Net Worth

The other day, I heard an economist discussing how we each can (and should) determine our "net worth." That would mean any assets, liabilities, pretty much anything that could make our break our financial life. I have no desire to calculate this, as I am pretty sure my "net worth" would indicate that I am a Catholic school teacher.

However, I thought it might be interesting to write about the idea of what

Enjoy the RIDE!

So.

"It all goes by SO FAST!  Enjoy every minute! They are miracles and wonderful and gifts from God!"
Parenting - enjoy the ride!

When does that happen, exactly?

Does it happen when your 3 yo son has peed on the floor for the 4th time in 12 hours?

And then he can't (suddenly) wash his own hands of the pee that he got on them in the process of peeing on the floor (miraculously) without getting a single.solitary.drop in his pullups?

How about when your daughter suddenly stops sleeping through the night?

Maybe it's when your son crawls into your bed with you - pantsless- long before "wake up time" and wants to talk about Venus and tigers?

Perhaps the large, sticky poopy diaper that your daughter immediately wants to play in?

Naw- it's when all of the above happens and the cat throws up - loud and large - on the floor. 
And you step in it.

Twice.

Selectively Inclusive

This morning I had a disagreement with one of the folks who take care of my children.

"Doug's" a great guy - fun, joyful, compassionate, easy going....exactly the kind of man I want my kids to see as a role model.  I enjoy bantering with him, and we often team up on the NYT crossword puzzle clues that he is stumped on.  It's kind of neat.

However, we differ on some things, which is fine.  I think football promotes violence and degrading behavior towards women.  He thinks I'm overexaggerating.  You know, that kind of stuff.  I get all riled up when we disagree.  Usually this stuff doesn't come up, but when it does, it makes me mad.  Frustrated.  Confused.

I'm a proud liberal, who believes that everyone (including people I disagree with, by the way) should have the right to live as they see fit, as long as there is no harm to others.  So, when the topic came up this morning about Minnesota becoming a "Little Somalia," with that community lobbying to change laws to include their core beliefs, I did what I always do.  I defended the Somali community.  It was a FOX News story, by the way, which I will freely admit taints my view.

Doug wanted to argue, "why should WE change for THEM?"

And here's the thing.  I don't know the whole issue.  So, I didn't have much to say, except to come back to MY core belief:  In this country, it's not we OR them.  It's US.  Why shouldn't a group of people, who have established this as their home, demand to have the same rights as I do when it comes to anything in this state? 

But deeper?  I get frustrated when Doug shows me a side of him that I don't like - a side that is NOT inclusive, NOT compassionate, and NOT welcoming to people, because I want to believe that he is like that with everyone.   He wouldn't see himself as I am describing him now, because in my experience, that is absolutely NOT who he is.

I'm so confused.  Is it possible to be selectively inclusive?  Selectively compassionate?  Am I just being too hard on Doug, who is my friend, and from who I expect more?

In My Trench

I have been in this trench for a while. I can see the sky as a grey slit above me, as I dig back into the wall of the trench and close my eyes.

On occasion, I have worked my way out, up to my knees, sometimes up on my feet - I have gulped the air I could before my knees gave out. I get bursts of fresh air and views of the sky as I then retreat into the wall that is now shaped like my curled body. The space is snug, and calm, and quiet, and safe.

Every once in a while, when I am crouched, or standing up, the air clicks off something in my head keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing and I am able to stand, then climb my way out. I am able to move, breathe, even smile through my hour, day, week, month, until the wisps of doubt start to seep in. Then the momentum slows and I am sinking again into the trench for a minute or a week. Once, it was a few months.

January is always a trial. In my neck of the woods, the color becomes drab, the temp drops, and the sun becomes a high commodity. After the frenetic holidays are over, settling in usually takes the form of depression for me. My body resists energy, and my mind is overtaken with negativity: shame, doubt, fear, hopelessness. There’s never enough sleep. The trench is narrow and deep: built to my specifications.

It doesn’t all happen at once. Fine filaments of dread work their way into my psyche and embed. They gather and wait. Then one day, I find myself checking the trench for supplies. On another day, I go in and check it out for wear and tear. One day I just stay.

It’s easier, really, than facing everyone I have to fail for an undetermined amount of time. My husband. My 15 month old son. My coworkers and boss. It’s self preservation to the point of hibernation. The motions that make up my days become Herculean efforts, draining my resources. Then sleep, and the need to be on autopilot to conduct myself: showerhairdressdriveworkeatworkdriveeatsleep. Repeat. Saturday: sleep. Sunday: Detach. Rest. Monday: repeat.

The sounds of my life without me go on above me- near the air and the sky. From there, I hear but don’t see my son learning words and my husband making and cleaning up dinner. I hear the strains of my husband and son giggling together, reading The Monster at the End of This Book. I can discern the dancing nails of my long-ignored but still loyal dog. My cats enable me by curling up in the trench with me.

I’m the bread winner in our family, + Mom, + Wife. My husband is handsome, sexy, loving and supportive. My son is fantastically funny and smart. They both adore me without question. My life goes on without me, but I don’t - can’t - participate or engage.

Not until I can work my way out of the trench, which will happen. I will wake up one morning and keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing won’t be needed. I will gladly welcome myself back.

The air will fill my lungs, I will stand up, and crawl my way into my life again.

Pregnant!!!....Sorta.

I know that's ridiculous...it's just that there isn't a whole lot of concrete evidence for it.

No morning sickness, no long, flowing beautiful hair, not even any obvious weight gain. If we wanted to get really specific, I've had a "baby bump" for about a year now, but I couldn't even pass it off as a "baby bump" until now, and said "bump" hasn't enlarged at all.

Yes, I have been experiencing "soreness" in certain areas of my body, and yes, I have been craving chocolate like I never have before (seriously- I'm not a chocolate person). Still not enough evidence for me.

I am told (by my gentle, but persistent husband and my rational brain) that if I haven't had my period, I am pregnant. Ok, I get it- the numbers, the tests...all came out to indicate that I am pregnant. So, what gives?

There's something about the Pregnancy Machine that I might be missing here. I have been on message boards for pregnant women (mostly 20-somethings, by the way) to try and relate to women there--no good. Many of them either talk about how unsupportive their partners are, or how crappy their symptoms are, to neither of which I can relate. I've tried to be absorbed by all the books I am supposed to read, to ogle over cute baby clothes and toys and furniture, to talk for more than 5 minutes about our upcoming bundle of joy, but I just can't.

I am excited that we are pregnant; in fact, I was sad when the first pregnancy test we took prior to missing this period was negative. But now that our test was really really positive and we have been to see the midwife at least once, I find myself to be rather ambivalent. Counter-cultural, even, according to women I have read or met.

When it comes to the Pregnancy Machine, I'm feeling like I just don't cut it. I don't fit the mold of women who speak only of their pregnancy, who take belly pictures every week ("week 4- I already have a pooch!!"), who agonize over the nursery "theme," who register for baby stuff at Target immediately, who "think blue" or "pray for pink." I don't have an unsupportive, piggish husband who says stupid things that make me cry, nor do I have an overbearing mother or mother-in-law to bitch about. I simply can't get wrapped up in what the baby looks like at this second, what to do about a car seat, which preschool the kid will attend, or which Baby Einstein CD to buy. I don't want to use abbreviations like DH or DD or DS. I cannot bear to think about the Disney princesses. Or Thomas the Tank Engine.

Perhaps I am just waiting until the first trimester is clear and over, protecting myself just in case something goes wrong. Maybe I am nervous, scared and overwhelmed about all the changes ahead. Or it could be that I am just an older mom. I've been around to see several of my friends have children, and I have also seen several of my friends go through infertility treatments. I don't worry about every little thing I eat, although I make smart choices for the most part. I'm relying on hand-me-downs for everything from maternity clothes to baby gear. I assume, I think correctly, that people will help me along the way. I keep thinking that women have been doing this since the beginning of time, and that somehow, I can weather through it once it seems real.

I'm a reasonably smart woman, and I can do this. I just might not make being pregnant my whole life right now. But I don't buy into the Pregnancy Machine because it isn't me. I can use my experiences and the people close to me for advice.

So if you don't see me wearing a t-shirt that says, "Baby on Board" or "Hot Mama," don't be surprised. On the flip side, you won't see me obsessing over pink or blue, either. It all balances out, I guess, and maybe that's my role in nature. For once, I'm not one of the crazies.

There was a time when
city and forest began to look alike
and to be measured in similar ways
immersion of one brings only
a small recognition of the other
if there is recognition at all
because the two are no longer distinct, but
melded and smudged

Canopies are bridges
Rocks are stairs
Leaves are windows
Trees are skyscrapers
Mica flecks sparkle like reflecting pools

Eventually, natural lines bring
annoyance, and unpaved trails become
inconvenient, and winding paths invite
confusion, and quiet beauty is
overshadowed by unfamiliarity and anxiety

Now, it is cumbersome to be here
even though this once probably provided a respite
Habitual creature comforts eclipse what used to be safe,
now extinct among the bridges, stairs, and skyscrapers

RIP, Grandma Butler

Grandma Butler's husband, Tom, preceded her in death by about 5 years. They were active grandparents, and made sure that certain manners were taught in memorable ways. Grandpa Butler was a chivalrous gentleman, taking time to attend to his wife in the ways he should. The boys were taught the same way, and knew how to behave in mannerly ways with women.

Grandpa and Grandma Butler took Tommy, Dave, and two of their cousins (all between the ages of 9 and 13) on a trip once to meet some relatives in Tennessee, and also to head to Florida (I think). Like many children, they were especially happy when their grandparents took them to a hotel with a pool. The car would stop, the boys would rush out, and charge their way into the pool, splashing and playing for hours.

One day, the family pulled into a hotel with a pool, and the boys ran SCREAMING into the hotel, and immediately began splashing around and playing. Grandpa Butler sat on the edge of the pool keeping his eye on the boys as they had their fun. One by one, however, the boys stopped playing, and noticed something was odd. Where was Grandma? She should have been sitting right by Grandpa, and yet....oh no.......

OH MY GOSH. Grandma Butler was in the CAR- NO ONE had opened the car door for her. She had been sitting there, waiting for someone to let her out, for 45 minutes. The boys had all opened the car door for her on the trip- so they knew that someone forgot.

The boys RAN to the car to find Grandma Butler sitting in the front seat of the car, hands neatly folded in her lap, staring out the windshield. The boys all stumbled over one another to open the door for her, and she turned to them and smiled very politely, "Thank you, Tommy, thank you, Dave.....thank you, boys." She walked with them back to the hotel, and the world was right again.

From the first time I met Tom, I have never opened my own car door.

"Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants."

I am experiencing a renaissance of interest in being outside this summer, which has led to number of changes in (or the addition of one) philosophy.

This year, now that we have a yard, I want to make it sing. It's a great space, and it's slowly becoming what I want it to be. At the heart of it is a garden of a few vegetables, one whole bed of tomatoes, and another of only herbs just outside the kitchen window. I feel fortunate that I have been able to eat several side dishes of my lettuce and my swiss chard already this summer. The benefits of working in the yard are limitless in my mind- I am getting both physical and mental exercise, which helps my depression and anxiety, to be sure.

Gardening has led to reading books about gardening and food, notably Animal, Vegetable, Miracle (AVM) by Barbara Kingsolver, In Defense of Food, by Michael Pollan (from which the title of this post comes), and another one by him called Second Nature: A Gardener's Education.

AVM is a book about Kingsolver's family- they all commit to a year of eating what they could produce on their farm, or what they could get within 100 miles of their home. It's impressive enough to say that, and more impressive to note that she has a 19 year old and a 9 year old who also jump on the bandwagon. Her family does it too, and doesn't seem to miss their old life- too much. Her husband and daughters also participate in the writing of the book, expressing thoughts on some of the peripheral issues that tend to come up in discussions like these: CSAs, humane treatment of animals raised for food, and simple recipes using local ingredients. Even though Kingsolver is on a farm, her book made me feel that becoming a locavore (someone who eats foods only grown/produced within 100 miles of my home) is possible.

Michael Pollan is teaching me to see food in ways I never have- as little complex organisms that contain what we need to eat AS THEY APPEAR IN NATURE. This is different from other takes on food that insist we need to get this nutrient or that nutrient. Pollan's contention is pretty interesting: in processing food to insert a boost of or a dose of any given nutrient, we have lost the nutritional benefits of the food as a whole. This in turn is causing more disease, obesity, and general health problems. His mantra: "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants." encourages us to embrace food as it originally came to us, and perhaps we can sidestep the nutrition "issues" that our society focuses on, and concentrate on the benefits of unprocessed, naturally healthy food. In fact, one of his suggestions is to avoid foods that your great, great grandmother wouldn't recognize.

Here's the "so what": I have decided to do this, along with my husband, as a daily thing. We are eating down the contents of our pantry, fridge and freezer to get rid of anything processed. We joined a CSA to get local produce, and we are buying our meat from local farmers at the Farmer's Market. We pick up anything we don't get from our CSA at the Farmer's Market. I know now where to buy seeds so that I don't contribute to creepy corporations who are trying to monopolize cross-pollination (!).

Did I buy some potato chips and Cheez-It's the other day? Yep. Am I trying to stick to what's on hand? Absolutely. I don't pretend that I am not going to slip once in a while. But Kingsolver and Pollan have convinced me that making this committment is essential to my health, and helpful to our local farmers. We have made a decision to honor the little guy in all this by cooking and buying food that is as chemical-free as we can get. Hopefully, this will work- and we will turn out healthier in the process.

February is for the birds.

I wrote this in February- and never published it. So here it is.

"Never make any life decisions in February."

This is the mantra in my school building this week. It's amazing what happens to people during this month- kind, interesting and generally respectful people turn irritable and mean. I include myself in this; although I try hard to monitor my general outlook and demeanor, I know I am not always kind. But I rarely turn surly on purpose.

But I do know that I tend to be on the introspective side- constantly questioning what the right thing to do might be. I usually err on the side of caution because I don't want to offend or put off anyone. What blows my mind is that other people do not have that consideration- at all.

For one reason or another, it seems that people like to air their grievances no matter what the situation or the people involved. Some people feel entitled to be jerks, no matter what is at stake. They just come right out and say it, and too bad if they leave a big poopy mess in their wake. It is their right and so they assert themselves, and the rest of you be damned. "I will not apologize for the way I feel." Every once in a while there is an apology- for the same behavior as the last twenty times- only to toy with our trust and forgiveness, because the same behavior will happen again. And again. And again. And each time, we will be hurt. And the cycle continues.

What is it in us that holds back, out of politeness and concern for others? Worse yet, what is it in us to ensure that we "get to" say what we want, as long as we feel what we feel? Surely we're born with a certain level of each, but our emotions demand that we blurt out whatever and whenever we want? When is it inappropriate to share? When should we shut up?

I don't know. What I can say is that I wish the societal rules were a little more clear. We should all be able to express ourselves, and maintain our respect for others in our "circle."

GREAT Service

I have been reading Sara Barron's new book- it comes out in a month, and is entitled People Are Unappealing. She is a fantastic writer; Sara's voice sounds a lot like the person who is always talking in my head.

In the galley copy of her book, Sara talks about being part of an Olive Garden wait staff, and how her manager was in the habit of telling everyone that everything "rocks." I know this guy- I work with him and see him in the mall when I venture there. What I found most disturbing, though, was that I ran into this guy today. At an Arby's, of all places.

Hubster and I stopped in Arby's on our way home to the big city after spending a weekend on da Range. I like Arby's well enough, but I was a little distracted because I am trying NOT to eat things like this because I am on Weight Watchers. This week has been very "bad" and I knew that whatever I chose on Arby's menu, I would be screwed. When we walked into the...uh, "restaurant," I noticed a bell with a chain hanging beneath it, with a sign imploring us to "Ring if you receive GREAT service!" I was just musing that I didn't think the chances of that were fantastic at an Arby's, when
"WELCOME TO ARBY'S! HOW YA TWO DOIN' TODAY?" assaulted me and my husband's ears and personal bubbles. We both jumped, collected ourselves while resisting the urge to look at each other and RUN...."fine...gosh, thanks." There was a man with a red shirt, trainee in tow, smiling and gesturing to us in large, stagelike movements. "SURE! GREAT! ENJOY YOUR MEAL!!!! THANKS, FOLKS!! CHELSEA, NOW CAN YOU GO AHEAD AND SWEEP, THEN CHECK THE RESTROOMS? THANKS. THANKS, CHELSEA. GREAT!"
Knowing that Tom was mentally sending me a "holy sh!t" message to the back of my head, I stepped to the counter and ordered. Tom followed, and then I went to the restroom to ease the kink out of my face that had occurred when I was verbally assaulted upon entering. I came out of the bathroom to find Tom puttering around by the drinks. He smirked. "Wow," he said quietly. "That cannot happen again," I agreed. Our order was called, and Tom announces that he needs to stop and load up his sandwich with various condiments. I thought this was ill-advised- the longer we stayed there, the better the chance to be yelled at again. "I'm hurrying- I'm sorry- seriously..." my husband was panicking, and trying desperately to coat every inch of the bun with the various----free, I might add----condiments. We were trying to escape with our eardrums intact and the FOOL needed CONDIMENTS?
"HIYA, GIRLS! HAVING A NICE DAY? ARE YOU DINING IN OR TAKING THE FOOD TO GO TODAY?"

Two pentogenarian women were hurrying in to the counter, with single-syllable utterances to each other and the overly-zealous manager. Tom looked at me again- fear and crazed panic on his face- as he shoved his food into his bag. I waited by the door, gesturing for him to hurry. "I'm trying...I'm sorry..." and I noticed that I was standing right next to the bell. I reached for it as Hubster's eyes widened- telepathically yelling "No! You fool!" and the air was rushing around me...
and I rang that damn bell. Loud.

"WOW! GREAT! THANKS! THANK YOU! BYE NOW!!"
I ran out, Tom at my heels. "What were you thinking?" he demanded, as we both stopped to double over in laughter. And we thought good service- GREAT service, was dead.

The Trek to Yellow Mountain

This is a piece I wrote when I was in China in 2002, teaching English and English culture at Wuyi University.

“Hey, what are you doing this summer?”In the winter of 2001, my brother Dave, who lives in Hong Kong, called me. Dave recruits teachers for the Maryknoll China Service Project, a program that sent him to China for a year after his graduation from college. He asked me if I would want to come to China for the summer. It took me about 12 hours to say yes, and by the fourth of July I was on my way to Hong Kong to teach for four weeks in Southern China at Wuyi University. I loved the experience so much that I returned this summer, this time in June to develop materials for the Maryknoll program, and to return to Wuyi as the lead teacher for Maryknoll. There are a few experiences that stand out, most notably the stories of the Nanjing trip and the Dragon Boat Festival.

During my second trip to China, I decided to travel to Nanjing on Monday to see my friend, Patrick (his English name), and to visit the Yellow Mountain area. Yellow Mountain is beautiful- it has been hailed as an area for poets and artists- one of the most beautiful places in China. Of course, for the Chinese, that's everywhere. But, I think they were right on this one. Patrick is a doctor who is a friend of my brother’s, and he’s my age. We hit it off considerably when I visited the first year, and I daresay there was a possibility of romance at the time. However, when I returned to the states, I eventually met another gentleman named Mike who I began dating shortly before my second trip. I had emailed Patrick to let him know that, but, like many things with the Chinese, I don’t know that he received the correct sentiment. The cultural divide is vast at times, and this was probably a case of such a thing. This made my trip strained to say the least- there was a very pouty Chinese doctor who made some unwelcome awkward advances at times.

But I digress. Truly, this trip was not about Patrick and my failed love rendezvous, but more about the larger cultural divide that exists within structure, confrontation, and etiquette.

I flew to Nanjing, and spent the afternoon and evening wandering around some of the sights. Around 8:30, we happened upon a pavilion area, where people were doing tai chi and dancing to slow music, namely Kenny G. It's called "Social Dancing", where we would call it ballroom dancing. Anyway, it was incredible. Patrick really can dance, too. He and I jitterbugged and waltzed for about an hour. It was peaceful, and I truly felt part of the group. The next evening Patrick and I took a sleeper train to a small town about an hour away from the mountain. From there, we needed to take a bus or taxi to the foot of the mountain, and from there, we needed to take a bus or taxi to where the climb started.

Sound complicated? You have no idea.

The train was very comfortable. The only time I woke up was when the train stopped somewhere, and I could hear people spitting. As soon as the train started again, the sounds of the train helped me go to sleep. After 8 hours on the train, we sleepily staggered onto the platform at our destination. We were suddenly immediately surrounded by three women who wanted to sell us locks, raincoats, and maps to the mountain. Patrick said no, I assume, but they would not take no for an answer. I didn't say anything. If a foreigner loses his/her cool in any situation (and believe me, it can be easy to do this), the Chinese immediately believe that the foreigner is not being respectful. I didn't want to take that risk. So, I followed along- and we went to a little open air place with tables and ate a small breakfast, with the saleswomen attached to our elbows the whole time. When we got up from the table, they followed us to the WC (bathroom), and when we got out of the WC, they were trying to control how we got to the mountain, where we would stay, etc. Little did I know that this kind of bargaining would take place throughout the entire trip. This is the Chinese way. I might have been annoyed, but I had to continuously remind myself that these people following us, and bargaining, were really fighting to eat, and to probably feed their families. My principles of leaving someone alone after they say no do not apply when people need to eat and to live.

Patrick found a driver to take us to the town close to the mountain, and began bargaining for a fair price. My Midwest roots were uncomfortable with this. Actually, this is the way it’s done every time: loud and confrontational. It turns out that NOT bargaining would be offensive to the seller, not to mention that the price would be double without second guessing it. We ended up in a taxi that took us one hour away to the town located at the foot of the mountain. After more of what I perceived to be heated bargaining, we got into a bus that would take us to the next point. After riding for 3 minutes, we got out and got into another bus for another 3 minutes. The process occurred twice more, and I was a little nervous as Patrick became more irritated and confused. Again, lots of yelling. Finally, the last driver, who took us to the start of the climbing, told Patrick (which he relayed to me) that there were certain limits placed on certain vehicles, and the three previous drivers couldn't take us that far.

There was constant, shameless staring, and if I wasn’t being stared at, my presence there was questioned. My blonde hair was glaring. I saw two other obvious, European/American looking foreigners around, and they were being stared at too. Everyone was asking Patrick about where I was from, and why I was there. Lots and lots of staring. However, I was staring at the beautiful scenery. Pine trees were everywhere, including a kind called the “welcoming pine”- its branches stretched wide to welcome the mountain’s tourists. Rocky mountain peaks jutted into the mist and sky, and there was no way to tell how high the mountain was. There were even monkeys by the side of the road. This climb was probably one of the most strenuous things I have done in my life, but the scenery was gorgeous.

As we began to climb, I was told that it would be three hours to get to the top. The climb was really hard- it actually took me four hours. The unforgiving stairs reached straight up, not the gradual leisurely climb I expected attached to the “easier route”. All of the supplies for the mountain hotels and guest areas are carried up the mountain, not transported by truck or cable car. So, if there is a building being built, the supplies are carried up by men. In our case, there was a building being torn down, so there were men coming down the mountain carrying large pieces of siding. There was a guy carrying two heavy bags of cement on a pole across his shoulders who lapped me, the blond lumbering cow.

Patrick’s passive aggression grew very obvious- he kept thinking there was something wrong with me. Why was I having so much trouble? In fact, Deng Xiaoping (the Premier after Chairman Mao) climbed this mountain when he was 80. So, I was to think about Deng Xiaoping whenever I got tired.

Yeah right.

At the end of the four hours, we arrive at what Patrick says is the top, and I am exhausted. I cannot breathe, and my legs are killing me. Plus, I didn't shower that day. I am looking forward to hitting the hotel, taking a shower, and relaxing, and then looking around. I ask Patrick where the hotel is, and how far away it is. He asks around, and says that we should hurry to get an available room, and we should start right now. It's 15 miles away, he tells me.

I am about ready to wipe that passive aggression right out of his system.

So, we continue to CLIMB. My legs are jelly, and my knees are wobbly. I don't feel like I am going to pass out anymore, my legs just feel like they are going to collapse. Another 2 hours go by. I'm crabby, but I’m minutely grateful we didn’t opt for a tour. The tours are inexpensive, but strenuous. Everything is included, and packed into the day, which usually begins at 7 and ends at 6 with dinner. Everywhere, groups of about 10-20 people, wandered around wearing huge red or yellow baseball hats with the tour group logo on it. At the front there is a guide pointing out places of interest to the tourists. The guide is donning the same hat, carrying a medium sized flag with the same color and logo, and a very very loud megaphone. Whenever the guide stops and explains something, the cameras come out. Pictures are taken with the Chinese people standing, unsmiling, in front of the place of interest. People think it's weird that I just take pictures of the scenery. We have been following a tour group on a path, and Patrick decides that we are going to join them. Besides, the guide has agreed to get us a room with two twin beds for the night in a nice hotel for 500 Yuan. This is about $30 US. 24 hour hot water. I am saved.

After Patrick has spoken to the tour guide about the room, he asks about the location of the hotel. He tells me it'll be another 3 hours before we get there, and that we have a lot of scenery to see. This means more and more peaks, more rock formations, more mist, and more trees. It's beautiful, but it's all looking the same to me. We go up one peak, take pictures, and then go down, and do it again. And again. I swear, I am so tired I can barely stand. I even sit out on a few peaks because I can't climb anymore. We arrived at the hotel around 6:30, and eat a very small, and I am told, overpriced meal and I fell asleep at 8pm. Patrick wants to join the tour for the next day, which starts at 7 am. I think he’s nuts, but I am completely dependent on him, so the alarm is set. My mind goes to black as I try to convince my legs to jumpstart their nerves.

Patrick and I awake at 6:15 to the phone ringing. "Why don't you answer it?" he wants to know. "Because they will speak Chinese," I reply. He figures it out in his sleepy stupor, and answers the phone. It's the tour guide, and Patrick sleepily relays the message. "They are starting early, so maybe we should get up and meet them in 5 minutes." In my fog, I ask him how he slept and how he’s feeling. He didn't sleep well, and his legs hurt a lot. I suggested that we forget the tour, and that we sleep late, and then go to the cable car. He agrees, and adds that we could visit a valley he knows of, and then back to the rail station. He falls back asleep instantly. I'll bet Deng Xiaoping's legs didn't hurt when he climbed the mountain.

We wake up around 11, rested, and hungry, and eat some of the food we had packed from Nanjing. After we check out, we ask about the route to the cable car. The hotel lady tells us it's a 2 hour hike. Fantastic. But, we are rested, it's a cool morning, and I am determined to have a better attitude. It's a nice hike, although my legs are bugging me- this time, my knees. There are a lot of steep ups and downs. We see the highest peak, and it's nice. The Chinese around me are struggling a little too, so I don't feel so odd. We finally come to the cable car. It's a really beautiful 20 minute ride, and it's quiet, lightly raining, and peaceful. On the other side, people are coming up and once they see me they stare. Even so, it's a nice 20 minute respite.

Once down, we go into a tourist shop, and it starts to pour. So, we hang out, and get to a bus that is going to take us to the valley Patrick talked about. We see a driver who was one of the four who handed us off from the day before, and he agrees to take us to the 9 Dragon Waterfalls, and the valley. We say ok, leave the bags in the van, and the guy drops us off at the entrance to the waterfalls, where we get something to eat. I share with Patrick that I am physically undone- that I cannot take much more. He nods, staring at his soup. Clearly, he has about had it with me. After dinner, we buy tickets to the waterfalls, and begin climbing again. My legs can't stop shaking. After about 1/2 an hour, we reach a little pagoda, and I ask Patrick how much further it is- and he honestly doesn't know. It could be three more hours? Maybe? Patrick says he's not really interested in this, and that he thought I would be, but it's raining and it doesn't seem like a good idea. We both decide that we are sick of this, and that we can't climb anymore (maybe Deng didn't like this place). Plus, it's pouring, which aided in the decision to quit. We go back and wait for the guy to show up with our bags, and once he shows up, we head back to the town at the foot of the mountain.

Now we need transportation to the train station, an hour away. More arguing. Patrick says that there is no transportation. More arguing. Now, one of the guys is willing to drive us, for 60 Yuan. Not acceptable. So, more bargaining, and it's down to 50 Yuan. We get in the van. The guy sitting next to the driver and Patrick try to teach me Chinese. It's a good ride.

We get to the train station, and there are some women there to meet us with umbrellas. They just wanted us to get to the station dry. Not selling anything, just being kind. I was touched. We go to sit down and wait for 3 1/2 hours for our train. We were also told that there were no bunks available, so we would just have to wait and get on the train and see if there were any openings. I go to buy some playing cards, where I meet this young girl who spoke limited English, but her “Hello, can I help you?" was flawless. I sat down on my bag and started to play solitaire. Suddenly, there is a crowd of Chinese people standing and surrounding me, watching me curiously. Someone asks Patrick if I am a fortune teller. I am laughing, probably for the first time this trip. I ask Patrick to take a picture.

Then the young girl who calls herself Fanny shows up. She wants to practice her English, so she sits down. I teach her how to play gin. The crowd increases. They are sitting behind her, advising her, and behind me, and I ask their opinions on what to throw away, by pointing. They don’t understand, but they sometimes point to a card and shrug, lending what help they could, Fanny plays a few games of gin and slapjack with me, and teaches me a few of her own. Three hours fly by. The Chinese people come and go, sometimes in crowds, sometimes in pairs, always watching and interested in what I am doing.

In the meantime, Patrick has secured a bunk on the train which was offered by Fanny's mother. Our train arrives, and Fanny escorts us onto the train and makes sure we are settled. Patrick cuts a deal with another passenger to secure a bunk for himself. I give Fanny a hug, and thank her for making the stay in the station wonderful. Spending time with her was truly one of the best memories of the trip; time with her reminds me of why I am here in the first place.

The train takes off, and I am ready for sleep, but there are two Cantonese guys who decide that they are going to spend everyone’s night singing. They are at it until about 3 am, when they finally get to sleep. Not to worry-they began again when the train started to wake up, around 6.

Patrick and I get off the train and go to his place to crash for a few hours, and then walk around Nanjing a bit more. I ask if we can eat something a little different for dinner, since we've been eating a lot of pork and greens. We ended up at a place near a university where we order things that look like mini lobsters. I eat about 10 tails of these little guys- they are spicy and unusual, and I enjoy the flavor.

We went to sleep early that night, and made a mad dash for a 6:30 bus to take me to the airport that morning. I landed in Hong Kong around 11 am, and get back to the Maryknoll house around 12:30, just in time for lunch. At lunch, one of the priests asks me where I've been, and I tell him. His first experience teaching was in Nanjing. I ask him about the lobster things- what they are called in English, because Patrick didn't know. They are called "Shanghai Hairy Crabs", and "Dawn, you can get hepatitis from those, you know."

No, I didn't know. The ONE TIME I screwed up and ate something I shouldn't have. Crap(b).

Luckily, I survived. Interestingly enough, I ended up later in a Hong Kong hospital for what appeared to be appendicitis, and almost went through an operation. The illness turned out to be salmonella.

There are a lot of things that the Chinese do that are unexplainable to Westerners- the taxi debacles, the bargaining, and sometimes making things more complicated than they need to be. But when I was in the Nanjing pavilion, waltzing and watching the dancers, I couldn't help but wonder why things like this aren't common in the U.S. It's really quite amazing, when you think about it, that a culture of crowds and noise can take time out daily to celebrate in such a simple, peaceful and beautiful way.

Family Circus- Please Pull Down the Big Top

Kids mispronouncing words, "Not Me" creating mischief, and those friggin' dotted lines showing that Crazy Billy's escapades....

not funny.

I'm not sure they were funny to begin with. Maybe the folks from "Kids Say the Darndest Things" would chuckle, but that might even be pushing it. I used to think that if I had kids, I would think the strip funny. Now I look for ways that Stephan Pastis of "Pearls Before Swine" writes in the characters to mock them. There's a reason why things like "America's Funniest Videos" are shown in time slots that accommodate parents and the elderly.

I was at a convention where Bil Keane was signing autographs, and the line for him was immense (I thought it might be Stephan Pastis in disguise). But the demographics in the line was a testament to the level of humor: nuns and middle-aged female schoolteachers wearing appliqued sweaters with apples, rulers and hearts on them. We were at a religious education convention, but still. I was awe-struck. I watched them commiserate, exchanging favorite quips, strips, and facial tics. Some of them had brought (and some had bought) copies of Keane's collection for his autograph.

Ick.

Every once in a while, I would like to see some variations on the above themes. Some possibilities:

Maybe Dolly gets preggers and her "waffer" breaks (She MEANT to say WATER!).

Maybe Billy's escapades reveal his involvement in funding a huge drug and prostitution ring (how DOES he always end up scaling those fences and catching his "bling" on the tops?). He always steers clear of the liquor store with his dotted lines, but we know. Yes, we do.

Maybe PJ is pulled over at the airport for smuggling his parents' weed into the U.S. from Amsterdam in his diaper (and Dolly learns what the "red light" district means when she has to work to buy her parents' weed).

Maybe Barfy is actually the baddest-ass dog in the neighborhood because of his winning streak in dogfighting. His handle is BarfinUrAss. Whew.

Maybe "Not Me" is actually a hallucination of Jeffy's from too much X. That would explain dead grandparent balloons above his head, too.

Are these things funny? I think so. And I'm stone cold sober.

I realize that Family Circus is seen world-wide, and that newspapers will continue to carry it because people- some people- want to read it. My modifications will not be welcome to the loyal fans of Keane and son, nor will they be embraced by the men themselves.

I just had to say something. So many of us think this way. Please. We need to run this Circus out of town.

I Am From...

I am in this class called SEED (Seeking Educational Equity and Diversity), and we do a lot with reflection and self-awareness. A few years ago, we were asked to write a poem called, "I am from..." talking about all the pieces of our lives that have shaped what we would consider to be our personal culture. Things change. Why didn't anyone tell me? Here's what I wrote in October '04:

I am from…

…a small town, Jiangmen China, Hibbing, India and St. Paul
bad perms, oxyclearasilnoxemaeverything and too much eye make-up
…salty not sweet, pieroghis and Chex Mix, wheat germ on ice cream
…the unconditional kindness of many, Grandma, David, Jill, Karen, my sister and brother
…the “basic track”: high school, college, marriage (oops!), grad school
…”recovering” Catholicity (not so tongue-in-cheek anymore)
…dance contests, Yellow Mountain, Split Rock Lighthouse, San Lucas, Hong Kong
…”Trouble,” “Crazy,” awkward, salty, bitchy and stubborn
…a “guy’s gal”
…crazy cake, campfires, fall and clean sheets
…MPR, Spook, Bono and my mother’s words
…mountains, water, nature, cozy cafés
…unapproval, emotional strife, bad attention, the wrong thing so many times
…perseverance, hope, drive and care

Below is what I wrote September '07:

I am from tulip wallpaper, no pop or fun snacks, and the swingset
from stitches between my toes, dance trophies and books
I am from the house at 936 East Third Avenue
with the smell of roast beef and chicken soup
I am from the peony bushes and the garden with peapods
The huge oak tree in the backyard that I never could climb, no matter what I did,
whose long gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.

I’m from unpopular board games and making fun of Mom
from David and Emmy and Grandma and Grandpa Smith
I’m from teasing and arguing
and from storytelling to do one better than the last.

I am from say thank you and treat others well
and “don’t open the box, whatever you do, don’t open the box!”
and “E-N-C-Y-C-L-O-PEDIA!”
I’m from egg fights
I’m from Shakopee and Slovenia
I am from bedspreads and flour sack dishtowels
pieroghis and pasties
From roast beef gravy on a brownie
and “I wanted to see what it tasted like!”
old dishes and doilies
in cupboards, closets, and on display
all patiently waiting for me to claim them as memories.

I'm a different person now, although not completely. My values and favorite foods remain, as do important people and special memories. I don't know that these poems prove evolution, but I know that the one from this year has an air of contentment that the first one doesn't have.

I love that I get older, and look back at all the stuff I have done, and have yet to do. It's ok with me that I don't remember the bad stuff, and I still maintain that regrets are a waste of my time (I don't have any, seriously). People tell me that if I am enjoying my 30s, I am going to LOVE my 40s. What a ride my life has been. I can't wait to see what's around the bend.

Cheerful Stuff Ahead!

Dang. I just looked back on all the stuff I have written so far...for a Muppet, I am pretty depressing. I'm not, really. I just have a very cloudy head this week. I promise I will write lighter stuff soon.

Pinky promise.

Heavy Heart, Heavy Mind

As a teacher of young people, I am acutely aware of the trials of being a teenager. You gotta look good, act fun and popular, and have lots of friends. Stuff like that is still important today, but in a different life. I scarcely remember what it used to be like, and usually I cannot recall the importance of those crucial elements of everyday teenager-ness. The one exception to that lack of recollection is body image.

I’m 33 years old, and I’m fat.

When I say, “fat”, I mean overweight. “Fat” is just one of those humorless and tasteless attempts to lighten the topic. That way people can’t think or say it first. These attempts make people uncomfortable. I know this because when others use it, I’m uncomfortable.

I had to go shopping yesterday for new pants, because I can’t fit into my current ones. I bought size 14, which was an admittance to my current physical state. I looked for inexpensive “slimming” clothes, and was reminded that I’ve never looked for that reason before.

I’ve never in my short life been this heavy. I used to be a dancer – my metabolism was high all through college, and I could eat and do whatever I wanted. I was a size 4 or 6. I just can’t shake that mentality; every day I think I should exercise, but I don’t. Health is certainly a consideration – I weigh 25 lbs over the maximum “average” for a woman my age and height. I’m tired, sometimes unmotivated with life, and deal with both depression and anxiety. My school has a fitness room that I can use for free. There is NO REASON AT ALL for me not to exercise. I just don’t.

My husband and I have a part-time job as Bed and Breakfast innsitters; when the innkeepers are away for a week or a weekend, we go and run the Inn in their absence. We like doing it, and because we love cooking and food, it’s practically a wash for both sides of the deal. It’s good and fun money. I was raised on comfort food, and have consistent cravings for my mom and grandma’s food. I’m a chicken/roast beef, mashed potatoes/stuffing and Minnesota casserole (hot dish, in Minnesota-speak) person. My part-time job and my historic eating choices are not helping my weight, and I know it. The weather is getting cold now, and I tend to hibernate and eat tasty comfort food.

As a feminist and as a woman, I struggle with my weight as a body image issue. I should still feel like the beautiful and confident woman people tell me I am. But, I cannot shake the voice in my head that tells me I don’t look like a model, and I can no longer fit into my size 6 pants. I don’t like standing next to smaller women, I don’t like to watch them on TV, and I know that my current shadow is completely eclipsing the size of the woman I used to be, in both size and self-esteem. Yet, all I am doing is lamenting about it.

I know the responsibility largely lies with me and the work I have to do on myself, both mentally and physically. There’s no passing of blame here. I do want to know how much of this standard comes from my surroundings and the culture in which I was raised. My mom’s tradition was to never leave the house without make-up on — and not lightly applied. I read Seventeen and Cosmopolitan when I was younger. I watched lots of TV with the “ideal” woman depicted. I was always coached to look good and well put-together. I wanted boys to like me. I eschewed compliments because it was the polite thing to do. I wasn’t popular with the boys, and I was always assuming that it was because I wasn’t Jenni or Melissa or Staci who were beautiful and popular and perfect. Size WAS everything.

Rationally, I am aware that these things are happening. I know now that women’s sizes are subjective, and inaccurate. Most women cannot buy clothes off the rack that fit properly. I just wish I could have some sort of inspiration that hits me in the heart. I can’t choose in what form that “inspiration” will take place, and I can only hope it’s not harmful to my loved ones or me. There’s no silver bullet; I need to dig into my reserves of strength to begin my personal makeover as soon as possible. I also want to be ok where I am. I need to know there’s no shame in a 14. I may have to look pretty far and wide for that kind of acceptance. The first place I should look needs to be in my mirror.

Freedom of the Written Word

I’ve always been a reader.

Ever since I was able to ride my bike by myself, I would go to the Scott County Library and check out books almost every day. Anna Mae Walsh, the librarian, knew me from a very young age. My dad used to take me to the library regularly, and I was always one of the best “summer reading program” participants. Anna Mae chatted with me regularly about reading, about books I might like. She was kind yet stern, and I wanted to be her. By age nine, I would take home three or four full-length novels, most of the time finishing all but one, and then return them to the library on my next trip, two days later. I’d read the stuff that was appropriate to my age, but after a while I started venturing into more advanced fiction. Anna Mae questioned my choices of Stephen King and V.C. Andrews; she wasn’t sure that a nine year old should be reading about such adult subject matters. She even asked me if my parents approved, in the way a teacher asks a student if she can handle challenging work. She knew I could; she knew I could read like the wind. She didn’t know I would leave the books outside my room at night so I could sleep- they scared the daylights out of me- but I kept checking them out. Pet Sematary was so scary, so real, so frightening that I didn’t sleep the night I finished it. My parents didn’t give me explicit freedom to stay up late, and they knew I was scared, but they didn’t admonish me for it. They knew that my habit was a gift, something that not many people in my family had- a love of reading. I was a homebody in the summers before I could work, so I spent a lot of my summers just reading, and I got pretty good at it. I never gave it a thought- of course I could read, and I did it because I loved it. No one told me I couldn’t read - the world of literature was endless for an ambitious reader like me.

Fast forward to my adult years, long after Anna Mae passed away. As I grew older, I began my traveling experiences to developing countries, working in educational forums. My first trip abroad was to China, where, for the first time, I was unable to read. Literature was inaccessible of course, because the books in the libraries and stores were in Chinese. Everywhere I looked, there were papers and magazines and signs with beautiful Chinese characters- that I couldn’t read. I learned quickly that reading for me was a reality base while I was in a place very much out of my comfort zone. I read whatever I could get my hands on, desperate to connect to my native tongue. Sometimes I found Harlequin romances lying around the campus, sometimes I found a People magazine left behind by a volunteer. My choices were severely restricted by language and by subject matter- the Chinese communist government only allowed certain materials to be sold in bookstores and newsstands. My students sensed my desperation and brought me to bookstores where they knew there would be legitimate English books. One of my classes even bought me a set of famous Chinese novels translated into English; it was such a caretaking gesture that I was almost moved to tears. It was exhausting to always be speaking English in a teaching capacity, so I read to keep my vocabulary limber. Even so, when I returned to the United States, I found that my way of speaking had been simplified, and temporarily I was unable to use many multi-syllabic words or contractions. I am certain that the minimal English I was able to read helped me to practice what I had worked for my entire life to develop. Although I was prevented from stretching my reading legs in unknown texts, the written word had at least retained my skill.

A few summers ago, Catholic Relief Services (CRS) selected me to be a part of the Frontiers of Justice program, where five other teachers and I traveled to India to learn about the programs CRS had in progress. The focus of many of the programs was women’s empowerment, so women were taking the lead in their communities to solve some of the problems relating to money lending, education, and health. In the Dumka district in the Indian state of Jharkand, CRS is executing a program that teaches women to read and write in their native Santhal language in approximately four to six weeks. My background as an English teacher caused me to be curious, and I viewed this endeavor very differently than my Religion teacher companions. What would it be like to be completely illiterate? I had never taken the time to whittle it down to something so simple. My world would be quite a bit smaller without my entitled skill of reading. My livelihood is my ability to interpret literature and to guide developing writers and readers; I was acutely aware of how valuable this skill and learning was. In fact, I would not have been able to apply to CRS’ program had I not been able to read or write. I was excited to learn of the impact literacy had in this tiny slice of the world.

When we met with women at a particular village called Asanbani, we learned the immeasurable value of their newly found freedom. Through a translator, we asked the women what it felt like to learn how to read and write. Several women responded: “Money lenders cannot cheat us now,” “My husband can no longer enslave me,” and “I know now that there is so much more to learn- the world has opened up to me.” We could not begin to speculate about the trials these women had endured during their education. For them, the precious freedom to read was truly the freedom to live, and they had persevered. Our translator challenged, “How do we know you can read?” All of the teachers were embarrassed, and felt that he was being disrespectful. We didn’t need proof- we heard the answers, we saw honesty and strength in their eyes. But one older woman rose to her bare feet in the humid, dusty room, stood amongst her female counterparts, and in Santhal calmly replied, “Give me a book and I will show you.” When a third grader reads out loud, she sounds out words as the piece is slowly read. This woman took the primer and read- slowly but surely, and with a shy confidence. We were in awe—she was simply reading, and in that moment we recognized that her life was forever changed by learning this skill. She continued, and suddenly another woman stood to read. More women volunteered to read, and we saw five women sound their way through the primer. If we had stayed for another three hours, I am confident that every woman in the room would have risen to her feet and read. Although there was generous applause for the readers from us and the other women, we were amazed, reflective, and reverent. We were truly in the presence of greatness.

So many times throughout my life, I have been unconstrained with my skill of literacy, along with my education, my job, and the circumstances that have brought me to the place I am today. On the other side of the world, women just like me have lived completely different lives, but have just recently been given this beautiful gift of literacy to free their minds and worlds. Watching those women, who could have been me under other circumstances, brought me to an important conclusion. The simple skill of knowing how to read makes a world of difference to many people we will never meet in our lives; it's a survival skill. Once, I was a kid riding my bike to and from the library all summer, and now I teach students how to be strong readers so they can be active contributors to our society. The Indian woman was once oppressed, and now she can model literacy for her daughters and sons so that they can have a better life. I believe that literacy is an essential freedom that will continue to empower people everywhere. I am fostering that freedom when I teach my students and continue to utilize literacy, and I celebrated freedom in the presence of the recently literate Indian woman who will help to change the future of her world.

House Hunting

There are so many emotional ups and downs to buying a house. The following is a poem I wrote for my husband during one of our "bidding periods." Maybe it's something with which some of you can resonate.

Voices

It’s beautiful outside. Quiet, snowy, and peaceful.

I am driving with my husband in search of a house. We’ve been stressed lately. Money is a consistent challenge. We want to be proud, we want to be grounded. We want to feel like we matter. We want so desperately to be the grown ups we are- a married couple with a space of our own.

We tried unsuccessfully to buy a house early this week. My husband wanted this badly. I wanted it for him, and for us. This is still weighing on his mind. His fears of failure are fresh but dull- a muscle ache deep in his heart.

Tonight, we saw a house. We saw parties and company and maybe even babies. We saw neighbors over the fence, we saw cookouts, we saw romantic dinners. We saw ourselves.

We also saw risk. High risk, and fear.

Defeat washes over my husband- a prophecy that has won this battle. We can barely afford…cannot buy a house. His normally relaxed face- the face I love- crumpled into heavy thought. I know he feels hopeless. I know he wants to hide, to cry, to scream, to fall in a heap. He says he is sorry. Such powerful words, such a suffocating burden; this burden should not be for my husband.

As we drive on Dale in warmth of our unhappy car, I glance out the window at the cemetery. It’s dark; I squint to see beyond shape after shape of quiet gravestones. I am drawn to the comfort of silence and unwavering peace.

Brief winks of light, a Morse code blinks across the still ground of the cemetery. Only I am meant to see this. The shiny granite reflects the light that traffic brings to a busy street.

The gravestones are alive. They are beckoning to me- an urgent message.

It will all be well. Leap, it tells me- as the light flits from one place to another. Go ahead and jump. We’re here. We hear. All will be well. We wish to guide you into light.

The dead are aware of our struggle. Ancestors have earned a place in history because they have struggled. They’ve done houses and marriage and babies. They’ve done frustration and pride and defeat. Many have loved so much that it hurts- like now.

All have failed, and all have succeeded. Just like us.

Now is the time to receive their message gracefully. We were never meant to be alone- just us. The forces surrounding us have been holding us dear all the while.

You will love, you will feel pride, you will be happy.

If you say so, I think. If you think we can.

You can. You will.

We will.

Love on the Internet Super Highway

This weekend marks the one year anniversary of my marriage to my husband. It's been a wonderful year; we have really learned to work together as a team. I am certain I've married the most beautiful human being on earth.

We met on the Internet, on Match.com.

I don't know why I am STILL embarrassed to say this. I made a great decision, and he made a great decision in writing me in the first place. We knew right away that we were meant for each other- minutes after we met face to face, we both recall a peace, affirming a feeling in our hearts. But for some reason, I still feel a wincing stigma attached to meeting someone online.

Our story is interesting. I was on both eharmony.com and Match.com for about a year and a half. I can't say I was really enthused about it; somehow I felt like I had failed to meet someone without "help." I'm also not the kind of person to sit back and let life happen, so I signed up for both. I went on a lot of first dates, and a small number of connections I made worked out into short mini-relationships lasting a month or a month and a half.

I'll admit that I also was online for a little ego trip. I'd log on, and there would, most of the time, be a few emails from interested men. Even if they were completely the opposite of who I was looking for, it was nice to get the attention without feeling harrassed. One guy emailed a picture of himself in a t-shirt depicting a deer, holding a gun, and occasional teeth smile stating that it "seamed lik we gots alot in comon." One guy said he liked teachers because they "get paid a ton, always wear a dress to work, and get summers off." One guy also assured me that he, "new how to treet a ladie." I'm sure these men were nice and probably were great in person, I just got more and more bitter as I continued. So much of online dating depends on a strong first impression, and if I was going to be aware of it in my emails and ad, I wanted the same respect.

Needless to say, I got a little tired of that kind of attention. I pulled my ads off both sites, and moved on with my life. I became extremely busy, and didn't really think much about dating. Then, one night during a particularly romantic episode of The West Wing, I caved and put my ad back up on Match.com. My loneliness had gotten the best of me. I drank a glass of wine and turned in, feeling sorry for myself.

The next morning, Thursday, I slipped back into my needy desire for acknowledgement, and I checked my email. A very attractive man had written to me (my future husband), and mentioned we had quite a bit in common. It was true: everything from careers in education to ages and birth order of siblings. I won't bore anyone with the specifics, but I was really intrigued and wrote back right away. We fervently exchanged emails over the next two days. We both have brothers with the same, and we both are the eldest, our youngest siblings are about 12 years behind each of us. We both come from parents who are educators, and we’ve both chosen to be educators. We lived 1.6 miles apart, which is the same distance his parents lived apart when they met. We’re both Geminis. He loved my handle: MuppetGirl27. And he really liked my smile.

He wasn’t my type. He was average height, medium build, and did not have a college degree. I usually went for tall, lanky, intellectual types. I was not his type. He liked Asian women, and usually women who were big into the outdoors. My blonde hair and blue eyes obviously defeats the Asian deal, and I like “luxury camping.” Somehow, though, we really wanted to connect as soon as possible.

We agreed to meet on Saturday night. I gave him my phone number, we met at a supper club/bar, and two days later, agreed to be exclusive. I need to interject here and mention that I would never encourage anyone to do what I did at the speed at which I did it. I should never have given out my phone number, and I should not have met someone so quickly. In fact, as it was all happening I would shake my head to myself (“this is not me….this is not me…”) and went on several “how to spot a con” websites.

I’m just so lucky that he turned out to be a genuine, uncomplicated and caring man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Almost 6 months later, we were engaged, and we married a year ago this weekend. I’ve never been happier.

I think the reason we “work” now, especially considering our beginnings, is that we didn’t rely on email or chat rooms to communicate or express ourselves; our conversations, intimate and otherwise, take place in person. The stigma that surrounds Internet romance often comes from the experiences of never meeting face to face, and communication across distances too far to regularly travel. We are blessed to be able to talk about issues – both difficult and joyful.

I want everyone to experience the bliss we’ve been given. I just have to believe that when two people are meant to connect, personally or electronically, they will. Beauty comes in all forms, and in this day and age, we need to accept that it may blossom through the computer monitors of the world.

Missing Paul Wellstone

"The future will belong to those who have passion, and to those who are willing to make the personal commitment to make our country better." - Paul Wellstone
There was a beautiful tribute to Paul Wellstone on the OpEd page of the Strib today. And, like the writer of the article, David Morris, I am missing Wellstone today more than I have in a long time.

Of course, I miss him every morning I turn on NPR on my drive to work, or when I watch the news after I get home. There is inevitably a sound bite from someone in Washington, Democrat or Republican, who is rationalizing why she or he didn't do the right thing. They never really say they DIDN'T do the right thing, but they calmy explain, in political speak, why they just couldn't stick up for (fill in the blank)'s rights. It's really a no win situation, they say. What they mean is that it's a "I won't win" situation. What they mean is that it's really better to play it safe. Make sure you have someone backing you - someone with some serious clout. Make sure your butt's covered. Make sure your money's not gonna run out so that you can continue to play it safe.

There used to be a guy who did the right thing at his own political sacrifice; shouting when everyone thought they needed to whisper, swimming upstream against all who needed to push ahead downstream. Paul Wellstone showed us again and again that it was more important to act rather than to hem and haw; to push instead of stepping to the side. Now, there's no one to do that for us. Our country is in a sad state of affairs, and we sorely miss that little guy who spoke for those who could not speak.

Paul Wellstone wasn't a super hero. He wasn't invincible. Sadly, he wasn't immortal. He just knew that he needed to act with his heart for integrity and for love. We know that we can do this, but so often we look for the Wellstones of the world to show up to inspire us. Folks, the new Wellstone hasn't shown up in 4 years. There's a reason for that: we are the new Wellstones.

There isn't anyone to do it for us or to push us into acting on behalf of those who need us. So we have to. We need to be ready to shout, push, swim for those who cannot. Immigrants, the poor, the Middle East, the young, the disabled, the broken. Paul Wellstone is now someone who cannot shout, push, swim, act. We need to step up now. We need to honor him in ways he would recognize, beyond words and reminiscence. We need to emulate Paul to change this world, and to save what we hold dear. It's not about being a Democrat or a Republican. It's being uncomfortable, unsure, and sticking your neck out. It's recognizing how powerful your voice can be. Maggie Kuhn told us to "speak your mind, even if your voice shakes." It's now crucial to understand that silence and bystanding will not win the fight to sustain justice and equality.

We need Paul, but we can't have him back. We now need to recognize the Paul in us. We need to fight like he did because there is no one else there to do it. We need to take back our future and tap into the Wellstone passion that made life better for so many during his short time on earth.