Sorta Awe-tistic

Movin' Day--Update those Bookmarks!

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

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

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

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

Ciao, babies!

Thanks, Neil

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a jolly weekend.

Fall Break

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

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

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

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

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

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

ciao.

Five Things You Learn In Lexington (or thereabouts)

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that's it!

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

As Bad As I Wanna Be

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

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

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

Then I realised that girl is me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want to be the kind of writer who looks.

I'm back. Sort of.

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

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

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

Pumpkins

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

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

One More Day!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stepping out into October

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

7 Where can I go from your Spirit?

Where can I flee from your presence?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I am stepping out into October.

Good Eatin', Local Style

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gobble-gobble!

spinning around, one foot nailed to the floor

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

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

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

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

Guess I better go, huh?

Entre Acte

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

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

Stuck In The Middle With You

Blessing

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

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

100% Cheez Whiz

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

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

My four year old is lovin' it.

Lisa Does a McSweeney

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

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

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

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

Happy Reading, folks.

Head Shoulders Knees and Toes

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

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

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

Freaky Friday

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

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

Ok Go.

New Stuff

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

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

Have fun. Or whatever.

Procrastinating

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adventures in Missing the Point

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yup. That's my life.

We're gonna work on this.

Yob

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

I gotta yob.

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

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

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

Come on by and see me if you can!

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

Material Comforts #1 and #2

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

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

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

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

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

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

What was your material comfort of the day?

With the time you have...

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

What will you do with it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(photo courtesy of the Canadian Broadcasting Company)

Borekh ha-shem

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

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

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

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

Flush it away!

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

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

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

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

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

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