how i learned to read

I suppose the better title for this post is WHY I learned to read. It's right there at the end of the video clip:

"Today, on The Electric Company, the Lady asks: 'Is it - myah-myayh?'"

And the answer is right there on the screen - in this case, a big, bold NUTTY - an answer out of reach for the illiterate.

I remember being young and watching and being completely frustrated that I could not read what it said right there in front of me. This was, if I remember correctly, a teaser that also closed each episode, so if you didn't read, you had to wait until the next show to learn the answer. Not being the patient sort, and (metaphorically) prone to head-banging when faced with riddles, I learned myself to read.

This is my earliest childhood memory, somewhere in my third year, sitting on the floor in the TV room, the back bedroom of our ranch house, anxious and befuddled and feeling decisively left out.

And, in the first installment of how I became a strong-willed, independent and free-thinking person of female persuasion (aka a Feminist), I offer you this oldie-but-goodie:



Full "Free to Be You and Me" disclosure: as a kid, I had the book and the record, gifts from my Mom, but only saw this video for the first time just a few months ago. My mother NEVER considered herself a feminist nor a democrat (for reasons beyond my understanding, she fancied Nixon as one of the great ones), and in general my parents then (and my father now) were apolitical, subscribing to the "why bother" camp because "they're all crooks." (Only recently did I learn that my parents NEVER voted. NEVER. My father says he *might* vote this year.)

Nonetheless, she (and he) instilled in me a can-do-anything attitude, and I never heard a no-can-do because I was a girl. She encouraged my independent streak and was both proud and frustrated when expression of that streak also meant independence from her. She often blamed the book. It all went back to the book, that damn "Free to Be."

the last days of my decline

It ends. Right here. Now. Go no further.

Stop.

Reverse.

Detour.

Find your way back to the main road. Your main road. The one that moves you. The one less traveled. Where you walk tall, with long strides. Where you sweep aside brush and duck under limbs. Where you repair for comfort in trusted hideaways, in others' arms, in others' stories.

This, the path you're on, is the road to ruin. You know this, and make light of it. You skirt the edge and laugh (after "whew!"). Your remind yourself to be careful. And you are. As careful as an actuary, assessing risk and calculating consequences. You make safe bets, but you're still gambling.

You believe in smarts more than luck. Nonetheless, you've been the victim of poor judgment. Fortunately, you've learned from each lapse. You've made adjustments. There have been no repeat performances. (Just some eerie similarities.)

Nonetheless, you are bogged down. Nearing an end you can too well imagine, one that viscerally fills you with fear:

No leap off a cliff, but a bone-shattering slide down the mountainside, straight through the scree and the switchbacks, into the dark woods, to tumble over fallen logs and rip through the branches.

You will feel alone. Feel deeply each scrape, scratch, and shatter. You will be consumed by your own pain.

You will be oblivious to those you take with you. Those venturesome few who think they can slow you, or stop you and carry you back up. You will leave them, on a random path or a cross-roads, when they make the wise decision to stop, call for back-up, and get themselves out of the dense, uncertain, and down-sloping slide.

You will, stalwartly, continue on.

Near the end, on land now level, set to the lowest common denominator, you will trudge forward with leaden feet. Your eyes useless, you lead with your hands - searching for steady holds, taking small steps.

You yearn for sunlight, lost in a swampland. You take another step. Wanting. Wishing. Worrying.

You will fall. You will fail.

This is what waits you.

Unless you turn around, look up, and take the hand that's offered you. Begin the long, hard, slow slog back up the mountain. Out of the dim valley and into the land of the living. You can't do it alone. Take the hand that's offered. Step out of the muck.

I sit here, on the eve of Mother's Day, on Long Island NY and motherless, and remember where I was six months ago, living a lonely life in Oxford, Mississippi. I thought it would be a good place for me, for I was so desperate to get out of New Orleans, to leave behind the mounting uncertainty, municipal anxiety, and personal ghosts. I thought it would be a safe place. I thought I would fit in, and I'll credit New Orleans for spoiling me for that kind of welcome, for New Orleans and I were an easy match. As quirky as she is/was, we meshed at the moment we met. I slid easily into a slot along the misfit scale and carried that confidence to Oxford, which I idly considered another quirky place. But I didn't fit there, not easily. I only fit there where I've fit in every other place I've lived: on the margins. It's tight on the margins. Not much room to stretch. Especially in a small town. Especially in a college town, where I top the "ruling class" by at least a decade, almost two. Friends were few. And the older locals had their crowd and were suspect of new blood, and since I'm a drifter and loner by nature, I had my troubles. Hence the loneliness, and the depression. And most unfortunately, a lot of late and lonely and drunken nights. (But bless the godless-universe for my FunHouse, which was lots of fun and a blessing. If only I had wrangled the outdoor bathtub... )

I never could have guessed that the hand to rescue me would have been my mother's, in death. I truly believe that she saved me by dying. Two plus years ago, when my husband left me and moved out, Mom invited me back into the family home (despite the disastrous entanglements a decade prior) and spun dreams of my exciting commuter life into New York City. I begged off then, made my own (sloppy, silly, staggering) way since. And so the story told above tells: I fell, I failed. I've come home.

Long Island is no picnic. In truth, I am as lonely here as I've ever been. Growing up here, I couldn't wait to leave. It's crowded, rife with traffic, bereft of culture (save the big-box, corporate, and market-tested type). Yeah, there's pretty parts and road-side farm stands, but mostly it's rushed, cold, and often mean. I yearn for the south and warmer climes and attitudes. I miss New Orleans. I'm here for as long as my Dad is here and I often think about where I'll go when he's gone.

But he's hale and healthy and has at least a decade left, hopefully more, so it's Long Island and the environs (hello NYC?!) where I'll be. So it's all about making the best of what is, not what I've chosen. It's about taking hold of the hands that have been offered and grabbing tight and reaching up and figuring out what to make of the wreckage of my life and what comes next. It's all been interesting so far. No reason to think it's going to be dull from here on out. I've gone though some rough spots, some hard spots, some very difficult times. I've gotten through them.

My mother, love her, rarely had a life she loved. Rarely had a life in which she felt loved (though she was, by many). I have inherited some of her demons, but that is not one. I have a lot of people on my side, and, in their honor, I promise that none of them will ever mourn me with a "could have been." I am not done yet. I am coming back. It is a long, hard, slow slog back. But I am coming.

A luta continua...

signs of spring

"Whatever occurs in the confused mind is regarded as the path. Everything is workable. It is a fearless proclamation, the lion's roar."
Trungpa Rinpoche, quoted by Pema Chodron, "When Things Fall Apart"

The daffodils are in bloom. This is a treasure. As one of my favorite flowers, favored because it was my Granny's favorite, I thrill to their upright yellow goodness. They are also a cold weather bloom, planted in late-fall to endure a long winter's nap. So, very few daffies down south, unless you store them in the freezer.

Although there are none here at my house, there are plenty in the neighborhood. My head swivels around turns taking in as many of them as I can. My dad probably has some at his place, but I haven't been there since last Sunday, and it seems that they've popped in the last few days.

He planted more than 200 bulbs around the property, daffodils and tulips. They were planned to bloom in rotation, so that there's continual color and growth throughout the spring. I say here once again how much I love my dad and thank him for all he's given me - life and love and an appreciation for the seasons and the routine and work necessary for growth. We have an odd relationship though, close yet distant. I know he loves me but I stopped getting hugs around the time that I grew breasts. (That's gotta be weird for a father.)

Nonetheless, he was - and remains - my first hero, and I am here - on Long Island, the land of my frustrated and angst-ridden youth - because of my mother's recent death and a need, for both of us, to be close - though in truth, it seems that he needs me less than I need him. He, after all, has a life here. A job, a home, a community. And company. He's dating. Casually, cautiously, and playfully. Good for him.

Me - not so much. I'm lonely. But I think that's okay. I started this period of solitude in Mississippi and I've carried it up North. I no longer question the why or the way. I just accept it (The Path is the Goal). I trust that this is where I need to be. I know that there is no other place I could live comfortably but for a fifteen-minute drive to my father's house; my own discomfort is secondary and necessary. My mother's death has brought me here. I believe that she - by dying - saved my life.

I miss her tremendously.

I am angry that I am here and she is not. I was planning my return to come back and care for her, to take her to the doctor, to walk the dog, to take her shopping, and make dinner according to her direction. I wanted to sit by her side and get all the stories again, this time in writing. To laugh at her jokes and play scrabble - losing again and again to her better strategy (despite my better vocabulary). It is cruel that I am here without her, she who wanted more than anything to be close to me, and yet did her best to push me away - with relentless criticism and subtle and not-so-subtle bullying. She wanted to be the hero, but stomped on top of me (and Dad) to earn that spot. Queen of the misbegotten hill.

And yet, I love her. I miss her. I learned, later in life, with therapy and through divorce, how to give her what she never got - a listening ear, kudos for work well done, praise and hurrahs, and company. I learned to let her in and discovered that she was happy to be the also-ran as long as she was close to the winner (that would be me). I learned that she was proud of me, me of the unconventional life. That even though she was shocked - Shocked! - by some of my choices (such as keeping my own name when I married - "Why even get married?" she asked), she bragged about me to her friends and coworkers and looked each day to the weather in whatever town I lived. Our best times together were when she came to visit and lived for a brief period in her daughter's life and reaped the just awards (I was liked. I learned it from her; she was equally - and more so - likeable). I remember best our lunch at Commander's Palace in 2003; our table was striped with green notifying all of our VIP status. We were treated accordingly. My mother had her first (and probably last) Mint Julep. She felt fancy, but over-served. Half-way through, she dimmed it down with more soda.

What's a woman to do when she loses her mother before she's done with her mother? My mother was difficult. There was nothing easy about her. I hold no romance here. She's caused me more angst and therapist fees than one ought to pay. But I have learned to understand and be kind to her own troubles and costs and I am angry and hurt that I do not get the chance to make full recompense.

Shortly before her death, over Christmas 2007, I learned how to hold her without seeking such comfort for myself. My role was to just be there. To hold her. And it was easy. She was small and bony then. As I now know, she was just a few weeks before death. She was tiny. It was nothing to close her up into my arms, to wrap myself around her and whisper love into her ears. We closed ourselves in blankets and before the TV. We sat there together.

The last time I touched her was in the hospital. She was doped up (down) on morphine, and largely unresponsive. I asked the doctor to take her off, to give me my mother back, to give me a connection. Let me see her, let her see me. I wanted to see her eyes, focused. I wanted to know that she knows that I am here. I was over-ruled. By the doctor and by my dad. My mother's stroke was so bad that giving her consciousness meant her distress. In other words, she freaked out. Better to keep her sedated. She is not suffering.

But what about me? I am suffering. And I mean no harm. Give her to me. I am good for her. Give her to me. Give me my mother. Let me look into her eyes and let me tell her that I love her. Let me tell her that I am here and I am sorry. Let me tell her that I forgive all. Let me tell her that I am grateful.

Instead, I got nothing. Just a body. No soul. I held her the best that I could hoping that she heard and felt me. I talked to her and told her I loved her. I massaged her hands and brushed her hair. I alerted the nurses when she seemed distressed. I watched as the doctor gave her what proved to be the final shot of morphine. I held one hand as she died, while my father held the other. We loved her unto death.

And so I meet another Spring of my life, mother-less, grieving, and lonely. I have not been writing here because my days have been difficult and repetitive. I have had nothing to say worth saying (except in my private journals - and I strive to complain there daily). I do have a job and a lovely one. It's another restaurant gig, and a good one, at a fancy French joint, but due to the depressing economy, business is slow. But it is a good environment for me, and I am most grateful for one particular coworker who is teaching me lessons about grace, kindness, and forgiveness. I am not a godly person, but she (my coworker) makes me wonder about god. I'm asking maybe. I'm wondering if I need not be so alone.

the funhouse, part two

I spoke with my former landlord today, a call to inquire about my security deposit (the check is in the mail, he says). I like him, and trust him. The check is in the mail.

He went above and beyond the call of duty when I first moved into the FunHouse. I called him over the day after I moved in. I was having some terlit issues - nary a flush, to be specific.

Dean arrived and with tools in hand and a run to the hardware store, he fixed the problem. Sorta. Fixed it enough to make it livable, which meant - in a daily living way - "if it's yellow, let it mellow." The john had an annoying tendency to run and kick on even when no one was around or had been using it. Almost as if it was reminding itself of what it was supposed to do when called upon to do so. But mostly, it was not an issue. Nor was any other quirk of the house. I learned to adapt, to take care, and to fix when things needed fixing. (Such as duct taping the gaps under the sink so no more mouses could come on in and poop.)

But Dean gets the gold star for helping me get my g*dforsaken motorcycle out of the moving truck and next to my porch, where it lived for the next seven months, earning admiring and lustful looks from my neighbors and their visitors (who didn't understand when I told them it wasn't worth anything - crappy and need of work, and too small powered for their big frames; it's a chick bike, 250ccs, great for beginners and back roads - a big man would have to fold himself in half to ride this steed).

The neighborhood kids - and I mean little ones, grandchildren and nieces and nephews of my neighbors - also took a fancy to the bike; took a fancy to the bike and the woman who owned it; the woman who also drove a pick-up truck and a bicycle; a woman who lit her back deck with criss-crossed white lights, and filled her window panes with construction paper to keep out prying eyes but allowed the sunshine in.

During my conversation with Dean this evening, I learned that the new tenants have opted to keep the construction paper. I'm surprised that the house cleaners who prepped the place for the new folks didn't take the paper down - it wasn't held with superglue; just fat-sized double stick tape. But maybe, just maybe, the house cleaners thought that it looked good and, obviously, the new tenants thought so as well. This pleases me. I put some thought into the paper, the colors, the placement, how it looked from the outside as well as from in. When I put it up, I thought it would be temporary, but it worked so well, I made it permanent (trading two-sided tape for better fat, sticky stuff).

In leaving my FunHouse in Oxford, I also left a birdhouse built by my Dad,the lights on the back deck, and some under-counter lights installed in the kitchen. It pleases me to think that others are enjoying these small adjustments and that my FunHouse, save the bikes, still looks much the same from the outside.












(For more about the FunHouse: go here and here.)

quirkyalone

Yo. I'll play this. I'm not one to join a cause or a movement ('cept demonstrations for human rights, reproductive rights, and against war-mongering; I've steel-toothed and ably managed my claustrophobic/agoraphobic tendencies to stand and march and holler when the cause is greater than my puerile neuroses), but somewhere in the past couple of months, I've hit upon this site, and I'll say the label fits: quirkyalone, that's me.

We are, as defined, not likely to join any group, or blog, or buy a book to celebrate our solidarity (I'll leave it to you to insert the appropriate Groucho Marx joke here). But I'll admit a certain level of reassurance upon discovering this site and that there's a quirky community for quirky folks like me. Even if I don't join up.

Quirky. Even the word looks weird. Quirky. Quirkyalone. Yeah. Quirkyalone. That's me.

In my early-twenties, when I started to come into "my own," I was merely "peculiar."

As a teenager, I wasn't strange at all. I was just a teenager. We're all strange at that age. And during college, well, I traveled all over the map of (ab)normalcy, and any label upon me would have stuck as well as a post-it.

After college, I made friends with a woman about ten years my senior. How we jibed, I'm not sure, but we did. Ballgames. Beers at bars. Dinners out or at our respective homes. She found me a curiosity, and I was just happy to have a friend in town after all my college-mates had graduated and moved on. She pegged me with the "peculiar" tag, in response, I think, to my choice of footwear (practical and rugged soled) and my penchant for smoking on the street (her mother deemed that behavior most unladylike and although my friend engaged in a number of activities her mother would have frowned upon, she followed this one rule).

Me? I've never worried about "ladylike." I came out as a feminist during college, though I walked the walk before I talked the talk. Whether or not I was ladylike wasn't ever a worry. I knew I was a woman. Even when I still had my babyfat.

I come upon quirkyalone honestly, and it's not because I'm an only child - though that's no doubt part of it. My parents are also quirkyalones, and they're both spawns of multi-child families. My Dad is one of three. Mom is (was) one of six. But despite (or because of) the riotous, chaotic, always-something-going-on households, my parents found themselves cherishing and prioritizing their alone time. Amidst the chaos - and often being over-looked - they learned to take care of and entertain themselves.

My father is the youngest of three sons, raised by a single mother, and was often left to look after himself. My mother, a middle-child in the six kids, was lost as well. She's told me stories about majorette tournaments, when she'd done well, but no one from the family was there to see it. Her heartbreak was palpable even after all the years.

As adults, my parents continued to pursue their separate, private interests. My mom was an ice skater and took lessons for a number of years. She also painted and bowled. My Dad is a grease-monkey and carpenter and handy with every kind of power tool imaginable. They were both skiers for a spell.

I learned none of this. I wasn't part of it, except for sitting on the sidelines (and pitching the occasional fit - I was young, and probably tired). Their interests weren't my interests because they were THEIR interests and there was no effort to bring me in. I learned early how to entertain myself (books, mostly), and felt no slight when they went off to do their own thing. It only became a problem later, when I wanted them to be interested in MY interests (you know, for validation and stuff, 'cause us teenagers, we need that kind of stuff), and I generally got a post hoc okay. I was good as long as I didn't get pregnant or arrested, but that's a short bar to raise. It was an easy leap over and off to college.

Now, many years later, post-marriage, and two years single, I've come to embrace the "alone" part of the sobriquet as much as the "quirky." I accepted the quirky a long time ago; the dawning came when I was 24, back on Long Island, after college, heartbroken and wondering about prospects. A good male friend told me that while most women are "vanilla" - and a lot of men like vanilla - I was "peanut butter raspberry nut crunch," and while not everyone likes this particular - this peculiar - flavor, there are folks out there who just LOVE it. And I shouldn't scale back to meet other people's tastes. Good advice, I think. Just be yourself, in other words.

And me, myself, and I, we're alone. But not lonely. That's the quirk part of the quirkyalone. I like my company. I can entertain myself. But, damn, I sure do wish I didn't need to make a long distance phone call to talk to a good friend.

everything you want to know

Douse me with water for an inhuman amount of time, and do it over and over again, and yeah, I'll spill my guts and the contents of my stomach, then cough out the goop in my lungs. I'll repeat whatever is being demanded and accused of me. Yes. I'll tell you everything. Everything you want to know. Anything to just get a breath of clean, fresh, unwatered air.

*gasp*

So Sir His-High-Almighty President and Guardian of the O-So-Free-and-Mighty-Fine First World has given yet-another-okay to torture. He sez, no, not torture, just, you know, what we need to do to make sure the bad guyz don't go and get us, and the presumptive Republican nominee for president, a former POW, is playing along.

I am f*cking disgusted. And even more disgusted that they're sneaking in this crap on a Saturday, you know, when most folks are mowing their lawns or shoveling their walks or otherwise preoccupied with mundane weekend tasks.

Our war - and yes, it is OUR WAR - has been waged for five years now. Bob Herbert, one of my favorite columnists, recently reported the cost to our country, and our country's economy, and most importantly, the deficit we've incurred as a result. Two Trillion Dollars is the current cost. Here, look at it:

2,000,000,000,000.

Or maybe this makes a bigger impact (by millions):

1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000+
1,000,000+1,000,000+1,000,000...

Or something like that. I'm a poet, not a mathematician, and my rinkadink calculator - used only to balance my checkbook - doesn't have enough spaces to quantify TRILLIONS.

In other news, the US economy lost 63K jobs last month. I don't count in that; I left Mississippi and thus my job in January. I'm old news, when it comes to the unemployment sector, but I'm wise enough to recognize that this doesn't mean that there are more openings. Yeah. Sh*t. Tough(er) times ahead.

The only good news I've read lately is that the Dems might have a chance this fall to take a majority in the Senate, thereby blocking a filibuster and then, maybe, actually turning things around and making progress - that is, being PROGRESSIVE. Yeah, first, they'll have to unf*ck the last seven-plus years, but I'll take this last bit as a hopeful wish and pray for good dreams tonight. 'Cause, lordy, with the tumult in my personal life, and the back-biting bullsh*t in the presidential campaign, I need some happy thoughts.

count me in

As of March 1st, I joined the great unwashed and uninsured of Great America. It's been 15+ years since I've been part of this oft-cited and still under-recognized part of our nation (we are not easily quantified). I'm not proud. Ick. I'm uncomfortable. Makes me wanna stay home more than ever. Though I suppose I should take no comfort. There's a lot of accidents that can happen in the home.

This post was originally titled "Scylla and Charybdis," because that's where I feel to be: between a rock and a hard place.

I'm job hunting and humbled. My education and work experience do not readily combine to make me a neat fit with any organization, but I know I bring a lot to the table:

Savvy and skilled, mostly self-taught but grateful to those who have trained me. Creative, dynamic, and charismatic. A self-starter who takes direction. An iconoclast who knows the rules. Sensitive, empathic, and honest. A leader without ego. A talker who listens. Gentle and kind. Compassionate and passionate. A genuine people-person. And, sometimes, funny.

Blogging is a liability, being on the job hunt, which is why I've been tongue-tied these last few weeks. Google me and you'll hit this site first (then my Gambit contributions), and then a slew of sites that are a combination of me and not-me (who knew there were so many namesakes in North America?).

I expect that a potential employer will Google a prospective hire, so if I've recently sent you my resume and you've found my site, thank you for your interest.

If you poke around and dig in the archives, you'll quickly learn that my world's been quirky and topsy-turvy these last few years, largely due to geography and the ever-changing cast of characters moving in and out of my life. I started this blog the night that Katrina roared ashore, and, indeed, it's all been "after" that. As for personal defining moments, August 29th, 2005 was indelible.

Thanks for reading. Call me for an interview. Please.