I don't know what day it is

since Mom was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, but I woke up at 3 a.m. crying in my sleep. I was having a nightmare, Mom was dying. Then I woke up and realized it wasn't a nightmare after all.

I am not dealing with this very well and can feel myself slipping back into depression. Slowly.

If I can't handle the death of our dog, how the hell am I going to manage this?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to:  Nothing
I am reading: Nothing
And I am:  Not good

Day Six

She's having a tough time today. It's normal, I'm sure.

You can be at peace with it one day and you can be really sad and remorseful the next.

It's all so cliched, but it's surreal - there are moments when it feels like a really bad dream. The only reason I know it's not, is because even in my dreams I am crying now. It's a veritable nightmare, awake and asleep.

My therapist - who is a comfort and a blessing - was very helpful today. I mentioned wanting my parents to come here to Illinois for a visit, since they haven't been out for their annual trip. They usually stay three or four weeks. It's wonderful.

"I didn't know that last summer could be their last time here."

"Will having your parents visit one more time change anything? It won't change the excellent memories you've already made. We can't live our lives as a hedge against future tragedy."

A dark thought today: Maybe Mom will decide against the radiation treatment. It is inconceivable, but it's her choice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don't want this. I don't want this. I don't want this.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mom says "Hedy, what would I do without you?"

And I think "What will I do without YOU?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Hitch 22
I am listening to: Quiet house sounds
And I am: Not doing very well myself actually

Day Five

"Well, it's only in the brain stem, how bad can that be?" Mom thought.

It's the stem - something you remove from a piece of fruit - she thought.

Sure. You throw it away and would never think of eating it once the fruit is ripe, but it's pretty fucking vital to the fruit becoming ripe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday she called singing this song by John Denver. I managed to sing along for the first part but broke down too soon.

Apparently she sang it to Da and Eric as well.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today is our wedding anniversary. Sixteen years. Jim wants normal but I can't do normal. And it's a struggle celebrating anything.

Will she be here for our anniversary next year? Will she be here for Christmas? What will that be like?

How can we make the time she has left enjoyable? She wants fun and laughing and singing and good memories.

What about a trip? What about just having them come to Illinois for a bit?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Everyone says they're praying for her. Surely it helps, knowing they're praying for her, but does it really help?

Is it more helpful, than say, making sure all her appointments are lined up and asking all the right questions and thinking about her comfort and planning ahead? Because with all that, I don't have time to pray (not that I ever would.)

It  might even make her feel better, knowing that her daughter is praying for her. But it would be a lie. I will not be a hypocrite and start praying because I desperately need something. That's the main issue with praying - it's mostly about your needs. And ultimately, who is it comforting? The person doing the praying or the person who needs the praying?

Let the other folks concern themselves with heaven. I'll focus on what's happening down here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am listening to: Train sounds

I am reading: Hitch-22 - A Memoir by Christopher Hitchens

And I am: Attempting normal

Day Four

"I will be with you every step of the way."

More comforting words have never been spoken. From my good friend Suze. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am listening to: Doggies pawing around the house

I am reading: Nothing

And I am: Smiling

The Third Day of the Rest of Your Life

"With this type of tumor, you have about three months without treatment and three to six months with treatment."

Da says: What? Did you say 36 months?

"No, three to six months."

You don't hear much after that. So you call the doctor the next morning, just to be sure, since he's talking about your Mom.

You said three months without treatment and three to six months with treatment. Is that right?

"Yes. Three to six months is average. It's rare to see patients last more than a year with this."

Okay. Got it. Thank you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The fact is, I knew the night before. I knew because when you Google "Lung cancer metastatic brain stem" the answer is right there.

Three to six months.

I tell Eric. We've gotta get together on this, we've gotta figure this out because it's bad, REALLY BAD.

And he says you can't believe everything on the Internet and I say I know, you can't. And I hope hope hope he's right.

Because I'd rather be realistic and wrong, than unrealistic and wrong.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So it isn't like last time, with the lung. Zap zap zap with the radiation and it's gone.

It isn't like last time at all because her eyesight is failing and she's using a walker and a neurosurgeon carved back eight inches of her scalp to install a shunt to drain the spinal fluid that would normally flow where the tumor is.

And there's the home care nurse. And the physical therapist. And the social worker.

Words like palliative care and hospice.

And a goddamn chair in the shower.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Doctors don't say three to six months if they don't mean it.

So during your stronger moments, when you're not crying, you start telling relatives and friends and neighbors. This was the worst:

"Not her. NOT HER."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Then, when you realize all this crying is for yourself and how much you'll miss her and how the hell will you live without her and you're NOT crying for the unspeakable hell your Mom can expect over the next three to six months as the tumor takes away her ability to walk, swallow and breathe, well...well something shifts.

She says she wants to laugh and have fun and make some good memories. We will do that. I will make sure we do that.

I just don't know how yet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Nothing
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Figuring it out

There's a man

on the train who looks just like Sam Eagle from The Muppets Show.

I am perched in my usual spot, the first spot, upstairs at the front of the train. Mr. Eagle Face is across the aisle reading the paper.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Birdman: There's that chubby girl with the unruly hair. Haven't seen her for a while. Nothing changes. She's still typing loudly on that infernal laptop. Nothing can be so important this early in the morning. Nothing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's just fantastic, rolling outta bed and being at work but this train time was valuable in many ways. You're out of the house. You're with a lot of interesting people.

And you can ignore them completely by writing your blog or sleeping or whatever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was all that same old commuter anxiety this morning: Will I make the train on time? Will the person in line behind me at the ticket counter ever shower? Will the lady in front of me, using multiple credit cards to purchase a single round-trip ticket, ever finish her transaction? Which train is it? Will I get my usual seat? Will I see someone I used to know? Will I remember their name?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The answers: Yes, probably not, yes, the far one, yes, no, no.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Train sounds
I am reading: A weak, mindless Carl Hiaasen novel from 1986
And I am: Flying with the Eagle

The Incompetence Conundrum

Da: "We're working as a team to make this dinner, do you know what they call that?"

Mom: "Collaboration?"

Me: "Incompetence?"

Da: "Cluster Fuck."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Weekdays are 60 - 70% conference calls for me. Do you know how you can tell if someone is new or incompetent?

They talk a lot.

It's a complete mystery.

If you're new, you should spend a lot of time listening and observing, right? If you're incompetent and you know it, why draw attention to yourself?

And if you're incompetent and don't know it, well, that's just a goddamn shame.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
FYI: I had to look up how to spell incompetent.

Shaddap, seriously.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We're all incompetent at something. Hell, multiple things.

Cooking and chemistry are weak areas for me. Since they are essentially the same thing, we can say this is just one area of incompetence, correct?

I can be very impatient, although middle age has mellowed that somewhat.

I still swear quite a bit, but that is more of a response to my overall incompetence, rather than an actual incompetency.

If you don't know what you're not good at, you should give it some thought.

Now.

This is not an opportunity to beat yourself up over what you can't do well. That's not the point.

Most of us already do that more than we should, right? It's that shitty little voice in your head, constantly reminding you of your past foibles and cock-ups.

If you've got that voice, it's actually a good sign. Because the people who are incompetent and don't know it, don't have that voice. They think they're doing just fine, all the time.

So next time the shitty voice starts up, just say "thank you for sharing" and shut it down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Incidentally, last night's collaborative cluster fuck of a dinner was outstanding.

So once you've identified what you're not good at, surround yourself with people who are good at it, and it'll all work out just fine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: House sounds
I am reading: Religious Constriction by Charles Blow, New York Times
And I am: Incompetent at spelling incompetent

Do's and Don'ts

DO NOT:

• Get in the Express Checkout line (12 items or less) at Meijer's behind a woman on a Rascal wearing an I'VE GOT A COUPON FOR THAT t-shirt. 
• Read anything new by John Grisham, ever again. The Racketeer was the only other book besides [insert anything by Ann Rice] that I've ever wanted to throw away upon finishing it. 
• Purchase a Kenmore Elite Oasis washer unless you like having your clothes ruined by rust spots.

DO:

• Read The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman, including the book notes at the end.
• Watch the new TV series Fargo, based on the movie.
• Take a break from what you're doing right now, go outside and breathe deeply for five minutes.
• Try the chocolate-covered strawberries from Edible Arrangements. 
• When writing anything, watch the number of I's you use and eliminate them outright or switch them to you's whenever possible. As in: I will send You can expect an email update on this by Friday, June 27. Here's a bad good example of someone over-using the I's. And she should seriously know better. It's not only boring, it detracts from your message, by assuming the reader is really interested in only you and your opinions.
• Listen to ZZ Top's LaGrange whilst driving fast. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The fan
I am reading: The Gentleman's Guide to Summering at Slate
And I am: Relaxed

Not sad, just sorry

A call from Owosso, Michigan. Late this afternoon. On my mobile.

I assumed it was a family member - someone on my Dad's side of the family - calling to check on Mom, who had gall bladder surgery today.

It wasn't.

"How are you?"

"Well, not very good at all actually. We have some really bad news."

It was my cousin Frank, calling to say his younger brother, Eddie, had died. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have to confess it was a toss-up, guessing which of Frank's siblings (the oldest or the youngest) could've been the source of the sad news. How bad is that? But with serious alcoholism/substance abuse between the two of them, it could've gone either way. Frank, the second oldest, was always quiet but strong and stable, growing up. He didn't stand out much but that was probably by design in a family raised on alcohol-infused rage and depression.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am writing this because I don't know what to feel. Eddie's death is not a tragedy in the classic sense of the word. A friend/former co-worker died of breast cancer last month, leaving behind a husband and two young boys. She was a smart, funny, gracious woman. That was a tragedy. Not this.

This is something else. 

I do feel sorry for my cousin Frank. 

He is cleaning up the very last mess his little brother will make.

Is that cold? Maybe. 

Is it true? Yes. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In quick succession, there were calls with multiple family members. 

"He made his own choices."

"He lived a hard life."

"He just couldn't find happiness."

"It's a shame but not surprising."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Apparently he was gone five days before anyone found him. A friend called the police for a wellness check and that was that. An overdose, based on the drugs and paraphernalia found with him.  

"I gave up calling him to check in because he never called back."

"He struggled his whole life with alcohol and drugs."

"He chose that way of life."

He was 35 years old.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ironically, Jim was the only one who really said a kind word about Eddie and he met him just a handful of times at family Christmas parties. 

"He was a good kid. It's a shame."

I am not at all certain about the 'good kid' part, but it certainly is a shame. 

A wasted life - a life wasted, because of addiction. Which runs so very strong in that part of the family, that Frank doesn't drink. He knows the power of heredity - hell, he lived it - and won't risk it. Not for one drop. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here's the first story about Eddie:

He was four years old. My Dad and Eddie's father, Frank Sr., are returning from errands and pull in the driveway to their family farm. They find Eddie straddling the large fuel tank by the barn, two hands on the hose, gleefully spraying gas all over. 

"It's a good thing he's not smoking," said my Uncle Frank. 

And he wasn't joking. Eddie started smoking when he was three.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here's the second story:

Eddie received special permission to be released from jail to attend his mother's funeral. It was extra special because it came from the town sheriff, who also happened to be his brother-in-law at the time.

Eddie makes it to the church for the funeral service but then bolts before the burial and dinner thing after. 

The police find him hiding in a pile of laundry at an ex-girlfriend's house. And back to jail he went.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was kind of a sad joke, based on the Christmas Vacation movie. Every family has a Cousin Eddie. 

Someone who isn't quite right, seemingly from birth. Who can't make things work. Who struggles with addiction and other demons.

Da actually used the phrase "bad seed" - which, as unflinchingly cold as I am on this, made me feel a little bit of Yikes, just hearing it. 

Here's the thing: It's no longer a statement of belief, but a fact that some people are born with a serious propensity for addiction to drugs and alcohol. It's in their genes. It's not an "if" but a "when" for them. 

If it is all a matter of the chemical cocktail inside us, are some people just doomed from the start? Or, with the right environment, the right influence, the right HELP, can they overcome it? 

We'll never know with Eddie. But Frank, my cousin Frank, gives me hope. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am reading: The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman (Outstanding, fairy tail-ish tome. Such a profoundly excellent, emotional story. Read it read it read it.)

I am listening to: Mom snoring, the air conditioner humming

And I am: Not sad but sorry

The Gun Shot Drinking Game

Shoot. Gun. Assault Rifle. Handguns. Shot in the leg. Guns. Fired back. Shooting. Shooter. Shooting. Wounded. Shot. Wounded. Victim. Shot. Victims.

The above paragraph was me, listening to Chicago 7 news, and typing any gun-related word during the initial three minutes. The talking heads lead with the Shoot Du Jour in Chicago, moved on to the Georgia courthouse shooting and wrapped up with that other shooting (no, not that one) at a college in Seattle.

It's more than a little crazy when we can no longer simply say "the shooting" - we need to be specific when referencing incidents of mass gun violence. Because it's happening every week now, sometimes daily. Here in the United States.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You know those fun silly TV drinking games, right? You're watching The Big Lebowski and everyone takes a drink whenever someone bowls a strike. Or says fuck. Or shut the fuck up, Donnie.

Or you're watching Fargo and everyone does a shot when someone says you betcha.

Or if Breaking Bad is your show, you take a drink whenever Jesse says yeah bitch.

If you'd like to get completely shit-faced on a Sunday morning (or really any day of the week for that matter), play the Gun Shot Drinking Game. Make yourself a Bloody Mary or Mimosa or Coffee & Baileys, then watch the local Chicago news. And take a drink whenever you hear the word "gun" or "shot" or "shooting".
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh, Hedy. That's not funny at all. People are dying every day due to gun violence and you're making a game of it?

Since no one with any real authority has the balls to stand up to the NRA and call for serious change here, the only rational response is to drink. Heavily. And often.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Gun shoot shooting shooter shot
I am reading: Little Bee by Chris Cleave
And I am: Hammered

Unbuttoned

Well it finally happened.

I was on a conference call today and had switched from headphones to speaker so I could plug in my dying iPhone and not be tethered to the wall like the corporate animal that I am.

I forgot switching like that un-mutes the line.

Some woman I don't know was droning on and on about a webcast when the call was all about planning a live, in-person event.

"WHY IS SHE STILL TALKING ABOUT A WEBCAST? WE DON'T NEED A FUCKING WEBCAST!"

Yep. Not on mute.

But there was dead silence on the phone immediately following.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A co-worker who was on the call ping'd me via IM after:

Kathy: haha you were totally not muted when you were going off about the webcast

Me: I'm so sorry. I realized as soon as I said it. Totally unprofessional.

Kathy: No worries. It gave me a chuckle. You're always buttoned up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Buttoned up.

Whoa.

Buttoned up? Really?

What she said really struck me. So it must be true, right?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1. buttoned-up - (British colloquial) not inclined to conversation
colloquialism - a colloquial expression; characteristic of spoken or written communication that seeks to imitate informal speech; taciturn - habitually reserved and uncommunicative
2. buttoned-up - conservative in professional manner; "employers are looking for buttoned-up types"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Boy, I shouldn't have gone down the rabbit hole of "taciturn" - yikes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm actually sorta glad it happened. Like when I dumped my motorcycle for the first time.

I knew it was going to happen. It made me a nervous rider, knowing it was coming. So once I was over the OHMYGODHEREIGO, heart-in-throat, shit-in-pants, stranded in the middle of a four lane Adrenalin Explosion, I was actually quite relieved.

Same with the phone. A thousand nervous potty breaks and now I can pee with confidence whilst on my (muted) phone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But...but...but...buttoned up? Have I really become my father?

Background: My Da, bless his huge heart, took fatherhood VERY seriously. To the point that, as a teenager, I was absolutely convinced he didn't even know the f-word. He was buttoned up around us kids because he wanted to be a good role model.

As an adult, there was delight coupled with a tiny bit of anger/mourning over discovering that he was a completely normal guy who not only knows the f-word, but lets it fly occasionally.

Not that knowing/using the f-word is my standard for normalcy. Wait. I think it is, actually.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The motorcycle is long gone and I don't miss it.

Sure wish I could say the same for my phone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Little Bee - Chris Cleave
I am listening to: Another conference call, safely muted
And I am: So fucking unprofessional

Wednesday Random

Google's "Man-Gobbler" commercial with Hall & Oates makes me laugh so hard I snort. Every time. Repeatedly.

The hold music for my company's conference call service makes me happy. Odd.

Wonder where the word "gussied" comes from...as in "I'm all gussied up with nowhere to go since my Big Meeting postponed to next week."

This whole craft beer thing needs to go away. Before it does, however, it would make an outstanding Saturday Night Live skit - with some Grizzly Adams-bearded beer geek spending 15 minutes explaining the craft beer list with names like Nutter's Ballsack, Bitchslap Red, and Your Mom's Tainted Ale. In the past year I've wasted at least 20 hours listening to grown men talk about beer like giddy little girls. Like beer was just invented last week and it can cure cancer, pattern baldness, erectile dysfunction and global warming. And everyone is acting as if it will never fade, that craft beer will stay as hot as it is today. Craft beer is to 2014 as cigars were to 1998. 

If you're not watching Fargo on FX, give it a try. We were cynical - because how can you make a TV series from that movie - but it works. The cast, the pace, the humor - everything just works. Really well. They even reveal what happens to the ransom money that Steve Buscemi's character buried in the snow. And that skinny little shit Billy Bob Thornton just makes every scene. 

Everyone says that technology has made us more distant - that folks on trains and in restaurants don't chat anymore because they're nose to screen all the time. I get that. But being able to text my brother every other day after years of chatting with him maybe every other month is downright wonderful. We've had some fun conversations and I feel closer to him than ever. 

Honey Bunches of Oats is addicting cereal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am listening to: A plane flying

I am reading: Little Bee by Chris Cleave

And I am: Starting to relax a little finally

Assigned Reading Today - "The Most Horrible Thing"

Please read this interview with Richard Martinez. His son was killed by Elliot Rodger. He's remarkable. If anyone can mobilize and motivate voters to call for significant changes to gun laws, it's him:

"But I will never run for political office at any level — ever. I will never write a book. I will never sue anybody. Karen and I — Christopher’s mother and I — had this conversation early on. Our kid was a terrific kid. We’re not going to cheapen his memory by doing those things. He deserves better than that."

Mr. Martinez will be attacked for saying he won't sue; some will say it was a back-handed insult to other families that have filed lawsuits after mass murders. There will be conspiracy theorists who suggest that Mr. Martinez was even involved in planning the attack.

That's okay, it seems like he can handle it given everything he's done in the handful of days since his son was killed.

There's nothing the NRA and crazy gun "fetishists" won't say or do to keep things the way they are. But there's nothing they can do to keep this guy from speaking his truth and honoring his son's memory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Little Bee - Chris Cleave
I am listening to: WGN News Chicago
And I am: Amazed

Good reading

Here's what I'm reading today:

Mr. Shinseki Takes the Fall - New York Times
This is so good: "One way to reduce the problem of wounded veterans is to stop creating so many of them."

Police Didn't Search Database Showing Calif Shooter Bought Guns - Washington Post
It's a wonderful concept: California has a database to track gun purchases for police to use. It works great, I'm sure, when the police actually use it. Sorry Mr. O'Reilly, but this is one mass murder that could have been prevented. (Before you go all ballistic on me about blaming someone other than the Virgin Mass Murderer, think about road blocks for drunk driving and tell me that hasn't reduced the number of alcohol-related deaths. Totally fair comparison. Use the resources available, be vigilant, and the problem will get better. A quick check on that gun database and Elliott Rodger remains an anonymous, lonely asshole. That is all.)

Wisconsin's Bar to Grocery Store Ratio - Washington Post
Best place to drink, hands-down.

Every Goddamn Day - Neil Steinberg, Chicago Sun-Times
If you're not reading Neil, you should be, he's so good.

#SaveChicago Campaign - Chicago Sun-Times
“Two hours without a shooting isn’t a big deal in a lot of cities, but in Chicago it’s a lot."  Another sadly funny statement on gun violence in this city. The rapper says: "We don't know how many lives we saved..." This campaign will fail, like most other celebrity-backed efforts, because of too much ego.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to:  Love Somebody - Maroon 5 (shaddap, it's stuck in my head)
I am reading:  Little Bee by Chris Cleave
And I am: A little tired

Phones, Drugs & Guns

Phones. Drugs. Guns. What do these three things have in common?

• Walter White Starter Kit?
• Party Weekend in Arkansas?
• The Hierarchy of Needs if Maslow was a Mobster?

Nope.

There is a huge secondary market for each of these products - and manufacturers make a lot of money from the sale of stolen smartphones, prescription drugs, and handguns.

U.S. Black Market Estimates
Phones - $30B cost to consumers annually
Drugs - $25B in sales annually
Guns - $1B in sales annually

And while Apple and Samsung (on their own) and drug manufacturers (at the behest of our government) are now making it more difficult for their products to be resold illegally, no one is asking gun manufacturers to do the same.

Why not?

Guns are arguably the most deadly of the three products. There were 32,163 gun deaths in the United States in 2011. There were only 87 gun deaths in Norway the same year. And 77 of those happened in one mass murder. Which was the deadliest attack in that country since World War II.

If phone and drug companies are doing it, it seems a rational thing to suggest that gun manufacturers be held accountable for where their products end up and how they are used.

Yet no one is talking about it. Why?

• Because somehow it shifts a teensy bit of the blame away from the actual murderers. 
• Because the Second Amendment trumps all.
• Because it's really all about money and fear. 

Knowing what we know about big data and analytics, it would be very easy for gun manufacturers to determine the gun dealers that are selling an inordinate amount of guns, presumably due to straw purchases. With RFID technology, it would be very easy to track all guns made, sold, and used in crimes in the U.S.

If people die regularly from mass murders in the U.S. and we have the technology to make this country safer by tracking and controlling the distribution of guns, what's the problem?

There's too much money being made. It's that simple.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Speaking of Norway, have you watched Bill O'Reilly lately? No?

In his Talking Points from Wednesday, O'Reilly said that mass murders are not preventable in the United States because...Norway. That's right.

"There is no way to stop mass murder. NO WAY."

He goes on to say that because one mass murder happened in Norway ONCE, mass murders in the U.S. are not preventable. Oh, and anyone who has the nerve to mention the lunacy of U.S. gun laws in the wake of a mass shooting is exploiting the murders for political gain.

Of the 32 mass murders that happened worldwide from 1966 to 2012, 50% of them occurred here in the United States. France and Finland had the next greatest number of mass murders with two each.

With every other chronic health crisis - and make no mistake, it's a health crisis - smart people figure out a way to fix it. Or at least make it happen less often.

Think if someone said:
"There is no way to stop AIDS. NO WAY."
"There is no way to stop drunk driving. NO WAY."

The only difference here is the money and power behind the NRA. The only thing getting in the way of reducing the number of mass murders is people like Bill O'Reilly telling everyone it can't be done.

I'm not saying the crazies aren't responsible for what they do. People kill people. People with guns kill more people.

Make no mistake about it. The NRA is not about your freedom. Or your safety.

It's all about money. And until gun manufacturers are held accountable for how their products are used, we can get used to more madmen like Elliot Rodgers killing people because he couldn't get laid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading:
What Did the Framers Really Mean? - New York Times
NRF Meets its Match - Salon
No Way to Prevent This, Says Only Nation Where this Regularly Happens - The Onion
Joe the Plumber: Your Dead Kids Don't Trump My Constitutional Rights - Salon
Bloomberg: Universities Becoming Bastions of Intolerance - CNN
Little Bee by Chris Cleave
I am listening to:  NBC5 News
And I am:  Trying to relax

Stranded in the Land of Average

So Hedy, what's with all the crazy Facebook friend stats yesterday?

Like I said, I'm a little rusty.

And it's a journalism trick. When you're on deadline and scrambling for a story, start combing through available stats to make one.

It all started with that first guy - my married twice/divorced twice in five years friend. The emotional range on his posts went from:

"Well, that's the END of that one, goodBYE and good RIDDANCE, who knows a good lawyer?"

to:

"I met the LOVE of my LIFE. This is what TRUE HAPPINESS looks like."

I think he even threw in a SOUL MATE or two. He was married last Spring and about three months ago he was back to looking for a lawyer again. Let's call him The Golfer.

Then I noticed the guy who was all about being a Writer until he met his future fiance. Let's call him John. Every. Single. Post. Was something so cool - the latest script or story board he was working on. And he was religious about checking in at his weekly writer's group meeting. I was so envious. Until he met his girl. Let's call her Yoko. Now it's nothing but Happy Couple Restaurant Check-Ins. With his mother-in-law to be. Oh, and bits about the wedding registry/hall/church. I wonder if he's stopped writing completely or if he's just not posting about it anymore because he's so busy dining with Mrs. Glory Pants.

John and The Golfer got me thinking about what we put out there, how it changes over time, and how WE change over time. The stats thing was sort of a training wheels exercise for the larger theme.

If you're at all familiar with my other blog, you know that eventually, I'll get around to pointing all this mad speculation back at myself. It's so easy to point this analysis at the likes of John & Yoko. More challenging when applied to me. And more about that later.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Also, two other things:

1) The friend analysis made me realize how few people I truly care about on Facebook and this helped with the summer separation anxiety.

2) The lack of diversity really bugged me.

If we lived in the city, would it be different?
If I didn't work from home would it be different?
If I wasn't Stranded in the Land of Average - the vast sprawl of white suburbia - would my list look different?

I like to think so. Maybe not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If my Facebook metadata story had a lede it would be pathetically close to a headline from The Onion.

"Caucasian Woman Compensates for Woefully Homogeneous Friends List by Posting Links about Minority and Gay Rights Every Day"

Or something.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is an exercise I learned from my therapist. We imagine what my life would be like if I'd made other (me, all judgy: "better, more responsible") choices. It's interesting because she says people tend to imagine the best case scenario:

• I never got married, live in the city and am part of a successful, extremely prolific, and diverse (ding ding ding) band of writers. I am a thin vegetarian who practices yoga every day and worries about her carbon footprint whilst traveling the world lecturing about environmentally conscious, vegetarian, yoga practicing writers. 
• I got married and we have two brilliant, talented and universally adored children. I have no idea how they found time to write an iPhone app that cures cancer in between being captain of the baseball basketball football soccer softball hockey teams and penning the only Pulitzer prize winning novel by a 'tween. Jim and I retire to the family beach condo on Maui. 
• I got married and we didn't have children. Jim and I spend all of our "extra" time screwing, traveling, and planning trips to exotic, screw-friendly locales. 

My therapist likes to point out the other scenarios:

• I never got married. I'm a fat, failed writer who lives a lonely life in the city.
• I got married and we had two stupid, ugly kids that we hate, which is okay, because they hate us too.
• I got married and we didn't have children. Jim and I become selfish idiots who only care about ourselves and our money, so we work long crazy hours and we're too tired to screw or travel. 

You know the reality is somewhere in between. And that's the whole point. It's never as good or as bad as we imagine it. 

Recognizing that this version, this life right now, is better than I could have planned or imagined is what a year in therapy will do for you. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Little Bee by Chris Cleave
I am listening to: Very quiet, puppy-free house
And I am: No longer stranded

I Never Meta Face (book) I Didn't Like

He's been married and divorced twice in the 5 years we've been friends on Facebook.

She ends every other post with "PRAYERS NEEDED" and "I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!!!!!!!"

He was a prolific writer until he met the woman who recently became his fiance.

There are 108 women. There are 113 men. There used to be one dog, a fat little Chihuahua named Oscar, but he died last year.

There are too many relatives, a fact that probably holds true in real life as well.

There are 14 people I've never met.

There are my two best friends from the old neighborhood. And my two best friends from the new neighborhood.

There's the boy I had a serious crush on in seventh grade. Two official ex-boyfriends. One husband. And a smattering of guys that just happened, to varying degrees, in between.

Lots of former co-workers.

There are at least three Tea Party members. And just guessing, more Republicans than Democrats.

There are too many Christians to count. Just one Muslim. Nine Jewish people. One Zoroastrian. And a handful of hardcore atheists.

Two gay men, one lesbian. The lesbian is in a committed relationship and recently got married.

There are only three African Americans. And two Asians.

They live in Bangkok. London. New York. Los Angeles. But let's not kid ourselves here, they are mostly in the Midwest.

Eleven have served in the military. 26 have been divorced at least once. Most of the singletons are under 25.

They are mostly parents. Eight of whom had babies in the past year.

75% of these folks I barely know and haven't spoken with in 5+ years.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
About three quarters of the way through this little metadata exercise, I started to feel blah.

It is not a joyful activity, sorting people into buckets like this.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Speaking of differences, here's what I'm reading today:

The Case for Reparations by Ta-Nehisi Coats in the Atlantic

Every Goddamn Day by Neil Steinberg in the Chicago Sun-Times

Europe's Secret Success by Paul Krugman in the New York Times
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you're here, you are one of maybe a dozen people I invited to this little summer blogging experiment.

And make no mistake about it, it's an experiment.

But it sure feels good adding something I truly enjoy (writing) after taking away something that was enjoyable maybe 40% of the time (Facebook).

Welcome friends, your comments and constructive feedback are appreciated.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Little Bee by Chris Cleave
I am listening to: The classic country station on Comcast
And I am: Rusty

The Great Facebook Break 2014

I went cold turkey on Facebook last summer with the goal of using all that extra time to soak up summer: Bike rides, hikes, gardening, reading, meditating, etc.

I did none of that. Gromit's health was failing and the reality of losing him, combined with the extra daily care he needed, sent me into a tailspin. Serious depression, the likes of which I hadn't experienced since college in Michigan, way back in the late eighties.

Losing Gromit was very sad - he was a family member. At least we treated him that way. But the depression sparked by his imminent death ran much deeper - deep down to the Big Life Choices we all make with the best available information and the best intentions.

If you've known me for more than 10 minutes, you know I tend to be an optimist. My Da actually calls me Pollyanna occasionally, a name I thought meant Goody Two Shoes (HA!) but actually means someone who thinks good things will always happen and finds something good in everything.

That's me. And I'm back, mostly.

There are days when I miss Gromit so much I can't breathe. There are days when I wonder how I got here. But now those days are fewer and father in between.

And frankly, here is a good place to be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: The Silent Wife by A. S. A. Harrison
I am listening to: Birds chirping and puppies wrestling in the yard
And I am: Here again

The What If Scenario

Perhaps I am a storyteller after all. Any time something unusual happens, I write a different ending in my head.

It begins "What if?" like every great story.

What if a girl is caught in a tornado and taken on an adventure that teaches her the value of family and home?

What if a great white shark terrorizes a popular vacation destination?

What if a man is imprisoned for a murder he didn't commit?

Or

What if a trip to the moon nearly ends in disaster? 

What if a woman discovers a corporate cover up that caused a community to get cancer?

What if a retired lawman moves West to a lawless boom town?

The first three stories are fiction, the last three really happened. I can't decide which are better. 

Actually, the ones that are a combination of truth and fiction are best. We respond to the truth in a story - the parts that we can relate to. When a story veers from the path - from telling the truth - we detect it instantly and the book or film loses us. 

That's why it's been said, that in order to be a good writer you have to be a good person.

Alice Walker: "Deliver me from writers who say the way they live doesn't matter. I'm not sure a bad person can write a good book. If art doesn't make us better, then what on earth is it for?"

I like that. Because, to be a good storyteller, you need to be able to recognize truth and describe it in an interesting way. You can't be in it for the money or the glory. You need to write for no other reason than you have a story to tell.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The dishwasher
I am reading: The Headmaster's Wife
And I am: Hungry

The Light Bulb Moment

Everything I read about being a better person involves keeping a journal. All the highly effective, really smart, got-their-shit-together types are doing it. And I really enjoyed blogging for however many years it was - it felt like a hobby, a passion, something I made time for because it was important to me.

But now, writing every day feels like one more goddamn thing I've gotta do - add it to the list with changing that light bulb in the upstairs closet.

Lately, however, I've been "easing" into my mornings. Not leaping into work right away, but taking time to enjoy something. I've been reading - which feels really naughty for some reason ("You should be working and you're reading? Bad girl.") I've been playing with the doggies. And now I'm doing this.

About a year ago, I realized there are people out there - smart people - who get up, read the paper, have a coffee, watch the news and just BE before starting their day. I could never be one of them because for so long (pretty much my whole life) I had to leap out of bed, get ready and GO GO GO every day.

Finally, after four years of working from home, I'm realizing my mornings are mine - from 6 to 7:30-ish - all mine. And that makes me feel a little smarter. A little.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Very quiet house
I am reading: Just finished "My Notorious Life" - quite good
And I am: Okay

What's Under the Snow

It is 8 a.m. Every once in a while, the wind blows a puff of snow off the shed out back. It is beautiful, like everything else outside after 8+ inches of snow.

It's clean and white. Like a new calendar. Fresh with possibility.

It makes us hopeful that we can be that new person this year - do whatever it is we've been meaning to do forever - on the way to becoming a better, more ideal version of ourselves.

Then February comes and the snow melts and we are left with the eternal disappointment: Our mid-winter world is brown and gray again. Dead, like the resolutions we made during the snowstorm.

You can give up on becoming that better version of yourself. Or you can make small, incremental changes without any fanfare at all, the types of changes that no one really notices, until voila, there you are. Maybe not the best, most fantastical version of yourself (the one who runs marathons and teaches yoga while working 50 hours a week and volunteering at the local food pantry/dog rescue every weekend) but a better version.

A version of yourself that is a little more comfortable in her own skin. A version of yourself that admires the snowfall, but also appreciates all the work that still needs to be done once everything white and beautiful and temporary melts away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: A quiet house
I am reading: Servants - A Downstairs History of Britain from the Nineteenth Century to Modern Times
And I am: Being realistic

Fresh

There won't be any resolutions for 2014. But I'm liking the word "fresh" for this new year.

Fresh perspective
Fresh outlook
Fresh air
Fresh food
Fresh ideas
Fresh thoughts

Notice it's not refresh. It's a weaker word. And implies looking back or updating what's already here.

Fresh is new from the start, like the snow that is blowing around today. I like it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The MSU marching band @ the Rose Parade
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Fresh