Yesterday was a good day.  One thing actually happened, and the other was a good discovery

I want to make oyster stew on New Year's day.  It's supposed to  be good luck, but I just want it because it's yummy. ( Milk, cream, oysters;  how could it not be good!?).  So Eli and I went to a new (to me ) grocery store that has oysters and duck (I also want to make duck l'orange.  Duck breast is one of the main reason I still eat poultry!)

I am not naming the store because I want to keep my semi-guilty feelings to myself.  If you know the store, you may feel like reporting me or something, even though I didn't do anything illegal.

The butcher shop also has seafood.  It is not self service.  The poor girl waiting on customers did not have any help which is probably why the good luck thing occurred.  Oyster stew call for 2 dozen oyster (my recipe does, anyway).  They only had un-shucked  blue point oysters at $1.29 each. Yikes! 30 bucks! Oh well, it's once a year.  First the butcher/seafood lady told me she didn't think they had any oysters even though I was looking as them in the display window. After I pointed them out, she put 24 of them in the bag and put the price on them

We also got a big old duck which was 6 pounds at 3 dollars a pound.  This was turning into an expensive experience, but, again, it'sonece a year.  We got a few other things, but couldn't find shallots.  Someone will have to make a trip to Trader Joes (that not where we were, btw)

When we went to check out, the man in front of us actually was buying shallots.  Maybe he got the last two in the store.  I wasn't really paying attention to the clerk as  he ran everything through, but when he got to the oyster, he said "This say $1.29.  That can't be right."  I said, "Yes that was the price, and I got 24."  He said, "Okay, that's what is says."  I thought he was commenting on the high cost of making oyster stew, but when he gave me the total for the entire order ,  he said "Your total is $24.75."   He had rung up the entire bag of 24 oyster as $1.29.  For 24 oysters. I paid the bill and calmly walked to the exit.  Eli started to say something about the cost being awfully low, but I told him to shut up and keep walking.

So that is why I feel guilty about my good fortune...but not guilty enough to go back and fix their mistake.  I am just thinking that this oyster stew will be the most lucky one we've ever made.  I have decided that, to ease my mild guilt, I will think of this as a flash sale of buy one oyster and get 23 free.


My good fortune continued with my discovery about some earring I already own.  A few years ago, my mom gave me a bunch of bead leftover from her bracelet making craze.  Actually, I think she was going to throw them out and I rescued them, thinking I would use them for play therapy.  But when I looked through them, I realized they were really cool and starting making my own stuff.  Because I can't keep myself from thinking I need to accumulate even more stuff than I need, stuff, I started scouring thrift stores for jewelry I could take apart and repurpose.

I was in Jefferson City visiting my parents, and found this big old vase stuffed with jewelry.  It was $30, but It was really cool and I figure it was cheaper than buying actual beads at a big box craft store.  I was right about that, but I also discovered some really good jewelry amongst the stuff to take apart.  In that first vase, I found three stretch bad rings that retail for about $7 each and a 24 K gold chain.  I was hooked!

The Goodwill near me is close enough that I could walk to it , if I could walk.  I buy a lot of stuff there.  I buy almost all my tops and sweaters there.  I've found at least 10 really nice cashmere sweaters there.  I'v also discovered the art section.  There is a lot of crap in the mix.  Bad poster, prints from target, and a few paint by number on velvet.   However, I have found tons of originals including original oils and water colors and several signed and dated lithographs.  One I saw listed at an art gallery for $300!  Quite a good return on an investment of $4.

 But now comes my good fortune from yesterday.  I have probably ended up buying about ten of those vases full of jewelry.  I actually really do use the beads and other finding in my own jewelry making.  But in a few of these thing I found silver and gold chains, sterling silver bracelets with gemstones and some very nice earring.

With many of the earrings only one of a pair has made it into the vase.  Lots of times they have a Clairs tag on them or they are just hideous  .But this one pair....

I found the first one, and immediately felt how heavy and well-made it seemed.  It was covered in some white substance that I do not care to found out what it was.  I gave it a basic cleaning.  It looked and felt like silver with a brass X on top.  I finally dug through the vase and found the second earring.  I thought they were pretty enough even with someweird substance on them  They're pretty heavy, so I took them off and put them in my pants pocket.  I then sort of forget about them until I emptied the washing machine. Ooops...

They were pretty clean after their trip to the laundry.  I could see that there was a mark inside.  It said 14K.  Now, I know that silver is marked 925, but never 14k. Maybe this had gold on silver instead of brass!

Sometimes I am able to find things on ebay that are pretty comparable to some of my finds, so I tried my luck  with the earrings,  Searching for silver and 14k hoop earrings

Guess what!  I actually found the exact earrings, and then guess what?  Someone is asking $650 for the very same pair!  Score!  I will no longer feel bad about spending $30 on a vase of "junk" jewelry!

Here are the earrings on the left along with a silver ring with fire opals and a silver and gemstone bracelet

Hello

It's been awhile.  I have been over-thinking.  I have been dithering about subjects to explore and whether I can be interesting or deep or insightful.  I have lost the essence of blogging, which, to me, is to write what is on your mind... and I have a lot on my mind,  I am political and emotional.  I am concerned about my future and whether I am doing anything that matters.  I am wondering where my life is going and how will I  manage my increasingly more annoying and debilitating MS symptoms.

So rather than trying to come up with some interesting topic for you, my small and simple blog, I am going to try to make this an actual blog and give you my current thoughts feelings and occurrences. I don't want it to be a diary because my day to day life is just not all that interesting.  

So here is what is on my mind right now

I have come to realize that I have two of the most n-sentimental men in my family.  My husband used to be at least a little enthused by things like birthdays and Christmas, but somewhere along the way he became a curmudgeon extraordinaire!  We put up a tree for Christmas, but the rest of the decorations sit in unopened storage bins.  I know what the problem is, but he won;t say it  even if he is aware.  He is the one who does the lion's share of the work.  If I do it, he gets mad because he is concerned that I will hurt myself or break something.  But if I don't do it, it doesn't get done.

My son is not much better.  We left his ornaments off the tree until he got back from school, and I had to basically beg him to hang them up on Christmas Eve.  Plus, he couldn't come up with anything he wanted as a gift, and he  s not the most gracious gift  recipient.  Where did I go wrong?!

We went to see Star Wars on Christmas day.  We saw it at the I-Max in 3D which was way cool.  Dana got miffed at me for eating popcorn.  I know the sound was annoying him, but it is annoying to me that he didn't just suck it up or eat some himself.  It is unnatural to not have popcorn at the movies!.  I really wanted to get a picture of the three of us in our 3-D glasses, but there was not even a glimmer of cooperation for this particular photo op.

So as usual, my friends and family have lovely pics of festive homes with big family dinners and general Christmas frivolity, and I got nada.  

All right.  It sounds as if I don't appreciate my family.  I do.  They are phenomenal in so very many ways, and I am no picnic for them to manage, I am sure.  Just need to vent regarding my sad little holiday celebrations.  There are more important things than Christmas decor, most of the time!

Hello again

Here's something to know about me.  When I disappear for a long while, it is because I get into a low place.  Not depression, because I still able to function and do what I need to do,  Ie,  change my self talk, distract myself, etc. I can's say that just chucking it all and leaving the planet hasn't crossed my mind, but there are just too many things to consider and by the time I do consider them all, the idea has passed.  Plus that Dorothy Parker poem plays in my head and I realize it would be too messy for the people who would have to clean it up.

For reference the poem is:  Razors pain you.  Rivers are damp.
                                           Acids stain you.  Drugs cause cramp.
                                            Guns aren't lawful.  Nooses give.
                                           Gas smells awful  Might as well live.

Here are the thoughts that put me in a low place.  "I am a burden.  I am worthless.  No one would miss me.  I am lazy and sort of dim..."  You get the picture.  The other thought that makes me feel like a big steamy dog turd is "If you were a stronger person, you could follow a diet/exercise plan, and you would have more energy, walk better, be less fatigued etc...

These last few thoughts are particularly harmful and soul sucking.   These thought are called "victim blaming" or even "victim shaming."

Here's the deal. I have and am taking supplements including iron, vitamins D and B.  I go to yoga, physical therapy, and weight training.  I do as much aerobics as I can.  My diet could be better because, even though I have not eaten red meat since I was 25, I still like the occasional chocolate bar or a Culver's concrete mixer  (in lieu of Ted Drew's or , better yet, a Junior delight from Central Dairy in Jefferson City).  Despite my best efforts, I am still a good 30 lbs. over weight, and, oh yeah I still have MS and it is slowly progressing the way MS does.

Every time someone tells me that I should try the Wahl's protocol or go gluten free, or eat Paleo, I am being told that MS is my fault.  I know it is well meaning, 100% of the time.  But, I have heard of these diets.  I have seen Terry Wahl's TED talk touting her miracle diet for curing MS and pretty much everything else that ails you.

What I have not seen, however, is empirical evidence validating that these diets will have a similar effect on everyone who tries them.  The only research I've seen regarding the Wahl's protocol is that, in a very small clinical trial, there was on overall improvement in the subjects subjective sense of fatigue.  This is a giant leap away from being a cure.

Now, I am not saying that diet does not play a huge   our health, but it is one piece in a ginormous puzzle that creates wellness.

And sometimes a disease happens because you got dealt a shitty hand.

Be aware that if I knew for sure that some particular diet would "cure" me, I would be all over it like a cheap suit, but until I hear the news from a well developed clinical trial, I am not willing to make my life more difficult and less enjoyable for the off chance hat I may experience some minor alleviation in one area.  Until, then, I will do the best I can with what I have, from where I'm at, and I will call out myself and others when they unwittingly blame me for not being cured with diet.
                                         

This is a rant

I am taking time away from my life stories because I am sorely in need of some rant time.  I have talked before about what a lovely place denial can be.  For many year's I could almost pretend that MS had a very limited role in my life.  Occasional exacerbation and some mild hearing loss were just small bumps Annoying, yes, but severely problematic? Not so much.  Then problems began to be more of an actual issue a little at a time.  MS is a progressive disease, and it certainly has progressed.

 My handwriting, never really all that legible, became undecipherable, even to myself.  (Why are ipps on my grocery list?  Oh.  Eggs...)  I used to like to go on long walks around the neighborhood.  When Eli was an infant, I must have pushed him hundreds of miles in his stroller.  Then, one day, I walked several blocks by myself, and realized that I couldn't continue without resting.  Even after a ten minute break, I was limping and unable to stand upright by the time I got home.  I still didn't need a cane, but any walking I did was significantly curtailed.

I also remember the time I tried to run.  My sister was in town, and we were playing outside with our sons.  I tried to run to catch up with them, and realized that my legs were totally unable to respond to my request to move faster.  I think I may have even fallen.  I was laughing at how funny I must have looked, but it was an unnerving moment of realization that there was another thing I would never do again,  I was about 38 years old.

So my abilities have become fewer and fewer over the course of the past 20 years.  I continue to find denial a lovely place, but I have moved into the fourth level- I know I have MS. I know I am always going to have MS.  It has a significant impact on my life, but  I don't have any feelings about it.  I pop out of denial when I am tired or frustrated or angry and do the emotional work that is part of grief.  I grieve anew every time another ability to lost or another dream dies.

I think people dealing with MS or any chronic disease has enough crap to deal with every day.  I struggle to get in and out of the car.  I struggle to type this. I watched West Side Story on tv and wept.    I remember being able to sing those songs and hit those high notes.  Age is a culprit in taking my range, but MS took the muscles of my vocal cords.  I miss being able to sing.  And, my least favorite struggle, it trying to get to the bathroom on time.

I realize the incontinence is not uncommon in MS and is or even uncommon in the general population.  I have come to terms with finding the right incontinence pads and the neurologist has prescribed medication,to curtail the worst of it.  However, I still find myself with mortifying spots and having to change clothes in order to keep away offensive smells.

So now comes the real rant.  I am taking 20 mg of something called Oxybutinin.  I am supposed to take one in the morning and one in the evening.  I have discovered that, if I take them both in the morning, I can keep leakage to a minimum and am able to be more successful in getting to the bathroom before I have a problem. However, this means that I don't have one for the night and I have to get up more frequently,which disrupts my sleep even more than it is normally disrupted.  So I asked my very competent and well educated neurologist if I could increase my dose to 30 mg.  He listened to my concern and said, that it is okay to increase that articular med by that amount,  Cool!

 I want to the drugstore to pick up the med, but it wasn't in yet. I'll have to chew out the neurologist for taking so long!  Then I got a call from his office. Unfortunately, the insurance won't pay for the higher dose.  Someone, somewhere who is NOT a doctor has decided that I don't actually need this medication at that dose.  So something so incredibly humiliating that can be held off a tiny bit with a simple mediation increase, that my DOCTOR said is okay, that would help me feel a wee bit of dignity when so much has been taken by this dumb illness, is being denied to me because the for-profit health care system doesn't want to hurt it's bottom line.   There is something truly reprehensible about that.  So I am going to box up the content of my adult diaper pail, and mail it to my insurance company.  I may keep doing that every month until someone understands that , yes, IT IS medically necessary.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest

Moving ahead

I want to write this next blog while the zeitgeist of the nation is freshly focused on race relations and marriage equality.  I won't be talking about the latter specifically, but the supreme court just made Gay marriage the law of the land, and I wanted to give my congratulations to all my gay friends who have gained a huge victory today.  I'm so happy about that!

 But this blog is focusing on race relations.  Here is the class picture of my fifth grade year.

I am  the girl with gasses on the bottom row.  I want you to note the difference between fourth and fifth grade.  My fourth grade class was incredibly homogeneous, as white as can be.  In fifth grade, the demographic was  beginning to change,  I mentioned the the kids from the Children's home attended my grade school, and indeed I recognize at least two girls who were residents of the Home, and they are both white.  The brown faces you see where simply a reflection of the changing community.  I mention this because fifth grade was my first real experience with blatant bigotry and discrimination,  And it was perpetrated by a friend.

Just to give you some background on my understanding of race in general, I want to tell a somewhat embarrassing story.  When I was little, we had a topsy-turvy doll.  It was one of those rag dolls with a big skirt, and if you turned her upside down, she had a different head where her legs should have been.  This particular doll was a "Nannie-Nellie doll- black Mammy (I know that's not PC, but that's what it was) on one side and a little white girl on the other.  Since it was all one doll, I figured it was all one person.  I concluded that, somewhere along the line we all just turned black.  I asked my startled mom when was Grandma going to turn black.  She let me know that black people were born that way and that was the end of that particular cognitive distortion! I think that times were so segregated that the only black person I had ever seen was an elderly black man.  Thus I created that very odd delusion from my doll!

Fast forward to fifth grade.The two black girls were Tracy and Clara.  Tracy was sweet and a little quite and Clara was bold and outspoken.  While they were not part of my inner circle of friends, I always felt somewhat proprietary and protective of them.  I wanted it to be my job to make them feel part of the class.  I think they were exotic and different to me,which isn't necessarily very sensitive or flattering, but it was better then hostility displayed by some of the other kids.

I was fairly popular and a leader at Harrison school.  Teachers liked me and kids liked me so I had no problems standing up for myself.  

My teacher that  year was Mrs, Movshin, who I adored.  We was firm but fair and gave us interesting assignments.  we were reading a story about a girl who attends a progressive dinner.  Progressive dinners are parties were you move from house to house for the different courses; so appetizers at one house, then go to the next for salad etc.  While we were discussing the story, one of my friends said "We should have one of those!"  We were talking about who could do which course, and Clara said "I could do dessert!"  My friend Lori say, "you can't be in it you're an N word" only she said the whole thing.  I guess I had heard that word before, but not in my house.  I didn't think about how insulting that was  I just looked at her, put my arm around Clara's shoulder and said "She can so be in the party!"  Because I was a leader, and Lori was my friend, she just glared at me and said no more about it.  

Skipping ahead several months, my Dad took the job as the pastor of the church in Jefferson City.  I have talked about this transition in other blogs but I haven't mentioned the send-off my teacher gave me from on my last day,  I was in the middle of reading the Laura Ingalls Wilder Little house book.  I think  I had read them all except one- "Farmer boy".  As a going away gift, the class gave me a hard cover copy of that book. All of the kids signed the inside of the dust jacket.  By far, the largest signature was from Clara who added "Your friend" before her name.  

I think I may still have that book around somewhere, but the dust jacket-and signatures-is long gone. 

I always wonder what it meant to Clara that I stood up for her.  I wonder if that iis why she thought of herself as my friend .  I hope she remembers me.  I certainly remember her and, although I didn't realize it at the time, I remember the lesson of how much she had to struggle for inclusion.

School days continued

My fourth grade teacher was Mrs. Stroessner.  Or I should say she was my teacher for most of the year.  Mrs. Stroessner had a baby and moved to Jefferson city.  This was probably when I began to realize that teacher were human beings with lives outside of the classroom.  I think, other than that, fourth grade was rather uneventful.

 My mind remembers the strangest things!  I have a clear memory of finding out about Mrs. Stressner's pregnancy at the class Christmas party.  Everyone participated in the gift exchange and everyone brought a present for the teacher.  My mom, having been a teacher, understood the importance of NOT giving teachers another "worlds greatest teacher" mug. We always gave the teacher stationary, which was useful for writing thank you notes for "World's greatest teacher" mugs.

One of the presents Mrs. Stroessner received that year was a toy bunny and some other baby related items.  I think she saw this as an opportunity to announce her pregnancy.  I am sure I have collapsed the two events (moving and having a baby) into a single announcement, but whatever the timeline, I knew she was moving on and I spent he rest of the day being sad.  After school I tearfully informed my sister of loosing my teacher to pregnancy and the move.  She told me I should be happy because having a baby was a miracle.  I thought, #1. No it's not and #2.  This was a stupid unhelpful thing to say.  I kept both of those thoughts to myself, of course.

The other thing I recall from that day is really odd. Everyone at school got a Christmas gift bag with candy, pencils, and other trinkets.  One of the items was a furry ornament with googly eyes, hung with a piece of elastic.  I immediately called a Bippy,  Remember on Rowen and Martin's Laugh-in how they used to say "You bet your sweet bippy"?  I'm sure they were not referring to a hairy ornament with googly eyes.  But the thing just seemed to be a bippy to me.  The odd thing about this is that I remember Beth (my sister) showing me her pink furry ornament (mine was yellow.  Why did she always get the good color?) and saying, "Look! I got a bippy!"   I distinctly remember thinking how weird it was that we both independently call these goofy things by the same name!  So while her advice regarding how to manage my feelings was trite and contrived, we still maintained our cosmic connection.!

The teacher who took over for Mrs. Stroessner was Mr. Hulsey.  A male teacher was a curiosity to me, but I remember that he was kind and funny.  The only thing that bugged me was how he pronounce the name Phoebe.  Mrs. Stressner had been reading a book aloud to the class as a sort of time filler I think.  She would read a chapter at the end of the day, and she was about half way through when she left.  The main character's name was Phoebe, but Mr. Hulsey pronounced it
 Ph-o-be with a long O sound.  We were too polite to correct him, of course, even though I am sure I am not the only one who noticed!

So now, not only was I aware that teachers were actually real people with real lives, I also realized that they were fallible, too.  So maybe fourth grade wasn't as uneventful as I thought!

Today is Father's day
Last week we had another mass shooting racist hate crime.
I also want to stay with my journey through my teacher memories.
I actually have a way to make all three things meld here.

I left off with my move to Harrison school in 2nd grade.  My dad had taken a position as the resident director of the Evangelical Children's Home in St. Louis.  The home had originally subsidized a  small tri-level home in a residential neighborhood for our family , with plans to convert it into a neighborhood group home.  Although this was something of which I could possibly have been aware at the time,  I am pretty sure the neighbors complained about the idea of a group home being there due to the possibility of black children being place there.  I can't be entirely sure that this was the complaint, but whatever it was, it meant that the plans were scratched and that's why we moved to the big house on campus and my education got moved to Harrison School in the Normandy school district.

I tried to look up Harrison school on -line.  It is still listed, but it doesn't appear on the Normandy district website as one of it's district elementary schools, so I am not sure if it is still there.  At the time, though, it was still a mostly white working class neighborhood school.  The children's home sent most of the residents there, and although the population of the home was mixed racially, it seemed to be a mostly Caucasian group of kids at the time.

By the third grade, I had settled in with friends and teachers and felt pretty positive about things.  Living on the campus of the children's home had its challenges, but generally, at my fairly young age, I was accepted as a friend and playmate.

The school had outgrown itself a little, so my third grade class was located in a small separate building along with the Kindergarten class.  I seem to recall the it was relatively new.  It had two classroom and two restroom, but we had to go to the main building for PE and lunch.  I l0ved my teacher that year.

Mrs. Donovan was the epitome of the old fashioned school Marm.  I'm sure she had been teaching for years and she really loved the kids.

Third grade is the year we were taught cursive and multiplication tables. When we were first learning multiplication, Mrs. Donovan explained the concept and then had us each take turn guessing what the answer was staring with 1x1. We started out  strong and then, as the numbers got higher, more and ore of us faltered.  As it turned out, Mrs. Donovan asked me to run to the main building for something.In the days before intercoms, it may have been something like letting the office know who was buying lunch or who was absent. I had calculated how many people were in line to guess the next equation, and then what my number would be when I got back.  I figured out it would be 8x8 so I spent the entire trip to the office adding 8's.  Sure enough, when I returned to my seat, and my turn came, I knew that 8x8 was 64, thus impression Mrs. Donovan with my prowess at math.  I have since realized that the math part of my brain is missing, but it was ice to be good at it for a few moments.  
Third grade was my first encounter with seeing a child display separation anxiety/school refusal. I can't remember anything else about that little girl except that she was new to the school and she wailed and sobbed as soon as her mom left her side.  I remember Mrs. Donovan trying to make her feel welcome, but the little girl suddenly darted for the open window and slithered though and was gone. The interesting part for me, was that I was keenly aware of understanding her feelings...being scared of the teacher and the kids; hating new surroundings; missing her mother.  The other kids laughed at her antics, but I just remember wishing I could help her understand that it would be okay.  I had been in her position and everything would be just fine.

I know that I said I would tie  this blog into Father's day and touch on the hideous shooting.

Although third grade was uneventful,I think it was the calm before the storm that was to come to the Normandy district as more African Americans move in and race relations reached a fever pitch.

I have a lot more memories of third grade, but I think you've probably hear enough for today.  I will end by saying Happy Father's day to the man who taught me tolerance and led me into a life of service.

Here is of my Kindergarten class.  I'll dig up some more for next time

More on teachers and a lot on learning

I left off with first grade.  I started second grade at Home Heights in the Riternour School district in St. Louis.  I have zero memories of the teacher I had at that school, which is odd for me.  I think it may be due to the significance of moving to a new house and a new school when we moved onto the campus of the Children's home.

We move around Christmas time.  I know this because I remember buying something for our class gift exchange.  Those were the days before political correctness and worries about liability.  Gift exchanges were a common practice and sexism was a given.  Girls had to wear skirts or dresses even in phys ed.  Boys chased girls on the playground and it was a given that every one would fall into gender roles with ease.

Given the sex divide, politically incorrect Christmas gift exchanges were generally separated by gender.  Since  I was new to the class, my mom bought gender neutral school supplies as a gift, just in case it was a random exchange.  Turns out it wasn't,,  Girls gift and boys gifts were piled on separate tables.  We all drew a number and gifts were selected (from the appropriate tables, of course) in numerical order.  My number was high, so I had to wait while the bigger and flashier gifts left the tables first.  I was less interested in getting a good gift than I was worried about someone having to receive pencils and notebooks when they selected my gift.

The girl (naturally) who picked mine was as gracious and appreciative as a second grader could be.  She thanked my and said  that was always happy to get new supplies for school.  I'm sure she cried all the way home.  I had to choose from the last two or three small packages left on the table.  Good things often come in small packages.  I got a really cool Liddle Kiddle  (remember those?) bracelet with a tiny little doll inside a tiny little locket.  Wish  still had that.  It's probably worth a fortune on ebay!

My teacher that year was Mrs. Feeney.  I don't think I could have been more fortunate in being assigned to her class.  There was a Japanese student in her class who was also new that year.  He spoke no English when he first arrive in her classroom, but Mrs. Feeney was so excited to have him in her class, that he was able to communicate and flourished by the time I got to the class in December.  She was excited to have me there, too, although I was a lot less interesting than Kazu!

She made Kazu into an opportunity to teach us all about Japan. We learned how to sing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer in Japanese, and made a Japanese Christmas tree from newspaper. Kazu painted our names in Japanese figures for each of us (very inaccurate translation, I'm sure).  We always sung Happy Birthday to each child in Japanese and had Japanese bean cakes for snacks.

I don't remember if Kazu stayed at that school for more than just that year (or even for more than that semester), but Mrs. Feeney made his stay in her class something significant and wonderful for him and for everyone in the class.

Thanks, Mrs Feeney, for making my own transition to a new school, a welcoming , nurturing magical experience.

Teachers

Thanks to my mom, who meticulously filled out my baby book and my school year journal, I jnow exactly who all of my teachers were throughout elementary school!

I was not so thoughtful.  I shoved items of interest between blank pages with every intention of going back to fill out each entry for each year.  I could have answered each question;  Who was my teacher? Who were my friends?  What did I like to eat for lunch, or What was my favorite subject?  Now that my son is a sophomore in college, it sees to be a missed opportunity.  Not that I think he will be all that disappointed anyway.  Considering how sentimental I am, I managed to raise a wildly pragmatic kid.  I blame his father.

I do have memories of my various teachers.  Accuracy is not guaranteed, but the memories are there.  I did not attend preschool except for the occasional stays at the daycare at the YWCA (I think it was the Y, anyway.  Remember accuracy is debatable here), so I did not have a consistent teacher until Kindergarten.  My Kindergarten teacher was Mrs. Freeman who I remember as a heavy set lady who was  little scary to me.  I'm sure she was perfectly lovely, but this was my first foray into academia and it was scary in general.

I had to ride the bus, and in the days when children weren't taught to read until first grade, we relied on strips of color coded construction paper to get us to the right bus after school.  I recall some man asking me where I lived in order to verify that our colored strips were accurate.  My strip was green, and my mom had drilled into my head that I was to get on the green bus.  When I dutifully gave the man my address, he took my green strip and said something vaguely disparaging about my mother being mistaken about which bus I should take to get home.  .  I think he gave me different colored strip of paper, but I still boarded the green bus.  I never doubted that my mom was correct, and sure enough I made it back to the stop in front of our little ranch house.  My mom must have seen the incorrect color strip, because I told her the story and what the man had said.  I recall, her expression and understood that my mom was none too pleased with the backhanded insult to her intelligence. I, however, never once doubted that my mom was way smarter than some random color strip checker!

After Kindergarten, who moved to St. Louis requiring a transfer to a new school.  My teacher was Mrs. Burney.   I have a clear memory of looking at a page of a Humpty Dumpty magazine as my om read it to me.  I thought "How on earth do you get words out of those strange squiggles?"  I'm sure I knew the alphabet, but did not translate that those squiggles were letters..  (Just as a brief digression; I love Humpty Dumpty magazine.  I was very excited every time it came.  One arrive on the same day that my mother returned from the hosital with my new infant brother.  When my sister got home from school that day, I ran to greet her saying "We got a new Humpty Dumpty magazine...and Mom came home from the hospital.  I am going to sick to the idea that I was saving the best news for last...)

Mrs. Burney taught me to read.  I finally was able to decipher those squiggles.  I think I graduated from picture books to chapter books very quickly after that and have enjoyed words very much since then.   Thanks Mrs. Burney!

I want to scan some pictures from that time, but it will have to wait till I figure out how to set up my new scanner.  Pics will come next time

Cheers  to teachers and...moms

It's Mothers day, so I must do a shout out to my mom and all the phenomenal mom's I know and those I don't.  One day a year to celebrate Motherhood, is way too little.

But I wanted to write about teacher.  Actually, I have never taken a class with three of my all time favorite teachers, although I have definitely learned the most from them.  There are my mom, my sister and my brother.

 My mom was an English teacher.  I thank her for making me somewhat of a grammar geek/snob.  I also credit her for my love of books and reading.  Did you know that parents owning books-more than being read to or being provided with their own books- is highly correlated to their kids becoming readers and book lovers themselves.  We always had books around, and memories of my mom frequently include seeing her with a book.

I take back that I never had her as an actual teacher because I am pretty sure she was a substitute in one or two of my classes.  Although she knew how to teach, her real strength as a substitute was being able to manage unruly kids.  Once she was warned that the class she was subbing for had locked a previous sub in a closet.  Her first words to the class were "I heard you locked your teacher in the closet yesterday.  There will be none of that happening today.  "  I am sure that she struck terror into the most harden delinquent in the class!

Another teaching gig that I know she aced, was being a Sunday school teacher.  This easily could have become repetitive and boring, and I am sure that quite a few Sunday school teacher see an opportunity to preach dogma to bored teenager, or complete Biblically based worksheet with rowdy 10 year olds.  But my mom really liked teenagers.  She liked challenging them to think about their belief and memes in new ways.  She liked lively discussions and sometimes, even got into trouble for bringing up controversial topics or using edgy materials.  Maybe it seems as if teaching Sunday School is a not real teaching, but I guarantee that she changed more minds and influence actions just as much as anybody teaching algebra in a High School.

My brother is a High School Band teacher.  He and his wife, who is in charge of the drum line and color guard, have taken the band program in their small town, into the national spotlight with their amazing marching shows,  Here is a link to one of their brilliant performances

https://youtu.be/uDMnAWdVlEo

Even though his prowess as a teacher and his ability to visualize and create amazing  performances is a strong suit, he is even more amazing at how he interacts with students.  Just as my mom made kids be respectful and made them think, Paul holds his kids to high standard,  He believes in them and motivates them to be their best selves.  He never questions their ability or willingness to make things happen.  I have seen him in action.  He is stern and demanding without ever losing his respect or love for those kids.  and they respect and love him right back.

My sister never really wanted to be a teacher.  She is an actor from birth and by training.  When we were kids, she and I used to put on shows for our mom and dad and anyone else who may have been around.  Most of our show consisted of lip syncing to sound track albums from Disney movies.  I always thought it was so nice of Beth to let me be the lead character.  In days long before  every girl wanted to be one of the Disney Princesses, I was being Aurora and Snow White and Cinderella and Alice in Wonderland.  Poor Beth was relegated to being all the other characters.  What I didn't realize at the time, was that , by making me be the one note hapless heroines, she got to dance around as Cinderella"s animal friends, cast spells as  the fairy godmother, drink tea with the mad hatter, look into the magic mirror as Snow White's step-mother, and the turn around and be the magic mirror itself!  She was a pint-sized one woman  show!

After years of being a working actor, she succumbed to her desire to have a steady paycheck and took a teaching position at a performing arts high school in New Jersey.  Just as my mom and brother have inspired and shaped their students, my sister is creating a classroom full of thoughtful and sensitive aspiring actors.  While many of them do go on to use their skills in the field, she is really giving them the tools they need to be thoughtful and expansive human beings, by challenging their believe about themselves and the world.  Here is a like to a video of her students, nominating her for a Tony award to acting teachers.

https://youtu.be/bp0Cfi10O8g

 By the way, my very busy sister also operates her own outstanding school for actors.  Here isa link to her school's website  www.njactors.org

I am fortunate to have these amazing teachers in my life.  I do feel a tiny bit inadequate to two such decorated and well-loved teachers.  Teachers and actors love to give out awards for excellence.  Therapists aren't even able to tell anybody about any of their work, let alone make a video of their best sessions!  I'm definitely in the wrong feild if I'm looking for accolades, butthe rel unsung heroes are Moms who could never be singled out as Mother of the Year, because they are all the best mom's in the world.!

Here's to my own best mom!  I love you!

I'm back again.  I tend to come and go so frequently!

I have figured out something about myself.  I get busy.  I get behind.  I feel guilty for not keeping up,  I procrastinate.  I give myself a hard time.  I procrastinate more.  And then I figure I shouldn't be focusing on frivolous things until I get my "real work" done.  This does  not stop me from playing word games until my head explodes,or reading drivel or watching my very important TV shows.  It just keeps me from being productive in other meaningful ways.

Here is what I have been up to,in the meantime.

On the MS front:  I have "graduated" to using a walker.  My neurologist wrote me the order for it and said "You're gonna kill me, but I think it's time"  So I got one, and , what do you know...I actually get around a lot better and can last a lot longer-which is very important when you are shopping.  The next time I the neurologist , I had the walker.  I said, "I think I get around a lot better with this thing."  He responded,"God, yes!"  Not just yes or even "I think so, too," but, "God, yes!" Somehow, that was just a little disconcerting...

Amazingly, my practice has been picking up a little.  That's part of the reason I have gotten behind on paperwork.  I hate paperwork.

In order to not feel like a complete slug, I spend a great deal of tie taking open coursework classes.  I am currently taking "The Neuro-biology of Everyday Life"  through the University of Chicago.  Originally I was trying to take it more seriously; trying to pass exams and doing course projects etc and then I realized the reason I never followed through with getting a doctorate degree.  I hate that stuff!  I only want to absorb the interesting stuff.  (Just as an aside, I really did debate going back to school for a few minutes.  I even took the Miller Analogy Test and scored n the 98th percentile nationwide-I am a good test taker).  Since I hate studying and completing paperwork, but love actually learning new stuff, open coursework is the best thing.. It even beats going to seminars and conferences because it's free!  Plus I don't have to wear shoes.


Learning stuff makes me feel as if I am accomplishing something, even though I'm really not.   I watch a lot of TED talks for that very same reason.  So I'm knowledgeable, but being so doesn't really help me accomplish much.  Although, maybe that's why I aced the MAT.

So now that I feel as if I got that off my chest, maybe I can get back to the story of becoming me.

It's teacher appreciation week, so I think I will focus on amazing teachers I have had or that I know.  Watch for it!

More things I learned in college that had nothing to do with classes

I figure pretty much everyone has a  rude awakening to life when they go away to school for the first time.  You are exposed to so many new experiences and people. You are only responsible for yourself and you are beholden to no one.

Oddly, this led to my first "grown-up" feeling.  You know.  Those moments in life where you think to yourself "OMG,!  I am actually an adult!"

This is not a typical adult moment by any stretch.  I was in this dormitory talent show with two other girls who were my next-door-neighbors.  They were music majors, too.  Holly was a violinist, and Laurie was a voice major.  We teamed up to sing "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" in three part harmony. Holly on the lead, Laurie on soprano, and I got stuck on bass but also sang all the highest notes since Laurie couldn't go as high as I could.  I didn't have her power, but I had the better range.

We were waiting our turn to perform and Holly started playing around with the microphone, pretending to fart into it after each line of the song.  I had a very clear sense of knowing I was an adult in that very un-adult-like moment.
I am not sure what it was that made me feel that "I'm an adult" feeling.  I think it was because no one was there to tell us not to act so silly.  In fact, the only person who could be called "an authority figure" was the RA who was probably all of 21 years old.  A peer, really.


You would think that maybe my realization that I was in adulthood would lead to more mature decisions.  Riiight...

I can honestly say that I was a super straight/nerdy/prudish teetotaler in high school.  I never got drunk.  Never had sex.  Didn't have any clue that there were even any drugs in the world.  I am pretty sure, in hindsight, that there was a whole world of debauchery going o around me but my friends were savvy enough to leave me out of it.  I'm not sure why they let me be their friends, given what a judgmental party-pooper I could be!

I won't say I went wild in college.  I never skipped a class , even though I never carried fewer than 16 credit hours.  The worst thing I did academically were that a dropped a class (The History of Jazz- the professor took all of the soul right out of it and left it bleeding out every ounce of interesting).and I flunked statistic the first time.  Since stats is a required course for psychology majors, I had to take it again.  The second time I took it, I found a professor who understood the math anxiety  from which every female psychology/music major suffered and geared it toward being something interesting...like what the statistics actually measure rather that just how to get the measurement numbers..  Actually, the real reason I don't like math is that you can't divide numbers by zero, and I just can't get a visual of why.  Plus, the only  useful part of math in my life is percentages, because I need to know how much a sweater costs if it's marked 30% off.


So academically at least, I remained pretty committed and made some semi-mature decisions.  I won't say I was wild in college at all, but to some degree I discovered the sex, drugs, and rock and roll aspect of life.

The very first thing I discovered was that boys were actually attracted to me (!!) I had boyfriends and dated in high school, but the friendships always happen first.  Now, the guys were pursuing me, Since I'd never seen them before, I knew it was  based purely on how I looked.  Revelation!  I was a hottie! I didn't really know how to handle that type of attention.  I made out (just kissing and groping.  I think the kids today use the term "making out" as a euphemism for intercourse)  Some of the guys were cuter than others, and I had one guy who followed my around like a puppy dog until I let him down gently bu completely ignoring him.  Telling him I wasn't interested just seemed rude.

I also discovered that college guys were not willing to date a girl who wouldn't go past that version of making out.  I had at least two guys who quit pursing me after a few weeks of dating because I wouldn't have sex.   I told one guy I didn't have "experience" and he said, "Do you think I;m stupid?".  I took me a while to figure out that he thought I was lying.  Nope, I was just naive.

The "drugs" part of my wild and crazy freshman year was actually just me getting drunk for the first time.  Remember Holly, the microphone farter?  We used her empty violin case to sneak a bottle rum into our dorm room.  I don't know how we got the rum in the first place, but were thought we were pretty ingenious to use her violin case to get it past the RA.  Just think of how much more booze we would have been able to sneak in if we used a cello case instead!

My first serious drinking experience was a rum and coke party in the dorm room.  I got drunk enough to puke it all up.  To this day I am no fan of rum and coke.  As I puked into the trash can, I just kept thinking "This is so un-ladylike".  I don't remember getting drunk again for a very long time!

The rock and roll aspect of those days was real more of a discovery of true straight-ahead jazz courtesy of my first real long-time boyfriend.  I branched out from Brahms and Tchaikovsky (my fave composers) to Phil Woods and the Toshiko Akioshi-Lew Tobackin big band.  What a rebel I was!

That's enough for this post.  Here is a picture of me from those days

More insight

I have let this blog become something that causes me anxiety.  I have decided that it is something I "should" do and that I "should" write specific thing.  It is no longer enjoyable when I put limits and expectations into the content.
So, in order for maintenance of my mental health, I am gong to write in a more spontaneous, here's- what-I'm-thinking-today kind of way. Here goes.

I have the old phone that I used in my first apartment.  It is a princess style push-button, colored that hideous 1970's burnt orange.  It weighs as much as a small Subaru.  I'm pretty sure that it was rented from the phone company, which is what they did in the olden days.  You eventually owned the phone, apparently.  Either that, or I just never returned it!  I threw that phone against the wall once after breaking up with one of my boyfriends.  I used it in at least three apartments, maybe even after grad school.  I don't know how it ended up still being a thing in my life or how it migrated to my office to become a play therapy toy. All I know is, it's still with me.  The kids love it.

My sister has something similar that she uses as a prop with teenage theater students.  Her phone is even older than mine.  It is a standard black rotary model.  Although my touch tone push buttons are fodder for ridicule, her rotary dial poses an epic challenge.  Her students are unsure of how to make the dial turn, doing things like just punching the hole over the number or tying to open the phone like a combination lock.

My sister and I may seem to be in highly disparate professions.  (Psychotherapist vs actor and acting instructor/coach), but we are always surprised at how many similarities there are in how we go about reaching our goals.  (That particular situation will likely end up in future blogs.)  But today, I want to share my favorite phone story.

This is a sad,  nostalgic story, in that current and future generations will never have the opportunity to experience the joy and satisfaction of slamming the receiver into the the cradle after an angry conversation with your mother.  Caller ID has rendered the ability to crank call your arch enemy, asking him things like  if he has Prince Albert in a can (better go let him out) or if his refrigerator is running (better go catch it), or my personal fave, "This is the Jefferson City sewage company, and we've had just about enough outta you!"

And this story, concerning old fashioned phones, would never have occurred in the modern days of cell phones and text messages.

My sister had a job as a tour guide at the Missouri state Capitol building.  Most days she provided guided tours, pointing out the rotunda whisper gallery acoustics and the beautiful Thomas Hart Benton paintings.  Or she was assigned to the Governor's mansion where she could point out interesting architectural details.  But on this particular day, she was assigned to Loman's landing.   It was an infrequently visited tourist sight with two building's.  I guess it was pretty boring
I also guess that's why she called me.  She had too much time to think about stuff.

Our house had two phones.  One on the kitchen wall, and one on my Dad's desk, in his office upstairs. If you picked up the receiver of one phone, you could listen in to the conversation occurring on the other.  My brother went through a period where he liked to try to listen in to our private talks.  If you didn't hear him picking up the other phone, you would be able to hear him breathing.  If you quietly said,"Paul, get off the other line.",he would yell down, I'm not on the other line". There was almost never anything interesting for him to hear, anyway

This was the days before portable phones.  The receiver was tethered to the "call box" with a curly cord that got shorter as it tangled.  Every once in a while, you had to let the receiver dangle on the cord so it could unwind itself.  But even at it longest, you only had about five feet to move before you were rudely stopped like a dog on a leash.

I was too young for a real job, but old enough to be home alone during the day.  The phone rang, and I ran to answer.  This was also the days before answering machines, so we all jumped at the sound, just like a caveman being tapped on the shoulder. The tap could just be a neighbor inviting you to his cave for dinner, or it could be a saber tooth tiger testing out the tenderness of his possible prey. You never knew who could be calling.

The phone ringing interrupted whatever very important thing I was doing; probably watching TV or eating a whole rasher of bacon or singing along to a show tune as I banged out the melody on the piano (I did this A LOT).
I answered "Hello?"
"Amy, you gotta clean out my fish bowl for me!"  She was almost out of breath in her panicked state.  "I didn't have time to do it this morning, and now Fred and Ginger are both gonna DIE if you don't!"
Did I mention she is a little dramatic.
"No"  i answered.  I was loving having the power to thwart her desires.
"Please!!!"She was begging now, with a little sob in her voice.  "Think of poor Fred and Ginger!"
"No.  I'm not cleaning your fish bowl.  Your fish will be fine if you do it when you get home".
"I don't have time tonight!  I'm going out, right after work!!!"
"Oh well, you'll have to get new fish, cause I'm not doing it"
"Fine!  Be that way!"  Slam!
I got to hear the loud clunk as she hung up on me.  Oh well> I got back to whatever very important thing I was doing.  But just as I started whatever it was, the phone rang again.  I was pretty sure it was her calling back.  Ring ring ring ring....ten, eleven, twelve times.  No answering machines in those days, remember?  What if it wasn't her?  What if it was my mom checking in?  She'll be furious.  What if it was someone trying to reach my Dad? What if it was an emergency?

I answered,  "Hello?"

"Bitch!"

Somethings never change

More theology

I am veering from my reminiscing today because I had a little epiphany last night.

If you have read past blogs, you will know about my brand of theology.  I am sure that there are people who would say I am an atheist because I don't subscribe to the conventional idea of a God we have to come to though religion and faith.  I am not a-theist;without an idea of God or a faith.  It's just an evolving idea, informed by religious traditions and cemented in science.

Here is my epiphany,  This my seem as if it is just a re-hash of my older thought, but it was not.  Do you know how,when Eliza Doolittle finally understood what Professor Higgins was trying to teach her in My Fair Lady?  It was the proverbial light bulb going off in her head moment when she was finally able to say, The rain in Spain is falling on the Plain" without a Cockney accent.  I was finally able to FEEL what I have always believed in my head.

I have always said that God is everything and everywhere; responsible for all life and all creation of all that exists in the universe.  But last nigh I finally understood that at a cellular level.  The full meaning of the force that we call God simply being the surrounding everything like soup that is capable of permeating into you very bones and that IS your consciousness.

We mess things up when we give God a personality.  Whether it an old man with a beard (who likes an awful lot like Santa Claus, living on a cloud in heaven and sending out gifts to the faithful with angels instead of eves!), or Morgan Freeman passing on the title to Jim Carrey.  We do a grave injustice to the vastness og this thing we call God.  We ell ourselves short by denying that we cannot be separate from that vast creative force.

We are also being arrogant and misguided  in the thought that, somehow, if we just live correctly and say the right thing, that we will be any more worthy of God's love than anyone or anything else.  It is the epitome of arrogance to believe that some personality of God just decided to throw some people onto a planet to see if they could sink or swim.  I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we are the result of an accident in nature.

In no way do I think this makes humanity less worthy of love and respect.I think everyone should be in awe that the force that creates everything was able to create this remarkable world and this remarkable universe.  I just think that in a universe this vast, expansive and varied, we think that we are any more marvelous than anything else in said universe. I  think it is a very big mistake to limit ourselves to a narrow way of thinking about anything.

I also think we are ridiculous in our idea that "God" is responsible for suffering.  That, somehow, God would knowingly allow a child to be abused or people to starve or a hurricane to wipe out an entire city, He didn't reach down and say "I think I'll give that one Multiple Sclerosis because she was mean to her sister, or just because I like to see how people deal with stuff.   God doesn't do this.  Nature,which is way much bigger of a force than humanity, does this without any idea that this is a good or bad thing. It just is because it is.

Here was the other part of my epiphany.  I have always believed that "God is Love".  But the reverse of that statement is the real truth.   Love is God.  I think that, if we are truly understanding of that force that creates all, it would feel like love. Not because it decided to, but because that is the feeling that that energy gives us.  It like fire is hot and ice is cold.  That just its property.  The property and essence of that God force feels like the most profound and amazing love. People confuse that with a personality that has to choose to bestow love somehow. That energy has no choice in the matter.  It just is what it is.

Next time I will write about smaller.less complicated thing again!

















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Journey onward

Have I mentioned that I didn't start in college as a Psychology major?  I went to The University of Missouri in Kansas City to go to the Conservatory of Music.  I actually (this is bragging) got a full ride scholarship to play the cello in the orchestra. I was supposed to play in The civic orchestra of Kansas City, too, but I conveniently forgot that part.  Several of us had the same scholarship, and when they would go to Civic rehearsals, I would wonder why my scholarship didn't stipulate attendance.  Years later I was looking through the scrap book my friend Carole gave me as a graduation gift after high school. Lo and behold, the letter did mention something about membership in the /civic orchestra being one of the requirement.  Oops!  Can they take back my degree?

Just like everyone else in their first venture away from home full-time, I discovered a lot of things about myself that year.  I discovered that my endless pursuit of popularity in high school, held very little panache or prestige in college.  I wish  I could say that these things were profound and included a lovely coming-of-age moment.  It was really things like:  It is really nice to sleep in on Sunday morning;  I was a lot cuter than I ever thought I was; I was better at a lot of things than some of the other kids; I was worse at a lot of things than some of the other kids; it could be much cooler and more fun to hang out with the kids I would have considered "hoods" (that's what we called the bad kids at my high school) than with the kids I usually hung with.  And the most important thing was that I had no desire to spend 4-6 hours a day in a practice room in the basement of the Performing Arts Center.

I have come to understand that, just like real writers enjoying the process of committing words to a page, real musicians enjoy the process of perfecting the musical phrase exiting their instrument.  I liked the process of rehearsing with the whole orchestra, and I enjoyed playing concerts.  But I was more enamored with dressing up to look fancy and being on stage than I was with knowing that I was contributing to the glorious whole of creating a musical experience.  I really do like classical music and I love those sound of a well-played cello,  But I am not committed enough to making myself create that sound.  Plus, I never really had the chops. I was competent, but not inspired.

So, I discovered, that I was a lot more interested in the people playing the instruments than how rthey played their instruments.  So I switched to a psychology major after my freshmen year and breathed a sigh of relief.  In order to keep my scholarship, I had to continue to play in the orchestra and take some music classes, so I actually ended up with a double major.

Here are some of the thing I learned during the course of my undergraduate education.  some of the things were in class, and a lot of it was just during life.

1,  Most of college is about showing up and being able to stay the course.  You have to be competent enough to complete reports and take tests at an expected level, using correct grammar and punctuation, and knowing how to format correctly.  I'm not trivializing how hard it can be, it's just that much more of success in higher education is about committing to it.  Question:What do you call the guy who ranked last in his medical school graduating class? Answer : Doctor.

2.  It is okay to not be perfect (see above joke)  But, it does not punish your professor to do poorly in his or her class class just because you think he or she is an ass.  You're the one who gets the bad grade.

Which leads to
3.  There are some crappy teachers and there are phenomenal teachers.  Find the ones who are great and get as many credit hours as you can from them.

I think that enough for now.  But as I write I am having some actual insight (imagine that) about things I discovered during my education that I will explore next time.  For now, peace out, baby!

How on earth did I get to this place anyway?

There is a concept called internal or external locust of control.  If you are a word collector, a more psychoanalytic way of saying this is alleplastic or autoplastic.  The both mean the same.  Do you feel a sense of control over your life and destiny (Internal locus of control or autoplastic) or do you feel as if life happens around you and are just a victim of your circumstances (external locus of control or alleplastic).

I think I have always felt that I pretty much get to decide what happens to me.  At least I did until I got diagnosed with MS.  Now I realize that the only thing I really and truly get to control is my response to given situations.  Of course, you can and absolutely should plan things.  Do what you can with what you have from where you're at every moment.  Then sit back and hope that all your ducks are in the right row and that the  best possible outcome will happen.  But also, expect that some of your ducks will wander into a different row and that something unexpected will change everything.  Hey!  It happens!

But this is supposed to be a blog about my journey up to now.  So make with the wavy Scooby doo backward-in-time-lines, and here we go again.

My first job in the "field"  was as a summer relief worker a Day Care Center.  The day Care was a part of the children's home run by my Dad.  He really struggled with having me work there (nepotism and all that), but I applied, and, Bob's your uncle, (Look it up, its a real expression), I was hired.  I got to be the  summer relief for the teachers and the cook while they were on their vacations.
 I started as an aid, then cooked for a month, and finally had my own classroom.  I think I was 20. The best things about that job were that I got to go to the pool everyday, so my hair was platinum blonde and I was so tan.  I have funny skin.  I am pretty white.  (Shockingly Caucasian.  I glow in the dark.)  But, I get a pretty good tan.  I guess I shoulda been born in California.  Here is me at my sister's wedding that summer.

Me and my sister,  She is the gorgeous one and I am the short one with the platinum hair and killer tan

  I also really liked being the cook, because I got first dibs on everything.  The real cook had planned the menu before hand and had super easy stuff for me to make.  We also got donations for afternoon snack.  It was usually stuff like peanut butter cracker or applesauce, but once we got boatloads of Twix Bars.  That was a little dangerous for me. I really like sweets!

The kids were the real best part of that job.  They were all cute.  I had a few favorites,  There were two sets of twins.  Both sets were boys.  One set were named T-Wani and D-Wani. We called them T and D and they were ALWAYS in some kind of trouble.  The little girls were no angels.  Once they were told not to put water in the sand tray, but the sand mysteriously got wetter and wetter.  The girls were taking big swigs of water in their mouths and spitting on the sand to get it wet.  EWW! But very resourceful!.  I have pages of pics of those kids.  they were all great kids.  I still remember their names even!  In hind site, I can see which kids were probably being neglected and which were potentially victims of abuse  It warmed my 20 year old heart when the kids asked to go home with me, but now I would see it as a pretty significant warning sign that maybe there was a reason they didn't want to go home.

It's funny to think of them now.  That was 32 years ago!  They are all grown up with kids of their own....  maybe even grand kids!
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Overall, I think the Day Care was a pretty tame intro into the world of direct service.  It gets a lot hairier when you see the big picture and become a little less naive about people's intentions
But that will have to wait til next time!

So til next time, farewell to social services until after graduation from UMKC.

A  life worthwhile

I struggle with the question of what makes a life worthwhile.  Or, more specifically, what makes my life worthwhile.

In college, my friends and I would buy The National Enquirer just to look for the most outrageous stories, (Years before the internet and Stumble Upon!).  I ran across a story about how much the human body is worth,  As in: how many precious metal and  minerals are in there or what could you get for selling all you internal organs.  Stuff like that.  And I know that car companies have a dollar amount designated for each human life so they can get a ratio of how worthwhile it is to recall a part on a car versus getting sued and paying settlements. And,  if you are Betty Grable, you can say that just your legs alone are worth a cool million!

So I guess, if nothing else, you can say that every life has a dollar value.But I am more concerned about what makes our conscious life worthwhile.  I absolutely believe that an alive person is worth more than a prematurely dead person.  I absolutely believe that everyone breathing the same air and having the same energy burning in their bodies is connected and contributing just because of those things.  I would tell my clients that very thing  I would tell the parents of a special needs child that very thing.  I have told people that had a son is killed in a gang shooting or who's sister is dying of MS because she has no insurance those very things as well.

So why am I different?  Who do feel the need to validate my existence with achievement and impact?
Sometimes, that is even what keeps me from writing! I rail against feeling that I "have to" in order to feel worthwhile!

So I have decided that I will stop trying to fight the the need to validate myself by reviewing small ways that I may have impacted on the world.

When I wrote my essay for grad school, I got all dramatic and soppy and wrote something about only needing to impact on one person to make the hard work of getting a degree worth the effort.  I'm surprised they let me in!  However, if I really felt that way, I have to see if I have made an impact n that one person, and if it was truly worth the effort.

So in future posts,  (to keep you in suspense,)  I am gonig tp review my life's work and identify interesting cases.

Have a writing goal gives me the motivation to keep it up, as well!

mid life crisis part 36

When I am not in front of the computer, the ideas are ready to be thought and placed on the page.  When the page is available, I can think of 25 (non-productive) thing I would rather do.

Today, I am just going to put words down in a free form way, and hope for the best.

I am completely aware that my weird sort of mid-life crisis is well underway and shows no sign of dissipating any time soon.  I am ambivalent about my practice, and I don't trust myself to become a writer.  I have to quit thinking that I can override the MS fatigue, the inability to walk, my numb hands,...my depression and become something or someone else.  I am not reinventing myself in the game.  I am prematurely exiting the game.  I am calling what is happening, an early retirement, but it is really, a physical and emotional inability to keep on keeping on.

So I am probably going to let the practice, as it exists now, die a lingering death.  So now what?  That the question and I am allowing the confusion and not-knowing-ness to be my current reality.

I am aware that a big chunk of the failure to thrive of my practice has everything to do with this attitude.  If I am not putting the intention and effort in making something happen, it won't happen.  The problem is, that I don't believe it will happen for me.  I believe that even if I put in a lot of effort to make it happen, that somehow, it wouldn't happen anyway.  I hear about therapist's who run into a perfect deal with a referral source, by chance, or they get recruited to a group practice or a dream job because they are so out there and so good at what they do.  That kind of thing doesn't happen to me.  Or maybe it does, but I'm not able to see it, because, maybe I'm really not the therapist I always hoped I was.


So who I am I without that role?  I have been attached to the role of "Therapist" for so long, that I am not sure who this new person is!  Maybe, I can reframe for myself and see this as an exciting new adventure into the unknown.  Or I could quit being sappy and just decide that I am tired and am just moving into a lazy ass resting mode.

I'm always going to wonder about a whole plethora of what ifs, missteps and wrong decisions along the way.  But the bottom line is, this is where I have landed.  It is not so bad.  Dana is successful enough that I no longer have to worry about how we will pay the bills.  Any fear or anxiety is all ego feeling as if I am not leaving my mark on the world. Or , at least, not a big enough mark,

I am going to quit with lingering doubt and anxiety and let thing play out.  You know, things have always been playing out.  Things are always beyond our control.

I like those quizzes on Face book.  You know, What state should you live in?  Which famous dictator were you in a past life?  and my fave Which Harry Potter Character are you?  I always get Luna Lovegood, even if I try not to!.  I stumbled upon  quiz on Stumble Upon that was a little different.  You were supposed to answer questions regarding how you would feel in a variety of situation.  The last question was "You are lost in a deep fog in the woods.  What would you  do?"  My response was, to move forward slowly and enjoy the mystery.  The question said your answer indicates how you feel about death.  I love my answer.  I am going to choose to use that answer , not just abut death, but about ythe rest of my life.

I am going to move forward slowly and enjoy the mystery of what comes next

Here are some pictures from DC, just as I promised!

Botanical gardens.  Ellen (who looks just thrilled to be there!), me and my Mom in full 70"s regalia

Me and the Capitol.  I am the one in red

Me, my Dad (My skinny dad,), and my brother ready to boogie board!

Me, my brother and Ellen in front of The White House

The Washington Hilton and pool

Just a word about these pics.  No doubt about it, I was thin and almost athletic looking, although I never was, and never will be that.  That red tee shirt, worn with gym shorts, (which were a stylish thing at the time!  I swear!), was from The Pooh Company which you may remember from earlier posts.  My hair was not always that blonde, but it got pretty bleached out every summer

I should be doing paperwork or something else productive for my private practice.  But, I have had so many conflicting feelings about my career, that I think I will save the heavy thinking for some other day, and write a little more about family vacation memories.

This one is from when I was 13, so the memories, while still probably not exact, are a little more fleshed out.  I have rather visual way of memorizing.  While it is not "photographic", it does recreate memories as little Super 8 films in my mind.  Maybe that is how everyone's memories work!

Our trip to Washington D.C. and the outer banks of North Carolina was memorable for other reasons as well

1).  This was our first family vacation without my sister.  She was working as a tour guide at the Capitol building and or was touring with the Lion's band (Marching band.  Not cool garage band btw).

2).  I have pictures from this trip

3). My Dad was working (sortof)

The reason we were in DC, was because my dad was a delegate to the General Synod, which is the  governing body of the United Church of Christ.  So he spent most of his time in meetings while we were there.  The conference was in The Washington Hilton.  It's claim to fame is that it is the same hotel that President Regan stayed when he got shot several years later.  The place was huge!  And it had a great pool.

One of the reasons I remember so clearly that I was 13, was due to an incident at that pool.  I was reading The Exorcist.  I was too young to see the movie, but I could read the book!  I was sitting on a lounge chair by the pool when this...hippie chick, I guess you might call her, came to sit in the next chair.  In hindsight, I am pretty sure she was under the influence, but maybe she was just a spaced out, in-the-groove kind of girl.  She was in a bikini that was a little too small and she lolled languidly on her towel.

She struck up a conversation.  She asked where I was from and I told her Jefferson City which she, of course had no clue where THAT was.  She asked what I was reading and when I told her, she said, "Wow! That's really heavy!"  I'm sure she made some small talk and then she asked how old I was.  "Your only 13? Wow!  You really have your shit together for only 13"  That was the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.  She talked some more about stuff I do not recall, but I do remember her telling me that I should meet her brother and that I would like him because he looked just like Jesus.

Because my Dad was working, sort of, my Mom, brother and I did all of the touristy things.  We were hanging with another women and her daughter.  I know the daughters name was Ellen because I wrote it one the back of some picture with her in it.  We went to The Smithsonian, the White House, the Lincoln Memorial, all the usual stuff.  I love that we were in an actual city because, despite it's name, Jefferson City is not one!

The rest of that trip accounted for our real vacation.  One where my dad didn't have to work.  For this phase, we drove to the outer banks of North Carolina.  We did some touristy things like visit Kitty Hawk, but mostly we hung out at the rental cabin by the shore and swam and hung at the beach.

I want to put up some pic, but the scanner is being obstinate, so look for them in another post.

I could write more about vacations and trip memories,but I am going in a different direction for awhile.  Be prepared to shift again!

 I already fell off the "write everyday" wagon.  Here is my excuse.  On Saturday, I actually saw client which took up most of the day and had me away from a functioning computer. Then we were trying to go to this Italian place for dinner. My car had a flat tire, so we were taking my husband's car.  I drive a Nissan Cube.  Don't laugh, it is really roomy on the inside.  Even my 6'2" father says it is easy to get in and out of that car.  We were driving the Honda Accord instead.  Significantly nicer, but not nearly as easy for me to enter.  When I was maneuvering my way in, my son (who has no trouble climbing in the back), slammed his door shut with my pinkie finger still in it.

It is amazing how many thoughts go through your head in a split second.  After the initial,"Oh my God!  What the...? That really hurt"  I thought, "Oh.  My pinkie is in the closed car door."  Then "I'd better not move, or I will break/tear off my pinkie"  The thought were not in any particular order.  they included "Damn, I wanted to go eat out." " Damn, I don't want to go to the hospital." " Oh look, my necklace fell off.  I'd better wait til my finger is free before I pick it up.".  I heard my husband yell at Eli to open the door, which he did.

When my finger was free, I got in the car and took a look at my poor little pinkie finger.  I was interesting to see it sticking out at a right angle to my palm. I reached down to smooth it back into place with my husband yelling "Don't touch it!"  But too late.  I pulled on it the tiniest bit and it really and truly just straightened itself out like a good little soldier.  I wiggled it around, bent it, and compared to my other pinkie.  It wasn't even swollen!

We went ahead to the restaurant, discussing how we thought we would be on our way to the ER rather that eating fish tacos and chicken mole. (The Italian place was packed. so we ended up eating Mexican)  My son said, "There's rubber around the door for a reason  My husband said, Yeah, to keep out the rain!"   I guess that cushioning for a wayward finger is strictly a fringe benefit.

If I were am Evangelical Christian, I'm sure I would think that the fact that my finger was not severed or smashed was proof that all that prayin' and church-going was the reason.  However, scientifically, I am sure that it was probably not all that uncommon of an event.

So all of that to say give me a break for not writing.  The poor little guy is still pretty sore and stiff.  I just glad it was only my pinkie!

Here's what I've noticed. 

My post have three, maybe four, distinct themes: waltzing down memory lane, kvetching about MS, professional type topics, or religion.  The last two sort of go together, so it's really just three.  Oh yeah, I get political sometimes, too but not very often.

Since it continues to be a major deep freeze right now, I think I will stick with memories of warm climates.

My mom clarified that New Orleans and Texas/Mexico were, indeed, one trip.  In New Orleans we stayed with my Dad's cousin, John and his family.  Relationship-wise, that makes him my first cousin once removed, and his kids, James and Christa are my second cousins.  There''s a lesson in familial relationships for ya!

I'm pretty sure James was a toddler and Christa was an infant,  I remember John's wife, Beth, pushing a baby carriage, so someone was an infant!  Beth was so beautiful to me.  John was a professor at Tulane at the time, and they lived in a beautiful walk-up brownstone-y apartment (my memory may completely off here.)  I thought they were the epitome of cool!  I remember that we bought a boatload of gulf shrimp for dinner, and I think we had enough for everyone to have a whole pound to themselves!  I'm sure that was the only time I got completely stuffed after just eating steamed shrimp!

I'm not sure how long we stayed, but it was long enough to have breakfast at Brennan's.   I had something call eggs sardou  (according to the Brennna's menu that is:  crispy artichokes, Parmesan creamed spinach, choron sauce)   Even though it was breakfast,we had banana's foster for dessert.  Boy that make me want to steal the cookbook my mom brought back and I'm sure she still has somewhere. ( Watch your cookbook shelf next time I visit, Mom!)

I also remember Bourbon Street.  While I remember trying to divert my gaze from the debauchery of naked girls swing from the upstairs windows, I mostly remember that I found a little shop that was playing the soundtrack to the Wizard of Oz!  The shop clerks must have thought I was a weird , white girl shop-lifter or something, because I just wanted to hang out in the store and listen to Dorothy and friends made their way down the Yellow Brick Road!

After new Orleans, we went to Texas.  We went to Brownsville where my dad grew up.  People there called my dad "little Bobbie " even though he is now 6'5".  From Brownsville we made a quick hop to Mexico for just a few hours. It was very touristy there and we shopped a bit then ate lunch.  You know how the water quality is just a little suspect in Mexico?  My dad insisted that the restaurants that catered to tourists probably had water that was just fine, so I didn't hesitate to drink away.  I thought the waiter looked a little surprised to see this very obviously Caucasian family asking for more agua.  I don't know how long it took, but I know we were at a museum when it hit me.  I spent a whole lot more time seeing the bathroom than anything cultural.  My dad insisted that is was all the fresh oranges we had been eating that were wrecking havoc with our systems.

Going through the border check coming back to Texas also sticks with me.  My sister and I had bought some marionette puppets.  One of them was a mustachioed mariachi player.  I kept singing the Frito bandidto jingle (which I am sure was suspiciously racist, but it was the 70's and we were from the midwest!) until I am sure my parents wanted to throw me out the window. I'm pretty sure I would have kept singing that little ditty right through the border check if my parents hadn't stopped me.

My parents  had bought a case of wine in Texas before we went into Mexico.  I think there was a moment of touch and go when they weren't sure whether or not the border patrol would either confiscate it or make them pay a huge fine.  Oh, the excitement of being an outlaw and sneaking an American domestic product in and back out of Mexico.

These posts say more about the nature of memory than they do about actual events.  Maybe I'll write about that sometime!
But, next time, I am venturing in Washington D.C.