FRESH LEMONS ANYONE?

 

 

SACRAMENTO

Schools may get break from bad teachers 'Dance of the Lemons' from one campus to another would be curtailed under bill

 

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2006/09/10/BAG0CL2UJ01.DTL (<---Click on)

 

It is funny when you start fighting something “signs" appear wherever you turn.  Today in the San Francisco Chronicle there is a story about what happens with bad teachers. Click on the link above to read the article…

Brian's incredible teacher from last year is not working.  Something happened in this new shift of teachers that came to his school and the teachers with the lowest seniority were bumped out.  I shake my head to think that the bitch that is Brian's current teacher took a spot that eliminated a truly great teacher.  After reading the article I now understand exactly how this happens.  Brian's great teacher from last year does not have tenure.

I am happy to see that steps are being taken to address the problem.  I am still shocked at how little principals and teachers alike know about learning disabilities.  Here, they have classrooms filled with children where probably 10% are struggling with something and the system doesn’t bother to train teachers to teach all types of students.  The school relies on parents, like me, to educate them on what is going on.  How scaryis that?

Ironically, rather than train the teacher, they want all struggling kids to be on Ritalin.  This is no joke and the number of kids on drugs in school is shocking.  The “ADD please-save-me-so-the-kids-sit-still” focus is frightening.  Two years ago the school wanted me to put Brian on ADD drugs and he doesn’t have ADD.  By the time my x and I put Brian through all the tests, the doctors found his auditory processing problem and agreed Brian did not have ADD.  I wanted to park my car with a sign “Dr Ross is an idiot” in front of the psychiatrist’s office.  She tried to put Brian on the drugs without comprehensive testing.  I refused, and got up in the middle of her ‘overview’ and walked out of her office.  I then refused to pay her final bill. I have since found out that every kid she sees ends up on drugs.  She is a malpractice lawsuit waiting to happen.

I wish I could say that what I have experienced with Brian and the school system is abnormal, but it isn’t.  I talk to parent after parent after parent struggling with many of the same issues I have dealt with.  Many put up with it, thinking there is nothing they can do.  It breaks my heart.  Many of the mothers are afraid of looking like a crazy mom.  WHO CARES?  Like I am ever going to see these teachers ever again?  Once Brian leaves school they are gone forever.  I hope they think I am nuts, because I don’t care.  I care that Brian gets an education.

Artists and writers learn at an early age not to care what people think.  For every 1000 people that like your work, a 1000 don’t.  You do what you are called to do, and forget the critics.  The same is true for Brian.  Some teachers may hate me, but the parents I talk to are relieved to hear someone fighting this issue.  In the end the judging will be in how Brian performs as an adult.  Whenever I watch award shows of all types, winners are always thanking their parents (especially their moms) – rarely it is a teacher.

Now don’t get me wrong, there are great, wonderful teachers out there.  I had so many growing up.  There was Mrs. Otani, Mrs. Strom, Mrs. Eubanks, Mrs. Perry, Mr. Brower, Mr. Stucky, Mr. Day, Mr. Wright, Mr. Owen, Mr. Dole, Mr. Hanson, Mr. Gulbranson, Mr. Schmidt, Mr. Pedgrift and Mrs. Sartori.  These were just the teachers K-12.  My college teachers were all wonderful.  I was also lucky enough to have many male teachers… great male teachers.  I often wonder if Brian will be able to say the same thing about his years k-12.

So, my battle continues on…

Until next time-

C

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/

A LITTLE SUNSHINE

Ahhh ... some good rest and Brian's return brings me back to center.  We went to the movies today - our date thing.  We saw "Little Miss Sunshine".  I laughed so hard I thought I was going to pee my pants.  It is one of the best movies I have seen in a long time.  Very funny stuff.

Olive, the little girl is exactly what I am talking about with kids. It was the perfect movie for where my head is with regards to Brian.  Friday morning I wrote an email to the school superintendent and tried to show as much restraint as possible for a redhead.  She emailed back the forms to pull Brian from his current 6th grade class and have him placed in another one.

My x husband is funny.  He was calm Thursday night, but when he awoke on Friday he himself was pissed and went to see the principal on his own.  He set a meeting for Thursday at 2:30 to discuss Brian.

After school on Friday Brian came to the office to help get out the monthly newsletter.  While sitting and folding I began to ask him about his class this year.  He went on to say how great the part-time teacher is and how much he likes a new friend in class.  I remind him the part-time teacher is leaving in January and he would have Ms (the teacher I have issues with) ______ full-time.  He looks up at me and makes a face.  I prod, "What's wrong with her?  It's ok, you know I always want to hear what you are thinking...”   "She's not very nice and makes me feel dumb", Brian responds.  You should have seen how quickly my x husband rises from his desk.

"You are the smartest kid I know" he yells as he comes out of his office.  "I know" Brian grins.  I tell Brian we can take him out of her class, but it is up to him.  I advise he shouldn't stay for the friend.  He needs to be where he is comfortable enough to learn.  "I don't want to be in her class," he says.  "Then your dad and I will take care of it" I respond.  My x puts his hands on Brian's head, "We love you".  Yes, that is my x, and he does love his son in his own way.

So now I will be filling out forms to pull Brian this weekend.  Many parents are afraid to do this.  I am never afraid to be the first to do anything.  Nothing ever changes unless you take a stand.  I want to send a clear message to this teacher that we see who she really is.   The district may never do anything about her, but they will know what she is all about.

Now it is the weekend and sounds of boys running in and out the front door occupy my evening.  The screen door regularly bangs shut like the beat of a kettle drum.  They are eating me out of house and home.  Occasionally they stop long enough to show me their latest cuts and bruises.  How could someone  not love teaching boys?  The way they squirm, twist, and push their chins up like they are tough before they run into another room while creating some odd sound.  I think I am in heaven.

In the words of Dwayne (Little Miss Sunshine): "You know what? Fuc* beauty contests. Life is one fuc*ing beauty contest after another. School, then college, then work... Fuc* that. And fuc* the Air Force Academy. If I want to fly, I'll find a way to fly. You do what you love, and fuc* the rest".

Amen.

Until Next time-

C 

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http://www.aweekinthelifeofaredhead.com

Tags: Little Miss Sunshine, www.aweekinthelifeofaredhead.com

SINGIN THE BACK TO SCHOOL BLUES

I am afraid I share my son's lack of enthusiasm for the return of the dreaded school year.  As the leaves turn the colors of Mars and the wind begins to blow from the cold north I realize that fall is upon us.

I am convinced the goal of a great many teachers in the public school system is to completely destroy a boy's love of learning.  And I am going to shoot you here sistas... I think we have waaaaaay to many female teachers who suck at understanding boys. Ok, I said it - now shoot me.

Yes, tonight it was back to school night for us parents.  Can ya tell?

Once a year we are forced to go sit in chairs 12 inches from the floor.  We then listen to some girl young enough to be my grand daughter tell all of us parents how we suck at parenting and it is television and video games fault that our children may struggle in school.  Oh yes, and how great her dad was at raising her and forbidding her from watching much TV.  Little lady, Brian had to EARN TV and just got one on his 9th birthday.  It was the same for video games, which I am all for.  As a computer geek I can appreciate the value video games have to offer.  Too bad public schools can't teach boys like it's one big video game.  We'd have to beg them to come home from school.

Just as I don't like mortgage loan underwriters who lack any life experience judging borrower's personal financials, I take great insult in teachers not much older than my son, married with one small baby telling others about raising kids.  Honey, have two more kids (one with a learning disability), get divorced, stay at school working until 6:00pm, then run to two different places to pick up your kids because your x won't help and try and stretch your food dollar like its rubber - do this for 5 years and I might give you credit for knowing something.  Otherwise DON'T TELL US PARENTS HOW TO PARENT.

Now, you can all laugh here because my x husband, the salesman dances around Brian's latest teacher like he is the grandest of all involved fathers.  Let us not talk about the fact that the last time he openeda book to read to Brian he was probably 4.  I know my friends are reading this and falling off their chairs with laughter... I am on a rant roll here.  Brace yourselves.

Little does Brian's new 6th grade teacher realize any contact she has had with my x husband is because I have had some sort of hissy fit forcing him to get involved.  This is usually because I am so exhausted I think life in prison after shooting him would at least allow me some rest.  He can sense I am done, and pulls the "I am such a responsible dad" thing.  I don't care, just as long as he handles it.

Ok...can I say it?

I don't like Brian's teacher.  I like the part -time teacher that helps.  She is a doll, but this new one has no idea what she has met in me.  (Girlfriends?)  The teacher and I started getting into it immediately when I asked about purchasing a 2nd set of books for Brian.  Brian's Title 1 team has already established this as part of Brian's Title 1 and he is allowed it under the law.  (I always donate them back to the school).  She told me she is saving the extra books for any new kids she might get and Brian was just going to have to remember his books.  Yeah cause I am sure with her attitude a flood of kids are rushing to get into her class...  The tone that she took with me as she began her excuses made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.  I thought of the poor innocent child who feels powerless on the receiving end of her condenseding attitude.  I was instantly furious.  Is anyone shouting CATHERINE BREATHE?

I sucked in wind looked her straight in the eye and answered through tight lips and glaring eyes,"I'll take it up with Susan then" (Susan the superintendent and I are on first name basis).  She began to back pedal a bit (still treating me like I am some idiot clueless parent) but I was already pissed (yes folks she does know Brian is in title one).  Brian's books often end up at some home of my x's current girlfriend - or someplace my x can't remember.  I guess she thinks Brian should be responsible for his dad's actions too.

I stared at her for the rest of the night and knew I was going to take this woman on.  I am often shocked that we still allow teachers into the school system who can be abusive.  I will see to it that she never forgets meeeting me.  If her parents were lacking in teaching her manners and consideration then I am just the redheaded mom to teach her.  Hopefully that poor shy boy that she wants to tear apart for forgetting his homework will get a reprieve as she sees my face as she is about to make him feel small.

She went on and on lecturing us on how we should "just let our kids fall" this year to prepare them for Junior High.  Yes, I suppose we should if we want them smoking pot and having sex at 13.  I think I will stay involved thank you very much.  Funny, in life we only get ahead with the HELP and ASSISTANCE of others, but we should just let our kids suffer - lost in their homework.  Brian is brilliant at Math.  He tells me to leave him alone when he is working on it.  He loves Math.  When the homework turns to reading and writing he asks to me to help him through it.  I will not "just let him fall" until he tells me to leave him alone just like he does in math. 

My x has never helped Brian with a single project, worked patiently through three hours of homework or assisted Brian in completing his first novel.  All of the schooling falls on my shoulders.  The 75% of the time Brian is with me is spent doing homework and then catching up on all the homework that doesn't get completed at his dad's.  Now, this isn't for Brian not wanting to do it - it is his dad dragging him to girlfriend's homes, or out to dinner or to a movie or even a sports event.  Everything my x needs or wants to do takes priority over Brian's studies.

Yet, when we get in front of the teachers he nods and smiles and acts like the perfect dad whereas I am the Tasmanian devil.  I now thinking I want this new teacher to divorce her husband, marry my x and THEN maybe we could come to some agreement. 

Brian still talks about his two kitties he loved, who lived with him and his dad.  The girlfriend over near Napa had them put to sleep because of whatever came down between her and my x husband when they broke up.  Brian was in second grade.  That whole nightmare STILL effects our lives to this day.  I was the one who found out what she had done.  I was the one that told Brian the kitties ran away - to watch his face twist in shock and then his begging to go look for them.  I was not about to tell him they were dead.  That night I went to bed and buried my head in my pillows and cried so hard I thought my soul was going to die.  Don't you dare tell me how to parent Brian.  My little brave "oobello man" and I have been to war and back and have the battle scars to prove it. 

There was always KB and my mom seeing us through it.

I know in my soul that Brian will be a great man. But God save him from some of these teachers.  I am so close to putting him in private school or charter school.  I am joining in on the fight in Congress to allow the $10,000 we spend on kids to go with the kids and not the school.  Then parents can put their kids in private school when they become as frustrated as I am.

Oh, and tonight I signed up to be on the school board...

KB is passing out now.

Well someone has to fight for all the boys stuck learning in this new environment.  I do wish teaching paid better soit would attract more men.  We saw a lot of male teachers during the Viet Nam war because if you studied teaching in college and became a teacher - you could avoid the draft.  Brian's teacher last year was the best.  She was female, but had boys of her own who struggled in school.  She really understood boys.  Brian adored her.  She also came from the corporate training enviornment before becoming a grade school teacher.  She came with real life experience - the best kind of teacher.

So here we go ... another year in the life of Brian.  Another year with his redhead mom fighting away for him.  He makes me laugh.  He's become such a little comedian.  He comes back tomorrow night. 

On a more humorous side note... Brian has decided to sell gift wrap this year.  It seems there is an XBox360 you can win. He has never wanted to sell anything before - except an occasional toy to his friends.  He is on page three of orders and approaching 750 dollars.  It is suddenly dawning on me that he can be quite the little sales man.

AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Please God no - not THAT...not ANOTHER salesman in the family.

I think I should rest this rant on THAT note... and leave you to your emails and comments.

Until next time-

C

PS.  It has been brought to my attention that a different x girlfriend of my x husband (I know - who keeps up?) is reading my blog.  Why I have no idea, since she swore she hated him when they broke up.  So why would you want to come read my blog?

Girlfreinds ... I just can't make this shit up.

C

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/

CROCK ON

Kids, like my son, will sure miss you.

If only teachers taught children about all subjects with the same passion, fearlessness and commitment.

But if there are crocodiles in heaven ... please get them in a zoo before I get there.

C

A GOOD MANY DRAMATIC SITUATIONS BEGIN WITH SCREAMING

At my x husband...?...

Just as Brian was getting really good at football and showered with attention, he decides to stop playing.

His backstage dad and the main coach were driving him nuts.

You can always tell the over-involvement of a parent in a child's life when the child makes a decision the parent doesn't like.  I was trying to pound home the point to my x husband that he was behaving like a fanatic-lunatic-over-obsessed-football-x-jock dad. Of course my x disagreed (as he tried pulling on Brian's jersey to see if it fits him) thus let the arguing begin.

I tried warning him.

Brian is self-aware and rather like an engineer, a type of man my x husband cannot understand.  When Brian has had enough of something wild horses cannot drag him forward.

So, Monday night Brian comes to me and says "Dad is driving me crazy.  I think the coach is scary\weird (he is) and I am starting to hate football.  I want to stop."  I grin to myself as I picture my x husband's head exploding when he is told this.

"Are you scared to tell your dad?" I ask him.  "Sorta.  He acts like this is the NFL." he looks at me like he is about to ask me to jump off a mountain.

Then ... he asks me to tell his dad with him.  OIY.  Can we wrestle a bear instead?

Are these the times we love parenting?  

At least Brian is to the age where we can talk openly about different subjects and negotiate an outcome.  However, this time it is about delivering news to his dad he isn't going to want to hear.  It is often hard to explain to some dad's that children don't belong to them, they come from us, but we don't own them.  If we are lucky, we can manage our children into adulthood and teach them to make positive choices in their lives.

Forcing a child to be what we might want them to be makes for one very screwed up adult later in life.  A kid has to find his or her own passion.  The kind of passion for something where they nag us to take them.  Tiger Woods wanted to golf and bugged his dad to teach him -  not the other way around.  So Brian has decided football isn't his thing right now.  It isn't like  he went out  a lit someones house on fire or  robbed a bank.

The season has not started, positions have not been picked.  It is an ideal time to withdrw from the team - before he is given a position they count on him to play.

To me - no biggie.

To his Dad...

We just ruined Christmas.

It isn't like I don't understand this.  What if I don't like Brian's wife someday?  I can't imagine this, but if it was a problem I'd find a way to be a Tour guide and travel the world.  I'd go get a life and leave my son to his own.  We need to understand that if we REALLY love someone, we must let go.  Love is always about allowing space for people to breathe - to be themselves.

Isn't there a song "Hold On Losely"?

Why do we treat our partners better than we treat our kids?  Why do single parents show compassion and understanding with their dating partners and then be closed off and rigid when it involves their kids?

C

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/ 

ONE WEEK AND SHE ...

It is interesting what can happen in the contents of a week.

My niece went away to college in Colorado.  Can we be this old?  It was just yesterday when she’d crawl up into my lap and order me to read a book, comb her hair or let her direct what I am doing.  She fascinated me.

Now, my brother is suffering at the empty nest left by her absence.  He is fighting the urge to get in his truck and go beg her to come home.  It has just been a week.  We never understand how much we love our family until we are separated.  Why is this?

I, in turn threw my back out.  At the age of 19 I was in a bad car accident.  I have had this back “thing” ever since.  Every now and then I abuse my back and it lets me know who is boss.  I spent two days in bed until I thought I was going to scream from boredom.  I then practically crawled to my truck, drove myself to my x husband’s condominium, and got in the hot tub in my gym clothes!  My aching muscles began to relax and I got up, went into the pool, and began to swim for hours.  Later, Brian joined me and I was able to change into my suit and continue swimming.  I love water.  Water took the bulk of the pain from me.

It is intriguing how water can eliminate pain.  By the time I was done I was able to walk upright and the pain was bearable.  Today I got up and was able to walk 3 miles.  The only thing one can do with unbearable pain is to work through it - just like I fight my thyroid symptoms.  We must never give up or give in.

Every time I look in the mirror...all these lines on my face getting clearer...

Brian is in 6th grade and hating the idea of being a boy trapped in school.  What do I say when I think the system absolutely sucks at teaching boys?  Let alone kids who learn differently.  Funny how in school they want the kids to learn the same, not think out of the box and work alone.  When you get into corporate America they embrace those who are mavericks who push the envelope and can motivate a team effort.  School can be terribly diconnected from the real world.

Most of the successful businessmen I know either never graduated from college or dropped out.  However, this said, I want Brian to have a love of learning.  I am hoping school doesn't beat this out of him.  And college is important, even if you only go a semester.  It creates a canyon between high school bullshit and a more profound life.

I want him to see the magic, wonder and possiblities of searching out an amazing life.  Just like my niece has these possiblities stretched out to her like a long wide open freeway for as far as the eye can see...I want him to go experience the same - and then some.

I gues at that point I will have to really let go and get a life.

Holy shit.

Until next time-

C

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/

ODE TO BRIAN

Sharpened pencils
No swimming pool
Peanut butter sandwich
It's back to school

Parents rejoice
Brand new shoes
Stuffed backpack
It's back to school

Yellow buses
New pants, cool
Oh God - homework
It's back to school

Another teacher
Recess rules
Screaming girls
It's back to school

Stuck indoors
It feels too cruel
Summer is over
I'm back in school

~ C

I love you Brian.

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Tags: http://www.aweekinthelifeofaredhead.com, Child poetry

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MANGERO LE MIE SCARPE ROSA!

Lately, I haven't written much about my Hashimoto's disease.  I guess it is time for a check in.  I want my story and struggle to be a part of this blog so that anyone else who is a single parent that gets sick may come here and get inspiration.  I still have my good days and bad days.  I am better when the weather is warm.  I notice when the fog moves inland here my symptoms seem to kick up a notch.  Honestly, it can be depressing and I must fight through the urges to stay in bed.

Many of you who have been reading my blog over the past year know my fight to find the right doctor and correct combination of thyroid meds to be able simply to function.  I was lucky enough to find Dr Gardner and have been working on me ever since.

He was the first doctor to acknowledge the correlation between how cold I always am to lack of functioning free T3 in my body.  He told me I wasn't nuts.  I was cold.  It angers me to think of the men I have dated who shrugged off the fact that I was often freezing cold - even in layers of clothes.

I still get brain fog and with all the exercising and careful eating I am having on hell of a time loosing weight.  Sleep comes and goes, as I have good nights and bad nights.  But I am better with T3 than without and now a new study finds -

The National Library of Medicine and the National Institute of Health has published the following:

"Supraphysiological cyclic dosing of sustained release T3 in order to reset low basal body temperature.

• Friedman M,
• Miranda-Massari JR,
• Gonzalez MJ.

Friedman Clinic, Montpelier, VT, USA.

The use of sustained release tri-iodothyronine (SR-T3) in clinical practice, has gained popularity in the complementary and alternative medical community in the treatment of chronic fatigue with a protocol (WT3) pioneered by Dr. Denis Wilson. The WT3 protocol involves the use of SR-T3 taken orally by the patient every 12 hours according to a cyclic dose schedule determined by patient response. The patient is then weaned once a body temperature of 98.6 degrees F has been maintained for 3 consecutive weeks. The symptoms associated with this protocol have been given the name Wilson's Temperature Syndrome (WTS). There have been clinical studies using T3 in patients who are euthyroid based on normal TSH values. However, this treatment has created a controversy in the conventional medical community, especially with the American Thyroid Association, because it is not based on a measured deficiency of thyroid hormone. However, just as estrogen and progesterone are prescribed to regulate menstrual cycles in patients who have normal serum hormone levels, the WT3 therapy can be used to regulate metabolism despite normal serum thyroid hormone levels. SR-T3 prescription is based exclusively on low body temperature and presentation of symptoms. Decreased T3 function exerts widespread effects throughout the body. It can decrease serotonin and growth hormone levels and increase the number of adrenal hormone receptor sites. These effects may explain some of the symptoms observed in WTS. The dysregulation of neuroendocrine function may begin to explain such symptoms as alpha intrusion into slow wave sleep, decrease in blood flow tothebrain, alterations in carbohydrate metabolism, fatigue, myalgia and arthralgia, depression and cognitive dysfunction. Despite all thermoregulatory control mechanisms of the body and the complex metabolic processes involved, WT3 therapy seems a valuable tool to re-establish normal body functions. We report the results of 11 patients who underwent the WT3 protocol for the treatment of CFS. All the patients improved in the five symptoms measured. All patients increased their basal temperature. The recovery time varied from 3 weeks to 12 months."

Well Halla-feckin-luah let me eat my pink shoes.

C

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/

THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN...

It is said that my mother taught me about weather..."It looks as if a tornado swept through your room!"...

If I had a dime for every time she said that to me I would have retired in opulence at age 30.

I am trying these years to take on more of a parent role with my mother, which my older brother scoffs and tells me to forget.  To him it is like trying to tell a hungry tiger who is boss ... eventually you will realize who really has the power...as you are being rushed to the hospital.

So this week I find out that my mother is planning on calling a cab to her house at 3am in the morning.  One of my cousins is getting married in New York and she is going.  Should I tell you that she is 78 going on 20?  I think it is great that she is so active, but if I told her that I was calling a stranger to my door at 3am she'd comment with one of her famous quotes like, "What in the hell were you thinking when you thought that was a good idea?"

I was thinking of a ride...

However, I would never ask her what she is thinking.  I do want to live to be 50.

I did volunteer to go to her house and stay the night and get up at 3am to drive her to the Airporter.  Call me nuts.  I don't want her riding in a cold cab (with a stranger) oat the beginning of her vacation.

It is rare that my mother allows us kids to take care of her.  She is so damn independent, and treats me and my brother like we are still teenagers.  I love her to death though.  This was a chance to take care of her for a change.  I cannot begin to count the number of times she picked me up and dropped me off at the airporter during my days of past work travels.

Walking into my mothers home is like walking into a time capsule.  I often think of the scene in "Peggy Sue Got Married" where Kathleen Turner goes back into her old home and suddenly it dawns on her that she gets to spend time with her family again. Her reaction as she moves down the hall is surreal.

My brother and my high school graduation photos greet me at the entrance to my mother's home,along with the living room furniture we never could sit upon growing up.  It smells of "welcome home" and the comfort food of love.  Everything is always the same - the furniture, the figurines, the photos and the lighting.  There are no surprises.

Stew is cooking on the stove as the smell of all day home cooking fills the room, making me feel spoiled before I give her a hug,  Her petite frame stands over the kitchen counter as she reviews her latest Irish catalog.  Soda bread rests on the counter, a martini next to the stove.  I collapse across from her on a bar stool, just like I always did growing up.  She reaches for a wine glass and pours me a glass of wine, anxious to tell me the details of her trip.  I sip my wine and return to 21.

I love watching her.  She pushes the Irish catalog over to me as we eye the Gaelic jewelry.  She is already thinking of my Christmas gift.  Hell, I haven't even shopped for Brian's school stuff yet.  I enjoy the moment and show her the watches I like.  We talk of Ireland and travel.  I am my mother's focus.  Funny how we still enjoy being the center of our parent's attention - even at my age.

Her dinner is wonderful, as she fuses about me - refusing my help.  We retire with tea to her computer. I check for it to be in working order.  Suddenly at 8:30, I feel exhausted.  I retire to the spare room to dress for bed.  You'd swear my mother spent time in the military for the way her beds are made.  It is this perfect origami of sheets and blankets combined with the fresh scent of outdoors - like bedding should.

I pause for a moment to smell the pillows.  My old rag dolls grin up at me.  Their imaginary voices fill my head.  They are glad to see me home.  I decide to lay on the bed and hug my old favorite doll.  The next thing I know I awake to a dark room.  For a minute I can't figure out where I am.  It dawns on me that I fell asleep.  At some point my mother covered me up and turned the lights out.  I am still curled around my old rag doll.  Somehow the sight of her 46 year old daughter in bed with her rag doll doesn't seem to phase her. 

I am overcome with a sense of peace and drift back to sleep.  It is the best nights sleep I have had in years.  My mother gently shakes me awake at 2:45.  So much for taking care of her.  I get up, throw on my sweats and place her luggage in the back of the truck.  It looks as if she has been up for hours.  i see her off on her bus and drive back to her home.  I could have returned to my place, but I still wanted to languish a little longer in the feelings of security I experience in her home.

I sleep until 11:00.  Holy crap.

C 

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THE BAREFOOT CONTESSA

Ah see...here I go again...

It has been a week since I have laid my fingers to this keyboard and added my latest thoughts here.

There now is ...life from the back of a bike...

I like it.  It is funny when we move past age 40; past worrying about the silly things we think important the first 30+ years of our lives.  We enter into this stage of life where we just don't give a shit what people think.  We have a rather amusing comedy going on our heads about this world we travel through.  It's like it suddenly becomes this game of how odd we can make strangers think of us - and even a few people we would like to leave us alone.

Maybe this is what happened to Mel Gibson?  HA!  I doubt it - poor chap.  Nothing like telling the world how ugly one really believes it is and showing how ugly one is inside.  I have been on the receiving end of such an ugly drunken tirade from someone who called them self a friend.  It makes one ponder, "How long have you hated me this much?"  Then you shrug your shoulders, figure it is their demons and get about your life.  Mel sure has some religious demons... maybe he knows this so-called friend?

Bigotry. (Sigh)

Back to bicycling.

Yes, I have become one of 'those" women who rides in a skirt, flip flop sandals and hair blowing in the wind.  No football helmet or riding gear.  Just the wind and me.  It makes me feel eight years old. Back to the days of riding my stingray with its banana seat, high handle bars and those long summer days.  Two of my best friends could ride with me on my bike.  Down the streets we'd go screaming and laughing.  There were no helmet laws - only the wind flow and motion of energy from the back of a bike.  If I could ride in my bare feet these days - I probably would.

This bike has made me realize how long I have beentaking life oh so seriously.  For someone to whom one's friends find to be the comedian in the crowd - I have been stoically serious within my soul.  Maybe when we get sick, bundled with our responsibilities to our children - we forget to do the silly things.  The little pill bottles, which line the windowsill, in my kitchen, remind me daily of the gravity of my disease.  But when did I forget to kick off my shoes, put on a skirt, hop on a bike and coast down a hill - legs extended wide to my side?

My son Brian loves it.  Hopefully I won't break my baby toes - like I did so many times growing up.  My ballet coach was forever harping at me the danger of going bare footed outdoors.  I never listened.  I still prefer to be bare toed.  We came into the world this way.

I have found myself yelling "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" as I race down hillsides, racing swiftly by cars.

I don't think I have ever yelled that during sex.

No matter how much I liked it.

People do yell how much they like my bike.  People in the neighborhoods I ride through are beginning to yell hello and my name.  We miss so much in the world from behind a windshield, talking on our cell phones with music playing.

I think they enjoy seeing this nut of a redhead cruising by on her retro bike with her Channel purse and flip flop sandals.  Some days Boonie the dog races at my side.  Nothing like a dog to show us the pure fun of racing through the wind.

I bumped into one of the Curves instructors who was concerningly apprehensive with me.  I was lost until I realized a neighbor probably directed her to my comments on this blog.  I forget this neighbor enjoys hunting down those I write about.  Talk about ones need to get a life.  But hey, just one more reader to this journal, right?  I find it humorous that some just cannot stay away.

This instructor is a nice person, just caught in a job she needs to support her son.  I like her, in spite of the silly Curves ways.  Hell, it isn't her fault - she is just doing her job.  And if it wasn't for the place I would not be riding my bike for an hour every day....right?

My bikes name is Betty.

Maybe that is what the guys are liking as I speed by ... girl on girl.

I am sensing some of you think I need to get out more.

Football season began for Brian this week.  It is back to nightly practices and sweaty gym socks.  I have missed the other parents and the kids.  It seems Brian is the boy with the largest chest and has proceeded to push every kid off the line.  This year'scoach is all over him, and the boys are gathering around him - shocked at his strength.  He is puffing up like a peacock.

So much so, that when the group of boys noticed that sometimes he can't get his words out, he was not daunted.  They asked, "Brian, why is it hard for you to get your words out sometimes?"  There he was - exposed -in front of his peers.  His answer, "I sometimes think faster than I can get the words out.  It happens to really smart people” The other boys, without missing a beat answer, "Yeh, that happens to me sometimes too".  And that was the end of it.  Later that night I asked him if that moment hurt his feelings, He responded, "No, they were just curious and probably want to help me".

Now that, my friends, is a big change.

I asked him if he thought I was a nut on my bike to which he replied, "No, I like your bike - you look cool."  I think he is really hoping for that new XBox 360 this Christmas...

We enjoyed a little rockin and rollin last night to the tune of an earthquake on Roberts Fault.  Somewhere a redhead was having sex...

I have become so used to them through my life. I rather think they are fun.  My very first earthquake experience was in grade school one night when my parents let me stay up late.  "Then Came Bronson" was just starting on the TV.  I was sitting on the couch next to my mother and the house began to shake.  I remember all the loud popping noises.  Our family stood under the front door frame.  There was a large blue flash over the Northern night's sky.  I was hooked.

Last night's ride was more the rolling type that comes without sound.  It even caught all the pets by surprise, as they did not respond until about 5 seconds into the quake.  Of course, I then had one hell of a time getting Brian to go to sleep.

School is just around the corner.  Brian is now in 6th grade.  Where do the years go?  It was just yesterday I was on the blue stingray bike with the banana seat riding up the middle of Alta Avenue ...

Bare feet and all.

Until next time-

C

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NIGHTMARE ON MOMS STREET

I had a bad nightmare tonight...

I haven't had one of these in ages.  I don't get much rem sleep, so dreams are rare.  Nightmares, more rare.

I have this recurring dream where I am in a Hotel and all kinds of things happen there.  It isn't always bad, often I am searching for something, which takes me out on to some large city street.

This nightmare, I cut my leg and then set down and pulled my leg bone half way out.  The visual was so disturbing that I awoke from my dream screaming in pain.  My neighbors must have loved it.

Don't you hate nightmares?  It is always such a relief to wake up and know it was just a dream.

I read that to dream that you have a cut, refers to feminine sexuality and feminine attitudes toward sex. In particular, if the cuts are on your legs, then it symbolizes an imbalance. You are unable to stand up for yourself. It goes on to state that to dream that you are cutting yourself, indicates that you are experiencing some overwhelming turmoil or problems in your waking life. You are trying to disconnect yourself from the unbearable pain you are experiencing. And, to see bones in your dream is symbolic of your underlying strengths that you have not yet recognized.

So ... my feminine sexual side is unbalanced, not being able to stand up for itself thus causing turmoil during the day because my underlying strengths are not getting attention...?

Hmmmm .... maybe I just need to be more of a bitch.

Hell...I'll scream at birds if it keeps these kind of nightmares at bay.

Maybe it is some sort of reaction from working out at Curves.  Being around all that chatter made me want to pull my bones out - rather than my hair.

God, I love my bike.

Until next time-

C

http://journals.aol.com/rapieress/Aweekinthelife/

 

CURVES UNNERVES

Do I start this blog entry with "Why I can't stand Curves gym"?  Because I have only been going for a month and a half and I hate it.  Not the working out part - I am loving working out.  It's this fluffy odd female place, that is like the Stepford Wives of gyms.  I don't like the Curves version of a workout place for women.  I think knitting burns more calories.

I am odd I admit it.  But when I pay money to go work out I WANT TO WORK OUT!  I don't want to chat, socialize or pretend to move.  I want pain, sweat and a lot of grunting.  I want results.

Apparently this is not what Curves gym is for.

At Curves (at least the one here) they arrange the workout sequence in a circle so that women can face each other to chat.  The instructors (who don't instruct) walk around the middle asking you about your day.  I am counting reps I DON'T WANT TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY DAY.  It takes me back to my ballet years where if you talked in class the coach would throw resin at you, or a shoe and the pianist would stop playing.  It was focus, focus, focus. I am wishing my old coach was in Curves to shout "Be quiet" and throw something at the chatters.  But alas, I only scream in my head.

I am told this is the idea of Curves.  To socialize.  Some sort of corporate cult that thinks that all women want to do is chat instead of actually working out hard.  I feel like I am in the Wal Mart of gym experiences and I am done.

Apparently I am not alone:

http://www.diet-blog.com/archives/2005/03/15/curves_for_women_a_lot_of_hype.php

The America's Council on Exercise writes the following about Curves:

"Greany warns that women should avoidthe temptation to turn their Curves workout into a social hour. Although the camaraderie and social reinforcement is an integral part of the franchise's success at attracting and motivating non-exercisers, on many occasions the researchers noted that some women seemed more interested in chatting than exercising. "Sometimes it really is kind of like an old fashion beauty salon where women go and catch up on what's going on," says Greany."

I am just not interested in this kind of Curves experience.  I think the women that go - keep their Curves.  I have run into quite a few women outside of the gym who also complain about the same.  They loved the concept, hated all the chatting and lack of professionalism.  Curves advertises that it is affordable, but around here for just 30 dollars more a month, you could join the Montecito Health Club and gain access to two pools (one in a hotel), tennis courts, weight room, classes in yoga, spinning and the like, sauna, jacuzzi, shower, lockers etc.  I think your dollar buys more at Montecito.

And at least if you are in a class with an instructor you don't have to worry about anyone bugging you during your workout - including the instructor.  So in frustration...

I bought a Retro bike!

And it is a blast.  Her name is Betty.  I have decided to ride her every day with Brian.  Brian has been bugging me to work out with him as football season fast approaches.  Now we can ride all over together and I am not hunched over on my nasty mountain bike.

The office is just a few blocks from his school, both only about a 10 minute ride from my place.  I can now bike everywhere.

And this bike feels like a Scooter ride,  It is so damn fun.

Also, our broker is paying for a YMCA membership for us all, So Brian and I can go lift weights during the children's time in the weight room.  I can now kiss this goofy workout place of Curves goodbye. 

You know, no wonder men think all we do is talk.  I can see where we drive men nuts with our blah blah blah.  I am canceling a gym membership to get away from the constant talking.  I bet men have moved far away from women just to get peace.  I think some of those women work out at this gym.  No men would ever join Curves - the talking would drive them screaming from the building.

With me right behind them.

Now we will have the adventures of Catherine as seen from the seat of a Retro bike.

Until next time-

C

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DOES IT ALL HAVE TO BE LIKE WAL MART?

This time each year the Bohemian Grove is in full swing and the Sonoma County Fair opens with the Champagne Preview of the Flower Show.  My mother calls her children to gather around her...one would think to take in the amazing display of delicate floral beauty that abounds ... but mostly it is a mother's desire to have her children near.

My brother brings his girlfriend Terry and I invite Stephanie, as McYummy is in Ashland Oregon and I share a common spirit with this friend:  we both have mothers who are Gemini.  Forgive me KB, but it's true...

In sweltering heat that touched 110 and felt like the surface of the sun, we drank champagne and dripped sweat.  The humidity filled the showroom floor and the flowers stood at attention.  I am thinking the contestants should have filled their landscape entries with flowers of a tropical nature, because I wonder how the flower show exhibit will last the length of the fair.

Sonoma County is rapidly changing.  It is readily apparent in this local fair.  It used to be the Flower Show Preview was hosted by the Welfare League.  The Welfare League was a local volunteer organization - a virtual who's who of old Santa Rosa money.  It was a honor to be a volunteer associated with this charity group.  We used to joke that you had to have a foundation in your honor just to be a member.  Each year the Flower Show preview was their grand ball of events.

Local caterers prepared the hor d'eovers in some secret back room.  The Welfare League volunteers served the paying patrons in full-length black tuxedos and ball gowns.  Diamonds dripped like the tulips that bare their namesake.  The Flower Show Preview sold out every year and you were lucky if you made it into this grand event.  And, of course, my mother invited me back then too.  I think she loved seeing what kind of gown I was going to wear and hoped I'd marry a doctor's son.  Unfortunately for her I always liked the guys that got their hands dirty for a living.

The Flower Show Preview was one of those events where you couldn't walk three feet without seeing someone you knew, in the packed crowd of 1400 and it could take 30 minutes to move 25 feet.  It was wicked fun.  Sometime back in the early 90s the Fair Director changed and a fight broke out between this Director and the Welfare League.  The Welfare League stopped hosting the event, and since then it has never been the same.

The flowers are always beautiful of course.  But, the original designer of this Hall of Flowers died some years back.  His designs were breathtaking.  He like to suspend art from the ceiling and make it the backdrop to the floral gardens.  One year, he built a replica of the Golden Gate bridge that hung across the ceiling from one end of the building to the other.  His water falls were legendary.  You'd swear you were entering Niagara Falls when your feet touched the ground at the enterence to the Hall of Flowers.

Now patrons wear shorts and jeans, there are lines for the food and no one walks around in a tux filling your glass with champagne over the roar of laughter, chatting and the famous water fall.  The exhibits are pretty, but don't take your breath away, or force a gasp and "wow!" from your mouth.

The back room off the floral showroom floor used to be filled with ammetuer entries from local gardens.  Now, it only carries a small assortment of succulents.  The room was once filled with roses of all varieties.  I guess there are no more women (or men) raising roses for competition at the fair.   Is this now a lost art?  The caterer use this room as an overflow, so the presentation of having a treat served to you from a plate from somewhere unseen is now gone.  People stand in line like cattle waiting for a feeding.  Now, I usually eat dinner before I attend, as I have no desire to stand in line for food.

The local wineries know what they are doing and step away from their serving tables to pour you a glass as you stand admiring a local landscape entry.  I don't know many people.  I am now among a few hundred strangers.  It is fun to be with family and friends among the smell of flowers.  But, I miss the endless stream of old Santa Rosans stopping to say hello, introducing you to someone new.  Sonoma County was a tight knit community.  Everyone helped each other, everyone liked each other. It was a forgiving place.

My family was always one of the last to leave every year...walking along with employees from Rosenburgs.  Mr. McNeany's voice bellowing somewhere in the distance. It is just the ghost of memories past that remind me of the days we were all friends in this community.  There was a sense of grace, trust and the feeling of being a part of a town that embraced and supported you - through all the stupid things we do growing up.

Like the Vegas of old, with it's dress codes and style the Preview of the Flower show has changed its grandeur to appeal to the masses.  Funny, it has never once sold out since they changed it...

Until next time-

C 

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SALAGA-DOOLA, MENCHIKA-BOOLA, BIBBIDI-BOBBIDI-BOOB

Only in my world, is humor mixed within tragedy...

Saturday, Dale stops by my home to drop off some financials and commercial development deals for me to work through while he is up North dealing with his father's death.

Now mind you, I didn't know he was coming, so there I was in house cleaning mode. Cleaning mode is no shower, hair up in a high bent pigtail, ugly sweats, barefoot, no make up and some god awful holy t-shirt.  Oh yes, and my worst bra.

You see ... I am one of those old-fashioned cleaning types, who scrubs everything on their hands and knees.  The very last thing I do is take a shower. I clean the tub just before I bathe.  I end the cleaning day all clean myself, and sit down to a nice glass of Pinot.

However, Dale arrives at 11:00 am, just after I scrubbed the kitchen floor and am in the bathroom cleaning the toilet.  This is definitely not clean, Pinot Catherine. Visualize bright green rubber gloves with your lovely picture of my cleaning self and you can imagine what I look like as I round the corner to the sound of his "Hello" coming through the screen door.

There he is all 6 foot, god-of-something feet tall, dark Amazon man in shorts, a pressed t-shirt - sporting a tan.  I'd smile big to distract him, but I haven't brushed my teeth.  I don't want to turn him to stone.

In he comes right into my mid-morning cleaning.  I notice Brian has dirty underwear at the entrance to his bedroom.  I am hoping Dale won't look that way, as I wonder how they missed the laundry I just completed.

Dale sits right down at my dining room table piled high with folded laundry.  He opens his leather bag and begins pulling out documents.  We make small talk, as I try to smell myself when he's not looking.  I am sure I smell something of laundry soap, boys old socks, pinesol and dirty water.

Then my heart stops.

His left arm is resting on the pile of my folded underwear. 

To the left of his hand, my folded bra - looking like some white boob laying face up on the table. 

"Please God strike me with lightning at this moment and remove me from this place - NOW!"

God rarely listens to me these days.

Luckily Dale doesn't seem to notice, or he is ignoring the pile.  I, however cease to hear another word he says, because my eyes are mortifiably fixated on my folded panties and white lace boob sitting on the table.  Good God I am in hell.

After what seems like three years, Dale finally has to leave.  He gets up and says goodbye.  To my relief my underwear isn't clinging to his arm hair. Brian begins to come out of his room and steps on his dirty underwear while saying bye to Dale.  Of course, Dale glances down at Brian's feet.  He grins.  Well... Dale does have 5 children - 4 boys and 1 girl.  He says nothing but a "Bye" to Brian. 

Is there is big hole for me to jump into yet?

As he walks away I check out his backside to make sure none of my laundry is sticking to him.  I am sure Cinderella had it better.  At least no mice ran across Dale's path as he walked out the door...

Until next time-

C

PS.  Now ... what in the hell am I suppose to do with his stack of papers?    

 

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GONE IN A FLASH

Man killed in collision with semi on U.S. 93

Thursday, July 13, 2006 5:38 PM PDT

ELKO — A California man was killed Wednesday after his vehicle hit a tractor-trailer rig on U.S. 93 about 15 miles south of Jackpot.

Eugene Edmund Palsson, 74, of Myers Flat, Calif., died at the scene, according to a Nevada Highway Patrol report.

Palsson had been driving south at 12:30 p.m. when he allowed his pickup to drift into the northbound lane and into the path of a semi.

The semi driver, Darryl Troy Wendlund, 37, of Calgary, Alberta, attempted to avoid a collision by steering to the right but the pickup’s left front struck the left front of the tractor trailer, according to the report.

Upon impact the pickup rotated violently counterclockwise and came to a stop on its wheels. The tractor-trailer stopped on the east shoulder.

Wendlund and Palsson’s passenger, Dustin Brown, 23, of Sacramento, both were injured and transported to Magic Valley Regional Medical Center in Twin Falls.

A SUMMER CAROL

We've all seen them, those contemptibly narrow in outlook people with 'petty little comments or deeds' who disgust us with their small-minded pettiness.  Those passive aggressive fits they have over relatively nothing... the obsessing over crap that just doesn't matter.  The girl that uses her keys to mark cars she thinks are parking in the spot she wants.  The the guy who pees on another's gym bag because he got the starting shot.  The the woman who must email other women they believe their boyfriend might have an affair with, even though the other women live 5 million miles away.  The the person who slows down when you are in a hurry.  The co-worker who tries to sabotage your work.  Sometimes it shows itself in people who get upset over nothing of great importance.  They take their anger to a level few understand, twisting and turning over and over in their heads the deed that gave them their self righteous indignation over something trivial.  Leaving the rest of us to scratch our heads in a "Huh?" as we slowly back away and try to distance ourselves.

I don't know if it is the full moon this week, but I noticed this petty mindedness and pondered what makes people like this.  You'd think they'd understand life is just too damn short.  My theory is people like this are so miserably unhappy in their life with no goals, plans, or real thoughts for their life (and taking the necessary steps to implement their dreams) so they stand around and stare out at the world through a very pessimistic and jealous view.  Some have a grandiose view of their importance in this world and have no clue that we don't give a shit.

I notice that my friend Stephanie, who is very fit and very beautiful, deals with women who immediately don't like her because of what she looks like.  I have seen it happen to her first hand and it blows me away.  I think beautiful, wonderful women are great.  So are men of the same type for that matter.  I guess there is prejudice of varying degrees no matter who or what you are. I prefer to admire a person's soul, not what they look like or what they drive, wear, etc.  It is the inner person you end up hanging out with - the other fades with time. When Stephanie notices the looks and comments from other women I am at a loss for words to comfort her and want to apologize for the small minded women everywhere.

This week I was also thinking about the loss of my dad, and how terribly short life is.  Maybe when you get sick and have to take tiny little pills the rest of your life you begin to really value your whole entire life - even the itty bitty details.  Every day I thank the heavens above for Brian and every aspect of my life.  It only takes a day for everything to change.  Do I want more from life?  Sure, but every day that I take a breath and walk this earth is a piece of heaven spent - no matter how difficult or laborious.

Maybe I was feeling signs of things to come as Stephanie calls to inform me that a friend's sister was in a car accident and the sister's boyfriend died.  The sister is in the hospital.  They were in a car accident leaving the party Saturday night.  I said my prayers for the family and then thanked God for my life as it is thank you very much.

Today Dale, my boss, friend and hero calls me.  "I need your help with some things" he says beginning the call.  I reply in humor "I'm BUSY!! Leave me alone!" as we both laugh.  He stops, "Cath, my father died last night."  A pin drops.  "What?" respond, as I go into shock, "He wasn't sick was he?" I ask.  "No, he was driving back from Utah and fell asleep at the wheel and hit a semi head on.  He died instantly."  Tears begin to fall down my face as I say, "I am so sorry, oh my dear God, I am so sorry."  We talk for a while about his dad, my dad and the loss of those we love.  He lost his mother at the beginning of this year.  Years like this knock you to the floor.  I still remember all to well the year my father died.  We swam in the mud swamps of hell.  The sticky mud of pain clinging like glue.  One bad experience after another, slapping us back down into the mud.  You begin to think you will never laugh again, or be free.  The mud seems to cling to you forever.  Until one day you remember how precious life is, and suddenly you hear the sound of your own laughter.  The magic that is life returns.

So there it was with Dale, the moment that makes us remember what really matters in life.  The story that makes us remember the mud and how everything can change in just one instant.  The love I feel for Brian, my mother, brother, family and friends is all that matters.  The things we do that make people remember our love for a lifetime is the most important gift.  Nothing else.  Not the who-is-parked-where-I-want-to-park so called problems, or who-did-what-to-whom prejudices, or the pouting-for-what-we-think-we-want behavior.  It's about trying to experience love every free breathing day we have.  There is an end to everyone's life.  The story does finish.  It doesn't matter if you are the President or the homeless man on the corner - it will end the same for both.  I make sure every time I say goodbye to someone I care for, I include those precious three words, "I love you."   

How do you want to remember life or be remembered?

I want to remember how much love I gave away and how lucky I was to be loved by the people who love me - past and present.  I don't need some Christmas Ghost of past or present rattling his chains on Christmas Eve to remind me the value of this life, and how unimportant so many things are.

My dear Dale, how my heart goes out to him and his family.  "God bless us, everyone."

C

PS.  I love you too.

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I INTEND TO LIVE FOREVER...SO FAR SO GOOD...

I once was told birthday celebrations came to be in ancient Ireland where evil spirits were thought to be more attracted to people on their birthdays. In order to keep away the evil spirits, big celebrations full of joy and well wishes were thrown for the birthday person.  I think the Irish side of my family believe the Irish created everything...

Oh, and there is also this silly Irish tradition of holding a child by their feet and bouncing their head on the ground the number of times equal to the child's age.  I am guessing this is why Irish men love Rugby.  Luckily Brian was born the weight and thickness of a football player, so no head bouncing in his world...yet.

But maybe the head bouncing thing does explain a great deal about MY personality...

Speaking of rugby, Brian begins summer school and football camp next week.  Frank Scalercio, an old high school friend will be coaching him at camp.  I swear we are not this old.

Luckily Frank is Korean - not Irish.

My fourth of July birthday always seems to stretch over a week or two like some pagan celebration. Rarely is it celebrated only on the fourth itself.  This year, it began with the Pennegrove Parade on July 2nd, a funky little home town parade in the city of Pennegrove.  It lasts one city block - well Pennegrove is really one city block.  All the bars are open (there are three on this farm town block) serving cocktails at half price in plastic cups.  I think they start serving at 8 that morning.

If we are in town (not away on vacation), my entire family, along with a group of cousins, meet there and treat me like the parade Marshall.  I am given this posh seat with a table and a front row view of the parade. This year Brian brought a friend and they caught so much candy it appeared as if they had gone trick-or-treating.  I was cool because basically I was allowing them candy for breakfast.

Once the parade is over, everyone in town walks down the street to the Pennegrove Park where a traditional fourth of July celebration begins.  There is a chicken, steak, hot dog, hamburger, and oyster bar-b-que.  There is a margarita bar, beer and wine.  A country western band serenades the crowd to dance.  Cotton candy abounds and the local FFA kids provide homemade desserts.  There are more cowboy hats than sandals.  Families pack the large checkered picnic tables, relaxing and enjoying the day.  The kids run wild among the buried large tractor tires, swings and vast blond fields of un-cut hay.  It is a child's paradise and I love watching how dirty Brian gets by the end of the day.

While seated on our circle of camping chairs, enjoying our drinks and telling family stories, I am approached by the photographer and journalist for the Village Voice.  The Village Voice is the Pennegrove newspaper, which is smaller than most high school newspapers.  He has heard the fourth is also my birthday and wants to know what represents a traditional fourth of July to me.  I tell him that besides the fireworks, it is corn on the cob, bar-b-que and sunshine.  I ask him if they need a free lance writer.  Hey - I never stop pursuing this dream.  He was a nice kid.  When I get a copy of the article I will try and scan it here and give everyone a good laugh.

The day ends at my mother's place where she serves her traditional cheese cake and gives me a gift.  This year it was a shirt that looks like something she would wear and a new make up mirror.  I swear I am not this old.  Brian is so dirty he looks like he is black.  These wonderful years with him are going by too fast.

For my birthday itself, Brian insists I take him to the beach.  Funny how our birthdays also become about the kids.  I finally agree, only if he is willing to wake up early and go at breakfast time.  Me and my big mouth... on my birthday morning he awakes me with a shake at 6:30am.  My bad, I guess I need to clarify breakfast time on a holiday.

I fix breakfast through sleepy, half open eyes and pack a picnic lunch.  Brian gathers Boonie the dog, blankets, pillows and anything he can get his hands on that qualifies as a digging tool - including my garden shovel.  We are out the door at 8am heading west through fog to the Pacific Ocean and a wonderful state park beach: Doran Beach.  By the time we reach the state park entrance, the fog has lifted exposing a beautiful sunny blue day.  Happy birthday to me. 

We have our choice of parking spots and unload our beach gear.  We hike over the soft sand dunes on to a wide white sand beach.  We are almost alone except for the local runners and hikers that exercise by the waters shore everyday.  What a life they lead.  Brian runs about finding just the "right" spot and we set up camp.  Before running down to the waters edge with the dog, he pulls a small bag from his things and hands me a birthday gift.  "Here mom, I love you" he says as he darts off in a dead run to the water.  I don't even have time to say a "Thank you".  I open the card.  He has written about a hundred "I love you's" inside.  I start to cry.  He is such a great kid.  I am so lucky.

Inside the bag is a digital camera.  He comes running back up from the water and dives on his knees to the blanket, sending sand everywhere.  "Isn't that cool?  Now you can take pictures for your blog like you want to", he smiles at me as he grabs the package ready to explain what a digital camera is.  Yes folks we are approaching the age where he thinks he knows more than me.  I let him explain until the dog is barking at him to return to the water.  Up he jumps with shovel in hand heading back to the softly cresting waves. "COME ON MOM" he yells back at me. 

I arise and look at this perfect morning at the beach.  Brian is truly brilliant sometimes at knowing exactly what my soul requires.  This ideal setting is precisely what I need.  I run down to the shore.  I chase Boonie and collect shells to remember the day.  Handsome men hike by remarking at the site of mother, dog and boy.  They see it is a classic Norman Rockwell morning for us ... and likely remembering their lost boy days of years past.

We wrap it up at about two o'clock as the beach becomes crowded for the fourth.  I am having my mother over for dinner and a group of us are walking up the street to watch the fireworks from the side of the hill.  Brian plans on making me a cake and helping me cook the dinner.  We need time for this project.  I thank him for a perfect birthday,  He grins and looks away from me.

Later that night as I am fretting over the fact that he is growing up, due to his ability to cook, chose presents and think of others ... he walks over at the beginning of the fireworks and sits on my lap.  He is almost the size of me now, but in this moment he is my little boy again.  I love the fact that cities all over set off fireworks just for me.  I remember last year we were with my cousin Mitch on the reservation setting off illegal fireworks.  No wonder Brian loves me.

I roll into my office on Wednesday to presents all over my desk.  Andrea has left me a bushel of hand picked lavender.  Barbara sends me a bouquet of flowers with a card saying she is making my x husband buy all of us lunch.  Stephanie stops by with a bag full of shoe desk accessories.  It is mostly a day of laughter.  Too bad work isn't like this everyday...

Thursday evening Stephanie takes me out for cocktails at the restaurant up the street and Friday is "Girls Night With Johnny".  Saturday I am invited with Stephanie to a private party up in the hills of Santa Rosa.  Jaysus, I need a vacation from my birthday.

I am another year older and so the fight continues...

C

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COMPUTER FLU

Ok, either it is my computer, AOL, or both, but I am having one hell of a time updating this journal.  I am working on my computer issues, but the AOHELL thing is out of my control.  I know it is time to move this journal to my own web site, but my x husband's business is booming (thanks to my marketing savvy and business knowledge).  Then add in Brian, family, friends and working out.  It is difficult to find the time to create and manage my own web site.  Plus, I want to go back to night school.  I used to always take college courses every year - just for fun.  Since Brian was born I have not been able.  He is now old enough, and my relationship is good enough with my x to start back taking fun college classes again.  I am feeling healthy enough to handle it all.

So bear with me as I try to update this journal without canceling AOL or throwing the CPU across the room-

C

PITSTOP

I know...I know.

I am not writing.  It isn't that I don't have ramblings to type - good lord you should hear my head.  My mind is a constant scrabble game of words.  It's just that I have been busy. 

And...I have developed this new thing where my legs are so exhausted at night they keep me awake.  It's like I must get up and dance, but really I recognize it as exhaustion without the ability to relax.  I cannot relax.  What the hell is up with that?  My legs require movement and they drive me nuts.

Then I find out this is called "Restless Leg Syndrome".  Oh fuck me for yet feeling just one more thing with my body.  What in the hell did I ever do to my body to piss it off in such a way that it makes every day living like a hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon with a 50 pound pack on my back and four inch heels?

So once again I am not sleeping through the night.  If I was married I could drive my husband nuts through the night, but alas I only have the TV remote to torture. 

I have received some emails from a few people wondering if I am ok.  I guess if one doesn't go back into the old archives, they wouldn't know that I have been dealing with Hashimotos disease for three years now.  Each day is a fight for me, I just don't always show it or talk about it.  People don't want to hear about someone's illness.  It makes them uncomfortable.  Sometimes when I am at work, without makeup, hair in a pig tail and gym clothes, I wonder if anyone realizes the effort it took just to be there.

No, instead it is as if everyone wait for me to arrive to get things moving.  I am followed about like a dog being chased by fleas.  Perfectly healthy people needing me as their touchstone to their day, including my x husband. 

Does anyone notice when I go off to a couch and lay down "just to rest a bit" ... or cut an evening short to go home to bed?  Or that I often have to sit down to take in a conversation?  No, I don't believe they do,because I am always laughing and making fun.  I love to laugh.  It's wonderful if I can get people to laugh at my craziness.

Maybe they need to think I will always be fine... that I am not sick... or note that I am in a fight for my life - especially the quality of my life.  Maybe it scares them, so to pretend not to see my suffering makes them believe it will go away.  Catherine the great always triumphs at everything - she won't let us down.

Now... my mother on the other hand just looks at me and always says "When was your last bowel movement?"  I would rather she pretend I am fine, but no, she looks me over and grills me with medical questions.  "Are those bruises on the back of your legs above those shoes?  Are you going to wear those shoes?"

Or, "I see a lot of cleavage there , do you have a safety pin?"  "No mom, we are not safety pinning my top" ...

It is the week of my birthday.  Happy fourth of July to me.   Yes, I was born at 5:30pm on the fourth of July many years ago.  I was to go out of town this weekend, but I am not feeling up to it.  Instead, I will surround myself with family and friends and look forward to a new birth year.  Maybe we will cure this disease yet ...

I am thinking of college in the Fall....

C