Still Alive

Were you wondering?

I haven't felt a real need to write on this blog for a long time. That's what it was before: I needed to write, and this was my outlet.

I write, all day now, for a living. If I believed in "blessings," this would definitely be one. (Blessings are not how I characterize good things in my life, because who am I to be "blessed" more than someone whose life circumstances are awful?) I feel lucky lucky lucky. I have clients who pay me to write for them. Wow.

And we've been gardening, D. and I.

Life is good and I've been wondering about all of you. Hope you are well and happy!

Flirty Pretty Things

Has this ever happened to you? You’re scrounging around in your lingerie drawer, reaching behind the most used items (Spanx, control top tights, and warm socks, am I right?) for something action-appropriate to wear; you’re tossing them on the bed as you go, when suddenly, you’re feeling wooden drawers instead of silk and lace. Hard wooden drawers. And you realize there weren’t that many in here.

If you’re like me, you stare sort of blindly at the meager pickings with a "Whaaat?" sort of expression on your face. Then you concentrate and decide to look through more drawers. I must have reorganized, you might tell yourself. Don’t I have lots of little lacy and silky and spaghetti-strappy pieces to choose from? Hello, I used to wear them all the time! Where the ffff did they go?! You might think.

Then you realize you can’t even remember what that one little black lace overlay one-piece doodad was called. [Hint: it’s a teddy.] Oh, yeah.

Again, and only if you’re like me, you begin to wonder when all the lacy pretty underthings were replaced with full-coverage, uplifting, high-tech bras and solid color, 100% cotton, high-leg briefs and bikinis. Perhaps you, too, have slid into the same-five-basic-colors-(pink, ivory, white, black, buff)-different-day routine.

So I ask you: Why aren’t we wearing our lacy undies? Is it work, stress, family, boredom? Or laziness, time flying by, out of practice? Is it possible to not do something so often that it becomes an unhabit? And does a little piece of our brains then close off, never to open again?

How sad would that be?

If you're like me, you managed to find something to tide yourself over for the night, all the while resolving to buy some new pretties real soon. Because didn't we love wearing them? I wish I knew why I stopped.

Hear that "Splat?"

That’s the sound of my head exploding. Let me bring you, dear reader, up to speed on the goings on around here.

In the past couple of weeks, D. and I have:
1. Hosted a big Obama Inauguration Dance Party (it was awesome!);
2. Starred occupied space in a TV spot that filmed over two nights (like midnight to 8 am), which screwed royally with my sleep/wake/work schedule;
3. Babysat a four year old for an evening (nearly three entire hours);
4. Continued on our balance-the-budget, no-wine-for-you, never-eat-in-a-restaurant-again lives.

The good news is I have been working a bunch:
1. Writing copy for a website;
2. Writing copy for a media kit;
3. Writing copy for a direct mailer;
4. Writing four blog posts a week (for a client, not me!);
5. Had a crash course in writing for SEO, Marketing for Social Media, Marketing for Social Networking;
6. And stayed on top of all the keywords and metatags, twittering, posting, templating, widgets, application development, viral video, Facebook, LinkedIn, Hulu, YouTube and MySpace activity that one person could possibly handle.

The bad news is, apparently copywriting has been outsourced overseas while I wasn't looking and nobody wants to pay anything. Blech. Such is the life of the American worker with a big mortgage.

I had a really great Super Bowl post in my head. Then it exploded and the moment has passed.

Maybe I’ll be more interesting next time.

He Knew We Could

I’ve never heard so many people express the same sentiment before: that they never thought they would see the day come. Not in their lifetimes would it come. The day when a black person would be President of the United States. The day blacks and whites, Natives and Asians would unite behind him, as one, in joy and hope.

But I didn’t share that sentiment. I didn’t think the day would never come. This is not to say that I thought they were wrong when they said it would never happen. I hoped they were wrong. I knew in my heart that the goodness in all of us would one day see beyond the color of a man’s skin. I believed Dr. King’s dream would be a reality. I hoped I was right.

I hear and respect their sentiment, their disbelief. I honor the men and women who pilgrimaged to Washington DC to see it happen with their own eyes. The elders who truly believed it would never happen in their lifetimes. Their faces washed of the pain of past inequalities, and reflecting the highest level of joy. The young, exuberant faces, free of the fatigue their parents and grandparents know so well. All watching, together, as President Obama and his family stepped into their rightful places in our country’s history.

I know that I sound more than just a little bit naïve when I say I knew we could.

He said “Yes, We Can.” He knew all along.

Tiny Dogs, Big Cruelty

Don't you love tiny dogs? Seems everywhere we look, there's a delicate, not-bigger-than-a-minute Tinkerbelle of a pup on the end of leash. Sporting adorable coats against the winter cold or bows and jeweled collars, these pets are their keepers' darlings. I've never seen so many Chihuahuas, Poodles, and Yorkies as I have of late. And then there's the Puggles (like in this photo), the Peek-a-Poos, Chugs and other so-called designer mixtures. So precious. So cute. So overbred. So abused.

This just in:

Nearly 250 dogs were confiscated from two separate kennels south of Mount Vernon for animal cruelty, said Chief Criminal Deputy Will Reichardt of the Skagit County Sheriff's Office.

More than 400 dogs were being held in a Mountain View Road puppy mill where they had been kept in small kennels, not bathed and many were left in their own feces, Reichardt said.

Well, gee. I bet they cleaned those babies up before their new parents arrived to take their little bundles home. I bet the people who kept this hellhole in business never asked to see where the darlings were being bred, born by the hundreds, and raised in unspeakably cruel conditions.

Well, gee. This is what happens every day in puppy mills everywhere. They're in small towns. In neighborhoods. In the upstairs bedroom of the house down the street from you. They're not all operated by kind-looking, cruel-hearted farmers in Pennsylvania—you know, the bad guys Oprah exposed on her show. Puppy mills are operated by soccer moms and ballet dads. In trailers and minimansions. By scumbags of all description.

They can be stopped, though. It's not even difficult. The cruelty and heartlessness that enables some people to let dogs die in their own waste (there were SEVEN dead dogs found in the above raid) can be forced into dormancy. How? Just stop buying these dogs. It is the easy—and only—way to totally stop the puppy mills and the cruelty that these dogs live in every single day. It's a simple supply and demand equation—we all learned it in economics class.

So just don't buy a purebred or designer dog. Nobody must have a brand spanking new puppy that's somehow “better” than the puppies that people have been abandoned. Anyone can take the time to carefully choose a dog from a rescue organization or shelter. They have dozens and dozens ready to go. Every person who adopts or rescues a dog helps decrease the overbreeding, the cruelty, and the 9.6 million animals that are put to death every single year in this country.

It's a travesty. I've yet to hear a good reason for breeding dogs. Or for buying a purebred or designer dog. And every time I hear about someone buying one, I think about the cruelty that puppy mills keep pumping out. There are just no excuses.

UPDATE: We're up to SIX HUNDRED dogs rescued--80% of them are pregnant. Oh my heart.

WTF were these idiots thinking??@!???!?!??!

Unwrapping My New Look

Whoop! Whoop! I finally revamped my plain-Rainne (as in Wilson—why should Janes always have to take that rap?) blog header! The standard blue text/white background number the template gave me reflected my personal laziness more than my personal style.

While I don’t dare even dream of possessing the amazingly mad Photoshop skilz that my girl Melanie over at Beanpaste has coming out her adorable ears, I can sort of maneuver my way around the Adobe Creative Suite. (As long as the GPS window is up.)

Unleashing my design abilities is a little dangerous, sure, but I could be wreaking much more havoc on the world than Adobe CS will allow. I mean, bad graphic design, improper kerning, and whacked out alignment never hurt anyone TOO badly, right? It’s not like I’m in charge of dropping bombs on the Gaza Strip or anything.

Sigh. We, the world, are facing bigger issues than my little blog design.

So I’ll try this header out for a while. I love my little bird. Love the colors. Not crazy about the font, but hey, it was late and I had one cup of plain popcorn waiting for me—so I stopped right here.

Tell me—is it gorge? Take my little survey and you might win a PRIZE!*

*Not true. I have nothing to give that anyone wants. But be a pal, huh? One can always use survey practice.

Not the New Year’s I Had in Mind

This year, I did not spend New Year’s as I planned: just D. and me, enjoying a nice dinner out at one of our favorite tapas restaurants, then returning home for a quiet evening in front of the fire, or in front of a movie, topped off with our traditional champagne toast at midnight. And then. . . onto something that’s best not described here.

Sigh. A girl can dream, can’t she?

I got the dinner. I got the champagne. I got the fire. I didn’t get the rest.

The problem? A third wheel. And herein lies the conundrum. Should we have just told him our plans, knowing he’d find something else to do—or tell him our plans, taking the chance he’d be alone NYE? Should we have come right out and said, “We’re going to dinner and then spending the evening at home, just the two of us.” Ouch! Can you imagine being on the receiving end of that message? Stay away, we want to get frisky.

The man I married could never do that to a friend. I could. And wanted to. Friends should understand, right?

As it turns out, we had a nice dinner, wonderful wine, and my favorite champagne (apart from Dom, which wasn’t even a consideration). Plus, we brought Actual Meaning into the night by writing down all the things we wanted to let go of ( I don’t deserve this or that, I release my negative feelings about a certain ex, etc. etc.) and burning the little bits of paper in the fire. Heady stuff. Great revelations were shared. Growth was achieved.

I can’t remember any of it because we consumed two bottles of champagne. Three of us. Do the math. But no matter. It felt good to share and the evening was quite enjoyable.

Still, I lament the loss of the night that could have been. A romantic end to 2008. And truly bringing in 2009 with a bang. Dang.

Lose Weight, Exercise More, Blah, Blah, Blah

My 2009 resolutions are short and sweet. No major improvements needed? Hell, yes, there are. But I'm taking it easy on myself. Overreaching is overrated.

1. Make Money With My New Business
   This is a biggie. We sold our business last July, with a financial cushion to hold us over for about a year while we launched our new businesses. That cushion was based on the new owner of our business paying us a nice chunk of money (also known as "the mortgage") every month, beginning January 1. Now it looks like that monthly payment is everything but happening. Thus, earning income from my freelance copywriting business is ever more important.
   
   
2. Cut Back on Spending
   See above.
   
   
   
   
   
3. Lose The Damn Weight
   By eating more veggies and fruit.
   By eating less sugar and flour.
   By training for a half marathon in April.
   By getting outside for more adventures.
   By being accountable. And it starts here: 28 pounds, people. 28 pounds.
   It's a health issue. I'm not being my body's best friend. And who else will be?
   
   
   
   
   
4. Write, Write, Write
   My parents' life stories
   My blog
   My novel
   My clients' work

That'll do me.

Last Year's Resolutions--How'd We Do?

We, meaning me, of course. How you did is your own personal business and nobody else's. You need not expose your failures here. I'll do it for both of us.

2008’s list wasn’t a total washout. I really did okay. Having a major life change (I have them Almost. Every. Freakin. Year.) helped my resolutions along. For example, seven weeks of vacation made it much easier to keep the take care of myself promise. And I'm not apologizing for it, either. That's part of the growth, see. I've been working since I'm eight years old, and thirty-eight years later I should have some time off.

Digressing here. Guilty much?

And, it was easier to be kind to D. seeing how he had two surgeries in three weeks' time. The first was an emergency (are there any others?) appendectomy in Missoula, Montana, and then there was his double hernia repair when we got home. Poor baby! I was very kind and patient with my little patient. I had to carry all the grocery bags for weeks. And the 50-pound suitcase up the broken escalator at Sea-Tac airport. While the line behind us grew. And people glared at him for not helping me.

Again, I digress. Whiney much?

As for the rest of the list, here's an honest accounting, including my original resolution and self-imposed grade:

Resolution #1: Be more patient with my husband. As in, no rolling eyes when he asks if we have any butter. This is a tough one because it involves a DNA transplant. Might need help. I reserve the right to silently say, “Have you LOOKED in the refrigerator, by chance?????”
Grade: B+. I have tried, and it actually works. He’s sweet and deserves it.

Resolution #2: Scoop the cats’ litter boxes every day. This will be an easy one: if I do it each morning after I feed them, it will only take a minute, max. Maybe it will cure the phantom pooper, too. I don’t know any cats who get scooped every day, but I’m sure they’re happier than mine, who deserve a cleaner environment in which to poo.
Grade: B+. I've missed a few days, but all in all, I am the queen of scooping kitty poop. So proud.

Resolution #3: Be kinder. I am not completely unkind, mind you, and I will never be one of those annoying public-sweet-closet-bitchy women. I keep it real. But at times, that realness lands on others with a thud, or worse—with a smack. It’s not what I say, it’s how I say it, they say. I’ve heard it enough to know I need to work on it.
Grade: A. Helped along by selling a business that stressed me out to the max.

Resolution #4: Write. I have two novels in the works. I need to get back to them.
Grade: F. As in FFFFailing miserably. (Sidenote to Hay—here's your answer!!) This one goes to the top of 2009’s list. (Novels aside, I do write almost every day. Make excuses much?)

Resolution #5: Get organized. Since we moved into this house in April, I have never felt completely unpacked. There are still two unfinished rooms where boxes are shoved into corners, the closets are jammed full of crap, and nothing hangs on the walls—because we haven’t painted them yet. My mind is not at rest, and every time I walk into those rooms I feel stressed. I will pick out the paint and get started. Hang the pictures and clean out the closets. Breathe easier.
Grade: A. Wow. I didn’t realize this was so undone last year. We’re good now. Again, selling the biz made this achievable.

Resolution #6: Attend Boot Camp faithfully. I have done better than I expected—I have survived two 8-week sessions of Boot Camp, and I’m stronger, my clothes fit better, and I love the class. I’m signing up for round 3 (I need the discipline of a class structure) and I vow to not miss any classes unless I’m sick or out of town. Three hours per week is no big deal. I just have to make myself get dressed and leave the house.
Grade: C. I did complete Round 3 of Boot Camp. But then I stopped having fun. It seemed to be getting more competitive, and I don't do competitive any more. I didn’t lose any more weight, after the first 6 lbs (which came right back—the shock!), and it was a lot of work. At 6 a.m. So I didn't sign up for Round 4. Long hikes and light jogs work for me, and will appear on 2009’s list.

Resolution #7: Be this girl (come warmer weather, of course—I’m not going near the water now):

Grade: F. Didn’t. Paddle. Once. We sold the business, traveled a bit, then D.’s hernias appeared. That was it for strenuous activities for this summer.

And this girl:

Grade: A. I rode my bike a lot.

Bonus points: I was also this girl:

That was a big deal for me. I love the skiing. Not the knee twisting.

Resolution #8: Get myself on one of these:

purchased, rented, borrowed—whatever it takes. Because I had nearly forgotten the pure happiness I feel when I’m sailing. I don’t want to forget.
Grade: F. Didn’t do it. Stepped on a boat in a slip once. Does that count?

Resolution #9: Take good care of myself, however I define it, each day. Naps, massages, walks, bike rides. Be with people who are good for my soul. Simply put, do more of the stuff I want to do and less of the stuff I do not.
Grade: A+++++. I rocked this one.

Overall Grade: A-. I became a happier person in 2008. Don’t know how I could top that, but I think all things are possible . . . even getting rid of those 20 annoying pounds I need to lose again this year. Now I need to start that list. . .

Fat Birds

What is so appealing about fat birds? And how can we translate that to me?

Outside my window right now is a fat chickadee. He is so darn cute, I want to grab him and love him right up. He’s everything I could want in a playmate. He’s cuddly. He’s elusive. And he’s well dressed, sporting his jaunty black cap.

I’ve been watching him. He and I have much in common. Seems he was much thinner just a month ago. As was I. Perhaps he, too, used the recent holiday as an excuse to throw a cheese and carb festival at his house. Perhaps, he, too, used the “company’s coming” defense in whipping up a batch of Ina Garten’s Peanut Swirl Brownies. [You know the ones—with a whole pound of butter and over two pounds of chocolate. And peanut butter. Unlawful.] Perhaps he, too, grew up in a nest full of siblings and always thinks there are twenty-five people coming over. When there are only six. I mean, why else would he I bake those too-rich-for-human-consumption brownies, PLUS chocolate chip cookies, thumbprint cookies, banana bread, and Danish wedding cookies?

He’s fattening up to survive winter. Maybe I am, too. The way it’s been snowing here, I could again be blocked from Trader Joe’s for whole days at a time.

If the game is survival of the fattest, me and the bird will win.

A Holiday Letter, Sans News. Read on for Hope.

Dear Friends,

Hello and Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Hanukah, and Happy Festivus to you all! My heart felt wishes go out to each of you across the miles and across the wireless wonder of digital communication that keeps us all in touch.

In the coming new year, I wish you all the joys that come with having loved ones around you; I wish for you close companions and a circle of friends to keep you happy and laughing. I wish you solace in times of pain, and I promise my support when your spirit needs uplifting. I wish you the peace and calm in your heart that comes with giving back and loving others. I wish you fun in your life, whether it comes from a thrilling run down a mountain, a wild ride down a river, or a meandering walk down the street. I wish you quiet and peaceful times, too, when reflecting on life’s goodness is all you need to be truly happy. And I wish for you something that’s been hard to feel for some time: hope.

I hope for an end to this war and the avoidance of new ones; for a solid, intelligent plan to lead us out of a difficult economy; for civil rights restored and extended to all–not just some; and for no more torture under the guise of protection. The restoring power of hope makes it possible to feel good about our country and our future again. It is real. And it is mighty. I hope that it touches you and lifts you up.

I look forward—with hope—to another interesting, fun, active, and surprising year. And I wonder—what will 2009 bring? Visits to dear friends? Visits from family? An unexpected discovery? New friends? New babies? Reunions with old friends and family, all of whom I appreciate more with each passing year?

I’ll see. On New Year’s Eve, I’ll raise a toast to each of you, wherever you are, and my heart will send you all the love, joy, peace and hope that your heart can hold.

Love, Claire

A Seasonal Poem

little tree
by e. e. cummings

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool bark and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,

only don’t be afraid

look the spangles that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms
and i’ll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won’t be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you’re quite dressed
you’ll stand in the window
for everyone to see and how they’ll stare!
oh but you’ll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we’ll dance and sing
“Noel Noel”

Dusting the Cobwebs off My Blog

Do NOT adjust your screen. There is nothing wrong with your eyesight, either. This is a genuine actual blog post by Yours Truly. So where have I been, you ask? I’ve been Lucky. And Happy. And Healthy. And Honestly, life has been real good.

I’ve been right here, thinking that my little ‘ol life just isn’t that interesting right now. There has been Nothing To Write About. Election's over. No angst about that anymore. And since I don’t go to work “out there” any longer (although I have been very busy working right here from home thanks), and I don’t interact with dozens of people every day, I just don’t see much worth talking about. The view out my office window is of our curvy, hilly, nicely covered-in-snow street. It’s pretty. And quiet. And that’s it.

I don’t drive around town much these days, so I don’t see Bouncing Girls Fresh Off the Bus that I just have to write about. Even my family is disgustingly drama-free. D. is wonderful as mostly-always; mom and dad and my siblings are great. We’re all getting older and I worry about my 83- and 81-year-old parents, but they are quite the happy little octegenarian couple and for the most part, very healthy indeed.

See? I told you—my life is not interesting right now. And that’s just fine.

But the thing is, this blog was intended to be a place I can be creative on a regular basis—by writing, which means more to me than anything. Now I write for a living—a limited, sparse living so far, but hey, it’s a start. I write every day. And perhaps that little itch is being adequately scratched.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps I’ve just been lazy. Could it be? Uh, yeah, it so could. Maybe I need to stretch myself. Force myself to be creative. Find things to write about.

Well, let's get going, then.

Where Do We Go From Here?

Last week, I received my newsletter from our Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. I scanned it for whatever tidbits of information I thought would still pertain to me—the fallen member who hasn’t attended a service in almost three years. (Being a fallen Catholic has its own issues, but a fallen UU?? Perish the thought.) As usual, I noticed the title of Sunday’s sermon: “Where Do We Go From Here?” Gee, I thought, I’d like to know that.

D. did too, so we walked down the street a mile or so and entered the building for the first time since the end of 2005. It looked much the same. Our nametags where just where we’d left them. There were lots of new faces, and enough familiar ones to make it feel homey. We struggled through an unfamiliar song or two, but remembered the words to our covenant. We settled in for the readings, which were poignant, and the sermon, which was amazing as always.

The congregation clapped and cheered loudly as our ultra-cool minister started by sharing his delight in the idea of a President Obama. His talk centered around the joy and challenges that have bubbled up in many (ok, all) of us in the congregation.

“Hold onto that joy,” he said, “even when reality and cynics try to take it from you. Hold onto it for a while.” He went on to describe a feeling that I share with him completely. A stone-like creature that has been sitting in my gut (or was it in my heart?) for, oh, about eight years now. A stone whose presence was such a familiar feeling that I forgot to notice it after awhile. Until it made me angry. Or made me sad. It sometimes made me tired. But mostly the stone made me feel hopeless—and my hopelessness grew.

It didn’t go away when I moved across the country in an attempt to escape it. It didn’t go away when I tried to surround myself with more people like me and fewer people like those in the administration. It didn’t go away when I positioned myself fifty miles from the Canadian border—just in case it got so bad that I had to leave.

The little stone in my heart didn’t go away, and I felt hopeless enough to stop trying. I stayed away from the Unitarian Fellowship. I stopped decorating my house for holidays. And we didn’t celebrate Christmas last year—not really. We were happy to have friends and family in our home, and we cooked and talked and ate and drank and laughed. But there was no usual holiday frenzy of excitement. There was no shopping for the perfect gift. There were no handmade, imperfect gifts, either.

But now I have joy. I have hope. I’m happy and proud again. I feel like being around people like me again—people who can now really, truly believe that our future will be better than our past. And I’m holding tight to all of it—the pride, the joy, the happy. With all of this, I know I can work toward the change I want to see.

I couldn’t do it without hope. But I can do it without that stone of hopelessness that was weighing me down. That stone that suddenly wasn’t there anymore as of 11:00 (Eastern time, because we were in Virginia) on November 4, 2008.

Want a free Obama sticker like the one at the top of this post? It's designed by Shepard Fairey, the artist who created the iconic HOPE poster. And MoveOn's giving them away totally free--even the shipping's free.
I just got mine. Click this link to get your free Obama sticker:
http://pol.moveon.org/shepstickers/?id=-3512581-hXdfMLx&rc=

Three Weeks Away

We have returned from our colossal, east coast trip-of-a-lifetime. It will take me awhile to process the changes I saw—in my parents, my siblings, our little godson, and my former city. I never thought this before, but I now know there are times when you should not go home again. This trip was a doozy.

Here's what I heard:

“It’s people like YOU who are the reason Obama won’t win.” (Because I’m one of those elistists, you know.)

“We have to talk to the stone-cold racists or he’ll never win Virginia.”

“Some people at church think he’s the anti-Christ. They hope he is, because he’ll bring on the End of Days.”

“How can anybody vote for that guy???” (Referring to McCain, with all manner of hand waving to accompany.)

But it wasn’t all politics. I also heard:

“I’m proud of you.”

“I love you.”

“You’re my best friend.”

I managed to stay with my in-laws and survive it. There was absolutely no mention of the election with the hateful email-sender. I ignored him as much as I could, and realized what a sad man he is.

We saw gobs of friends and family. We even attended an Obama rally, with 20,000 people of all races and ages. What a thrill! I screamed when I saw him like he was a rock star. But he was so much more; I didn’t scream when he was finished—I was too full of emotion and hope to do anything but smile.

We ate too much and exercised too little. We drove 2500 miles up and down the east coast, and paid as little as $1.95 per gallon for gas. We slept in six different houses and three motel rooms. We saw the autumn leaves change color in a wave from upstate New York to North Carolina; and we buried our toes in warm beach sand. We celebrated a new future for our country with some of our oldest and dearest friends, whom we miss so much.

And we are very, very happy to be home.

Ignorance

This morning, my husband received one of those “FW: FW: FW: FW:” emails, full of untruths. You know these emails: they are sent along whether or not the sender has actually read it through, much less verified the content. This one stated that perhaps we should be suspicious of all Muslims in our country because they cannot be “good” Muslims and “good” Americans simultaneously (although that particular big word was not used). The “reasoning” was that their religion requires allegiance to Allah, not God; to the Quran, not the Bible; to Mecca, not America. It stated that Muslims do not accept the US Constitution and that when we declare “one nation under God,” we’re referring to the Christian God, which is loving and kind, not Allah, because he is never referred to as the “heavenly father.”

I knew where the email was going next: Barack Hussein Obama. Of course. The email called on us to WAKE UP! Because Barack Obama—a Muslim—wants to be our President. It said that Barack Obama was sworn into his current office on the Quran, not the Bible—and that he has stated he will be sworn in as President on the Quran. And that he refuses to say the Pledge of Allegiance. Or to put his hand on his heart when the national anthem is played.

I so want to reply to this email like this:

Barack Obama is a Christian, not a Muslim, you ignorant asshole.

But I can’t, because the sender was a member of D’s family. And we have to visit them in a few short weeks. We’ll be there on Election Day. Talk about bad timing.

Reader, how does one reconcile one’s belief in equality, truth, and religious freedom with the need to respect one’s in-laws?

I am at a loss.

I Got Nuthin'

During this time of horrendous (and ridiculously costly) war, of genocide, disease and starvation, of economic failures each more serious than the last, with a side order of hurricanes, tornadoes, and floods, and a political circus show to top it all off, I can offer no words.

Happy, lighthearted posts seem insignificant (not yours, lovely readers, just the ones at the dead end that is my brain).

I've had it up to here with political commentary (D. has become an absolute addict!) and I can't take another sarcastic, vicious, ludicrous, or even thoughtful opinion. Therefore, I will give none.

And, despite two recent back-to-back surgeries for my precious D. (nothing too serious or life-threatening), I have not one complaint or concern to share.

I think I'm just numb.

And you?

We Interrupt Your Fun to Bring You This Environmental Message (Please Don't Yawn)

If you’re like me, you have eschewed bottle water of late and are doing your green Girl Scout best to refill your own bottles. I used to think that as long as my plastic bottles were being recycled, there was no harm in it. Now I know better. Our to-be-recycled bottles end up on slow boats to China, where who knows what happens. Maybe they’re actually recycled, but in the end, we’re still making our waste someone else’s problem.


Besides, lots and lots and LOTS of bottles still end up in landfills:




The above photo is by Chris Jordan, a Seattle photographer. It "Depicts two million plastic beverage bottles, the number used in the US every five minutes." Perhaps you’ve seen his other pieces, each focusing on visually arresting images of ubiquitous items we often waste, like paper cups, cell phones, and paper bags, that show at a glance how quickly our junk adds up. In this collection of his work, called Running the Numbers: An American Self-Portrait, mundane objects are presented in ways that set my jaw to dropping—and my mind to thinking.

I think of Mr. Jordan’s work each time I walk down the water aisle at my beloved Trader Joe's. (Only 89 cents for 1-liter Spring Water, such a deal!) I had been buying them occasionally and then refilling them for weeks, but each one eventually ended up in the recycle bin. So I stopped myself and returned to refilling my Nalgene-esque water bottles. Now I hear they leach harmful chemicals into our bodies, so we’re not supposed to be using them, either. Aluminum is the latest craze for refillables, but I’m not about to fork over $18 bucks for a water bottle when I have so many already, purchased when Nalgenes were okay and I had more money a job.

So there I am, cheerfully humming and dutifully refilling my green, red, and blue cancer-delivery systems bottles with nice, filtered water from my Brita pitcher when I receive an email alert that pretty much ruins my morning. Said that my plastic Brita filter was not recyclable. Guess I knew that. In our house, D. is the one who always changes the filters (he’s a prince), so I was not really conscious about (ok, ignoring) where they went. But of course it’s not the recycle bin. In the garbage they go, where they’re gathered up and dumped in the landfill. And what about all that chlorine and lead and whatever else they’re filtering out? Leaches into the ground. Perfect.

In the UK, Brita has a take-them-back recycling program for their filters. Not so here in the US of A. So if you use Brita filters—and you’d like to recycle instead of tossing them, consider signing this online petition and see if Clorox (yes, CLOROX) will do the right thing—and help us do the same.

That’s all. Carry on.

Brita filter photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Eight Things I Want to do Before I Die (the semi-achievable version)

The lovely Krissa of HalfAsstic.com visited with a meme challenge. How appropriate that she picked my birthday week. My forty-effin'-sixth birthday week. (Can you hear the screaming?) As always, this time of year brings me pause. . . sets me to thinking about. . . myself, of course. I’m a Leo. And it’s my birthday month. Sheesh. Only thing is, the questions I ask myself: they are a-changin’. Now it’s not so much the what am I going to do with my life? question, but the how much of it is left? question. And the how have I done so far? question. And the how will I look in twenty years when I'm sixty-six holy mother of god? question.

Looking ahead is difficult for a non-planner like me. I am a dyed-in-the-wool, fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants (and clichéd out the wazoo) kind of gal.

Looking back is even scarier. Maybe things would have been better, had I actually made a plan or two along the way. I’ll never know. It doesn’t matter anyway. But I wonder—does it not matter because I choose not to feel regret over the past? Or am I choosing not to feel regret about the past because I don’t want to admit that I could have done it better, accomplished something really significant, or caused myself less pain?

I don’t think it’s the latter. Going through my life without every one of its hardships would have made it different, certainly. But better? What if I had actually thought through the consequences before making some of my bigger (and dumber) decisions? Or, here’s a novel idea: how would this little life have turned out if I had always, always put myself first? I know that doing any of it differently would have yielded a different me. Everything, in its time, occurred because I made it happen that way. And even with all my shortcomings, and all I’ve been through, I’m pretty happy living in this skin.

Which leads us to the meme, (thank god she's stopped philosophizing, you're saying) and some of the things I’ll do from here on out. This is the “actually possible” list. Next post will be the “when monkeys fly out of my butt*” list.

Eight Things I Want To Do Before I Die

1. Write novels—many of them, whether they are published or not.
   
2. Learn to speak Spanish.
   
3. Start an animal sanctuary like she did.
   
4. Take art classes: drawing, painting, pottery—any or all.
   
5. Get together with my parents and all ten siblings at least once more while we’re all still here. And when we do, I'll be scared that it's the last time. Until the next time.
   
6. Do a bicycle tour of Ireland.
   
7. Get over my fear of needles (but not through repeated exposure).
   
8. Read as many of these books as I can. Only 970 to go!

Thanks for getting me to think about this, Krissa! I saw the movie but haven't thought about the things I haven't done yet. Now I have. I'm not going to formally tag any of you, my friends, but I would LOVE to hear what's on your bucket list!

*Wayne’s World, 1992. “It might happen. Cha! And monkeys might fly out of my butt!"

The Fresh Air Interview with Claire B.

Ok, so we’re just pretending here. Terry Gross doesn't know I’m alive. But if she did. . .

Cue snappy music. . . bah de dum de dum!

Terry Gross: From WHYY in Philadelphia. . . This is Fresh Air. I’m Terry Gross. My guest today is Claire B., a sometimes-blogger from the Seattle area, who has surprised —and perhaps relieved—the blogging community by dropping out of the scene for the past five weeks. Welcome to Fresh Air. Thanks for being here.

Me: You’re welcome, Terry. And may I just say that I’ve noticed none of your guests seem to reply with a simple, “you’re welcome,” when you thank them?

TG: Huh. Why no, I haven’t noticed that. (Chuckle) It’s sort of intriguing that you have.

Me: Well, Terry, I can’t help it. I was taught the proper response to “thank you” is, of course, “you’re welcome.” Yet often the reply is, “thank you for having me,” which leads the original thanker in this case, you, to be in the prickly situation of answering “you’re welcome” back to the person you were originally trying to thank—or just sort of letting the second “thank you” hang out there in the air. It’s unsettling. To me. I can’t speak for anyone else.

TG: Interesting. Well, let’s move on to the interview before we run out of time. I’d first like to ask you, why haven’t you blogged in a over a month?

Me: Well, partly because I’ve been quite busy of late. You see, my husband. . .

TG: I believe you refer to him as “D.” on your blog?

Me: That’s right. You see, D. and I used to run a business together. We did that for five years of the six we’ve lived here in Bellingham. And we worked together for four and a half years before that.

TG: So, doing the math here, you’ve worked together for almost ten years, then? And you’ve only been married, for . . . what, eleven?

Me: Yes, correct. Oh what joy we have known. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week in each other’s company. Our very dissimilar communication and management styles only added that extra spice to our marriage that so many couples crave. One day we were “discussing” work and our relationship and the strain it sometimes, well to be honest, often brings to our lives—I believe D. was dodging the plates I was hurling toward his head at the time—and in between ducks he suggested that we maybe ought to think about not working together any more. We decided it would be beneficial to seek another lifestyle—one that fits our personal passions, our yearning to have more control over our time, and our desire to stay married.

TG: So rather than just get a divorce, you, what? Sold your business?

Me: Yes. In hindsight, the divorce might have been simpler. . . and of course, both processes involve lawyers and CPAs and financial planners and mediators. But in the end, we made the right decision after all. We’re very happy that we decided to sell the business.

TG: So you’re glad that’s over with. And now you can start something new. What’s on the horizon?

Me: Well, Terry, I’m going to be a freelance copywriter and also get back to work on my two novels.

TG: Ahhh, yes. The writer in you is coming out. How does that feel?

Me: It is thrilling beyond description.

TG: (Chuckle) Well, if you’re going to be a writer, you might want to work on coming up with one.

Me: Hmph, well, yes I suppose you’re right. Truth is, I used to be so envious of D. because he’s a very gifted and talented musician who has always known beyond a doubt that music is his passion. I have envied countless people who write and talk about their passions, wondering all along what the hell mine was and when it would present itself to me. Then I began writing classes and was soon writing all the time. Writing fiction, writing my blog, writing professionally for advertising. And do you know what, Terry?

TG: Um, no, what?

Me: Just thinking about being a writer full-time—just thinking about it—makes me feel funny inside like riding a roller coaster or falling in love or speaking in front of a large group. Without the nausea. That’s the thrill. And that’s my passion.

TG: Well, that’s great, then. Fabulous. One more thing: I noticed you have no photo on your blog.

Me: Yes, that’s true. You know, when I started blogging I was very naïve. I felt exposed to the whole world. I didn’t want anyone to know my innermost feelings and thoughts. I was embarrassed that I thought anyone could possibly be interested in what I had to say. This was before I decided I didn’t give a rat’s ass what anybody thought. And realized that only about four people on the planet look at my blog. And that they are among the finest human beings out there. They even say nice things about my writing. It took all that silly fear away.

TG: Yes. I see. What does that have to do with the photo? Or the lack thereof?

Me: Well the rest of it is, I was mostly afraid I would be recognized by my staff or a customer. I live in a very small town and being a very public business owner as well made me feel way too naked.

TG: So you felt naked? Can you descibe that?

Me: I was uncomfortable. I was worried someone would find my blog and see what I was saying about my personal life. Or them. Or D. No way did I want any proof that I was connected to that Claire B. person.

TG: Well you are Claire B., right? Or is that a nom de plume?

Me: I love it when you speak French, Terry.

TG: So, what is it?

Me: It’s a pen name, is what it is.

TG: You know, I didn’t think you looked like a Claire. Where did that name come from?

Me: Claire is what my parents almost named me. The B. is for Brennan, my great-grandmother’s maiden name.

TG: I’ll look for that name on the New York Times Best Seller List.

Me: Oh, you do go on! Seriously, though, you should keep your eyes peeled for that.

TG: Well I want to thank you very much for being here.

Me: You’re welcome.

TG: No “thank you for having me?”

Me: Um, no.

TG: So you think we look alike?

Me: Um, again, no.

Terry Gross and Guess Who?