She Was My Daughter

I was there the night he raced home to welcome his new daughter. I was there when he got divorced; we toasted with champagne. And then she was mine--on weekends and school vacations for four years. I barely recognize her now. Her MySpace profile paints a picture hard to look at. She calls herself a loser, and worse. "Rebellion" inked large in the tattoos she boasts about. But it's more than that. She is angry and unabashedly telling the world with every self-destruction. It is my fault. I should have saved her instead of trying to save myself with him.

The Things We Do

She wasn't surprised, really. Like a feeble handshake, he'd made a poor first impression. A car salesman now starring in the role of entrepreneur. She could tell from the fake intonations and extraneous praise. She hadn’t heard from him since Jack was born a year ago. She'd gone into labor early and he hired another contractor because he couldn't wait. They needed the money, though, so she didn't hesitate. "Of course, we'd be happy to help you with that, Mr. Roman," she said, trying not to smirk as he handed her his credit card. It wasn't even his real name.

Can I Have My Technology on the Side, Please?

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I like my technology in small doses. A little bit of convenience here and there doesn't hurt, but I just don't feel the need to be plugged in all the time.

Sometimes, it doesn't make sense. Case in point: on Thursday, I needed to make a change to my checking account, so I called the direct line at my bank and this is how things went...

"Hello, thank you for calling your bank. How may I help you?" asked the customer service woman.

"I need to make a change to my account, and I'm wondering, is this something I can do over the phone or should come in to the bank?"

"Do you have access to our online banking?" she asked, which was not the yes or no answer I was looking for.

"I don't know." I responded.

"Well, give me your account number and I'll find out for you."

I gave her my number, and she put me on hold while she went to access my account.

"It looks like you set up online banking in 2005," she said, some five minutes later.

"Oh, I didn't know that."

"Do you remember your User ID and Password?"

"No."

"Ok, well, if you can answer your security question, then I can give you your User ID and Password."

Security question asked and answered correctly, she gave me my online banking info and explained, in detail, how to go to the website, which buttons to click, which numbers to enter where and so forth.

"Thank you," I said as I got online and hung up the phone.

Click this button. Now this one. Enter my User ID and Password.

"We're sorry, but this is not the correct information. Please enter your User ID and Password." read the screen.

Click this button. Now this one. Enter my User ID and Password, again.

"We're sorry, but this is not the correct information. Please enter your User ID and Password."

Click this button. Now this one. Enter my User ID and Password, again.

"We're sorry, but there have been too many attempts to access your account. We have now locked you account for security reasons. For the unlock key, please enter your email address here."

Apparently, "If at first you don't succeed..." does not apply with online banking.

Click this button. Now this one. Enter email address. Press return.

"Thank you. Your unlock key will be emailed to you shortly. DO NOT CLOSE THIS BROWSER WINDOW until you receive your unlock key."

So I sat and waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. No email. No unlock key. BROWSER WINDOW OPEN.

Elapsed time since initial phone call: 35 minutes. I closed the browser window and called the direct line at the bank.

"Hello, thank you for calling your bank. How may I help you?" asked the customer service man.

"I was trying to make a change to my account online, but I seem to have entered the wrong information and now I'm locked out. It's been 15 minutes, but I still haven't gotten an email with the unlock key."

"Sometimes it takes a while." he said.

"Is this something you can help me with?"

"No, you'd need to call our Online Banking Customer Service Department and they can walk you through the process."

"OK, well, let me go back to my very first question then. I need to make a change to my account, and I'm wondering, is this something I can do over the phone or should come in to the bank?"

He laughed. "Sure, give me you account number."

Tap tap tap, I hear in the background. Two or three questions asked and answered. Tap tap tap.

"You're all set. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

Elapsed time since second phone call: 3 minutes.

Women, Poets, Artists

Metamorphosis

Safely
wrapped
inside
the chrysalid.
Cloaked in
appropriate action
and matching
predictability.
Drone.
Dispassionate.
Dormant.

Until your ignorance—
of magic
and second chances
and love—
shattered
the false refuge.
And I,
laid bare
and fetal-curled,
with
old life seeping
from my eyes,
enough
to drown.

Choking, thrashing.
Retching words
of sorrow and
confusion.
Grasping helpless
in the murky
residue
of memory.
What light?
What life
beyond all this?

Until…
Colors
bold and strong
unfurled.
Beating in
singular cadence.
Defiant
in the face
of ordinary.
Hungry for
exultation.
Rising!
Reborn!
Resplendent!

What Sound, Change?

I remember
sitting on the front porch
that August night
my father died
thinking surely I would know.
Surely there would be
some sign
some sound
to note the if and when
of his passing

THIS IS THE DAY.

But
change needs
no fanfare.
No crescendo.

I remember
leaving you
two years ago
this day
thinking
“I will never see you again.”
No fanfare.
No crescendo.
Wet gravel beneath my tires,
winter rain against the window--
change’s only notes.

I remember.
Its aftermath
still echoes
like the tempest
that brews
overhead
this morning.

I want
the thunder to
crash loudly.
Rattle the roof
and windows.
Mark the anniversary
with ferocity

THIS IS THE DAY.

But
change needs
no fanfare.
No crescendo.

Joy Song

Every child is an artist.

Five Things

"Are you taking your vitamins?" asked my naturopath.

Why did I suddenly feel like I was going to confession? "Bless me father, for I have sinned, it's been three days since I've taken my vitamins." Even the giant pill container labeled Monday through Friday sitting right in front of the coffee pot--which I worship daily--has not inspired me.

The story goes like this...several years ago, my neighbor Marty told me she aspires to do five creative things a day. It was that comment that inspired me to try to add a little creativity into my own life--with pretty good results. Better results than the giant pill container, that's for sure.

I was thinking about the "five things" this morning, as I'm beating myself up for not taking my vitamins, not walking more, not eating better...not...and not...and not...all, of course, prompted by my naturopath's simple, gentle question.

My response to her question was this, "You know, in my ideal life, I would remember to take my vitamins, and walk more...."

In my IDEAL life? Who am I kidding? The only difference between my "life" and my "ideal life" is me! Right? There's not really much getting in the way of the ideal besides me.

And so I got to thinking...how hard would it be to remember to do five things a day? Five simple, don't take a lot of time, fill up those idyll moment in between work and dinner and dinner and sleep? Five things? How hard could that be?

The Five Things:

1. Take Vitamins
2. Move (walk, exercise, just move)
3. Drink Water
4. Put lotion on
5. Read or Write or Do Artwork

That's it. Those are my five things. It doesn't sound too hard, does it? Certainly manageable.

I figure if I post a few little reminder notes around the house, I may just be able to do this! Ideally, anyhow.

Will you join me? Can YOU do five things a day that you want to but don't seem to get to? And if so, what are YOUR five things?

Wise Reminder

Avocado Tuna Salad

A Good Book

What is a good book? For me, it's the one that grabs you, right on that first page, and makes you want to stay a while. "Nevermind the dishes, the laundry, the list of things to do—stay here and read some more," it says.

In a basket next to my sofa is a stack of good books. Or so I like to think. I haven't read them yet. To be honest, I haven't been much for reading lately. I'm too antsy. I can't sit still that long, right now. It's a phase.

I'm not sure what made me even think about reaching for a book yesterday, but I did. A well-worn John Steinbeck hardcover from 1961. I've never read Steinbeck, but I found it at the annual library book sale on the Green and it looked kind of fun. It's called "Travels with Charley" and is the telling of his travels cross country with his French poodle Charley in a pickup truck camper called Rocinante.

I wasn't sure what to expect. But, a dozen or so pages in, I was laughing so hard my cats looked at me with some concern.

"I thought I might do some writing along the way," writes Steinbeck. "perhaps essays, surely notes, certainly letters. I took paper, carbon, typewriter, a compact encyclopedia, and a dozen other reference books, heavy ones. I suppose our capacity for self-delusion is boundless. I knew very well that I rarely make notes, and if I do I either lose them or can't read them. I also knew from thirty years of my profession that I cannot write hot on an event. It has to ferment. I must do what a friend called 'mule it over' for a time before it goes down. And in spite of this self-knowledge, I equipped Rocinante with enough writing materials to take care of ten volumes. Also I laid in a hundred and fifty pounds of those books one hasn't gotten around to reading—and of course those are the books one isn't ever going to get around to reading. Canned goods, shotgun shells, rifle cartridges, tool boxes and far too many clothes, blankets and pillows, and many too many shoes and boots, padded nylon sub-zero underwear, plastic dishes and cups and a plastic dishpan, a spare tank of bottled gas. The overload springs sighed and settled lower and lower. I judge now that I carried about four time too much of everything."

I couldn't help but think of the giant red suitcase I carted with me to France last year, packed to the brim with all of the useful things I would need (and of course did not exist in a place like Paris)—enough socks, paper, pens, t-shirts, Q-tips and Zantac to last six months I think!

And then, while I was laughing and remembering that whirlwind vacation and being glared at by my cats, something very interesting happened. I sat still. Sat still for two hours, as a matter of fact!

A good book indeed.