly and I made a pact to run a 10K sometime in September. For both of us that will be about five miles more than we've ever run without stopping.

The idea of getting strong enough to make it 6.something miles is exciting. But what feels the best is setting the goal together. Parenting takes so much of our energy and reveals the greatest differences between Molly and I, so to unite in something that will be our own, that won't involve the kids, is also a thrilling thought.

That said, I'd love it if our discipline and change in physical shape ends up inspiring R to get out and get moving more also.

He flips, I flop, together we flip-flop

2010-04-29T22:39:00.000-07:00

So, one moment I am fascinated by the cultural shifts prompted by technology and the next I am tossing and turning at night because of its ability to turn our kids into zombies. I could console myself with platitudes like, it's not all black and white, or, there are no easy answers. But then I wonder, why do I need consoling?

I don't mind flip-flopping if I do it fully aware. There is great value in acknowledging confusion or mixed feelings. I also like the space it leaves to learn more. If I declare technology is insidious and evil for the attention it draws away from more meaningful endeavors, there is no wiggle room for me fall in love, say, with a cell phone equipped with GPS. Or to sit down with R and play a Lego Indiana Jones video game and marvel at the graphics that look exactly like the real bricks.

Last week when R continued not to talk about the thing that was causing him great sadness, he claimed we had no right to want to know something that was private. When I explained that in fact we did because he wanted our sympathy, wanted to stay home from school to avoid the person causing the stress, and wanted us to cut him some slack for not doing his homework, yet we had no motivation to do all those things if we didn't know the truth. He instantly saw my point, acknowledged such and shared the story (as we suspected, it was about a girl and his first broken heart).

I was proud of our "little guy." He was able to flip-flop, to change his mind, to allow that his thinking needed adjusting. Maybe he got that from me.

No rest for the weary

2010-04-27T23:56:00.000-07:00

My dearest Spokane friend has lavender half moons under his eyes that aren't immediately noticeable, but once you have a chance to sit face-to-face, you see them set deep into the skin below his blond lashes. He is a new dad to a firstborn daughter, and he and his wife are learning to live life on very little sleep. A genuinely kind and gentle man with a smile that invites good conversation, a twinge of sadness pricked my heart when I noticed the telltale sign of too little rest.

Even before becoming a parental unit, he loved quad shot Americanos, and this morning as we filled a van for a college recruiting road trip, I was glad he pulled through Starbucks before piloting us three hours west on I-90. As I struggled to keep my eyes open in the back seat, he chattered away with the colleague riding shotgun about composting and raising kids.

In moments of respite between talking with prospective students and then later at lunch, the six of us on this trip to Yakima, Washington, shared stories about hometowns and siblings. Family was clearly on all of our minds.

Out of the six, five of us are parents, two with grown children. It was this part of our day-long conversation, the talk of our kids, that saddened me for more than just my best buddy. This parenting stuff is really hard and you can see it on all of our faces. The difficulty is exacerbated by strain at work resulting largely from budget cuts as well as the mind-boggling influence pop culture has on our children.

The gadgetry dilemma I wrote of yesterday came up today without my prompting. A front page story in the Today section of The Spokesman-Review claimed kids these days are spending fewer hours outside than generations past. There is much to juggle as a parent, and discovering good techniques to promote physical development as well as emotional intelligence is plenty of reason to keep us tossing and turning at night.

Let the Luddite roam

2010-04-26T23:15:00.000-07:00

Gadgetry has a lot to do with parenting these days. When Molly and R went unbeknownst to me last Thursday evening to pick out new cell phones, whoa daisy, did it bring up all kinds of emotions. Molly and I spent the better part of the next two days dealing with my concerns about money, about R's screen time with this new phone that does everything but his homework, about unilateral decision-making.

Screen time is what we call in our house the moments that one's face is stuck in a screen watching TV or a movie, playing video or computer games, hanging out on social media websites or, now that we all do it, texting. We have a rule that conversation at the dinner table has to be about something other than what one saw on a screen.

Molly and I are Gen Xers, and I do believe we are officially the tween generation when it comes to technology. There are things we have come to love, or at least thoroughly enjoy, like cell phones to double check while grocery shopping if we have enough cheese for the burritos or should I grab another chunk? Or Facebook, to keep up with buddies near and far without the pressure of a long email message. And texting, it turns out, is quite convenient, especially for a person like me who doesn't really like talking on the phone.

Yet, and this is a big yet, we fully grasp the inherent problems in this mountain of gadgetry that just keeps growing. And so, we try to regulate how much our children use electronic devices. We send them out of doors, because lord have mercy, they rarely go on their own. We try to DO stuff instead of WATCH stuff, like play a favorite card game at the local coffeehouse, walk in Bloomsday, work in the yard, play croquet or basketball, bake cookies or build Legos.

The older they get the more they think we are freaks for occasionally letting the Luddite in us free to roam the house and turn off all the gadgets. I'm often frustrated by the boys' literal and figurative connection to electronics, but more recently, I find myself fascinated to see where this all leads us, not just as a family, but as a society.

Tweenage tears

2010-04-21T21:35:00.000-07:00

Tweenage angst fills the house tonight. R came home from school this afternoon crying. And while he has emerged from his room several times to gather hugs from Molly and I, he does not yet want to talk about what happened. He is not bleeding, has no bruises, shows no signs of missing his prized possessions, so we are guessing it has something to do with a girl.

All evening I have been holding conversations in my head as practice for when he claims tomorrow morning that he feels sick and does not want to go to school. Methinks there is a fair chance he'll do so. I waffle between cutting him some slack and letting him stay in the coziness of his own home, and, conversely, regaling him with an elegant speech about having to face what hurts by simply keep on keeping on.

R very possibly has had his heart broken for the first time. Which makes me sad not just for him, but for Molly and I, who have to face that our sweet little boy is not so little anymore.

Soft baby hugs

2010-04-19T22:36:00.000-07:00

While squatting on the floor of my best friend's apartment this past Saturday night, I rested my elbows on her coffee table and caught up on the life news of two other longtime friends. I was visiting San Diego and we gathered for pasta, wine and kid time. These are people I have known since public school days and we now all have children. The youngest one a two-year-old with the most brilliant curly red hair you've seen since Shaun White was the talk of the Winter Olympics. Though there has never been a doubt we would always be in each other's lives, I don't recall ever picturing or wondering or dreaming about the time we would all be moms.

I rested back on my heels for a moment, felt a happy presence over my shoulder and turned around just in time to see the little one tottering toward me with arms wide and a smile filling his face. How good it was to feel soft baby arms wrapped around me, to hold the little guy and watch him look intently into my face. These are sensations I missed with R and A.

In times of challenge with the boys, I find myself wishing desperately that I had held them as babies and toddlers. Maybe I would somehow understand their choices better, or at least be able to muster memories that would allow for more compassion when reacting to their actions.

The biz

2010-04-18T22:10:00.000-07:00

The following was composed with pencil and paper on an Alaska Airlines flight to San Diego, Wednesday, April 14, 2010, at 10:00 p.m.

Oh how often I've written about wanting to discover THE writing project out there waiting for me, the only person who could possibly craft it. Or even more commonly, how often I've declared my determination to WRITE more.

The implication (indeed the outright belief in my own thinking) is that blogging is not enough. Not only should I work, co-parent, exercise and blog each day, but I must also WRITE. My planner has a miniature checklist on each day of the monthly calendar on which I track if I run, blog, write and journal. My goal is to do three out of the four every freakin' day. It's madness.

A fair number of essays and one book proposal, all rejected by publishing companies or magazines, are filed neatly in my desk drawer. The bulk of it written before I became a mom, a spouse, a homeowner. And now these recent weeks I've got it in my mind that there is something completely new out there, some writing project that will grab hold and reel me in, that will inspire focus like never before (or better, like the two glorious weeks of final revisions on my master's thesis when the gears of my writing machinery were absolutely humming). Despite all the responsibilities of family life, I steadfastly believe I can do it. I can WRITE. If I can just figure out the blimey project I'm destined to compose.

One thing I know I haven't fully embraced is the hard reality that writing is a business. If I were to treat it like a shop, a groovy little storefront somewhere downtown, my hours would have to be regular to attract customers (readers). I'd need a solidly-crafted, somewhat unique product, like longboards and human-powered scooters (blog posts and essays), to attract investors (publishers and other bloggers who would link to Out Write Girl). The shop would require tenacity, wise allocation of resources and smart bookkeeping.

The most fun would be to introduce customers to longboarding and help them pick out the ideal deck, but just chillin' in the shop would not lead to long term viability. I'd need to market my wares. Promote my endeavors.

So, it seems the art of being a writer is to also be a businesswoman.

We built this city

2010-04-10T21:40:00.000-07:00

We mucked out the boy's room today. I feel so Spokane when I say that. This big city girl had never heard the term "mucked out" until I moved to the Northwest and met people who drove "rigs" instead of SUVs and "mucked out" instead of cleaned out old pop cans, extra coats, blankets, dog toys, all the extra things vehicles collect.

R's room, actually, has a way of collecting the exact same things. Along with loose Lego pieces, random math worksheets, marbles, half empty packets of gum, Nerf darts, Pokeman cards and pencils. He and I waded through the dust bunnies together while Molly slept (she worked last night). The spirit of spring cleaning moved me right on downstairs where I rearranged our family room so as to make way for the one thing we'd been jonesing to do once we had a house, but haven't yet managed to fit it in - build a Lego city.

It's going to be sweet. JAMRtown will have a freight train, hospital, cinema, service station and car wash, fire department, roads and road construction equipment, a beachhouse, rescue helicopter and jet airplane. On the hill above town will be Hogwarts Castle, the Shrieking Shack, the house on Privet Drive, and the Knight Bus. Many wonderous hours ahead of sitting on the floor with legs folded like a pretzel and building.

Shaping up nicely

2010-04-06T22:20:00.000-07:00

The Chinese aspire to brick houses because they represent a certain wealth. But more, building your son a brick house is your retirement plan. A young Chinese man with a sturdy home to offer will attract a more lovely wife, together they will create a family and then in their parents' old age, bring them into to brick home to provide and care for them.

This explanation was shared tonight by friend and architect Kelly Lerner, who over the past 15 years has taught scores of builders in China to construct strawbale homes. She presented slides from a trip last year, with sustainability expert Alli Kingfisher, to Sichuan Province to introduce the renewable building material to the area devastated by a huge 2008 earthquake. I loved the story because sitting between Molly and I at the slide show was R. This boy, who before our eyes is transforming into a young man with a crackly voice and worries about girls, is he our retirement plan?

Even with the kids growing up, retirement is a crazy thought that seems so far away. And, culturally, not so plausible that we will live with R or A in our twilight years. What I spend more time planning for, actually, is to have a vibrant life of my own for many more decades. So, even while I observe invading gray hair and notice weaker muscles as I try to pull out tree stumps and remove river rock from planter boxes, I keep on moving. I'm thinking this new decade of my 40s may find me in the best shape yet.

MLB and we

2010-04-05T21:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think I've made very little impression on the boys since we all became a family six years ago. Then, I turn on the TV to baseball's most thrilling moment, Opening Day, and R says, "Ohhh, baseball!" and I know at least a little bit of me has rubbed off.

Sports is not something the kids nor Molly think much about, but I dare say my fascination with a game that involves an intriguing mix of teamwork and individual prowess has them as eager to catch a few innings each night as I. Today is the first of the season for nearly every Major League team and our Mariners are still playing. Go Ms!

Not-so-soccer moms

2010-04-02T23:25:00.000-07:00

The boy spent the night at a friend's house. Molly and I spent the evening on the couch, eating homemade burritos and drinking icy cold Harp lager. Later, we braved the icy cold outdoors to take Jem the puppy for a walk. Even when R is home, our evenings are not necessarily filled with noise or rambunctiousness, still though, the stillness of a house with no kids for a night is a pleasant change.

The year and a half preceding when Molly and I started dating, I rented a basement apartment that had two rooms and access to a lovely back yard. It was a simple, quiet life I led there, often not turning on the TV for days, instead reading and writing. The gas fireplace filled the main room with a cozy glow. My long-haired calico cat was never far from the easy chair where I curled up to read.

I think of those days sometimes and am filled with warmth deep inside. It's not exactly that I miss simplicity or the compactness of a studio apartment, it's that I appreciate the power of a quiet life. The iconic soccer mom these days has anything but a quiet life, what with a job, carpool duty, head chef responsibilities, janitorial supervision of the household and a PDA glued to the palm of her hand. R doesn't play soccer, and for the moment he's not in art or music lessons, so neither Molly nor I fit the running-around-constantly-no-time-for-yourself description of a parent.

Instead, we lose track of taking time for ourselves because we dig giant holes in our front yard, demolish planter boxes, grocery shop and clean house, walk the dog and do laundry, have friends over for tea or dinner. Tonight was a timely reminder that quiet can be as valuable as doing.

Cementing my love for yard work

2010-04-01T22:52:00.000-07:00

Legs folded in half, butt resting on my feet, I raked with gloved fingers through loads of river rock and moist dirt attempting to uncover the random acts of cement buried in our front yard. We have a borrowed truck and just one more day this week that the dump is open, so shirked dinner tonight to continue the archeology project. It began last weekend when Molly, R and I demolished a brick planter box, which turns out was filled with crazy amounts of debris.

Whacking at the half-moon shaped planter with our brand new sledgehammer released some much needed tension, but the cleanup is a bear. At the same time, kind of hilarious. The things we have found buried in our yard as we redesign it to our aesthetics have become so numerous that now we just shake our heads and wonder, "What the hell did this place look like before they put it on the market a little over a year ago?" When we started clearing away lava rock and bark, we found big rectangles of marble, so many cinder blocks we've built a staircase, and leaves from a silk plant that appear to multiple faster than we can shove them in a trash can. Two weeks ago, beneath a section of grass I dug out to combat fairy rings, I found a knee-high nylon stocking.

The hunks of cement with embedded river rock came loose from the depths of the planter box easily enough and now cozy in my jammies, it's a tremendous sense of satisfaction to be nearly done with another task on our "House Projects" list.

Unable to forgive and forget

2010-03-31T22:59:00.000-07:00

Only recently have I understood the profound need I have for fairness. And tonight, trying to figure out why I sense something hanging over me, I realized that being a mom sets me up to be utterly disappointed. On a regular basis. The black cloud that followed me through the house all evening was one weighted with all the deeds of the kids (and some of Molly) that I consider deeply unfair.

A lied to us over and over and now he is not living up to his acknowledged understanding that he needs to work to earn money to re-pay his grandma and grandpa for the damage to their house when he broke in and threw a huge party. Every freaking evening R leaves dirty socks, blankets, toys, his watch, his wallet, a bus pass or maybe a few dollars strewn about the living room. Making him clean it up repeatedly has no impact, he just does it all over again the next day. When I break down the feelings these actions inspire in me, it comes down to a matter of trust.

I don't trust either son to be honest or to honestly do what they are told. Generally speaking, this is what kids do, right? They're lazy, focused on their own desires, always trying to do the least amount of work for the greatest return possible. Logically, I get that about teens and tweens, but emotionally I just cannot get my head around flat out lying about picking up the dog poop while you took the puppy for a walk when we know you had no bags with you. (To Rs credit, he went back to get the poop when he realized we caught him red-handed.)

My trust has been broken, I feel enveloped by unfairness and I have no desire to forgive. Not sure where that leaves me as a parent.

In be"tween"

2010-03-28T22:26:00.000-07:00

Definition of a "tween" - R sitting next to me in the booth at the pizza parlor, playing with his newest action figure, bought with money he earned helping us dig out a stump and bust up a brick planter box, while describing his nervousness about post-dinner plans to talk via Facebook with a girl he likes.

Give and take away

2010-03-25T23:44:00.000-07:00

Well, it's done. The computer we bought A in November is boxed up, ready to sell. I cleaned off the harddrive and reinstalled the system software. I folded the cords neatly into their compartment in the original package and enveloped the laptop back in its plastic sheath. Emails are sent out to friends and co-workers advertising the sweet MacPro at $300 less than what we paid. For barely two months of use, we figure it's a pretty nice discount.

The decision feels solid. A didn't earn the computer and we are standing by our belief that there are consequences for his actions. There is a reason, though, it has taken two months to get to this point. When A went back to Anacortes, we felt raw and terribly sad. Getting rid of the computer too early would have exacerbated the emptiness of the house, the loss of him.

He barely talks to us these days, and will probably feign disinterest when he learns the computer is sold, but someday I hope A will understand how good it feels as a parent to give your son a gift that represents the best in its class and conversely how taking it away is riff with conflicting emotion. I just hope when it sells our wounds don't feel raw all over again.

Old school delight

2010-03-23T22:58:00.000-07:00

Healthcare reform was signed into law this morning and I couldn't tell you the first thing about who the 32 million people are that it will help insure and what form that insurance will take. Clinics? HMOs? Preferred providers?

Reminds me of when I was a teenager and teased my twenty-something cousin for not knowing the Space Shuttle had launched. She was a new mom at the time, and took the ribbing good-naturedly, while also telling me I had no idea how time-consuming this mom thing could be. Now I know.

I work at a university and it's spring break this week, which doesn't mean I have less work, it just means I have fewer interruptions while trying to do the work. After more than an hour of debating with myself, I stood up this afternoon, gathered my coat, wallet and a letter that needed to be mailed, and left the building. On my way to the Cheney post office, I walked the wonderfully quiet streets and stopped off at Zips for a chocolate shake. One corner of the restaurant housed an old school Ms. PacMan machine and I fed that baby a quarter with much glee in my heart.

What actually consumes much of my time as a mom is trying to figure out how to take time for myself. Today I took some minutes for me and the spontaneity (I've never actually been inside the downtown Cheney Zips nor did I leave the office thinking that's where I was headed) was brilliantly freeing. I'll be hoarding my quarters from now on!

Patience is my dream

2010-03-16T07:01:00.000-07:00

Just when I think I'm showing more patience, I realize that's a load of hogwash. This morning I'm grumpy because R opens the refrigerator and says, "There's no bread?" then walks away without retrieving it even though he knows perfectly well the extra bread is in the freezer in the garage. I immediately start grumbling to myself about how sick I am of doing the thinking for him.

It's probably because I do so much thinking at work (Jill, my timesheet is messed up and I can't find our director, can you help me fix it? Jill, I can't remember how to set my schedule on our web-based calendar, will you do it for me? Jill, this student is having trouble registering for my class, she has some sort of hold on her record?) that I have little patience at home. Not fair. The work demands should be building my patience, should make it more likely that I show it at home, not less.

Molly's job as a nurse calls for exponentially more calm than mine (the stories of little old ladies cursing her out and drug addicts stashing meds for later are endless) and she comes home to display an equal amount of patience and kindness towards my tendency to be impatient and R's leanings toward laziness. She's a good example for me.

And so, too, is R. It's hard to stay grumpy when he turns around and not long after finishing his breakfast, he hugs me and says, "Thank you for making time to take me to school early this morning." Completely unsolicited. Sweet boy.

Creating ourselves

2010-03-15T06:59:00.000-07:00

We create ourselves by our choices.
- Kierkegaard

I can't take credit for reading Kierkegaard anytime recently. Maybe once I did, back in college. Instead, I found the quotation last night in Mary Oliver's newest book of poetry. It speaks so directly to all the thoughts swirling in my head, all the challenges of being a parent and a spouse.

In my family, I have created myself as the disciplinarian. Not sure I like it, then again, I don't like that most days Molly forgets to hold the kids accountable, to show them there are consequences for choosing not to do homework or to stick their faces in a screen instead of doing chores. She and I have spent long hours talking about my position and how I resent being put there. Change is slow to happen.

But isn't that what Kierkegaard is getting at, that change can happen? If we create ourselves by our choices, we can always re-create ourselves. By making different choices.

It's not that I want to stop teaching the boys what it means to be a responsible student, son, friend, grandson, it's that I want both Molly and I to do it consistently. Sometimes that means choosing to step back and letting Molly do it in her own way, in her own time.

Changing channels

2010-03-13T12:59:00.000-08:00

Some months back I wrote about A coming to live with us. It was a long time in coming and involved much negotiation between Molly and her ex-husband, with whom she has split custody of A and R. The boys together year-round, not just on school breaks, A with us, is what we've all wanted for these five years.

A came. And now he's gone. He made choices that forced our hand. He failed his classes, he lied, he snuck a girl he barely knew into his room in the wee hours of the morning, he broke into his grandparent's house and threw a huge party that led to $2,000 in damages. He threatened Molly.

A's actions from July to January were outright disrespectful of the good life we tried to give him, of the encouragement we showed, of our desire to see him happy while also learning responsibility and accountability. Even so, when his dad arrived at 2:30 in the morning on a Friday in late January to take him back to Anacortes, watching A cross the driveway to get in the truck broke me in a way I've never been broken.

I explain all this to be perfectly up front. I am a mom to two boys, only one of whom lives in the same house with me. It feels awkward and uncomfortable, yet talking only of R would be equally so. Molly and I have been forever changed as parents, the depth to which we are just barely beginning to understand.

As I continue to read Thich Nhat Hanh, a Buddhist monk, his words inspire and challenge me. I believe in his advice, but find the practice of it exhausting. Even sometimes I rail against the idea of being peaceful, instead thinking, "I have a right to be upset."

In his book, Being Peace, Hanh writes, " A human being is like a television set with millions of channels. If we turn the Buddha on, we are the Buddha. If we turn sorrow on, we are sorrow. If we turn a smile on, we really are the smile. We can't let just one channel dominate us."

Today, I have spent many hours already stuck on the sorrow channel. Though it's Saturday, with a partner who works the night shift, it is me who rose early to walk the puppy. Crawling back into bed for more sleep didn't work, ironically, I think, because I am overly tired. I am preoccupied by A, and also by unfinished work at the office. But, Thich Nhat Hanh would say, I'm just sure of it, that it's never too late in the day to change the channel.

CBS here I come. Carry Buddha's Smile.

Editing and revising life

2010-03-12T07:15:00.000-08:00

A true love letter can produce a transformation in the other person, and therefore in the world. But before it produces a transformation in the other person, it has to produce a transformation within you. The time you take to write the letter may be your whole life.
- Thich Nhat Hanh

I flipped through a book of meditations this morning from the peace activist and Buddhist master Thich Nhat Hanh and suddenly understood that my attempt to be a mom to A and R (I am going to continue to maintain some privacy for our boys by not using their full names) is a love letter. The writing of it is painstaking. I stop and start, edit constantly, rethink whole paragraphs, but day by day the letter gets longer and more complete.

In my actual, as opposed to metaphorical, writing, I often throw out entire documents. Start from scratch. The terrifying part about writing a love letter to your family, you can't erase the past. Every mistake, though edited or revised later, is still there in our memories and our hearts.

We have been a family for going on five years (Molly and I dated for a year before moving in together) and I just now feel like my editing skills are getting better. In the past four weeks or so, I find myself revising my thoughts and judgments even before I write them, or more literally, before I speak them. Between Molly and I, I am the more strict parent, I stand by the rules we set forth and consistently enforce them, I am more quick to get upset at what I perceive as laziness, unfairness or disrespect. But lately, I have found some quiet within. Before jumping to point out chores or homework undone, I extend some patience and soon enough, the work is done.

The quiet I've found is truthfully more something I have worked for, cried about and prayed for. It has not come easy and in many ways, I am exhausted. Also, I fret it won't stick around. This writing of a love letter, no doubt, will take my whole life. I suppose it will have many chapters. My prayer is that each one will be more transformative than the last. For both me and the boys.

The Girl defined

2010-03-11T08:12:00.000-08:00

Parenthood. It's what challenges me. It's what tests me. It's what scares and inspires me. It's what I've been avoiding writing too much about, which in turn has left me speechless. This blog has been pulling on me for months to be more focused, to get at what is really me, and finally I am answering the muse.

This morning, as I delay going to the office because my absence from the blog and from writing has gone on too damn long, I am officially declaring Out Write Girl to be one woman's story of living her parenthood out loud. This topic, clearly, will not be everyone's cup of tea. For those who want to move on to differently focused blogs, I thank you for reading and encouraging me. Though I don't know your numbers, I can feel an audience every time I sit down to compose and it's you all who inspire me to think it through, to be accurate, to try to really get at what I mean.

The amazingness of being a mom or dad is experienced universally by my closest friends and colleagues, many of whom are young parents, too. But most of them are not gay or lesbian. I am lesbian. I am not a biological parent. These two truths are what challenge every minute of my day. And though I am loathe to describe an individual as any one thing, being a gay mom is what defines me.

Truly understanding this definition is what I will do on these pages. I invite you to help me.

Hoopster love

2010-02-21T20:18:00.000-08:00

Spokane loves basketball exponentially more than does San Diego, my hometown. It was just one of the many endearing things I learned about my new city soon after moving to the Northwest nearly 10 years ago. But it's not just fandom, not just madness during that one spring month, basketball here is about playing, in the street and driveways, on the hardwood and in schoolyards. Young and old do it, men and women.

This afternoon, R and I took off for the park on our new longboards, I with my basketball nestled in a specially-designed duffle bag and slung over my shoulder. We figured skating several blocks to some public courts would be a grand warm up. About half-way to the park, we neared a corner and I heard the familiar, yet not, thump of a dribble. Though we ourselves were fixing to shoot hoops, actually hearing the basketball drum the cement seemed cheerfully out of place on a February day. Some kids were practicing in their driveway.

Once arrived at the asphalt court we set aside our longboards and helmets and jumped right into playing. The backdrop behind the hoop was unlike anyplace I've ever played basketball, and I have played a time or two in Spokane, just not yet at this park near our house. Ponderosa pines lined up behind the backboard and circled around to the right. A quarter moon hovered directly overhead in the smooth blue sky. An owl cheered our every miss and every two-pointer. It was like playing in the woods.

No wonder we love it here so much.

EWU campus climate is chilly

2010-02-20T09:19:00.000-08:00

She likes to talk with her hands. Big sweeping gestures accompany the commentary this psychology professor makes in meetings we attend together once a month. Yesterday, she was a veritable windmill when describing the discomfort she sees in Eastern Washington University students when topics like sex, sexual orientation and gender identity come up in class. Her hands were slightly less active, but still abundantly expressive when she noted that faculty are often equally as uncomfortable.

The campus LGBT Task Force had come together to continue planning for everything from the grand opening of EWU's Pride Center to a Lavender Graduation ceremony to developing a queer studies certificate program. But much of yesterday's conversation centered on the campus climate, that is, what it feels like for minority students (whether racial minorities or LGBT students) to negotiate a campus on which bigotry is a powerful force.

The task force is a lovely group of professors, administrators and one student, some of whom are openly queer, many who are straight allies, and I was honored to be asked to join. But the more I listened yesterday, the more conflicted I felt. A start to changing the climate, I wanted to say, is for people like us to be wide open, to not hide anything about our belief in the equality of all people. Then I flashed on countless conversations I've had with students and parents in which I've retreated to generalities.

My job is to meet one-on-one with students to either discuss their writing project or their academic plans. Both kinds of conversations easily lead to deeply personal issues. I don't pretend to have all the answers for them or to speak from on high, instead I share my own experiences and help figure things out by talking through different options. And frequently I avoid the whole truth. Such as, that my kids are not my own by birth or that "my friend" who attended nursing school and that's why I know so much about the rigors of the program is actually my partner.

I often make these choices to hide behind generalities in a split second, based on something I've heard in the conversation or the writing that makes me feel unsafe. By the end of the task force meeting I wanted to scream, "It's not just the students for whom the climate is volatile." But I didn't, I stayed quiet. I perpetuated the problem.

Exasperated by reactionaries

2010-02-19T05:48:00.000-08:00

Barack Obama is a gorgeous writer. I don't mean gorgeous in the way of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, whose magical realism evokes the warm haciendas surrounded by eye-popping jungle greenery of South America. I mean deeply beautiful for his honesty, for the willingness to struggle right there on the page to make sense of his experience of black and white.

I am reading Dreams From My Father, written by Obama in 1994 before even he considered running for the U.S. Senate, and while it solidifies my sense of relief that we now have a president who is thoughtful and insightful, it also makes this exact moment in Obama's presidency all the more exasperating. We, as a people, appear unable to appreciate what he has accomplished in a year, how he and a Congress willing to pass a stimulus package pulled the economy from the edge of a very steep cliff. How Obama took on the single most important social reform, healthcare, in a generation only to be met by a people who suddenly felt perfectly fine about their level of coverage.

We are reactionary. We want jobs, dammit, (which is a legitimate desire), and meanwhile won't take the time to really learn the value of the steps Obama is taking to get us to exactly that place. The American people (as the media so often refers to the majority opinion expressed in endless polling) are stamping their feet and pouting about not getting what they want right now.

Frankly, it's embarrassing.

The dream is still alive

2010-02-18T05:53:00.000-08:00

The enduring mild weather inspired me to try a new route home last night. From the Cheney bus coming into downtown Spokane, I transferred to a coach heading north, but not the route that gets closest to my house. Instead, I got off about two miles due east and walked home. Molly and Jem (our puppy) met me part way. Though I arrived 30 minutes later than I would have had I left my car at a park and ride lot, it felt great to breath a little before stepping through the door.

And now I'm sore. So sad. I consider myself in reasonably good shape, been averaging about three days a week for running or a workout at the YMCA, and yet a two-mile walk left me stiff in new places. Brings me face-to-face with aging. No matter how kindly I treat it, my body reacts differently than it did even just a couple of years ago.

In and around family duties and projects, Molly, R and I are squarely infected by the Olympic spirit. And while R fell asleep last night to dreams of snowboarding the halfpipe with Shaun White, I have my own dreams of living like an athlete. Working my way to running five miles without stopping is a plenty big goal and I'm grateful to the timing of the Winter Games to get me to kick things up a notch. Keep up the long walks as cross-training, eat dessert not quite as often, keep dreaming and believing.

Living out loud, quiet-like

2010-02-17T05:47:00.000-08:00

Two days ago, on my Facebook status update, I wrote "Jill Wagner seeks a quiet life."

This morning I look at the tagline to the title of this blog and I think, I have not been living very out loud in the Northwest lately, well for more than a year, really.

So which is it? Can I have both?

Last night may be my answer. Molly, R and I attended the opening event for Spokane's "Big Read" where Mary Badham, the actress who played Scout in the 1962 movie classic To Kill a Mockingbird, spoke about landing the part, her enduring friendship with Gregory Peck and growing up a traditional white Southern girl. The event center was packed, we saw some of my colleagues from work and when Mayor Mary Verner spoke, R said, "Hey, don't you know her?" (We don't, but she looks an awful lot like one of our dear friends.)

It was a pleasant evening to celebrate the community-wide reading of the novel To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, which just happens to be my favorite and the reason our puppy is named Jem. A little more than a week ago I began reading it out loud to R. In the moments we have been spending, curled together on the couch absorbed in the life of Maycomb County, I have felt the most quiet. Last night, we returned home and though did not read, spent time just talking and then watching the Olympics. I did not pressure myself to do chores or projects, did not feel the need to "be productive."

Living out loud has to mean for me both quiet time to think, read, sort through family challenges, AND being present in the community, being a part of something larger than the daily frustrations of parenting and partnering.

A collection of somethings

2010-02-11T17:34:00.000-08:00

For no particular reason I have changed the look of the blog. With a bit of time to spare before meeting my running partner, I retreated to my writing studio not having a plan in mind, just thinking I ought to do something creative. Changing things up now and then always provides a certain comfort to me. When I clean my desk, I'll often rearrange the location of the computer, where my cup of pens and pencils rest. I like the feeling of starting fresh, of a clean slate.

It's awfully tempting to erase all previous posts and have a clean slate on this here blog. It must be a perpetual conflict for writers - wanting to expunge any record of thoughts and ideas they find ridiculous the next day. But erasing doesn't give ourselves credit, any words at all are something, and if we are steady enough, persistent enough, the collection of somethings will eventually turn into the thing.

I am not a writer

2010-02-09T22:28:00.000-08:00

I suddenly get writer's retreats in a way I never have before. These are sponsored getaways to quiet spots where other writers join in and spend a week, two weeks, a month absolutely, totally focusing on a writing project. Much time is spent alone, but also the participants gather daily to discuss progress and give each other feedback.

I am not a writer. I am a mom who finds half eaten lunch strewn about her son's room for the fifth time in a week and a half. I am not a writer, I am a partner who is stood up at the YMCA on the night agreed upon to be family workout night. I am not a writer, I am the caretaker for a dog I didn't even want.

Retreats may be the only way a person like me would ever have the chance of sustaining a writing routine, of getting in a space where her head is clear enough to actually create.

Do me a favor, savor the cookies next time

2010-02-08T22:16:00.000-08:00

How long does a person have to spend eating something to say they truly savored it? This afternoon, when I stepped out of the office for a couple of hours, I returned to a cheerful little confectioners box of cookies left on my desk. A half-dozen thick, delicious morsels, each about the size of a 50 cent piece, were gone in less than an hour. I ate them while reading first email then The Washington Post online and wonder now if that was too much of a distraction to thoroughly enjoy the homemade treats.

But I was not completely unawares. While definitely chunky, the cookies were also delicate. Layered textures of soft, melting chocolate, crunchy but not overpowering nuttiness, and something more, something smooth (maybe butterscotch?) tickled my palate as I waded through a lengthy editorial on the intellectual snobbiness of liberals. I wasted no time at all deciding if I should save some of the cookies for another day or to share with the family. Just kept eating. I clearly did not savor the generosity and goodness of cookies appearing on my desk.

Noticing this kind of relationship to food brings me face-to-face with my parental beliefs. When at work, I often do not practice what I preach to our two boys. Namely, moderation. At home, I have no trouble living the example, but once in the office I often indulge and make ridiculous choices to take another cookie or choose another bag of the latest Costco snack simply because it's there, not because I'm running low on energy or am trying to be polite to a treat-bearing co-worker.

I accuse the kids of obsessing about food when they track how many brownies each person has consumed to make sure no one gets more than them or when they eat a giant bag of chicken nuggets in less than a week. Yet. Yet at 5 p.m. on a weekday I'll often realize that my movement through the day has been dictated by when I was eating what.

Breaking my own rules shames me, but apparently not enough to truly savor some damn good cookies over several days.

What gives the struggle meaning

2010-02-07T21:45:00.000-08:00

In my last post, now two weeks ago, I mentioned another blog with part of its title being the lovely notion of "Noticing the Details." These two weeks have been riff with struggle in my family, full of reasons to break any routine I had with reading or writing, to break any routine the four of us had at home, work or school. Wrestling with sadness and confusion, I found myself, at least once a day, leaving my desk to take a slow turn across campus for a chance to clear my head and breath in the cool, fresh air. In those moments, I did notice the details. The details made me smile and for ever so short a minute took my mind off the big worries.

I was not sure until tonight whether I would even continue with this blog. Writing feels like too big a job most days. But, it paradoxically feels the right thing to do, and so I dive back in. The details of my family trouble I will not go into here. But they may unfold over time as I share the details of other things on my mind. What I like about blogging is the opportunity it affords to have conversations about the details. Too often, it seems, we as a community fall back on niceties and banalities; we refrain from really talking, from sharing the details with each other and hearing from others what the details mean to them.

On my ambles around the brick-paved EWU campus, the clouds most often caught my attention. This past Thursday, the depth of the blue sky warmed me to the bone even as the temperature hung in the 40s. I am fascinated by this winter of so little snow. What is it doing to our mood? I wonder. Is it making us more impatient for spring to arrive? I appreciate the ease of driving and walking about, but the dreariness of soggy dead grass, naked trees and predominantly gray skies is hard to bear day after day. One moment I am smiling at the sight of a shapely cloud, the next I am frustrated by drizzle and chill.

Those moments, though, of the tiniest detail making things seem so right, are what give the struggle meaning. I see now that the goal is to get to a place in life where the heart-warming details are what occupy me the most. To get to a place where struggle is a memory.

To share

2010-01-23T21:07:00.000-08:00

Here's a lovely tidbit for a Saturday evening. Found it thanks to a friend who recommended blogger Anne Herbert at Peace and Love and Noticing the Details:

"What would Gandhi say? 'Chill!' Pray and think. Thinkpray."

Middle school name-calling

2010-01-21T22:43:00.000-08:00

Some kid at school called our youngest son a fag today. To tell you the truth, I haven't heard that word in a long time. Spokane is often sneered at for being about 10 to 15 years behind the times. I'd say this kid is a true Spokanite. R started middle school this year and it has not been kind to him. I'm glad he tells us these things. Even more glad he doesn't follow the advice of his brother, which is to "beat him up."

I told him he should say, "Any idiot can see I'm not a bundle of sticks." Then relayed the story of how when I was about his age my friends and I looked up faggot in the dictionary and discovered something altogether different than we expected.

Find and erase

2010-01-21T22:40:00.000-08:00

The cool thing about crafting an essay on directly on a computer is the tidy ability to delete the entire document. Remember the iconic image of a weary writer, holed up in a room crammed with books and magazines, with crumpled sheets of lined tablet paper strewn about the floor? My studio has never looked like that. I think better when things are orderly, organized.

In the writing routine I’ve set up for myself to start the new year, unfortunately, having things in order isn’t doing a whole lot for me. I write for an evening and then the next day erase it all, start fresh, come back a day later and erase all the new stuff. Plain and simple, I’m not feeling it. Don’t have the essay-writing mojo.

My goal is to keep plugging away. Even if I erase, at least I'm writing, right?

Is my John Hancock public or private?

2010-01-16T16:06:00.000-08:00

Since reading the paper this morning, I've been trying to decide: When I sign a petition, do I consider the statement I just made by adding my signature to said petition a matter of public record or do I consider it a private matter, much like I do my voting record? The U.S. Supreme Court will take up a case, which originated in Washington State, addressing just that question.

Last fall, opponents of Referendum 71 filed a public records request to get the names of the citizens signing petitions to put the referendum on the November 2009 ballot. The law sought to overturn expanded rights for same-sex couples. Sponsors of the referendum objected to the names being released because they feared harassment. SCOTUS stepped in in October and voted to withhold the names until the nine justices decided further whether or not to review the case. The decision came down yesterday that they will and could do so as early as April. Meanwhile, Ref 71 qualified for the ballot and Washington voters shot it down.

SCOTUS will, therefore, hear the case in terms of its bearing on constitutional law, in particular, First Amendment rights. Signature gatherers who do not want the names released pose that doing so would violate the signers's right to free speech. It is currently Washington law that petitions are a matter of public record.

From a nuts and bolts, on the ground point of view, the argument noted in The Spokesman-Review article that petition signers do so in front of supermarkets or at community gatherings, therefore should be aware they are making a public statement, is a convincing one. And while who or what we voted for is considered a matter of privacy, that is only true through tradition. There is nothing in the U.S. Constitution requiring that individual votes be kept secret.

I am not one to sign petitions willy nilly, and now that I think about it, it's precisely because I imagine my name going on record somewhere (my FBI file maybe) and don't necessarily want all my beliefs up for scrutiny. Logically, then, I have to conclude that it'd be OK by me for the Court to rule in favor of releasing the names.

But what I don't exactly understand is why the gay rights advocates wanted the names. I am loathe to believe they would have stooped to harassment of the individual petition signers, but what if SCOTUS rules in favor of releasing the names and someday I get hassled by some canvassing campaign worker for a stance I took by adding my John (Jill?) Hancock to a clipboard full of papers in front of Fred Meyer?

That would piss me off.

The devil's in the details

2010-01-13T20:43:00.000-08:00

My best friend had a baby and soon after invited her pals to join Facebook in order to see pictures and video of the wee one as he grew. The social networking site, where she could control who gets to see those photos and who doesn't, felt like the most efficient way to keep all of us, who are literally scattered about the globe, up-to-date. I let the invitation sit for months, reluctant to join something that I thought sounded goofy.

Well, eventually I gave in - couldn't stand not getting to see my honorary nephew on a regular basis - and now it's the goofiness of Facebook that I love. My friends are funny. And smart. And write status updates that make me think and make me curious. For instance, a friend and former co-worker who now lives in Seattle, turns out, is loads more liberal in his political leanings than I ever imagined. His post tonight hinted that he thinks Pat Robertson is a complete ass. "What's this!?" I thought. "What'd I miss? Pat Robertson must be making some sort of headlines."

Didn't take long to suss out the televangelist's reprehensible remarks about yesterday's horrific earthquake in Haiti. The Haitians, Robertson claimed, made a "pact with the devil" when they revolted against the French imperialists and "ever since have been cursed by one thing after another."

His even more ridiculous response a few hours later can be seen on The Huffington Post.

Thanks also to The Huff Post, I could watch Sarah Palin's debut as a paid Fox News commentator without having to actually turn to that channel. A nice solution given the thoughts of one reader on Friday's post of this blog.

Palin will get me to tune in

2010-01-11T21:34:00.000-08:00

The R-isms just keep on coming. Our 12-year-old, R, has been entertaining us for years with his sayings and his take on the world. We finally started writing his classic utterances down and from time to time I share them with friends and co-workers. Tonight, he came up with a beauty. "Mom," he says, "I think you burned the rice." Molly is a wonderful cook and often tries new recipes, and R takes a bit of an interest in kitchen-related tasks. He was peering in the stovetop casserole at wild rice, a staple he had never seen before. "No," Molly replied, "That's how it's supposed to look."

"So, what, it turns white as it cooks?" he asked cogently.

Funny, isn't, how we love it when kids mix up words or concepts, yet when adults do so, we sneer or snicker, judge them uneducated or uncouth? And in recent years, depending on our political persuasion, we've had loads of Bushisms and Palinisms to either laugh at or cringe about. News today, that former Alaska governor and vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin will provide regular commentary on Fox News, points to all kinds of new opportunities for liberals to snicker at Palin's often less than coherent sentence construction or conservatives to celebrate her folksie take on politics.

As a former journalist, I'm a bit embarrassed to say I've never watched Fox News. It'a very easy, as our media gets more and more polarized, to stick with what's comfortable, with what we agree with, whether reading or watching the news, but you know what, putting Palin on the air will get me to tune in. She's a fascinating character and I won't mind watching her story develop.

And who knows, I might enjoy getting all maverick-y and watching a news outlet that is fundamentally opposite of my convictions.

Politically advantageous, morally right

2010-01-08T21:19:00.000-08:00

As noted, in the comments section, on yesterday's post by Terry Hamilton, Log Cabin Republicans chairman of the board, the LGBT organization has filed suit against the federal government challenging the validity of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." A press release announcing the decision of the U.S. Federal Court to allow the case to go forward notes that despite indications from President Obama and Congress that the ban on gays in the military may be unnecessary, the instructions to the Justice Department to defend the case have not changed.

Log Cabin Spokesperson Charles Moran said, "This is just one more example of President Obama and Democratic Congressional leadership being strong on rhetoric and weak on action."

Hard to argue with that. From the left, blogger Michelle Goldberg says essentially the same thing. She goes on to note that now is a profoundly advantageous time to repeal the law.

She writes, "It’s reasonable that Obama didn’t want to pick a fight with the military right after assuming office. (Bill Clinton’s disastrous attempt to end the military’s ban on gays early in his own presidency is what gave us “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” in the first place). It’s understandable that he wanted to focus on the economy first, and then on a new Afghanistan policy, and then on health-care reform. But the justifications for delay have run out. Indeed, tackling the issue of gays in the military right now would be politically advantageous as well as morally right."

What I appreciate about ramping up the advocacy around this issue is that it feels winnable. While equal marriage laws speak to justice toward all people in the most fundamental ways, they are the hardest to pass, indeed, sometimes even snatched away after being extended to gay and lesbian couples. A win for the LGBT community on the federal level, with the repeal of DADT, would be a life-affirming change.

One elephant I want in the room

2010-01-07T21:10:00.000-08:00

Despite an auspicious beginning to 2009, with the inauguration of President Barack Obama and my renewed interest in politics, by February I had stopped reading the news with any regularity. Now, a year later, I feel as if I have no sense of who the president really is, as a politician, leader, Commander in Chief. I've barely even heard him speak since the inaugural speech.

With renewed energy for reading, and time I've set aside each morning to do so, I am feeling slightly more connected. I'm excited for the State of the Union address, but also fearful, terribly so. This week news of Democrats bolting from Congress prompted visions of 1994 dancing in my head. Remember when Newt Gingrich and the Republicans barreled through mid-term elections and descended on the Hill, leaving President Bill Clinton practically powerless?

Obama will speak of great things in his State of the Union, he'll likely fill me with hope, I'll dream for a night or two about health care reform, the end of war, and the repeal of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," but he may be faced down by a emboldened Republican Party that has very different plans than he for our country. Presumably, though, health care and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are large enough problems that the two parties will find a way to compromise. As for "controversial" issues, like the military ban on gay and lesbian troops serving openly in the armed forces, Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi announced to fellow representatives that their branch of Congress will not initiate legislation on any such bills. Great. Just great.

While peeved by Pelosi's shrinking from LGBT issues (as well as the president's lack of movement toward nullifying the military gay ban), the Log Cabin Republicans are thinking ahead. The organization of gay and lesbian Republicans will lobby for a lifting of the ban to be included in the 2011 defense reauthorization bill. A Democratic-controlled House and Senate that fail to move any LGBT rights issue forward will give the Log Cabin folks plenty to sneer about. That makes me cringe, but if the group is successful in helping repeal "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," well, that's an elephant I won't mind having in the room.

Who's team are they on, anyway?

2010-01-06T20:46:00.000-08:00

The fam and I spend a fair amount of time at home, sometimes doing our own thing, sometimes hanging out together. I am not one to easily sit down and watch a movie or TV with Molly, A and R, instead I succumb to the feeling that I should be doing something "productive." Tuesday nights, though, are happily reserved for The Biggest Loser, a reality TV show we first started watching about a year ago. Last night was the premiere of season 9 and we gathered around to see who the teammates were and what they weighed in at in their first week on the Malibu, Calif., ranch where the game is played.

About 45 minutes in the program, when the trainers, Bob and Jillian, had been ecstatically greeted by the contestants and immediately put the group through a grueling workout, A asked, "Are those two lesbian and gay?" After a momentary pause when I was waiting to see if Molly had an answer, I replied, "It seems like they are, but I don't know for sure." Molly spoke up soon after with, "Does it matter?"

The quick answer to Molly's question is, "Naw, doesn't matter." But the longer answer is, "Yeah, it does matter to me. I'd kind of like to know. Bob and Jillian are studly trainers who have become celebrities for their success at helping morbidly unhealthy folks turn their lives around." That''s good stuff. And for LGBT community that is still largely marginalized, any member who is making good ought to be celebrated.

Then again, Jillian can be crushingly obnoxious and downright mean.

Mii and Bacon Sandwich

2010-01-04T21:09:00.000-08:00

The decision is made. I will continue my life as a blogger.

A nothing of a drizzle on the drive home, barely enough to run the wipers, turned to slush when I rounded the corner to our street. Seriously, it seemed as if snow predicted for today had only managed to shower upon the few blocks surrounding my house, otherwise it rained and rained all day. My plans to go running felt dashed. Running in a drizzle is no big thing. Slopping through melting snow is cumbersome, not to mention dangerous.

I wandered in circles a few times, between kitchen and dining area, emptying my lunch bag, exchanging news of the day with Molly, trying to decide how to stick to my promise to exercise today. Wii Fit Plus was my present to Molly for her birthday back in November. We've only managed to use it once, about four days ago, on New Year's Day. It was a good day, a day that I let myself play for the first time in too many weeks to count. Yes, Wii Fit, is supposed to be a workout, a step to do something healthy, but when on New Year's Day Molly, R and I had a snowball fight using our Miis dressed in down coats, well, that was fun, not exercise.

But this evening, I switched corduroys and a sweater for my workout togs and headed downstairs to tryout the one-person training games. The workout didn't exactly rival, in terms of heart rate or sweat, my typical run or an hour at the YMCA, but it was movement, balance, rhythm and my muscles felt relieved of some of the bunched up feeling from sitting behind a desk most of the day.

Molly, who is essentially a personal chef to the us, her three-person clan, soon after my workout was done surprised us by announcing we were going out to dinner. She refused to tell us where, but as soon as we turned onto Indian Trail Road, A and I knew. Our new favorite pizza joint. The boys were hilarious at dinner, jabbering about every thing that came to mind. We ended the night trying to guess what As nickname might be if he decides to be a Counselor In Training this summer at Y Camp.

It was the kind of night I've spent the past two weeks imagining is possible. The boys went to their dad's house for Christmas and I used the respite to hit my reset button. It's exhausting to nag and badger and I've decided to do much less of it. I didn't much like the mom I was becoming before winter break and so gratefully used the kid-free time to get strong from the inside out. Somehow, even in the short time since they've returned, A and R have picked up on Molly's and my decision to expect responsibility without hammering them for it and they are responding by doing chores and catching up on school work with no complaint.

Along the way, they are inspiring and reminding us to play a little and laugh a lot. A, for example, decided that in the midst of our puppy's playful barking it sounded like she said "bacon sandwich" and so proclaimed that is her new name. We must all now refer to Jem as Bacon Sandwich.

Disconnected

2009-12-21T00:15:00.000-08:00

Four people in a week have asked about this blog, which is so so nice. I've told them I'm not connected to it anymore, I don't know what the hell its purpose is. But I want to know and I want to be connected, so while I am on vacation from the day job this week, I will take the time to mull things over and find my place in the blogging world. It's been a year since I started this (which is kind of mind-blowing) and I don't think I am ready to give it up.

I'll let you know in a week.

Ode to FarmVille

2009-11-30T20:14:00.000-08:00

Returned to work today with twinges in my neck causing winces of pain at random intervals. The muscle spasm is showing no sign of letting loose. Molly graciously bought a bounty of Extra Strength Tylenol at Costco today, which taken in tandem with Ibuprofen, I hope will provide some relief. The combo worked fairly well for me post-abdomenal surgery two years ago.

Meanwhile, I contemplate the meaning of life as exhibited in an online game captivating thousands of Facebook users. FarmVille "is like crack," exclaimed a student who works with me at the Writers' Center. For the mere cost of an internet connection and a home computer, you can plant soybeans and eggplant, sunflowers and corn, harvest banana and passionfruit trees, and fill your farm plot with horses, pigs, cows, reindeer, tool sheds, wheelbarrows, red gazing balls. The variety of items to harvest and decorate your farm are endless, new things being added weekly. About a fortnight ago I panned out for a wide few of my "Plantation" (haven't yet made the move to "Big Ole Plantation") and thought, "Egads, way too linear."

My brain is the same way. Organized, linear, always putting puzzles together to work out the most efficient route for completing necessary errands or figuring a timetable to fit everything in that the family has expressed wanting to do in a weekend. I suddenly wanted my virtual farm to be less tidy, more free and nature-like. More organic.

So, I started selling off trees, pigs, ducks, goats, rabbits. If I had fewer items, they could stand about the farm more haphazardly, looking more casual and at ease. My plantation was beginning to look like a boot camp with all the recruits lined up in formation. It felt good, the release of the densely packed animals and trees was like freeing the tightly controlled recesses of my mind. Each individual FarmVille, must I think, somehow reflect the owner and, by george, I was going to be more relaxed, more Farmer-like and less rigid, less filled with things to do.

Please pass the muscle relaxers

2009-11-28T23:35:00.000-08:00

Post-Thanksgiving and I don't feel the least bit gluttonous. Kind of nice. Yet. How I've come by eating very little in the past five days is not so nice. Woke up a week ago Thursday with a stiff neck. Well, a little more than the kind of stiff one might expect from sleeping funny, but nonetheless I figured it would work itself out within a day or two. I'd help it along with lots of stretching, maybe ask Molly for a massage and maybe even a dose of ibuprofen.

Did all that and by Monday mid-afternoon, with an earnest student wanting me to help her register for classes as she mulled over her major and general requirement classes, sitting across my desk, I struggled with waves of nausea. She left and another student, this time a fellow longboarder who is an easy guy to like, came in to also register and I had several moments of believing I'd surely hurl all over my laptop before he made it out the door. When I safely arrived home that evening (without puking on student or fellow bus riders) to a house full of extended family, I described a growing numbness in my neck to my partner the nurse and she immediately feared herniated disk. I rested in the relative quiet of our bedroom while the gang ate homemade fish tacos then Molly and I left for the ER while her mom and dad graciously cleaned the kitchen.

The next two days were spent in a fog of nausea, head and neck pain from what the ER doc diagnosed as a severe muscle spasm. He was plenty happy to prescribe pain meds and muscle relaxers that only made me feel worse. (I finally blew chunks when just inside the door on our return home from the ER.) Molly put social networking to use and contacted our friend and massage therapist, who for three days now has been checking on my progress and giving suggested treatment. I stopped the meds, upped the ibuprofen and started icing frequently. I missed Thanksgiving dinner, but did make it out to the in-laws' for leftovers last night.

Shooting pain this morning and now again late tonight is dogging me, but I ate more today than the past four days combined, so I hope that along with more ice and more ibuprofen will make my return to work on Monday much more bearable. And maybe even make a bit of shopping tomorrow possible.

An all-time low

2009-11-22T19:34:00.000-08:00

Directionless. This blog is certainly so in recent weeks. My writing in general is going nowhere. But I am writing, just don't know to what end. I dare say my home life is somewhat directionless also. I so wish the boys would respect their role as students and do the work, respect their role as members of a family and do their part, but my asking for respect goes practically unheard and I feel adrift. It's like they think I'm stupid for caring. Life on campus, that is in my job, is about hundreds of people all at once feeling adrift. Morale at EWU is at an all-time low and every person I know is struggling to get done even half of what they are asked to do in a day.

Challenging times. Challenging times.

One of my classmates in grad school declared at the end of our first quarter that she writes best when she's feeling lousy about life. That's never worked well for me. One of the reasons I decided I must start writing the essays that rattle around in my head was because I thought doing something for myself would give me direction. Same reason I determined to go running and workout on a regular schedule. Maybe if I take time for myself, I reasoned, instead of always putting chores or errands or freelance work first, I would find a deep happiness again, a contentment with the balance of life. Judging by how I feel today, it's not working.

But, alas, there are bills to pay and Molly is waiting for me to finish so we can go rework our budget. The gas and electric bill has gone up by $40 a month.

More than its name implies

2009-11-17T23:24:00.000-08:00

My running buddy and I set out for our weekly training session with a warm-up walk through Riverfront Park while I described a tour the family and I had taken of the new downtown (Central, they call it) YMCA. When I noted the rather reasonable rates for a family of four, she asked, "They don't have a problem with that?"

In its 100-plus year history, the Young Men's Christian Association has become so much more than its name suggests. But for a gay, lesbian or transgender person in the 21st century, we are acutely aware of the underlying philosophies of organizations with which we might interact. When our youngest son wanted to join the Cub Scouts, we flat out said no given the horrendous treatment of gay leaders by Boys Scouts of America. My friend feared that the YMCA's Christian underpinnings might compel them to exclude or refuse to acknowledge "non-traditional" families.

Though I understood her concern, I felt no fear asking the member services desk for a tour of the sweet new facility. In many, many ways Spokane has been so good to me that I feel at ease, not the least bit on guard when out with my family. I answered my running buddy with a quick, "Nah" and went on talking about all the amenities. She remained thoughtful, though, maybe not completely convinced.