All Hallows Eve

I love Halloween. At least, I used to love Halloween. It was my second favorite night of the year and every once in a while, it coincided with the favorite (fall back), making me the happiest girl in the world for a handful of hours.

I've been underslept for years, tired and somewhat delusional for as long as I can remember with great dark circles encompassing my eyes. Raccoons run in fear and confusion. But once a year, when the clocks change back, I almost get a full night's sleep. A whole extra hour to wallow in sleep, glorious sleep, luxurious sleep. I like it better than Christmas and my birthday combined.

Apparently, I am not alone; studies have shown a decrease in heart attacks immediately following the switch from daylight savings time and the extra hour of sleep. Conversely, the leap forward increases health problems. We all benefit from the return of that lovely, lonely hour.

Halloween, though, holds a separate but equally special place in my heart. The traditionally pagan holiday generally focuses on trick-or-treating, ghost tours, bonfires, costume parties, haunted attractions, jack-o'-lanterns, scary stories, and horror movies. While I love a good horror flick, a scary story, touring haunted houses and wielding a knife against poor, defenseless pumpkins, my favorite bit is buried there in the middle. Costume parties.

Granted, I do have very strict rules against dating anyone I meet in costume or uniform. Nobody wants to think of Ed Grimley or Robocop every time she sees her boyfriend, but Halloween isn't about hooking up. For me, Halloween is about dressing up, becoming anything I want to be for just one night.

Growing up, I spent a lot of time wanting to be someone else, smarter, prettier, funnier, more popular. Halloween didn't exactly give me that opportunity, but dressing up didn't just change my appearance. It changed me. What I lacked in real life, I found in costume: Confidence. It didn't even matter how I dressed – as an Ewok, a cheerleader, or Tinkerbell as a child or later as a flapper, a princess or black-and-white TV housewife, I had fun.

These days I don't dress up very much. The confidence from costumes seeped into real life and I realized I didn't need a mask or an excuse to be what and who I wanted to be. The appeal of Halloween started to wane as I ran out of candy year after year and found myself hiding in the bedroom so no one saw lights or the faint blue glow of the television and knocked.

It isn't as much fun living on Capitol Hill and answering the door to teenagers in street clothes carrying pillowcases and demanding more. They know where I live and I fear the tricks. They soon deplete the stock while the knocks keep coming. For hours, sometimes. With the holiday on a Friday, I fully expect trick-or-treaters until late in the night.

So, I'm leaving. Going out with a friend to a dinner, a party, a bar, sans costume. Unless I get really creative between now and then, I'm just going out as me. I might just be enough on my own to scare off ghosts, goblins and ghouls, Ed Grimley and Robocop. I don't date men in costume anyway.


Tag: Halloween Washington DC

Whirling Dervishes

The name inspired thoughts of some foreign combination of skirmishes and sandstorms, desert warfare and Tasmanian devils: Whirling Dervishes. It didn't sound religious, but Sufi mystics they were, whirling and twirling as they performed the Sema ritual.

The music evoked dreams of the east as I tried to place it. It didn't sound Turkish, I thought, something more... something. Exotic? Filled with loneliness and longing, while the dancers reminded me of ballerinas atop little girls' jewelry boxes, ever spinning, never spotting, arms aloft.

On Wednesday night, I joined a few friends at the Washington National Cathedral for Rumi & the Whirling Dervishes from Turkey: An Interfaith Offering of Mystical Poetry, Music, and Whirling Dance.

The evening started with an introduction and words by Faruk Celebi Efendi, the head of the 800-year-old Mevlevi Sufi Order of Turkey based in Mawlana Jalaladdeen Rumi’s adopted home town of Konya. Efendi claims direct lineage to Rumi as the 22 grandson or great grandson of the 13th century spiritual master and current number one selling poet in the United States.

Peter Rogen, a Shakespearean-trained actor, read the poetry in English, and Nuri Simsekler, head of the Rumi Society and an assistant professor at Konya Selcuk University in Turkey, read in Farsi. Both were accompanied and separated by the longing wistful notes of the reed flute.

They say there is a window from one heart to another
How can there be a window where no wall remains?
- Rumi

The poems seemed more romantic than spiritual with frequent references to love, beloved, lover. The Farsi escaped me, so I sat and listened to the music and the cadences of a language I didn't understand.

"Türkçe bilmiyorum!" I thought in not quite the right language.

After several poems, much music and a brief intermission – "It's only 10 minutes," ushers warned – the dervishes entered in their headdress and white skirts, shrouded by cloaks. Kneeling, bowing and walking followed and soon they crossed their arms across their chests, representing the number One, God's unity, before starting to whirl. Their arms came up, one with a palm toward God, the other palm down to the earth.

A couple of years ago, I saw their brothers in faith whirling in Istanbul at the Galata Mevlevihanesi (a Mevlevi monastery). The Sema hall was small and dark, crowded with people straining to see the floor that we circled. I focused on the faces before me, one or two at a time, eyes rolling back.

Gregangelo defines the whirling dervish as "A mystical dancer who stands between the material and cosmic worlds. His dance is part of a sacred ceremony in which the dervish rotates in a precise rhythm. He represents the earth revolving on its axis while orbiting the sun. The purpose of the ritual whirling is for the dervish to empty himself of all distracting thoughts, placing him in trance; released from his body he conquers dizziness."

Last night at the National Cathedral, an Episcopalian church, I sat in a balcony, watching five men whirling in white. It was totally different than what I had seen before, yet exactly the same. I was the one who changed – my position, my view.

I think I entered a trance with the dervishes, whirling in my mind and lulled by the music, the symmetry and spinning, the decongestants I'd swallowed with dinner as I struggled to keep from sneezing or coughing, as I struggled to keep from disturbing the dancers or other attendees. My trance didn't include the salutes or "selams," no actual whirling or transformation of rapture into love, just peace and silence as I sat and watched.

Christian, Jew, Muslim, shaman, Zoroastrian, stone, ground, mountain, river, each has a secret way of being with the mystery, unique and not to be judged.
- Rumi


Due to the prohibition of photography at the event, the included images were taken at the Galata Mevlevihanesi in Istanbul, on November 11, 2006.

Tag: Whirling Dervish Sufism Rumi National Cathedral Washington DC

Boob Girl

My chest and I have had an uneasy relationship. When I was a kid, my mom got us (my siblings and me, not my breasts and me) a book. Actually, she got us a series of books, by Peter Mayle, that embarrassed the heck out of us and made for interesting dinner conversation: Why Are We Getting a Divorce?, Where Did I Come From?, What's Happening to Me? A guide to puberty.

I was six.

I think it started with my parents' separation and divorce and just spiraled out of control. The books sparked the conversations that my single mom didn't want to have but needed and didn't know how to broach. We learned from the books and if we had questions, we asked. Or didn't ask. I had just learned to read and the (incredibly graphic) illustrations and pictures somewhat scared me. All I knew was that I didn't want that to happen to me. Any of it.

Unfortunately, a couple of years later, it all crashed down on me and by the age of eight, I started wearing a bra. Because I needed one. I fought for a while, embarrassed by the bra straps under my leotard at dance class, the discomfort, the fact that I was the only one in my class wearing one, but eventually I gave into reality. I needed a bra.

In fourth grade, I burst into tears when Tommy Butler put his hand on my back and felt the band, and I couldn't stop crying when Mr. Knapp with his handlebar mustache asked what was wrong. I didn't know how to say that I was embarrassed by my body and blooming-more-than-budding breasts at age nine. I hadn't learned the word "mortified" yet.

The breasts came from my dad's side of his family, from his sisters and mother. (My dad himself is appropriately flat-chested.) My A-cupped mom didn't know what to do with them or us (my sister and me), so she bought baggy clothing. The bigger the sweater, the better. She didn't want men to stare; apparently, she didn't care if people thought we were fat.

She couldn't stop them, though. The men who stared. The ones who leered and talked to my chest. The dirty old men who asked me out when I was barely 16. The boy from my high school who asked if I'd let him "suck on [my] titties." The drummer from band who offered me a ride home and stuck his hand down my shirt. I wanted to curl up in one of those very large sweaters and die.

Meanwhile, my breasts continued to grow. C cup in junior high. D cup in high school. Somewhere in the multiples of D after that and even when I lost loads of weight, they stayed. Mocking me. Forcing me to buy bigger dresses and to eschew the thought of running. Ever.

An exboyfriend and I fought over his friend's nickname for me: Boob Girl. The ex couldn't understand why I wasn't amused. I didn't understand why he needed to mention it. Over and over again. I counted at least seven references in the course of three days. It was part of myself that I couldn't change, like his freckles or height. Nobody called him the freckle-faced boy.

I had trouble looking professional with my ever-popping button down shirts and uncomfortable suit jackets. I often faced the choice of "fat" or "whore" with ill-fitting clothes. Eventually, though, I learned to appreciate my curves and dressed to minimize, to maximize, to flatter. Sometimes, I even put them on display. Low cut shirts and dresses. Décolletage. Cleavage. Straight female friends couldn't stop staring, wanting to touch them. Men came up to a bartending ex and asked, "Did you see that?" They didn't know we were dating. A friend's husband wondered aloud about the physics behind them.

I never showed more than a small portion of my chest but a small percentage of a lot could still be a lot.

"If you've got them, flaunt them," a 60-year-old woman told me in a bar one night while a friend shook her head and muttered about decorum.

They didn't arise very often, the comments, the questions, because I didn't do it very often. Flaunt them. What most people didn't know was that they generally came out when I was worried about the fate of my breasts. My dad's family didn't just give me rather large breasts but quite possibly the genetic markers for cancer. (Though, it is on both side of the family.)

At the age of 30, I found my first lump.

My first mammogram and ultrasound, my first biopsy, my first meeting with an oncologist and surgeon would be followed by my second and third. I am only 33. At this point in my life, I have clinical breast exams every six months with annual mammograms and will do this for the rest of my life. I have heard the words "double mastectomy" mentioned in all seriousness by a surgeon.

I think about my life without them, without breasts at all. I think about chemotherapy and radiation. I think about losing my hair – I want a temporary Mohawk before that final cut. I think about taking care of myself during treatment because I am all alone and I wonder which, if any, of my friends would take off work to help. Would I or could I even ask? Could I come home from chemo by way of Metro? By cab? Could I still work with treatment, if only from home? Would I get reconstructive surgery? Would my body still feel like mine?

October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, dedicated to increasing awareness of the importance of early breast cancer detection. According to the American Cancer Society, it is the most common cancer among women in the United States and the second leading cause of cancer death in women.

About 182,460 women in the United States will be found to have invasive breast cancer in 2008. About 40,480 women will die from the disease this year. Right now there are about two and a half million breast cancer survivors in the United States.

The chance of a woman having invasive breast cancer some time during her life is about 1 in 8. The chance of dying from breast cancer is about 1 in 35. Breast cancer death rates are going down. This is probably the result of finding the cancer earlier and improved treatment.

Early detection saves lives.

* Perform monthly breast-self exams
* Get regular mammograms starting at age 40
* Get annual clinical breast exams
* Obtain a risk assessment from a physician

Your breasts will thank you. Boob Girl thanks you.


Inspired by Toddler Planet, the story of a survivor.

Tag: Health

Seven

My niece Remy Claire turned seven on Sunday, the same age as a young boy in the news, Jennifer Hudson's nephew Julian, and I can't shake from my mind the image of the smiling boy from the pictures, found dead in the back of an SUV.

My niece Remy, at seven years and two days, wants toys in the line of the Littlest Pet Shop. Maybe. Just a little. She won't commit to a gift in case she wants something more and I won't send anything because I'll see her in little more than two weeks. We can shop together; she can have what she wants – Littlest Pet Shop for our little veterinarian and maybe some books for the avid young reader. Then, again, she likes the library because she can exchange them for more.

I was the same at seven, a reader. While she prefers the Magic Tree House, I edged toward Little House on the Prairie and Nancy Drew. The girl sleuth had the world in her hands with an adoring boyfriend, a doting father and a never-ending line of sports cars and inexhaustible funds, not to mention her smarts. Best friends. Her housekeeper Hannah.

The folks in the Little House on the Prairie books had fewer "things." Laura Ingalls ran around barefoot in the Big Woods of Wisconsin and on the banks of Plum Creek. From a "little half-pint of sweet cider half drunk up" to "half pint," she moved ever west with her family, seeking the traditional American dream, one of open roads and success through hard work rather than fame and wealth.

We introduced the books to my nieces on our own trip west this summer, heading to Minnesota and North Dakota, the site of our roots. We wanted to take the girls to Walnut Grove, one of the Ingalls' homes, but we ran out of time. My brother and I came home after a week. Our sister and the kids stayed a bit longer, trying to find peace as they escaped from their home and a neighbor/former tenant who literally threatened their lives.

Later, we would drive back – my sister and I with the kids in the car for a three-day trek from Virginia to southern Minnesota, not too far from Walnut Grove. They are staying a few months with our grandmother, their GG, going to school, joining scouts, still looking for peace, but when asked for her birthday wish, my niece asked one other thing, "I want to go home."

I almost cried. So did her mom. I could bring her home. I could buy her a ticket or drive them back, but that would not make anything better. The neighbor/former tenant still lived down the road and while my brother-in-law returned to the house without incident, one could not be sure that everything would be fine. They could not get a restraining order. They could not stop anything – not the water in the gas tank or the broken brakes, not the man who tried to run over my nephew or the neighbor shooting at "birds" in the direction of their house. The only way they could feel safe, for the moment, at least, was to stay in Minnesota.

My niece turned seven on Sunday in a place far from her home. She had new friends from school over for cake and it snowed on her birthday, flurries outside. On the news, a desperate plea arose for another 7-year-old, Jennifer Hudson's nephew Julian King. The next day he would be found in the back of a car, shot to death. The Chicago Tribune presented the possibility of domestic violence and both his uncle and grandmother were killed.

I was fortunate enough to grow up without domestic violence in my life. My first exposure came in high school. Our church ran a shelter and they needed a babysitter, so I went. I sat. I played with the kids. The older sister of one my own sister's friends lived in the shelter with her baby. I babysat for her throughout high school; I was never allowed to open the door, to answer the phone, to admit that I was alone with the baby.

A few years later, after college, I went back to Ohio for a wedding and recognized one of the bridesmaids as a girl from my freshman dorm. She told me that her boyfriend at the time beat her regularly, and I was the only one who ever tried to stop him. I had called the police. These days I read to kids in a shelter, "long term transitional living for abused women and their children." I don't do much. We read, talk, do crafts and eat snacks. I don't do enough. I don't know how to do enough to make the world safe for 7-year-olds.

"Should the Hudson family slayings prove to be the result of a domestic dispute, they will stand out from countless other such deaths that go largely unreported by the media," the Washington Post stated on Tuesday.


Tag: News

Marine Corps Marathon

My body aches. My arms hurt from hours in the information tent, gesturing widely toward the baggage check and the starting line. My feet hurt from an unfortunate choice of new boots and my legs from hours and hours of standing and walking. My throat hurts from shouting over the music at the starting line and cheering for strangers: "Great job, runners!" and "Way to go!" My hands hurt from clapping, but I have no room to complain. Thousands ran 26.2 miles yesterday in the 33rd Marine Corps Marathon. The People's Marathon. 18,273 Finishers.

I didn't run. I won't even pretend that I considered running because I didn’t and wouldn't and couldn't. I'm not a runner. I'm barely a walker and at times, I have trouble just standing still without falling over. Nevertheless, the Marine Corps Marathon wiped me out.

It could have been 4 a.m. alarm, the need to get up and to the Runners' Village by 5:30. I couldn't Metro because Metro didn't run early enough to get me there on time. Even the 5 a.m. start preceded by an almost two-mile walk to L'Enfant wouldn't work because 5 a.m. meant the end of the lines, not the middle, so I drove to Pentagon City and walked a mile or so to the Runners' Village with a friend.

Walking would be par for the course, a route much shorter than 26.2 miles, to the Pentagon North Parking and back to the cars, to the 14th Street Bridge, through Rosslyn, to the Metro at Arlington Cemetery when the line at the Rosslyn Metro spanned blocks. All in my unfortunate choice of boots. Then I went home, changed my shoes, and left to meet a friend for a Haunted Georgetown walking tour.

Before that, the covolunteer and I would spend three hours, maybe more, at the top of the 14th Street Bridge, watching for a friend in black and white - white tank top, black running tights, white hat. The covolunteer planned to run the span of the bridge with her, but as hard as we watched, clapping and cheering, we didn't see her.

"How fast is she running?"

If she ran the planned eight-minute mile and started at five or 10 after, she should have been there by 10:50. We got there sometime after 9 and watched the elite runners, the ones or twos who passed by themselves. The cyclists. The slowly growing packs. 10:50 came and went, as did 11, 11:15, 11:30.

"If she's not here in 15 minutes, let's go to Pentagon City" turned into 15 more and Crystal City and at a half past noon, we rode to the finish and dealt with the crowds in the Rosslyn Metro station. We had been standing and clapping for more than three hours. Shouting. Reading the names from shirts and cheering for strangers.

"Looking good, Billy!"

"Good job, Laura!"

"Nice mohawk!"

"Go, Team Travis!"

The latter, Team Travis, memorialized 1st Lt. Travis L. Manion USMC, who died April 29, 2007 in Iraq. The team's runners raised money for the Travis Manion USMC Memorial Fund, an organization that supports the families of wounded and fallen soldiers. We saw so many runners in Team Travis shirts as we stood, clapped and waited for the friend we wouldn't see 'til the finish line.

She fell prey to an injury around mile 17. Maybe 18. She ended up running and walking more than 22 miles over the course of the day, at least four on an injured leg, and she cried in our arms when we met her in Rosslyn. She had looked for us for more than an hour on one side of the bridge and another hour on the other. For us. Her mom. Another friend who would run with her to the end.

We had plans to meet, a schedule we had worked out and a game of phone tag as we watched for the runner who had run it before, in honor of her dad, a Marine. She had run three or four other marathons besides, over the years, but a long season of races ravaged her body and she couldn't run any more.

I had volunteered in her stead, so she could run. Our friend had volunteered with her. Five hours on Saturday, three on Sunday and hours of cheering. I didn't sign up, but I would do it all over again, even if she had never started the race. Standing there, giving directions and handing out bibs, clapping at the side of the road for people I didn't know doing something I couldn't or wouldn't do just seemed right.

Congratulations to all who ran, whether or not they finished the race. As I read on a shirt at the Expo Saturday afternoon, "The miracle isn't that [you] finished. The miracle is that [you] had the courage to start." (John Bingham).


Tag: Marathon Running Friends

Early to bed

Bed by eight. I would or should be embarrassed to admit that I went to bed by eight, but that's how I roll. Early to bed, really friggin' early to rise. For the second weekend in a row, I volunteered to work a Sunday morning race. Last weekend, I might have acted a little… irresponsibly Saturday night. My 6:15 pickup came far too early considering my three o' clock return home.

When the phone rang, I scowled at the clock.

"It's only 5:10," I protested, trying to read time and understand it, both of which were beyond my grasp.

"Nope. It's 6:10. Both the clock in my car and the clock on my phone say six."

I shook the cobwebs from my head.

"Let me put on pants."

This weekend I know better. I need to be in Arlington by 5:10, meeting up with a friend to walk over to the Runners' Village at the start of the Marine Corps Marathon. It's going to be a very long day.

Saturday wasn't exactly short itself as I joined the co-volunteer and our marathoning friend for a trip to the armory and a five-hour shift of bib pickup. I worked numbers 10500 to 11999 with a pair of Marines – one young and married, the other 27 and not. One of their moms volunteered with us.

Visions of the armory in my own hometown danced through my head. Seasonal craft fairs. The occasional dance. A sleepover? I don't remember any other use for it. Definitely no marathons.

By the time I left, we'd developed a routine and I made the men laugh by retrieving bibs before they called the numbers. I had to look over their shoulders. I couldn't really hear them anyway with a woman shouting near the front door.

"10K to the left, marathon straight ahead!" echoed through the hall and cut through the crowd every few seconds. Most of the time, "marathon" sounded more like "merthon" and "straight ahead" sometimes came out as "straight up" but people seemed to understand where they needed to go. For the most part. We had to send some people to the booths to the left or right – we only had numbers 10500 through 11999 – and it always took a minute or two to realize the error.

I had to face the bins with the bibs whenever the Marines pulled tricks on marathoners, told them they'd have to pay a $5 fee – credit card only but we didn't take cards or only by check but we didn't have pens. They appeared so stoic, so serious and intimidating in their uniforms and shiny shoes. Their hats rested on the table behind us.

"Marines scare me," said one of the women. "I would have believed you."

The men just smiled.

"Shhh… The next one," one of the Marines warned. "You can't laugh. I'm going to tell him he can't run."

"You can't do that," I protested. "You're going to break somebody's heart!"

I faced away and rifled through bibs, knowing I'd laugh if I turned. Shake my head. I could see packs of cigarettes under the counters and Lemonheads from where I stood. Smiling faces. Bad jokes. Men who were human inside the uniforms.

One of "my guys" froze when a siren sounded and didn't quite move 'til it stopped.

"That took me back," he said. "I've only been back from Iraq for three months."

He said he would soon head to Afghanistan; though, he didn't like the idea of the mountains. We talked about doing something between now and then, going to a lounge for drinks.

"Are you really leaving?" he asked at the end of my shift. "Why?"

We'd spent five hours together, laughing and talking. They were still working when I crawled into bed to watch a movie and read. Write. They'd work until nine and get up at two to work security at the Marathon. I'd soon follow. early to bed and early to rise might seem rather lame but I have places to go. We all do.


Out there things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen,
don't worry. Don't stew.
Just go right along.
You'll start happening too.
- excerpted from Oh, the Places You'll Go by Dr. Suess


Tag: Races Volunteering Friends

Tagged for my weirdness

Delinquent. Horribly, horribly delinquent. Last week, Cyndy at Photocynthesis tagged me for a meme. I mean to respond right away, but life got in the way. And so I'm late.

Better late than never?

Here are the official rules:
1. Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blog.
4. Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

And here are the seven random/weird facts about me:

1. I think I have gravel in my chin. There's this weird little bump that I constantly think is a pimple but really it's not. It's either a scar or a bit of debris from when I totally bit it last fall on the way to a wedding. We taped up my chin in the car. I looked real pretty at the wedding, Steri-Strips, bandage and all. I probably should have skipped to go to the hospital.

2. Part of the reason I give my hair to Locks of Love stems from the fact that I'm convinced, on some barely conscious level, that God's going to punish me for pride in my hair. I lost a patch the size of a silver dollar once. Freaked me out.

3. Engraving plaques, platters and jewelry with a tracer-controlled engraver was the most stressful job of my life.

4. My closet is organized by garment type and color. At the moment, the rest of my apartment is a mess.

5. More often than not, I sleep with the light on not 'cause I'm scared. Really. I swear. Don't touch that light. But I don't like getting up once I'm comfy and the light's just so far away.

6. I put on my socks and shoes with sock, shoe, sock, shoe instead of sock, sock, shoe, shoe.

7. I miss the Tiffany tape in my car from college almost as much as I miss the car itself – Li'l Vicious – with its propensity to break down, its lack of air conditioning and its sporadic heat.

Running just as fast as we can
Holdin' on to one another's hand
Tryin' to get away into the night
And then you put your arms around me
And we tumble to the ground
And then you say...
I think were alone now

The hockey boys found it every time.

Now it's time to tag everyone. Of course, I'm really, really bad at the tagging. So many people have been tagged in the past couple of weeks that I might fail at steps three and four. I'm strangely tempted to tag people I have no business tagging - people who hate me, people I dislike, exboyfriends, whatever - making the whole meme rather inappropriate and that's just wrong.

Right?

I am feeling a little twisted. I blame the plastic in my tooth and the fact the Novocain eventually wore off, leaving my mouth bruised and sore. I'll leave the rest at "tag yourself, if you want to write."


Tag: Meme Personal

Rooting for the home team

"Good luck with your tooth surgery," my nephew said. "They're going to tell you it's pressure, but really it's pain."

His 10-year-old voice rang through my head for the rest of the night, the morning and even as I sat in the chair with my head back, watching the endodontist at such a strange angle, working in my mouth.

My heart raced as I left the apartment and walked toward the Metro, pumping blood to my freezing phalanges in the almost freezing autumn morning. Even the layers of shirt, sweater and jacket with the comforting feel of favored old cords did little to stop the shaking, but that might have been anxiety more than anything else. Root canal.

"I've got a mule and her name is Sal, Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal," danced through my mind. "She's a good ol' worker and a good ol' pal..." Mentally, I juxtaposed the C&O Canal in Georgetown with my angry mouth. The resulting image didn't make sense but it distracted from the stories I'd heard over the day: a coworker who failed to finish her multistage process due to the pain on the first visit, recurring visits for the pharmacist's assistant and an eventually-pulled tooth, a friend's wife with multiple visits and as many crowns.

None of it sounded good.

I shook slightly as I sat in the waiting room, filling out paperwork, agreeing to pay if insurance didn't and wondering how much my aching tooth would cost me. I signed the waiver agreeing that I knew there might be complications, more pain, more surgery. When I ended up in the room I could see from the desk, my heart sank and the shaking increased. There wasn't a door. What if I embarrassed myself?

Outwardly, though, I appeared calm and collected or so I told myself as I smiled and sank in the chair. I read my book and really only jumped once, when the assistant accidentally snapped my lip with a metal brace meant to isolate my tooth.

By that point, half my mouth had turned numb through a topical anesthetic and a couple of shots – one I couldn't feel on the outside gum and one I could in the roof of my mouth. I closed my eyes behind the cheap plastic sunglasses they'd given me to protect my eyes from the light, my lashes brushing against the smudged lenses, as the assistant tapped my shoulder and I cringed from the pain of the second shot, closing my eyes. Strangely enough, though, that was the end of the pain.

With my nephew's words echoing, I noticed the pressure of the band around my tooth and the rubber sheeting stretched across my lips, the drilling, the brushing, and the rubbery strands, the root canal files, the gutta percha, inserted into the empty canals. At points, it felt like my tooth would soon pass through my check bone, but it didn't hurt.

I could smell the latex of the pink rubber sheet on top of my mouth – the rubber dam – even though the bit over my nose had been cut away, scissors flashing in the light. I smelled the bubble-gummed anesthetic and the ice with which the assistant tested for sensitivity and numbness, the ice, which didn't smell like ice at all, but some sort of chemical. I could smell and see the smoke from the soldering iron the endodontist used to seal my troublesome tooth.

I watched the whole thing through the cheap plastic lenses of somebody else's sunglasses. My vision blurred without my own glasses and my perception faltered with faces and hands so close to my face, with pink rubber at the edge of my site, with light in my eyes. I didn't wet my pants, shriek with pain or otherwise embarrass myself.

"You are a good patient," the assistant told me after the last x-rays, when she removed the lead apron and the waxed paper bib, and I smiled.

"I'd rather have a pair of shoes for that much money," I joked with the receptionist.

"As your mother would say, 'Health first,'" one replied, and health did come first. I spent hundreds of dollars removing the nerve from my tooth. I would spend hundreds more before all was said and done.

When I first got to work, I stumbled over my words, smiling a strange half smile. I could taste the Diet Coke on only one half of my tongue and the memory of pressure lingered long after the Novocain faded.

Later, my head would ache from the stress of it all. The anxiety. The anticipation. I couldn't open my mouth very much without pain in the joint of my jaw. My tooth would weigh heavily in my mouth, feeling more solid, less fragile despite the temporary filling that meant I couldn't chew with the teeth on the right. I couldn't quite chew on the driver's side either, with an already-broken tooth, and I relegated myself to soup and overcooked vegetables for the rest of the day, wondering about the rest of the week, the month, the year.

Insurance would cover only part of one crown, not the two that I needed, but at some point, I could eat again. For the moment, my mouth felt better than it had in years. I didn't even realize the pain with which I lived until it was gone.

"If I put up with less," I wrote to a friend, "I would be much happier."

She said I put up with too much. She might be right if the rest of life can be fixed so quickly, so (relatively) painlessly. I'm just not sure.


Tag: Dental Pain Root canal

Feeling better

This week, I feel pretty wretched. Terrible, really. And this morning, I'm getting my first (emergency) root canal, about which I know very little but I hear that they're painful. I don't know if they're better or worse than the pain echoing through my head, but I'm scared. What if I can't take it?

I am not a fan of painkillers but yesterday I found myself popping the cap of a prescription. It lasted about an hour. I would need something else.

So I found an article listing 10 ways to release endorphins, neurotransmitters or chemicals that are used to relay, amplify and modulate signals and our bodies' way to reduce pain. I don't know much about the science behind them, but they come from a number of sources and help us feel better. A few of the ideas are listed below.

• Think positive thoughts
• Work out
• Get moved
• Catch a few rays
• Have a giggle fit
• Chow chocolate
• Be afraid

I have got the fear, which naturally led to the chocolate, but I'm still trying to find something to make me laugh. As for the list, the rest of the list, I have a plan in mind: On Saturday, I will to walk in GuluWalk 2008.

Until a few days ago, I didn't know anything about it, but someone sent me a link.

"Thousands of people in more than 80 cities around the world are preparing to walk this Saturday, October 25 – to raise their voices for peace and stability in northern Uganda."

GuluWalk started in 2005 to raise awareness and to assist the displaced children of Uganda. In that first year, two men, the founders, Adrian Bradbury and Kieran Hayward, walked 12.5 kilometers each way for 31 days to bring attention to the night commuters of Uganda.

At that point, tens of thousands of children, known as night commuters, walked into town centers seeking safety in shelters set up by aid agencies, with the Ugandan government unable to end a brutal 19-year war and protect them from rebel attacks.

In 2005, Amnesty International "estimated 30,000 child 'night commuters' [fled] their homes at night and go to urban areas and to the centre of larger camps for internally displaced persons (IDPs). A main reason for this movement [was] to escape attacks and the risk of abduction by the Lord's Resistance Army (LRA), and a general climate of insecurity."

Between then and now, the situation in Uganda has changed. The International Criminal Court issued warrants against a number of LRA commanders, charging them with crimes against humanity and war crimes, including murder, rape, sexual slavery, and enlisting of children as combatants but even with the warrants, the former nation of Idi Amin isn't exactly Disneyland.

The CIA's World Factbook cites Uganda as subject to "armed fighting among hostile ethnic groups, rebels, armed gangs, militias, and various government forces that extend across its borders; Uganda hosts 209,860 Sudanese, 27,560 Congolese, and 19,710 Rwandan refugees, while Ugandan refugees as well as members of the Lord's Resistance Army (LRA) seek shelter in southern Sudan and the Democratic Republic of the Congo's Garamba National Park; LRA forces have also attacked Kenyan villages across the border."

"Congolese vigilantes ambushed marauding Ugandan rebels who launched a wave of attacks on villages at the weekend, but the rebels fought back and killed at least six of them, U.N.-backed radio reported on Tuesday," Reuters reported on Tuesday this week.

Just researching the country overwhelmed me, but the news wasn't all bad. Night commuting has stopped. The HIV/AIDS rate has declined. The Peace Corps has returned, and a couple of guys in Canada have brought people together in 80 cities worldwide to bring attention and money to the situation.

On Saturday, October 25, "actor Forest Whitaker, NBA star Steve Nash, opera singer Measha Brueggergosman, former World Junior Middleweight boxing champion Kassim 'The Dream' Ouma, former UN Secretary General's special envoy for HIV/AIDS in Africa Stephen Lewis and actor Melissa Fitzgerald" will walk in support of the children in northern Uganda.

"Where will you walk?" the website asks.

As for me, I'll be here in DC - doing good and feeling better.

It's not too late to sign-up – online registration at www.guluwalk.com closes on Thursday, Oct. 23 at 6 p.m. EST, but anyone can register on site the day of the walk.

In order to ensure that funds are used effectively, GuluWalk partners with existing, locally-led organizations whose programming already delivers sustainable and empowering programs for Uganda’s youth. GuluWalk partnered with four organizations: the African Medical and Research Foundation (AMREF), Canadian Physicians for Aid & Relief (CPAR), War Child Canada and the Liu Institute at UBC.


Tag: Walking Uganda GuluWalk

Two words

Root canal.

That's how I'm spending the 8 o'clock hour. Wish me luck. As my brother told me, I'm growing up. Generally, I'm proud of the fact; at the moment, though, I just want my mommy.

Excruciating

Excuse me for a moment for what is sure to be brief and inarticulate post. I am in excruciating pain. Horrible. I think that I have an exposed nerve in and under one of my teeth and just when I get used to it, something happens to make it worse. Like swallowing.

I called my dentists' office, but nobody answered. I left a message, forcing a smile and pleasant demeanor as I mentioned that I'd appreciate a call back as soon as possible because I was "chowing pain pills."

I called my insurance to make sure that they would authorize emergency dental work as I've been waiting three weeks for preauthorization on a crown. Which isn't even the tooth with the pain. I was discouraged from that approach, but it would work. The woman at the other end of the line also noted that they wrote the dentist for more information about the royal tooth, the molar that I've temporarily filled myself at least seven times while awaiting the approval. As a vegetarian, I am going to need that molar.

I found a list of dentists accepting new patients in the area in case I cannot reach my own – his office closes at noon on Wednesdays and Thursdays and waiting 'til Friday or next week will find me curled up in a ball under my desk because I still have work to do, regardless of pain.

In the meantime, I must hurry up and wait for someone to call me back, for an appointment, a metro ride to Virginia, for something to relieve the exquisite pain in my mouth that ranges from a constant dull ache to tear jerking agony.

The funny part is that I don't really like my dentist. A year and a half ago, he filled the tooth that just broke and two years ago, he filled the one that hurts like the dickens. Not that I'm aware of Dickens' level of pain, but the man wrote by the word about some of the more unfortunate segments of society. I imagine it rather extensive. Both of the troublesome teeth had been previously "fixed" by my troublesome dentist.

Given my current misery, I don't think he did a very good job.

Not only that, he generally makes me cry and he always makes me bleed as he tears rather heavy-handed at my sensitive gums. He thinks I need to floss more. I think he needs to take it easy. He's the only one who's ever had this effect, but I don't know how to find a new dentist when I really need one. I can't wait another six months for a regularly scheduled appointment to take care of the irregularly exposed nerve in my mouth. Even with painkillers.

My dad suggested that I fly to Ohio and see his own. I'm tempted to take him up on the offer.

Much to the surprise of doctors and nurses and the consternation of family and friends, I don't generally take medicine unless it's prescribed and even then only to fix things. I think that pain indicates a problem that needs to be fixed and masking the pain only leads to more problems, like walking around on a sprained ankle.

"It's OK. I can't feel a thing!" until I awaken to the throbbing.

For the past couple of weeks, though, I've been surviving only through the grace of God. And acetaminophen. And Excedrin migraine. With a bit of caffeine. And walking for the endorphins. I can't really sleep anymore. I don't want to eat. My mind's starting to slip and frankly, it didn't have all that far to go.

The dentist just called back, the partner of the man who makes me cry, and they can see me this morning. I'm almost tempted to skip. To find a new doctor. But I don't know whom to call in case of emergency. No glass to break. And something must be done. I just worry what will happen six months from now. A year. Two years down the road with his type of "repair."

For the moment, though, I'll take the quick fix and something to stop the pain. Excruciating. And I have so much more important things to say, to write, to do and to live. So much more of life in which to sink my teeth. They've got to stop hurting.


Tag: Teeth Dental Pain

Lost and found, the story of a strap

I first saw it Monday afternoon when I was walking to work. (I worked from home in the morning.) It was gone by Tuesday, after I'd moved my car from street-sweeping side to non-street sweeping side, and I looked. I wanted to know if it would still be there, how it got there and what one would do with a bra strap in front of his house.

Did someone come back to look for it?

How did it end up there on a Monday afternoon, on a brick sidewalk in front of Federal-style rowhouses? Or were they Georgian?

Wouldn't one notice if she lost the strap from her bra?

And it was definitely a bra strap, all stretchy and shiny with hooks on each end – it must have come from a convertible bra, one that could be switched from strapless to strapped, halter or crisscross. That kind of strap was really too long, given the haltering, and never quite fit, but it didn't generally fall off, not when one was walking down the street toward the Metro or work.

The questions plagued me during the whole two-mile walk. I knew there was a reasonable explanation and I knew that I would never hear it.

A lifetime ago, in college, I lost a plum satin negligee. Lord only knows how I came to own a plum satin negligee in college, but I did and it must have slipped off the top of a laundry basket. I didn't quite know it was gone until I saw it in a puddle at the side of the road, near the railroad tracks.

"What is that?" I wondered at first and "How would a negligee end up at the tracks?" before my moment of head-smacking clarity.

I never went to retrieve it.

In my current neighborhood, I've seen mittens on fence posts and lost, lonely hats. Socks. A shoe. A pair of shoes. More than one jacket. Eventually, they disappear from the morning commute only to be replaced somewhat later by another lost item. They don't really mean anything to anyone but the people who lost them, the people who find themselves home with only one glove or a single left shoe, sunglasses sans case, cases sans sunglasses, a bra without a strap.

At home, I have bags of buttons and screws, strange pieces of metal that came from something, somewhere in my apartment. I have a box of cords and chargers for pieces of equipment I no longer own, for cell phones that have been lost along with the numbers of friends, family and the men I once loved, for the VCR that stopped working ages ago but still lives under my bed. I have a bag full of unmatched socks in my drawer, in hopes that I'll someday find their mate.

I've lost negatives, despite binders sorted by date. Sunglasses. Keys. My purse, wallet, and phones. A copy of the Odyssey, translated by W. H. D. Rouse. Gloves, hat and scarf - once all together. Friends. Lovers. Three of my grandparents. My temper, my cool and sometimes my way. A plum satin negligee on a college street near the tracks, and sometimes I feel, as Mark Twain once wrote, "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most."

Years ago, I found a disposable camera in an airplane seat pocket and I kept it. I never got it developed but I still have the camera in my desk drawer. Someday. Maybe. Memories of somebody else's life waiting to be exposed. I have a college friend's blanket on my guest bedroom bed and my mother's ex-husband's grandmother's quilt on my own. I doubt either know that I have them, and I've never tried to return them.

I wonder at times if the things that I've lost, the sunglasses and keys, purse, wallet and phones, the copy of the Odyssey, translated by W. H. D. Rouse, have made it into other people's lives. Where have they gone, the things from my life? Do they sit on fence posts waiting to be found? In the middle of a brick sidewalk in front of Federal-style rowhouses? Or are they Georgian?

Found Magazine collects found stuff: "love letters, birthday cards, kids' homework, to-do lists, ticket stubs, poetry on napkins, telephone bills, doodles - anything that gives a glimpse into someone else's life. Anything goes..."

What sort of glimpse does my stuff offer of me? What does a black bra strap on a Monday afternoon say about somebody else?


Tag: Lost Found Musings

Backyard Burn

"So cold," I thought and tried to find someplace to put my hands, to warm them, to dispel the pain. They fluttered from pocket to pocket and ended up resting icily against my collar bone, but they wouldn't stay long. "Good morning! How are you today?"

"Cold," the man answered as he handed me his form.

"I know! You'll soon warm up, though."

I found his name on the list and wrote his number in the corner, illegibly scribbling with the pen grasped in my frozen claw of a hand, and smiling broadly. Keeping up the banter. I found his packet, the bib, the coupons and slid a pen through open top.

"Here you go," I smiled with chattering teeth and motioned toward my friend in a Vanna White pose. "And K will grab your t-shirt for you."

I grabbed my own t-shirt before I left, the newest in an ever-growing pile of race t-shirts I'd accumulated through walking and working. At the moment, though, I left the shirt in the box. With short sleeves, it could only do so much to help, so I stood, smiled, jumped around and danced spasmodically along with music that blared from the speakers, trying to keep warm in Wakefield Park in advance of the first of the Backyard Burn series of five- and 10-mile trail runs.

I am not a runner. Chances of me on that trail doing anything other than walking are slim to none. None to none? I never planned to join them, but a friend told me of the need for volunteers, so I crawled out of bed on three hours sleep to join her at the registration table for the men's five-mile run.

"How are you doing today?" I asked with a smile as I collected the waivers and handed out bibs. To the teenagers, I asked ""Can I get you to fill out the blue form?"

My nose ran, which I could feel and a co-volunteer noted.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it - my tissues are in the car."

I considered my sleeve. My teeth chattered. My fingers curled up in pain.

"The last time I can remember my hands being this cold," I observed as I breathed into the cup they had formed, "I think I was in Minnesota. I didn't have gloves and was playing in the snow."

At some point, though, a man came up and gave me a pair of his own.

"You look so cold," he said. "You can keep them."

"I'll be here after the race," I said. "We're doing timing."

After the start of the race, we moved from the check-in tables to the tent at the end of the course. For two more hours, we stood in the sun and collected the strips from the bottoms of bibs and, in some cases, the bibs themselves.

"Good job," we said as the runners came through the chute and we collected the sweaty strips of waxed paper. "Great job!"

I saw my friend, the man with the gloves, when he crossed the line and one of our 16-year-olds with a blue form. Both finished in the top five of their respective categories and I cheered for them, for all the five-milers I'd seen over the course of the morning. For everyone really.

"Great job!"

These people had run five miles or 10 along dirt trails tangled by roots. More than a few of the bit the dust and nursed scrapes, bruises and sprains. They ranged in age from 13 to the 60s and finished somewhere in the two hours. Maybe a little more. Very few people came out to cheer. There wasn't a band at the end; the ones who remained sat in the grass, in the sun, and waited for the awards that included a round or rock-paper-scissors and a comparison of injuries.

They did it for the love of running. I'm not sure why I was there but I am so glad I went.


Tag: Races Running Volunteering

Renaissance

The invitation came with a backhanded apology for the cheesiness we were about to encounter, but even that, the apology, having been once before, and a week's worth of preparation didn't quite prepare for the Maryland Renaissance Festival. Somehow, I must have downplayed it in my mind: The sheer abundance of breasts, the men in kilts and robes, masks and horns, the rodents pinned to people's garb.

Actually, I don't think I knew anything about the rodents pinned to people's garb, but the rest of it, I knew. The drinking, the jousting, the people in costumes ranging from "I have a tunic in my closet maybe I'll wear that" to "they don't dress that well on the Tudors." I had almost forgotten the man I once dated, the one who spent his two weeks' vacation in costume at the Faire, but that was a lifetime ago.

I'd also forgotten how incredibly fun it could be.

We got off to a late start and a little confusion with the directions made us that much later. Nevertheless, we apparently arrived before the big, last weekend rush.

If I'd known that the line at the archery stand would soon stretch back to the Dragon's Lair, I wouldn't have put it off. It was only fair that I shoot an arrow as my friends had just chucked throwing stars.

"What about you, princess?" asked the man whom by instinct I would call a carnie but for the medieval midway.

"No, thanks," I said.

"Don't want to have fun?"

"I'm afraid of sharp, pointy things."

"I'll give you the dull ones," he offered, but I declined. I'd have to make it up with the arrows, or so we planned, but the line grew and grew.

We made our way to the Blackfriars Theatre for the Medeival Babes and the Globe Theatre for Tag Team Romeo & Juliet. I slipped in the stands at the Joust Arena and thoroughly dusting my bum, my legs and my bag, but enjoyed the joust nonetheless. Lances breaking, horses galloping, men wearing metal.

"Huzzah," we cried as led by the man in the red and yellow satin suit. "Huzzah!"

We missed the "swordswallower extraordinaire," which was fine with me as they tended to make me nervous. We shared a glass of mead and an order of Sir Munch-A-Lot's deep fried Oreos, with one apiece. Nobody wanted to try the Twinkie, and I'd had one years ago at the Great Frederick Fair.

My friends slid down a slide, bumping and laughing the whole way. One sluiced for polished stones. We looked in the shops with names like "My Lady's Gourds" and "Bee Hind," laughing over the thinly veiled sexuality of the whole event; though, even "thinly veiled" might have stretched the covering a bit.

We didn't Drench the Wench or throw Battle Axes from the Stupidhatarea. No turkey legs. No hot apple dumplings or croissants sundaes, but the day grew short and we grew cold. Back to 2008.


Tag: Maryland Renaissance Festival

Sleep safe

The chirping woke me. I looked at the clock and expected to see seven, eight, something later than the one that showed, and the detector chirped again.

"Oh, come on," I groaned and rolled over in bed.

Saturday morning was my first morning without obligations, without expectations and a need to rise early. I didn't have to be anywhere 'til 10 and at 10, I just had to be home, dressed and ready to go. I could rest. Recover. Enjoy a solid night's sleep for the first (and probably last) time in weeks.

Chirp.

I pulled myself from bed, from the warm flannel sheets and walked into the hall. I peeled my eyes open to stare at the smoke detector. I didn't have a nine-volt battery; I knew I didn't have a nine-volt battery because I'd looked just few hours earlier. The detector had been on my mind.

Chirp.

I crawled back into bed, tossed restlessly for another hour or three before the chirping and the cabbage I'd had with dinner got the best of me. To the bathroom to sit on the cool tile floor before the cold porcelain god. Waiting for the feeling to pass, I scrubbed the toilet.

"Pretty," I thought, and "The cleaner smells nice."

Chirp.

"How long?" I wondered. "How long between chirps?"

And so I counted. 30 seconds. 30 Seconds to Mars. Jared Leto. Life on Mars. I thought of a friend with her own smoke detector problems; though, hers was hardwired into the electrical system of her house. She didn't sleep well for weeks, months, until it was fixed. She seemed so frazzled.

Chirp.

I once spent a night in a hotel room with a dying battery or faulty detector. I called the front desk but they refused to do anything, to find me another room or repair the alarm. It was among the worst nights of sleep I'd had in a place where I paid by the night, where I paid explicitly for the pleasure of sleeping. I should have been more assertive.

Chirp.

Harrison Bergeron entered my head or rather his father, a man with a "hearing aid" sort of the device that shattered his thoughts every few seconds. Equality by way of the lowest common denominator and the dumbing down of society. I wondered about the links to current society. The presidential election. The media.

Chirp.

Someday, maybe, I would grow into the type of person who remembered to change the batteries every six months, but probably not. In the near term, though, I would include a walk to the store for batteries and hope for an afternoon nap.

"It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn’t think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains."
- Excerpt from Harrison Bergeron, by Kurt Vonnegut (1961)


Tag: Sleep Home Smoke Detector

Tell me a story

"There was one little baby, who was born far away. And another who was born on the very next day," the author read in her lilting accent and I smiled, pulled toward the edge of my seat and waited for the next page, the next illustration, as this woman read out loud to me.

I wasn't a kid. This happened on Monday when famed children's book creators Mem Fox and Helen Oxenbury came to DC to promote their new book, their first joint project: Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes.

Now, I don't really know much about children's books. Dr. Suess. Eric Carle. And... Um... I don't really know much about children's books. But I love books. I read for myself, to my nieces and nephews and every four weeks, I read them to kids in a shelter.

At some point, I started to grasp the significance of the event; it might have been the gushing of the hosts and the author over the illustrator. Later, reading descriptions that listed the pair as "titans," reviews that compared the pairing to a movie costarring Robert DeNiro and Al Pacino, it clicked. At the beginning, though, I just knew that I needed to be there. Fall training. Listening to a woman with a shock of short-cropped red hair and dramatic flare, a lovely accent flavored with bits of Australia, South Africa and England.

"Children love to know that they are loved. It makes them feel so safe," Fox gave as a reason for reading and writing.

The author had written a number of books for both kids and the people who love them, including Reading Magic: Why Reading Aloud to Our Children Will Change Their Lives Forever. Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes was released on the first of October this year, but as Oxenbury noted, it sounded so familiar. So comfortable. Like a favorite pair of jeans or did she say jumper in her soft English tones?

With her hair piled on top of her head and a reserved demeanor, Oxenbury contrasted with her vivacious counterpart.

"I really don't know," she said when asked for the secret of success in creating books for kids. "I really don't know what it is that appeals to children."

She noted that some chose to draw like children, assuming that because kids drew at a certain level, they wanted to see pictures at that level.

"They jolly well don't," she disagreed. "They like to see something better."

And better she provided with giggling, rolling babies in watercolor that reminded me, strangely enough, of Beatrix Potter. Someone asked about that in the Q&A session that followed, about a traditionally English style of illustration and the use of watercolors to which the artist replied, "English landscapes are sort of gray and wishy-washy," worthy of the medium.

During the session that followed, a young man, a boy, asked a question about his favorite book of hers and the differences in drawing adults and babies. He knew the illustrator so much better than I did; though, I did recognize the author of Chicken Bedtime is Really Early, Erica Perl.

Maybe I did know more about children's books than I thought.

In the middle, though, as author and illustrator traded lines in their delicious accents, I forgot about it all: The reasons to read, the methods of illustrating, the technicality. I just enjoyed the experience of someone reading to me.

There was one little baby, who was born far away.
And another who was born on the very next day.
And both of these babies, as everyone knows,
had ten little fingers and ten little toes.

A few days later, I'd refer to the reading and book in a political discussion.

"It's just like this children's book I just read," I wrote. A modern nursery rhyme about the things babies everywhere have in common. "The point of it is that every baby is different but they all have 10 little fingers and 10 little toes. Well, most of them, anyway."

This evening was co-sponsored by The Children’s Book Guild of Washington DC, DC LEARNs, Reach Out and Read of Metro DC, The Reading Connection, and the Women’s National Book Association (DC Chapter), and The Washington Post. By the end of the night, I wanted to join them all.


Tag: Books Washington DC

Ashtray to ashtray

Tuesday night somebody got into my car. I'd say that he/she/it broke in, but that's just not true. I drive a Wrangler. You can unzip my car. I unzip my car. That's just how it is. I leave the doors unlocked.

For the most part, it works. Leaving the car open. I remember that I shouldn't leave anything worth stealing and people leave the windows zipped closed. Win, win. I have a mess to clean more often than not, but I can deal with that.

On Wednesday morning, though, when I left the apartment and found the passenger door open, I almost kept walking. I knew that meant someone had gotten in my car and I didn't want to deal with it. I had a headache. I'd had a headache for more than a week and seeing my car, post-invasion, wouldn't help. But curiosity got the better of me. I walked back to the car and opened the door.

Cans. Bottles. Granola bar wrappers were tossed throughout the car but the quarters on the dash and the floor stayed where they were. Antibacterial hand gel on the seat. Trash on the floor. Ashtray in the seat.

I stopped there: Ashtray in the seat.

Whoever got into my car broke out the ashtray and left it in my seat. They didn't take the money, the quarters, the only thing of value in my Jeep other than "The Bad Girls' Guide to the Open Road," which nobody ever takes, but they broke my ashtray.

Standing on the sidewalk, wearing my backpack and my walking shoes with my skirt and blouse, I shook my head. The police wouldn't open a report. Insurance would do nothing and raise my rates. I could drive my car to the shop, but I would only be that much later to work, so I walked. And walked. And walked. Because I couldn't do anything on a Wednesday morning.

Over the almost two-mile walk, I thought about my car and I stewed. My thoughts wandered from car to headache to accident to everything else that wasn't going right in my life and I mentally composed a draft of "Notes on Cheating." I was seething.

Senseless vandalism? I'd have to pay, out of pocket, to fix my car because somebody didn't get what he wanted when he tried to steal from me. I would be punished for not having something to steal? I was angry.

Then, I got over it.

I worked hard all day, headache and all, to find the answers to questions that other people asked and tried to think of new ways to find the information. And I actually enjoyed it. A lot.

A coworker tried to find an urgent care clinic for me to take care of the headache and I found a new GP that I couldn't visit until December. I made a friend laugh with the word of the day and a story of "waylaid" and I emailed my friends. My brother. My day moved beyond the broken ashtray and senseless vandalism that wasn’t really anything at all.

As I walked home, though, as I walked up the Hill and along the streets near my house, my ire raised. I remembered the car and the fact that I would have to take care of it. I was a grown up. It was my car. My ashtray. My responsibility and I could leave it out or I could get it fixed. My choice.

So, I went home fixed it. I spent a half hour, 45 minutes, in the car with my hands covered in ash because the ashtray had actually been used as that. A tray for ash. I went in the house and washed the broken piece. I went back to the car and fiddled and fidgeted, figured and fit, and eventually, it went back into place.

I expect it to flop open at every bump and turn, when I go too fast and when I stop. I don't believe it's in there quite right, which will surface at every possible chance, but I fixed it. Me. Little Miss Fix-It? Maybe I'd tackle the cupboard door next.

Senseless vandalism or not, everything would be all right.


Tag: Jeep Vandalism Capitol Hill

Taking action

A couple of weeks ago, I walked in a 5K to bring awareness to domestic violence. With only a couple hundred of us there, I'm not sure of the impact that we made, but we were there. Running. Walking. Raising funds for a local shelter/program.

Last week, I read books to kids who live in a shelter, girls and boys between the ages of two and seven. I don't know the name of the room in which we read, the one with the shelves and the couches, the books and tables, but we read there every month while the little ones play in the room next door and their mothers attend a group session.

Sometimes, we lose a kid or two – their families move on – but more often than not, I see the same kids, ones I've known for months. Occasionally, we meet others, kids who are new to the shelter. Some of the kids in our group are siblings while others are cousins. Their mothers are sisters who might have given each other the courage that they needed to get out of abusive situations and end the cycle of violence.

Sometimes, we see the mothers. Some are my age. Some younger. Some older. More than a few of them are pregnant and strollers line the hall.

The kids in our group are just kids. They like to color and to jump on the couch, to crawl under tables, to listen to books. They fight over the rolling chair. Everybody wants to see the pictures while we read. They want to sit in our laps and play with our hair. They pull the zipper on my sweater or pick up the pendant on my necklace.

They aren't always "good." They get riled up, kick and swear. Near Halloween and on Valentines Day they positively vibrate with the effects of the sugar and more than a few of them bounce off the walls. They don't always listen. They aren't always happy.

They are just kids. Kids who have been taken from their homes and moved to a shelter for their own safety and that of their siblings. Their mothers. They have seen more violence in their very young lives than I've ever seen in mine. Than I ever plan to see in mine. And they see poverty.

The kids in the shelter, the ones to whom we read, don't have much. They want to keep the books because they don't really have them at home. No home. They want to keep the crayons, the colored pencils, the leftover juice boxes and snacks.

According to the Metropolitan Police Department and US Federal Bureau of Investigation, as reported by the DC Coalition Against Domestic Violence, "In 2005, the Metropolitan Police Department (MPD) received 27,401 domestic-related crime calls - one every 19 minutes, including 11,053 calls to report domestic violence crimes (30 calls per day) and 16,348 calls to report family dispute crimes (45 calls per day)."

Other reports indicate:
• Around the world, at least one in every three women has been beaten, coerced into sex or otherwise abused during her lifetime.¹
• As many as 324,000 women each year experience intimate partner violence during their pregnancy.²
• Women of all races are about equally vulnerable to violence by an intimate partner.³
• Nearly 25 percent of American women report being raped and/or physically assaulted by a current or former spouse, cohabiting partner, or date at some time in their lifetime, according to the National Violence Against Women Survey, conducted from November 1995 to May 1996.⁴

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month and today is Blog Action Day with a focus on poverty. The two issues are not exactly intrinsically linked but one can certainly contribute to the other.

For those in the DC area, to help bring resources to the issue of domestic violence, one can get involved in any of a number of organizations. Three of them follow, in their own words.

The Reading Connection [with and for whom I read on a monthly basis] is dedicated to improving the lives of at-risk children and families by helping them create and sustain literacy-rich environments and motivation for reading. This mission is accomplished by
• Volunteers who read aloud to children at shelters and community centers
• Donations that provide children with free, new books to keep
• Workshops that help parents encourage reading and literacy development
• Trainings of family support workers who promote the importance of reading.

Women of Freedom Foundation (WFF) [the sponsors of the 5K I walked] is a 501c(3) nonprofit, outreach ministry and faith-based organization for women in transition. Whether you are transitioning from Depression, Divorce, Domestic Violence, HIV-AIDS, Loneliness, Low self-esteem, Rape or Rejection, we are here to help you transform from the inside out.

With a strong interest and concern for victims of domestic violence, WFF is here to support you, educate you, and empower you to overcome the challenges of yesterday so that you may live a safe and fulfilling life today.

From the DC Coalition Against Domestic Violence website, here are 5 ways that you can support the organization and make a difference in the life of someone overcoming domestic violence.

1. Give money
To make a donation online, visit the website. You may also call the office to contribute by phone, or mail your donation to the Coalition.

2. Give things
DCCADV accepts donations of unwanted cell phones or packages of diapers, which we in turn distribute to local survivors of domestic violence. We also conduct an annual Holiday Gift Drive in November and December to collect presents for our clients and their children.

3. Give time
Visit the website to inquire about available short-term and long-term volunteer opportunities.

4. Give us a moment
House parties, office parties, corporate luncheons, and other events are great opportunities to build awareness about the issue of domestic violence in the District of Columbia, and also help us raise funds for our valuable work. Email the Coalition to learn more.

5. Give us voice
Tell family, friends and colleagues about the Coalition and its work.

Those outside of DC can contact The National Coalition Against Domestic Violence or search your local listings.



¹ Heise, L., Ellsberg, M. and Gottemoeller, M. Ending Violence Against Women. Population Reports, Series L, No. 11., December 1999
² Gazmararian JA, Petersen R, Spitz AM, Goodwin MM, Saltzman LE, Marks JS. “Violence and reproductive health; current knowledge and future research directions.” Maternal and Child Health Journal 2000;4(2):79-84.
³ Bureau of Justice Statistics, Violence Against Women: Estimates from the Redesigned Survey, August 1995
⁴ The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and The National Institute of Justice, Extent, Nature, and Consequences of Intimate Partner Violence, July 2000.


Tag: Doing good Blog Action Day

Citizen Josh

Civic activism frightens me. The activism itself makes sense, but figuring out where I fit and how to make a difference overwhelms me. In the words of monologist Josh Kornbluth, "I feel so unqualified and small."

"I'm sorry to drink and run," I apologized to friends at happy hour last night. "I'm going to a show."

"Oh, that's exciting. What are you going to see?"

"Citizen Josh? It's at the Arena Stage."

"What's it about?"

"I have no idea!" I replied, and I didn't. Not really. I'd read a couple of reviews and snippets of information on the site for the Arena Stage, but I didn't have a good feel for the show.

Just in time for election season, Citizen Josh weaves a web of entertaining and moving autobiographical tales into a personal quest to examine and engage the fundamentals of democracy.

That didn't do much to clarify, so I looked a little harder and found a longer description.

Troubled by the election in 2004 and the health of American democracy, Josh Kornbluth (author of Red Diaper Baby) came to the conclusion that perhaps voting is just not enough. As a result of his distress, Kornbluth created this smart and funny exploration of active citizen participation. Just in time for election season, Citizen Josh weaves a web of entertaining and moving autobiographical tales into a personal quest to examine and engage the fundamentals of democracy. Kornbluth last produced Love & Taxes at Arena and continues his long-time association with our own Producing Artistic Associate, David Dower. So before you cast your ballot on November 4th, consider one last perspective from an irreverent, side-splitting and powerful citizen.

Irreverent sounded good. Entertaining, moving and side-splitting listed among qualities I enjoyed in a show, but I still didn't know what to expect.

After the happy hour, after my one drink and running, I found my way to Crystal City and the underground network of tunnels, a frightening warren that kept one from feeling the sun on his skin or the wind in his hair. I navigated through a sea of ushers into the lobby where I filled out a short survey.

"I think the rest of the audience shares my views," I read. "Strongly agree? Mildly agree? Unsure? Mildly disagree? Strongly disagree?"

I didn't know but checked an answer. I checked answers to all the questions, to "Gay couples should have the same rights as heterosexual couples" and "The government should stay out of my personal life" and "I understand the details of the financial bailout" before I found my seat. Second row. Center.

The auditorium wasn't exactly full. Or even half so. But Kornbluth gave it his all, weaving the story of a personal journey into civic activism. He talked about parenthood and childhood and cell phone reception. Playgrounds and parks. Tai chi. Overly animated friends. And he talked about democracy. What it means. How it works.

At no point, did he tell us for whom to vote, but he left no question as to his own position, this man who spilled the details of his life up there onstage, under the spotlights in his black jeans and red socks, in a bright print shirt with a shining forehead that he mopped on occasion. For a while, he competed with the sound of drilling from next door ("Oh, god. Maybe it's a dentist!") and still he was irreverent, entertaining and moving. I listened. I laughed, and most of all, I thought.

After the show, we saw pie chart results of our pre-seating survey as well as some of the demographics. We weren't all one thing or another. Not all liberal or conservative, young or old, white or brown or black. The results ran the range of the scale, with some more heavily one-sided or the other, but that just seemed to fit with the main thing I took away from the show: Democracy isn't about everyone agreeing but we had to start the discussion somewhere.

And maybe, just maybe, I walked away a little less frightened by the idea of civic activism. I just needed to find my own way.

Citizen Josh written & performed by Josh Kornbluth, in collaboration with director David Dower, will run October 9 through 26, 2008 at the Arena Stage in Crystal City. Save 50 percent with the code: JOSH50!

After the performance of Citizen Josh, Josh will lead an informal one-on-one conversation on the stage with a local or national 'citizen' celebrity. This month-long interview series will feature a range of different experiences of participation in the American Experiment. During these casual and lively conversations, Josh will ask his guests about democracy - and how they practice their citizenship. Past guests have included everyone from the MoveOn.org founders and Robert Reich to a green restauranteur and a man who builds backyard wind turbines. Here in DC we'll run the gamut from major political theorists and elected officials to local activists and organizers.

Today is Blog Action Day. "Today thousands of bloggers will unite to discuss a single issue - poverty. We aim to raise awareness, initiate action and to shake the web!" Civic action. Who knew?


Tag: Citizen Josh Arena Stage Arlington VA

Philosophy

"I have a new philosophy. I'm only going to dread one day at a time."
- Charles M. Schulz

Solid Gold

I don't know what etiquette dictates or what Emily Post would have said to the engagement party I threw on Sunday, but nobody seemed to mind.

Not the bottle of Prosecco that opened itself, cork bouncing off the ceiling. The guests who helped plate the veggies and fruit, the chocolates and cheese when we weren't quite ready at opening time. The inner cover on the photo album that ripped. None of it seemed to matter as friends and family gathered in the party room of my friends' apartment building to celebrate their engagement.

I intended desserts and wine on Sunday afternoon, tying the event to the visit of another bridesmaid, but the room wasn't available until later. And then we found out that alcohol wasn't allowed in the room, so I spent days searching for quotes from restaurants and bars, seeking something that would accommodate the list that just kept growing with babies and parents, siblings and friends.

By consensus, we decided to stick with the room with the bar, the sofas and tables, the large flat screen TV and plead ignorance of the rule if anyone called us on it. Unfortunately, the availability of the room – from five to nine – required dinner, real food, especially for the families with kids. I had to switch gears from desserts and wine to dinner and started researching caterers, restaurants, delis, sandwich shops. In the end, we went with pizzas and salads, sides and desserts.

So many desserts.

My friends are left pawning cake to their coworkers. Veggies. Cheese. We sent plates home with partygoers, who seemed quite happy with the fruits of their labor. And I brought the fruit home for myself.

"Do you like how I left all of the food with you?" I wrote the bride. "I might have over planned the food a little."

Four pizzas were left. Two cases of beer. Six bottles of wine and two of Prosecco. I left the juice and the soda with the couple and brought home a salad, some crackers, dark chocolate, a couple of pieces of pecan shortbread and the fruit.

The bride's mother and stepdad changed their trip from next weekend to last. The bridesmaid from California brought the cake. The groom's brother-in-law the pizza. His sister chips and pie. Sisters-in-law dip and pumpkin bars. A good friend baked the shortbread – two different kinds – and the crack brownies.

At the end of the night, after the bride's mother and the couple's friends helped clean up the room, I crashed on their couch, staying the night despite my allergies to the trio of cats, despite work in the morning. It would all work out. After weeks of planning and shopping, after an accident en route to pick up champagne flutes, after a late start and a disorganized cleanup, the party came off without a hitch. Without a big hitch, at least.

The friends and family of the bride and groom, my friend from college and the man she's going to marry, would have been happy with punch and cake, without entirely too much homemade food, without the candles and flowers, the real glass glasses and the cake, the photo album filled with pics of friends and family for the happy couple. All any of us wanted to do was celebrate the engagement and we did that completely.

Though, the celebration made me think of the song by Kool & the Gang, which made me think of Solid Gold and Marilyn McCoo. I couldn't quite reach that level of entertainment.

Next time.

Tag: Friends Engagement

American Blues

So Pete emailed the other day. Pete? Pete Yorn. The singer? That's how we roll - email, first names, and then I snap back to reality.

As a member of his mailing list, every few weeks when I receive an email, written in first person, when the notifier pops up with "You have a received a new email message from Pete Yorn," I can pretend like I'm cool. For a second. Maybe.

And then I go and read the message because I love Pete Yorn and his music, even if he has no clue who I am

In the words of the artist himself:
I wrote American Blues Vol. 1. on the 4th of July after reading the morning paper. It's unlike any song I've ever written. I was moved by how much negativity I was reading about and how even groups were boycotting Independence Day because they were so disgusted with the state of our Nation. I was hoping things would improve...they obviously haven't yet...but I know they will in time. I sent the song to some friends and one of them (a really old friend of mine who is actually a huge reason I didn't give up on a musical career back in 1998) was really affected by the message. He always has had an unwavering faith in America and has always been able to laugh when times got tough. The video for American Blues Vol. 1 was made by this friend of mine. He is not a video-director...just a guy from New Jersey who wanted to put images to a song that hit home for him. He wanted me to share it.....so here is American Blues Vol. 1.


-Pete Yorn

Rock The Vote

Pete Yorn - American Blues Vol. 1


I found something that made me think and I wanted to share because that's how we roll, you and I.


Tag: Music

Star light, star bright

Cops and x-ray techs. Movies. Military. Economy. For most of the night, I sat around a table on the deck, talking with a man in medical sales and another with telephone installations and a third. A Marine. Two were married and one engaged to the x-ray techs who worked with my friend from high school, from junior high, from home. Even one step removed, they knew more people at the party than I did.

I had driven an hour and a half to a mountain in Maryland, a Civil War battlefield, a house that had been used as a Civil War hospital, for the annual bonfire, for ghost stories and party foods.

"I forgot to allow time to get lost," I laughed when I finally arrived. I always got lost on the way there with winding, climbing roads and hidden signs, in the dark, autumn night.

I went alone, even though I really didn't know anyone but the couple who hosted. Even though I seemed to have little in common with the rest. The cops. The x-ray techs. The marine.

We were certainly safe in case of emergency.

And we did have thoughts, experiences, in common. We talked late into the night. They talked late into the night as I listened more than talked.

Everyone had experiences and lives so different from my own. The Marine who'd been deployed so many times talked about war, the wars in which he fights. The telephone service guy served in the Army and had traveled extensively, both then and in school. The medical salesman drove 300 miles a day and compared driving in Rome to DC and Atlanta traffic.

We prudently bypassed politics and given the number of McCain/Palin signs on the road, my urban dwelling and my choices in life, I figured myself far left of the group. The conversation moved from journalism and media to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, EMP in Seattle, the music of the 90s, the 80s, the 70s. Hippies. Hipsters. Social consciousness.

"Don't you think that people are just paying lip service to being green?" one man asked as we moved from the deck to the fire to keep warm.

"No, I don't. Take my neighborhood: The people who live around me tend to walk, use public transportation, buy local from the farmers' market, make choices to be green."

"But what about people like me?" he asked. "People who have to drive 60 miles to work?"

"To get more affordable housing," a woman supplied.

"I made a choice," I replied. "I moved to the Hill so I wouldn't have to drive. I pay more money for a smaller space, but it's better for the environment and better for me. I chose this."

He shook his head.

"But don't you think that people are just paying lip service to being green?"

"Maybe some people are," I conceded and rotated to warm my front, instead of my back.

"Can I borrow your scarf?" a man with a crew cut had snickered earlier in the evening as I walked toward the deck.

"Sure," I smiled and kept walking. It wasn't a scarf at all but a pashmina I'd wrap around me after temperatures dropped and a chill reached my bones, when standing by the fire didn't do enough to warm me. I'd see him again, later, wearing a coat. He didn't ask again. Didn't snicker.

The night passed in the flickering firelight and hazy wood smoke. In itchy eyes. In conversations with people I didn't know. And then people started to leave.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"12... 12:20," a girl answered.

I didn't know. I'd have to go. An hour and a half to get home, I had a haircut appointment at nine – cuts for charity – and a full day planned. I climbed in my Jeep. Deer at the side of the road. Four-wheel drive. Brights.

"Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish..." I shook my head in the dark and leaned forward to look higher in the sky. "I'm just happy to see Orion's belt."

It was my favorite constellation, the easiest to identify, but that was not why I liked it. I fell in love with Orion through some strange combination of the month of April, spring fever and a man with raven hair and the prettiest eyes I'd ever seen, another with red sneakers. I thought of them as I drove and parked, set an alarm and crawled into bed, smelling of wood smoke and cinnamon.

"I'm just happy."


Tag: Friends Fire Frederick MD