Horton Hears a... Who??

Remember the book Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seuss? The story of a friendly elephant who hears a tiny voice from a speck of dust and discovers an entire microscopic world. None of Horton's friends believe that he could have found a whole world within a speck of dust. They believe it impossible for such a tiny place to exist.

***

Science used to say the world was flat. Now it's round. Maybe next, we'll discover it is, in fact, square. We used to think the atom was the smallest thing until we cracked it open and a whole mess of crap came out. (Did anyone get that Friends reference?) A good scientist should leave open the possibility that their theory can be wrong. So what about a good religious leader? There are so many different systems of belief in this world, it seems closed minded to think that there can only be one correct religion.

My mama raised us to come to our own religious conclusions. And out of the five of her children she raised one child with devout Catholic beliefs, one atheist, one agnostic, one who cannot be defined, and one me.

Over the last 15 years or so I've run the gambit in regards to religion. In high school I went through a very religious phase. I went to church every Sunday, attended religious conferences, helped with vacation bible school and Sunday school. I must admit though, I never took communion. It felt fake to me. Now before I offend anyone, I want to clarify that it felt like I was faking religion not that the ritual itself felt fake. I always felt a little like an outsider in church because I wasn't raised in a church. Accepting communion would have felt like I was taking from someone else who had spent their whole life building their faith.

Through college I probably would have told you that I was a nonpracticing Christian. I believed in God when it was convenient for me. I prayed when I needed something but mostly I didn't pray. And then I came to the conclusion that I didn't want to have religion out of convenience. If I found myself talking to God, like something as simple as thanking God or something as personal as praying to God, it was more of a reflex than a belief. It felt phony. I didn't pray because I was a religious person, I prayed because that's simply what good Christian's are told to do.

If you asked me two years ago what my religious beliefs were I would have told you with no doubt, that I was an atheist. I can't remember coming to this conclusion. I didn't become an atheist overnight. For me, it took years. But the day I realized that I didn't believe in God was a sad one. It was as if someone had died. I mourned the loss of this higher power in whom I had believed for so long. I mourned the idea that I no longer had a security net. I could no longer say "God works in mysterious ways" when something bad happens. I could no longer fall back on the idea that there is a plan for all of us when things don't work out. I had no idea what would happen me when I die. It seemed cruel to say that death is the end and there is no afterlife. It was hard to accept that if I didn't believe in God I didn't believe in Heaven. It is, after all, a package deal. At this point I had to decide what I was going to believe in. The religious explanations for life's misery seemed like nothing but a band aid. Religion doesn't explain why good people die miserable deaths and why rapists live to be 100. I need more than "mysterious ways."

I don't want to be a cliche, but I will be the first to admit that a major factor in my complete conversion to atheism was the death of my mom. I was already moving towards atheism but her passing cemented the change for me. I couldn't understand why a merciful God would decide it was time for her to die. Almost immediately after I recognized myself as an atheist I began yet another transformation. I didn't believe in God but I couldn't fathom the idea that there is nothing after life. That this life is all we get and then we're gone. So maybe I needed that band aid to help me grieve the death of my mom. What's so wrong with that? Maybe there is a higher power that oversees our tiny little planet. But what shape does it take? Buddha, Allah, some kind of Deity, one God, multiple Gods, or no God at all. Who's to say?

So this is where my brain has landed on this spiritual plane. Total religious confusion. But I must say that I'm comfortable in this place. My scientific side needs evidence of a higher power but spiritual side is comforted with the idea that maybe one (or multiple) such being does exist. There are too many possibilities and too little evidence to dismiss any idea completely. Maybe we are a tiny speck of dust floating around the living room of some higher being.

That Grinds My Gears

I'm big on family. No, huge on family. I have two brothers and two sisters, a nephew, and a wonderful extended family of aunts and uncles and in-laws and grandparents and cousins. And don't forget the spirit on my shoulder who I call mom. I love to attend family functions. It feels as if I really try to make time to talk/see/visit my family. In college, I went home at least once a month to visit. Post college, I lived closer to home and went to visit as often as possible. Sometimes multiple weekends in a row. Maybe this is abnormal. Although, not once have I heard complaints that I'm coming around all too often. We always use the time to catch up, go shopping, or make a fancy meal.

So maybe I am being close-minded when I say that I can't understand those people who make a special effort to stay away from their perfectly nice family. I can understand not wanting to be around a not-so-nice family member... I have a few members of my brood in that same category. Who doesn't? When you're parents invite you to dinner and you make some lame excuse to get out of spending time with them, when a family member offers up a word of advice and you disregard it completely, when you talk badly about family to other people, when you can't pick up a phone once a month to give someone a call... these things I don't understand. What kind of person can give such blatant disregard for the people with whom you share a familial connection?

In the wise words of Peter Griffin, that really grinds my gears.

Blog Ideas; Discuss

The longer I wait to post something, the harder it becomes to come up with an idea good enough to bring back my two loyal readers. I have ideas, no doubt, but whether or not they become anything is disputable. Writing something that encompasses my every thought from the last few weeks seems a daunting task so here is a listing of the blog ideas I had. Feel free to steal them, write about them, or ignore them completely.

- In a high school sociology class, we were instructed every week to write a one page paper on something, anything. The only rule was that it could not be about abortion. The subject has been done. Lately, I've been hearing a lot about abortion and it's sides. I have friends who are pro-life and friends who are pro-choice. Most of them choose not to bring it up at friendly gatherings, yet some do. I sit silently in my chair thinking that the subject shouldn't be so black and white. Pro-choice vs. pro-life, it's never that simple.

- I have had many inclinations to discuss the "new" house guest living with Bridge Man and me. I say "new" because she has been living with us since December. The knowledge is, however, new to you. I choose not to write about her here for two reasons. I don't like to talk about my family's personal stuff online... it's not my place. Second, I'm pretty sure you all would get sick of me posting about how irk-some it is each time she rifles through my closet. It's like high school all over again.

- I finished school. Yay! Next month I start taking clients at the salon I've been working at for the last year.

- My goal is to improve my attitude. Bridge Man and I have been talking about how negative we can get when things annoy/irritate us. We've been trying to come home and avoid conversation that begins with, "You wouldn't believe this person at work today." or "The most annoying thing happened today." Someone close to me wrote this about being a happier person. Sometimes I'll reread it to remind myself to be happier person. I (need) appreciate the reminder.

It feels good to get these things off my shoulders. Thanks for sticking with me.

Nov. 30th

Tomorrow is one of those can't-get-out-of-my head type days. It's like anticipating a holiday or anniversary but without the excitement. The anticipation is more about the unknown. I don't know if I'll be a sobbing mess or if I'll be able to plaster on a cheesy smile and sail through the day. Tomorrow marks the 365th day since my mom passed away. What makes this day verses any other different is beyond me. I continue to mourn her death no matter what day of the week. It seems almost morbid to mark tomorrow as an anniversary because the word is associated with positive things, a first date, a first kiss, a wedding. Unfortunately, the date brings with it words I haven't been able to get out of my mind for the last month, "At this time last year I was..." And for the last month that phrase ended with, counting respirations, administering morphine, dressing wounds and telling my sweet, sweet mother how much I love her for the last time.

This last month has been a roller coaster of emotions. At one minute I'm smiling and laughing with friends, the next minute I'm sitting silently in a blank daze, and the next I'm fighting to hold back tears that are taking over. Those closest to me were warned from the beginning and have been more than understanding. It seems impossible that I just made it through one year without someone who was, for so long, involved 100% in my life as I was in hers. It seems impossible that I am to continue for the next years without her. That any future children I have will not know how wonderful she was. Sure, I can tell stories but they will never know her voice, her touch, her personality.

People called her stubborn. I call it strong. She fought her disease for two years as a single mother of five children and one grandchild. She worked a job until the day she went into the hospital for her final surgery. And when the doctor called me that night to tell me she had two days to live, she fought for two weeks. Two weeks that allowed us to talk, laugh, cry, and be a family. Two weeks for her to make sure she had taken care of everything and that her children would be OK when she was gone. She did her job. We are OK.

Give Peace A Chance

I've been getting a bit wordy lately and I thought I'd share something I found on another blog that I read in lurkers-ville. I watched it and loved it and immediately thought of you. I thought you might like to hear the irony of something created over three decades ago that still pertains today. Peace.



Feel free to discucss. I love a good conversation.

Ten Fingers. Ten Toes.

It was inevitable. Everyone in my family has them. I was genetically destined to inherit the short, stubby fingers and the wide, fat feet of those who came before me. It was a running joke in the family. ‘Flintstone feet’ we called them. And as a five year-old child, I can remember wishing that my hands would someday develop into long, graceful fingers with perfectly shaped nails. But it was my feet that bothered me the most. They were so wide that they could only fit comfortably in shoes made for little boys, one size too big. You see, what my tootsies make up for in width, they lack in length. This nixed any capability I had to wear the jelly sandals I so coveted as a child.

Throughout my adolescence, I never failed to point out my distaste for the feet that I have been doomed to lug around. I would wrap them up tightly with strips of material in order to make them skinnier, or at the very least, prevent them from getting wider. When my mom noticed this for the first time she questioned me about the odd footwear I had donned. When I told her of my intentions I remember seeing a flicker of sadness flash in her eyes before she informed me I should be glad to have all my fingers and toes and then she went about her business. I couldn’t understand why I had made her sad. Why would anyone want to walk around with feet like mine?

In the summer of 2007, I flew out to visit some relatives from my mom’s side of the family in California. I spent five wonderful days there and on the last night we had a small get-together to spend my last night there as a group, as a family. We all sat around in the backyard, barefoot, soaking up the warm, California evening talking, laughing, crying, and simply spending some long overdue time with each other. While the conversations flowed, I sat silently for a moment to look at the special people around me. I looked for similarities in our features. The one thing we all had in common was our feet. This was the first moment in my life that I had ever felt a sense of pride for my fat, wide appendages.

The following November, my mom was hospitalized when the cancer that had seized the last two years of her life, took a turn for the worst. On one particularly late night, I sat next to her hospital bed holding her hand. It was just the two of us. Her temperature was high so she was covered her in a light-weight blanket. Her feet were uncovered, exposing a fresh pedicure and a simple anklet. My mind wandered from her respirations per minute to her physical features. We had the same chin, the same nose, the same hands, the same feet. And while she appeared thin and frail, her feet still had that short, wide shape that notoriously runs in our family.

It didn’t occur to me at that moment but now that I look back and continue to seek out anything to provoke memories of her and her life – movie ticket stubs, journals, jewelry – I’ve realized that one of the best things my mom left behind are the her traits. I’ve come to love the fact that she and I have the same nose, chin, and hands. I love the fact that we have the same Flintstone feet. She gave them to me. And I am reminded every day that a little piece of her lives on with me.

Twenty-Something; The Learning Years

This is something that I've been hearing a lot about lately. Supposedly, when I turn 30 I will look back on the last decade of my life and say, "Hot dog! Glad that's over. Now I can move on to the living years of my life." I will have made all of my mistakes. I will have learned all there will be to learn. The time will have finally come to pass down my wisdom to the next generation and hope that they are able to learn in order to become successful thirty-somethings.

For those of you who don't know, I'm closer to thirty than I care to admit. Not close enough to panic quite yet, but close enough for me to pop a few Tum*s to ease the discomfort. (Just to clear the air: I do not believe that 30 is old. I'm talking mile-markers here people.) Sometimes I can't help but wonder if I've met my learning quota per my years as a twenty-something. Or if I've surpassed those in my age bracket and therefore qualify as an honorary thirty-something. (How fabulous would that be?)

I may be a twenty-something with some experiences under my belt, but a buffoon I am not. I am able to admit that I do not have knowledge beyond my years. (Well, I may have some knowledge.) But, generally speaking I'm right where I should be.

I think.

Who am I kidding. I have no idea. I could go back and forth on this all day long.

Case in point:
While a twenty-something, I have learned...

• How much of a nincompoop I was in my teen years.
• That while young and unattached (not including Bridge Man) and have the opportunity to reinvent myself. I am not defined by my degree or my career.
• I'm not too young to have gray hair.

While a twenty-something, I have failed to learn...

• That I don't have to know all of the answers right now. One mistake won't damage me for life.
• How to politely dispose of all the negative people in my life.
• How much of a nincompoop I really am.

Here's hoping that I am able to learn these things, and maybe put them to use so I can successfully graduate into my thirties without making a complete fool of myself. I still have a few good years as a twenty-something left.

Torture

I just ran across a blog devoted entirely to the story of a woman who passed away from breast cancer. I spent the last hour or two eating up every word that was written only to get through her stint in hospice and her eventual passing. Everything I read was so reminiscent of what my family went through with my mom that I spent the last hour (if not more) reading through tear veiled eyes. It has officially been two months and two days since my mom passed. I miss her more and more every day. I don't know why I torture myself with blogs such as the aforementioned. Last week I spent I don't know how many hours sitting on the floor in the middle of the self-help section at Barnes and Noble reading a book about why daughters need their mothers. I'm sure passers-by thought that the crazy crying girl needed much more than just the self-help section of a book store.

I'm headed out of state for a long weekend. This is my first vacation from all the little reminders and moments that break me down to a sobbing mess. Fingers crossed. Let's make this a good one.

Hoop

I feel the need to hoop. But this winter weather is really keeping me down. I thought about clearing some space in the living room but if I take out the TV or Bridge Man's hand made book shelf I'll have some 'splainin to do. So I thought I'd share a hooping video with you guys thinking that it might inspire you to head to your local hardware store to pick up some PVC pipe and electrical tape. Enjoy.

Happy Life Day!!

I know I haven't been around much lately. There has been so much on my mind. It's hard to write coherently. But tomorrow is my mom's birthday and I feel the need to say a little something. I feel the need to recognize the day for what it is, not a celebration of birth but a celebration of life. I've been dreading this day for a couple of weeks now and can't even pretend to forget it. The words are written on my calendar in bright blue, permanent ink followed by two happy exclamation points that patronize me every time I pass by. But in the spirit of celebrating life, I will continue to put this on my calendar. It will no longer read "Mom's Birthday!!" but "Mom's Life Day!!" (Can't forget those exclamation points.)

For every birthday at my house when I was a kid, my mom always made a cake of our choice. For Bear it was always German chocolate cake and for me it was usually something with little bits of candy and strawberry frosting. Always strawberry frosting. And the pièce de résistance - the writing on the top. Oh, it never said anything overly creative but the penmanship was impeccable! I can never figure out how the woman did it. Every letter was in perfect proportion to the next. Every 'I' had a perfect little dot and every 'T' a perfect little cross. If you've ever tried to write on a cake you know what I'm talking about. You squeeze the frosting out of a flimsy little bag with a tiny plastic tip. One wrong move and suddenly your 'p' becomes a 'D' and you have to figure out how to salvage "HapDy Birthday." Sure you could add a simple line to the bottom of the 'D' but it's just not the same.

So, in closing, I would like to wish you all a happy life day! And if, in celebration of life day, you decide to make a cake I suggest using the pre-made letters. It's much less trouble, trust me.

Thoughts

*Note: This may not be the most entertaining blog I've ever written. In fact, my next few may not be entertaining at all. Lately, I'm just not in the mood to even think of a humorous topic.

How do you continue blogging after such a life changing event? What do you even begin to write about when the last thirty days of vivid memories are being pushed into the deepest, darkest corners of your brain in an attempt to maintain some sense of normalcy?

All of the Hospice papers I continue to get in the mail say that I should feel numb right now. And in a few months I will begin to feel the pain associated with loss that will not even begin to subside until after the fourth month. Finally, after two years I will be able to create a more normal life pattern that will sculpt the more normal years to come.

While I appreciate all the helpful paperwork, I'm sick of the time lines. During the weeks that my family took care of my mom, we were given numerous, inaccurate time lines that did nothing but mess with our minds. And now, when I want nothing but to be sad in my own way, I get mail that maps out how I should feel for the next few years of my life.

Should I be grateful, for now, that my brain has me in a temporary state of denial? Should I dread the next few months when reality starts to sink in? What if it takes three or four months instead of the allotted two for that reality to hit? Because I now have this calendar, I anticipate what "should" happen and will probably be just as screwed up as I was when things don't go as planned.

I understand that these time lines are estimates. The pamphlet is not an exact science but if you were in my state of mind, and the state of mind that I'm sure my siblings and family are in, you'd grapple for anything - anything that makes some sense out of your life, anything that creates some semblance of normalcy. Anything like a mapped out plan of your emotional life.

Blogger's Block

It’s official. I haven’t blogged in 14 days and I have bloggers block. Thus the basis of this uber creative title. It’s not that I haven’t thought about what I could write about or that I’ve completely abandoned my Spotless Mind. Of course not. It’s because I’ve been so up and down these last weeks I thought I’d spare you my drama. (You, meaning the two people who actually read my blog and the random person who ran across my humble web-abode after Googling “poopy underroos.” Not joking here people. This crazy cat is either a mom looking for a remedy to clean her kids soiled drawers or… well, I won’t go there. It’s just too messed up.

Anyway, I thought, in lieu of said bloggers block I’d leave you with this.

Everyone can use a good monkey grin. It made me smile.

School Buses, Betty Boop, Spinning Wheels, & a Coke

As I drive through my neighborhood in the morning all the little kiddies tra-la-la-la-la onto the big yellow school bus. The school bus that I inevitably get stuck behind as it stops at each…and…every…single…house…on the block. What ever happened to a good old-fashioned bus stop? You know, the kind at the end of the street that you walk to. Is this unheard of anymore?

The only year I ever had to take the bus was when I was in the first grade. We lived in Japan at the time so my sister S and I had to commute to an American school on the island. I remember stepping into the bus to find kids swinging like Kerri Strug from the parallel handlebars that spanned the center isle. Our poor, unfortunate school bus driver, who did not speak a lick of English, would get so angry when kids would pull the windows down past the safety line and stick their heads outside the bus. He would yell. We would laugh at the jibberish noises he made. We would eventually calm down long enough to draw butt cheeks on the fogged up windows before resuming our swing-half-turns on the high bar. Eventually the school rallied up some volunteer parents to sit on the bus with us during the morning and afternoon commutes. There weren’t, however, enough parents to ride with us every day. Poor school bus driver, he never knew from one day to the next if it was going to be a good day on the job or a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. (If you got that reference, you’ve earned yourself some pie!)

I got a little off track with that story… my point; I made some absolutely fabulous friends at that bus stop. We would compare what our mom’s made us for lunch. I automatically envied those who got to eat a hot lunch that day while I carried around my Barbie and the Rocker’s lunch box with matching thermos. (Although, I mist admit, my mom made some pretty kick ass cold lunches.) I often traded my oatmeal cream pie for a baggie of apple slices. Cream filling is just not my thing.

These kids that get picked up at the end of their driveways are missing out on an amazing bus stop experience.

My morning commute continues down a major thoroughfare with nothing of interest to speak of until I turn off onto a route that very few know about. I keep this knowledge to myself in order to keep traffic to a minimum. From this point it’s actually a very picturesque drive. I make my way through a very hoity-toity neighborhood that has their very own clubhouse, golf course, and park. During morning drive times, the fuzz will hang out behind large gates and shrubbery in order to catch you going anything over the allotted 25 miles per hour. I’ve got them outwitted though. I know all of their hiding spots. Red Betty (I named my car after Betty Boop) and I are too smart for the likes of them! Ha ha!

Before I make my way into downtown Springfield, the last of the scenery is a park. It’s just like any old park; trails, swing sets, and dog poop. However, this park has one thing that not many others can lay claim to. About once a month there is a group of women that meet in an open area of the park to spin thread on their (a little fanfare, please) spinning wheels! Real life, honest-to-goodness, Sleeping Beauty, 16th birthday, spinning wheels! Is this a common hobby? I never thought of this as something many people do on their own time let alone an entire group of people in the same community who share this bizarre interest. Where do you even go to purchase a spinning wheel? When and how does one become interested in spinning thread on a wheel? This discovery was so mind-blowing to me the first time I caught a glimpse of their unusual get-together. I stared them down in passing until I realized I had switched lanes and was driving down the wrong side of the street. Sometimes, as I am on my way back to work from lunch I will see the small collection of spinning artisans and think to myself, "I would rather be playing on a spinning wheel than going back to work." What would I spin on that wheel? I can do it, how hard could it be?

As I make my way into downtown traffic gets thicker, the red lights get longer, and the homeless people run amuck. Springfield has major issues with the homeless population. Twice I’ve had run-ins with those in need but so far I’m 0 for 2. The first time, I was running an errand for work. I had to walk about two blocks down the street to drop off some proofs and right outside my office building there was a man. He asked me for anything I could offer. I had nothing on me other than the manila envelope containing the samples. I didn’t think sample pieces of a brochure would be of any use to him so I had to tell him that I had nothing to give. He and I walked in opposite directions and I was wracked with guilt. He probably thought I just didn’t want to give him anything. He probably thinks I’m a bitchy, rich person who is not willing to part with a solitary dime.

This directly leads into my second run-in with a woman who was over-heated, parched, and needed a phone number. Because of my last experience, I was more than willing to help. Bridge Man and I were downtown taking in the sights when she came up to us. She began talking about her car that had just run out of gas. Her kids were with the car and she needed the number for a local women’s shelter because she had to get away from her abusive man. I told her that I would buy her a drink from a nearby ice cream shop where we could also ask to use their phone book. She then proceeded to tell me that she wasn’t comfortable going into that shop and that we should follow her to a bar that was just around the corner. We followed. Bridge Man expressed his concerns. He didn’t think following a stranger to an unknown place was a good idea. We went inside the bar with her. She decided instead of water she wanted a coke. We walked outside where we were suddenly surrounded by people. They all knew her name and she started talking to a few of them. One of them came up to Bridge Man and me and asked if we had any money to give him. This is where I began to feel uncomfortable. The woman then asked if I had any money to give her so she could put some gas in her car. Bridge Man intervened. He said that we had no money and that we were leaving. He grabbed my arm and we were outta there.

Once again, I was unable to help. I know that the situation wasn’t the best but what if her kids were really somewhere with her abandoned car? What if her man really was abusive to her and her kids? I did nothing to help. Strike two.

...

Well, I just reread this entire post. Made changes. Then almost deleted the entire thing. I basically just rambled on for days and days, made no point, came to no conclusion. But after all that work and my nagging bloggers block, I couldn't get myself to hit delete. So, here is my conclusion. I think bus stops should be reinvented. I would like to learn to use a spinning wheel. And I don’t have good people skills with the homeless. I’m done.

A Spotless Mind At Work

* I have a test tonight and haven't studied an ounce.

* I almost ran over a bunny today and now it's all I can think about.

* I'm the 'Guest Book Lady' in a wedding this weekend (not even good enough to be a brides maid) and I spent how much on that dress??!!

* Now I have to buy shoes to match.

* Still thinking about that bunny. I saw him run off the road, so I know he's OK but I had to roll down the windows in my car so the wind could dry the freaked out tears from my eyes before I got to work.

* Do you think she'll let me wear flip flops to her wedding??? I have green ones!

* I wish I was outside. I need a tan.

* Little Bunny Foo-Foo hopping through the... intersection...

* Last night I went to Lowe's and purchased PVC piping, electrical tape, a dowel rod, and a hand saw. Anyone want to hula hoop??

Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty I'm... bored

For the last two days I've been sick. Wednesday I thought I would tough it out and go to work but didn't make it past noon. I called my boss to whine about not feeling well and she let me go home. The next day I felt equally as ill and called in sick to work for the entire day. Looking past the pile of snotty tissues and empty cough drop wrappers I felt a bolt of excitement as I knew that I was going to have all day to myself. No one to steal the remote when they're sick of watching the Project Runway marathon, no one to get dolled up for, no one to judge me for eating last nights cold pizza for breakfast in addition to my huge bowl of Frosted Flakes. I was free to do what I wanted.

The morning began with me getting up around 8:30. I grabbed my pink, fuzzy blanket out of the closet and crashed on the couch with the remote, a glass of OJ, a bowl of cereal, and some cold pizza from the previous night. I excitedly flipped through the stations and gleefully fell upon a marathon of the fashion sort. I then finished my healthy breakfast, got up to pee, sat back down on the couch, looked at the clock... a mere 30 minutes had passed. I was bored.

How could I be bored when I DREAM of these rare occasions? It had been months, no, years since I'd had this type of opportunity. Have I lost my couch potato abilities? Am I doomed to a life of stretching myself too thin and ENJOYING IT?? My thoughts drifted to who I could call, where I could go, and how I could pass the time.

Nothing. Everyone's at work. It's the end of the pay period (meaning, no cash). And Project Runway was the only thing enticing enough to occupy my time.

For those of you who made it through this post, congratulations, you have the attention span of a saint. For those of you who didn't, WAKE UP, I'm done rambling.

-Xteener-