Um, this is so awesome.

I am enough.

So, I tried out a new therapist a few weeks ago in the hopes of finding someone who could say to me, "Oh, silly Amber, here's the problem. You just need to do this and you'll feel better." Which is crazy because, as a therapist myself, I know that this rarely happens. But still. I wanted him to help me unearth this thing, this deeply rooted thing that creates so much discomfort in my life and help me kill it good.

Instead, we talked about a lot of things, about this sense of urgency I have to get a job that supports myself and my son, about how I hate my line of work, about how I get both excited and depressed at the idea of leaving Jack at daycare. We talked about how I have irrationally believed that we are all on a sinking ship and that Jesus left me in charge of fixing it. He told me that I was anhedonic- that I have an inability to experience pleasure- and that I need to learn how to let go of this idea that if I am good to myself then others will suffer.

I told him to try growing up in Sunday School and not get that idea. I also told him that he has never seen me in a karaoke bar and if he had, he would not describe me as anhedonic.

I also told him that I do experience pleasure in my life, but then I immediately experience anxiety about it. Pleasure is something I was taught is bad, is not to be trusted, is sinful and indulgent. Be ye not of the flesh, says the Bible and about every youth pastor I ever listened to. Week after week at Bible study I would sit amongst my peers and listen as some girl the youth pastor had recruited to share her "testimony." Head down, voice filled with shame, tears falling down her cheeks, she would recount her story of debauchery and flagrant hedonism. She would tell us about how Satan had deceived her into thinking that using drugs, having sex, and listening to rock-n-roll would make her happy. She would talk about the abortion she had and how she thinks about her unborn baby every day, how she can't go to sleep at night without crying. She would beg us to listen to her story and to give our lives over to God, to be chaste and chase away the temptations of the flesh.

While I think that the intention of her story was to help us avoid creating needless suffering in our young lives, I think that I came away with a different lesson: pleasure = disastrous consequences. This, paired with my totally ridiculous sense of over-responsibility for other people's suffering, makes it very difficult for me to even be aware of what I might just like to do with my life.

LIKE to do with my life. Not should do. Not need to do. Like to do.

(By the way... does anyone know of any job openings for a professional ice-cream over-eater? Or a lay-out-by-the-pool-reading-Candace-Bushnell-novels-
while-sipping-margueritas-er? Perhaps you know someone who has a couch that is in need of someone to lay on it while watching marathons of Project Runway and My Life on the D List. If so, let me know and I'll send them my resume.)

Jesus, who was my Michael Jordan, was a martyr. As it was told to me, he died because the world was so shitty that God was going to kill it unless someone sacrificed his/her life. I wonder if Jesus ever really had fun. I wonder if he went through life feeling really responsible for everybody all of the time. I wonder if he ever said to himself, "You know, there's that leper colony over by Nazareth that I really should go and heal but dammit, I'm tired of sick people. I'd really rather go snowboarding today."

I'm reminded of the time when he was surrounded by needy people and he just vanished into thin air to get away from them. Jesus, I can relate. How did you give yourself permission to take care of yourself? Did you feel guilty for not sticking around?

During dinner tonight with a friend, I was describing this restless malcontent that I experience when I'm not out crusading for something big and important. I've done a lot of crusading and it appears that I have a great deal of my identity all wrapped up in being a savior. I'm having a hard time just being enough as I am right now, a single mom who works as a nanny and an apartment manager and who is exhausted by 7:30pm every night. I'm not "using" my degrees, I'm not writing a book, I'm not contributing to a cause, I'm not reading anything important. This all makes me very nervous. And yet, I can't think of anything that I want to crusade for.

What my new therapist did ask me was this: "What is the most important thing to you right now?" Without hesitation I answered, "That Jack get a good start at life. That I provide him with a solid foundation from which he can flourish." He then asked me, "Are you doing that?" And I knew that I was. I am doing what is most important to me and yet I still feel like it's not enough, that I'm not contributing, that I'm never going to feel useful again.

It's time to unravel this mess of pleasure equals hurt and usefulness equals worthiness. I'm just not sure where to start.

The Polish American Blog War Continues

The Great Polish-American Blog War appears to have reached a new peak this week as hate mail from Spain and Jesse Spano hurl insults and lyrics at this site. The following missile, fired December 12th, held the following response:

Luis said...
Omg that what u wrote here is just stupid. I am from Spain, and i live in Poland 2 years now ( studies ), and i have to say that Poland is just great. Great beer, food, bread, nice people. And as u see i have computer here ( with fast internet connection ^^) Maybe your friend should move to some bigger city. For example living in some small american town also sux very much.

Analysts are having a hard time agreeing about the intent of the hate mail missile. Some experts say that it was meant to be condescending and insulting, and they point to the words "stupid" and "sux" as evidence to support this theory. Others say that Luis, the alleged hate mail sender, was simply trying to inform us of the many attractions of the country of Poland and possibly offer his advice about small town living. All agree that he completely missed the point.

The second bombing came in early today from nineties teen idol Jesse Spano who disguised her missile as a sappy pop ballad. A source close to Spano said that this song is what "kept her afloat" during her film career disaster, however it is unclear as to why she sent the lyrics to us. Analysts speculate that Spano, like many before her, misunderstood the post entirely and felt inspired to share her world peace perspective through song. While most of the citizens of PB and C will be inclined to laugh at Jesse's misuided and misinformed attempts to rid the world of hatred, we are instead encouraged to feel sorry for her:

Jessesspano93 said...

We can't go on Pretneding day by day That someone, somewhere will soon make a change We are all a part of God's great big family And the truth, you know love is all we need We are the world We are the children We are the ones who make a brighter day So let's start giving There's a choice we're making We're saving our own lives It's true we'll make a better day Just you and me Words to live by.

Love, Jesse

While there have been no casualies to date, citizens of Peanutbutter and Cigarettes are urged to stay indoors as this war rages on.

For more information about the Great Polish American Blog War, read here and here.

Perfect Guy

My friend, Carrie, introduced me to an incredible game. It's called Perfect Guy. Perfect Guy was created after she had the experience of going on a date with a guy that she really, really liked. He was intelligent and funny and attractive, and they seemed to share a great deal of interests. He was environmentally conscious and played the guitar and had a great job that he liked. In essence, he was the perfect guy. Carrie was feeling really good about the date until she went to his house and found this on his bed:

Yes, it was a fuzzy unicorn blanket. You know, like the ones that you buy at the border along with the glittery Aztec calendar and the Last Supper wall hanging? Carrie didn't stay the night with Perfect Guy. The blanket had creeped her out.

So now we play Perfect Guy. She describes the perfect guy that I am on the perfect date with and then -WHAM- something that totally creeps me out. So, I thought we could play.

Okay ladies... you're out on a date with that guy you always see at Starbucks. He came over and sat at your table and you discover that he's single, very intelligent, and he laughs as all of your jokes. He's really into that same band that you discovered a few months ago and you have many of the same movies in your top ten. The banter is easy and fun and so he invites you back to his house. You walk in and find this photo hanging on his wall. What do you do?

Okay, here's another one. You're at a bar and the band that is playing has a really hot guy singing lead. He keeps making eye contact with you and you're not surprised when he finds his way to you after the set. You chat and you find that he is just as intelligent and interesting as he is hot. He talks openly about his life and seems very interested in learning about yours. He's grounded and insightful and thoughtful; the perfect guy. You walk outside to have a smoke with him and start kissing. You take off his hat and find this underneath.

Good Lord.

Okay, one more. You're on your third date with the Perfect Guy. He's a professor of philosophy at the university and he does stand up comedy on the weekends on amateur night. On date number two, he took you to karaoke bar and proved that singing Barry Manilow can be sexy. He compliments your writing, pays attention to the conversation, and noticed that you got a new haircut. He's sexy and smart and sensitive, your perfect guy. Except for one little thing...

Run. Run for the hills.

Okay, it's your turn....

(By the way, what inspired this post was the discovery of this store's Christmas catalog at my friend's house with this photo inside. Oh, and this one.)

Just Joey

As some of you know, several months ago I went on a little adventure called online dating. Broke as I was, I decided to go the fee-less route and post an ad on Craig's List. This proved to be incredibly entertaining, if not addicting. I entitled my post, "Seeking a man who is under forty but not emotionally retarded." Needless to say, I got a lot of GREAT responses, and by great I mean a bunch of photos of penises. Why, oh why, would you send me a photo of your penis? Just because you want to see my stuff does NOT mean that I want to see yours. Immediate delete.

There were several other things that could show up in an email that would get an immediate delete. Bad spellling. Poor grammar.. Not capitalizing the word i. Any mention of Nascar or of a probation officer. If certain criteria were met, I wrote back and a banter would ensue. Eventually, I went on three dates. One was with a history professor at UCSD who took me to a jazz concert. I hate jazz. Another was with a really, really funny Engineer from India who I couldn't get enough of on the phone but who I was not at all attracted to in person. I liked him so much, though, that I decided that maybe I could become attracted to him and so I asked him out on a second date. He declined. Awesome. My third Craig's Lister was a DA for San Diego county, a really nice guy that I accidentally on purpose lost his phone number because he couldn't make fun of people with me.

Then there's Just Joey. Just Joey emailed me in response to my post asking if we could speak on the phone because he prefers the "intimacy of conversation over writing." I thought, why the hell not, called the guy and spoke with him for over two hours. He was fascinating and had lived what felt like 14 lives in just this lifetime. He was sweet and funny and courteous and intelligent. He had two kids who lived with him full time and was hoping to have more children someday. He asked a lot of questions, said really nice things to me like, "God, you are just so much fun to talk to," and "I've never met a woman like you," and "I live on the beach in Coronado." Whoa, what?

Turns out Just Joey is a millionaire. Yup, a real estate millionaire. I found this out after talking to him almost every day for two weeks. Several weeks after that, I asked him how he got involved in that kind of business (given that he's a helicopter pilot, by day) and he told me when he ran away from home when he was 16 years old, lived on the streets of Queens, and worked as a bookie for the mafia before he joined the navy that he had learned a great deal about business and making money. Um, yeah. Wait, did you say the mafia?

He kept dropping these bombs on me. BOOM, I'm a millionaire, BOOM I'm in the mafia, BOOM, I was a Navy SEAL (Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that one to you. For twelve years, a Navy SEAL.). Every conversation, I would wait to learn something new about him, and not just something sorta interesting like the kind of wine he prefers, but that he was a trapeze artist with Cirque du Soliel before he was recruited by NASA for the space program (Okay, no he wasn't, but I wouldn't have been surprised).

Here's the best part of it all. At some point into our conversation, he sends me his photo. Are you ready for this? Brace yourselves....

















So, this sort of freaked me out. I mean, it appears as though he bends playground equipment in his spare time. But, as my friend Carrie said, "Amber, he could toss you around like a doll in bed." Right-o, Carrie. Point well taken.

He was calling me every night, this Navy SEAL millionaire daddy, and I was intrigued but not convinced. There were a lot of red flags. He drove a Hummer. He told me that his ex-wife would get mad at him for making jokes while she was angry with him. He was afraid to let others affect him. I knew from what he told me about his childhood that he was out to prove that no one would ever, ever hurt him again. He also told me that he believed that everyone was out to get him, even inanimate objects.

Big. Red. Flags. But, what Carrie said, like a doll...

I was excited to meet him, if anything just to see this guy in person. And I figured it would be fun to date a rich guy for a minute or two. Hey, maybe we would fall in love, have a huge, Italian wedding, move to the penthouse suite of some Vegas Casino that his mafia buddies own, and vacation on the Jersey shore. Ya never know.

And then, after many weeks, Just Joey stopped calling. I left him a message. Sent him a text. Left one more message and then left it at that, bummed that I wouldn't have a better story to tell. A friend of mine is convinced that Just Joey is actually Just Steve, some middle-aged tax accountant who lives in his mother's basement and beats the loneliness posing as a millionaire former SEAL. He's probably right.

Except that he called me three months later. Apologized for not being in touch, said that work had "taken him out of the country" for a while and that he would like to get together. What? What does that mean?

Anywho, that's my story of Just Joey. I wish it had a more interesting ending, and I wish I could tell you whether or not he's real. Nothing would surprise me with this guy. Oh, and if your life ever gets boring, post a personal ad on Craig's List and let the fun begin!

Hate Mail (or, Why I Don't Hate Poland)

Back in June, I wrote a piece called Why I Hate Poland. It really had nothing to do with Poland except that Poland is where my best and sorely missed friend is living for a year abroad. I, not knowing how much I would anger all of my Polish readers, thought it would be funny to blame my sadness and loneliness on the entire country of Poland, a sort of ridiculous displacement of my feelings. I also thought that the ridiculousness of this would come through in my writing, however apparently I thought wrong. Poles, it seems, are a very proud people. Just take a look at this response:

"You're a complete idiot, especially when it comes Poles and Poland. People are not friendly? Bad pickled food? Yes, I'm sorry, we seem to have embraced that exclusive dining establishment known as "Taco Bell." You're a prime example why people laugh at Americans abroad." ~Anonymous

Whoa there, anonymous. I mean, you are quite worked up about all of this. A complete idiot? I'd say I'm just 30% idiot, 20% hot vixen, and 50% astonished that you could have missed my point so entirely! Oh, and by the way, you should hear what they say about Polacks here in America.

That is what the hurt would have said. But instead, I just wrote:
"Dear Anonymous, Dear, dear anonymous. Ah..."

So, I was a little frazzled. It was my first blog hater, and I was a surprised at how jarring of an experience it was. That and how personally offended Anonymous was. And how much he/she had missed the point. I mean, he/she was really angry, and really really off the point. Eventually (and after several emergency sessions with my therapist), I forgot about it and moved on.

However, I was reminded of it when a few months later someone named Lisa wrote this:

"I hate anonymous."

...which got this titillating, if not scathing, response:

"You're a prime example why people laugh at Americans abroad."- -Anonymous You're great!!! ps. Wkońcu ludzie na świecie widzą kim są Amerykanie. A według mnie to niżej spaśc już nie mogą. And Lisa who are you? An American? I think so... you can only write: " I hate you" but you can't even defend yourself and your country. And you know why? Because you have not any arguments. And speaking of Poland, don't criticize my country, you surely have not a better one. No one really knows how it is to live in Poland, you must live here to know that. And Poland compared to America is a heaven. Sorry for mistakes.

Whoa, again. Whoa, whoa whoa. What the eff is going on? Who are these super sensitive Poles, anywho? And how are they finding my blog? There are no Poland haters in the house. Okay? Seriously. Maybe the humor doesn't translate, maybe there are entire blogs out there devoted to hating Poland and you're sick of it, maybe the Polack jokes have made their way back to you and you're furious. I don't hate Poland! I don't even know Poland! It was a lame title for a lame post. I get it. Jeez!

Okay, so, fast forward to a couple of weeks ago and, BANG! Another response to add to the Polish-American Blog War of 2007, this time delivered by yet another "Anonymous:"

It's almost hilarious how nervous Polacks become one someone complains that they don't admire ANYTHING in that HEAVEN :D And then they post their devastating anti-american criticism with shaking hands, putting in some angry words in Polish to prove they're better (well they DO know an extra language except English, wow!)... AMUSING !! GO POLACKS !! :P But seriously... those people really should chill out and abandon their collective thinking. No, Poland is not Heaven not even compared to the US, and yes, Polish food sucks. Please don't kill me for my opinions.

No, it's not you who will be killed, it will be me. Thanks to this guy, Mr. I'm Totally Condescending While Trying To Come Off as Jovial and Intellectual, I'm going to end up on some Polish Mafia hit list. Please, if I don't post for over a month, inform the authorities!

Dear Diary...

It's been a long time since she's come out, but it's time for another rousing rendition of

MY JUNIOR HIGH DIARIES!

March 29, 1990 (Rachel's B-day) Tuesday

There's a lot of catching up to be done. On March 6, or 7, Ruthie O. told me that Jeremy Clookie likes me. At first, it was like, Jeremy? I barely know him. But, as the days went on, I started to like him. And to this day, I still do. He knows that I like him, I know that he likes me, and we both have the same feelings about "going with people-" we hate it. We both think it's stupid. He's not too cute, although he isn't ugly - at all. He's got a temper and a half, but he's totally sweet to me.

Then, about a week ago, Ruth, Amber and Shay came up to me and told me that I was being a jerk, a stuck-up snob, and all I could do was talk, brag, and think about Jeremy. Sure, I loved (underlined) to brag about him. He's the only guy who's ever liked me, and I've liked him since Scott Kurtz. We talked about it, and it hurt, it really hurt to hear them talk the way they did. Maybe they didn't realize it, but those words were going into a girl's ears who's put up with enough hard times already.

Well, anyway, I don't even know if he still likes me, I still like him, I know that. I have a feeling that he kinda, sorta likes me, but not like he used to. DARN.

I'm getting my hair cut on Friday - real short. About to the ears (A little longer).

Well, gotta jam. It's 10:11pm.

Reason Number 327 Why I Should Not Watch TV.

I now cry during every episode of Law and Order, SVU. This is one of the side effects of motherhood that they don't tell you about. So is the heart-stopping fear that comes with the realization that your kid might end up on an episode of Intervention some day. Or worse: that he won't, but will need to be.

There are times when I hold him so tightly, hold on to him for dear life while images of him being molested by some creepy babysitter go running through my head like crazed Vikings, pillaging the nicer fantasy I hold of him becoming a well-balanced and emotionally intelligent young man. Every night, as I rock him to sleep, I pray these words out loud, more to soothe me than him, more to remind me than to teach him, more so that I will be able to sleep rather than ready him for bed:

The light of God surrounds us,

The love of God enfolds us,

The power of God protects us,

And the presence of God watches over us;

Wherever we are, God is and all is well.

Living with Jack is like living with my most vital organ running around outside of my body, totally vulnerable to some angry person to kick at. My friend, Melissa, once asked me what it felt like to be reunited with him after not seeing him for a while and I told her it feels like coming up for breath after a long time under water. I can breathe again. You are here. I can hold you, safe.

My Own American Pie Moment

If you are one of my two brothers, my mom or my dad, or anybody else who has a vested interest in never, ever thinking of me as a sexual person, I strongly urge you to stop reading. Immediately. Because I'm about to tell a story about being walked in on while, well, you know.

I'm not even sure why I feel so compelled to write this story. What happened today is now in my Top Ten Most Awkward and Uncomfortable Moments List, along with #2) missing a very dramatic key change during a solo in front of the entire student body of my college, and #6) talking shit about my ex's new girlfriend who, I later found out, happened to be sitting right behind me catching every word. I suppose I am hoping that telling you my gutwrenchingly shameful story will get me to the point where it is funny instead of painful, because right now it's just painful. Really, really painful.

Okay. So here goes. (Deep breath). My friends (who will remain anonymous for reasons you will soon understand) offered to watch Jack for me overnight, a gift that is so overwhelmingly kind that I feel like I should turn my life over to them with the same kind of devotion that Christians turn their lives over to Jesus. In fact, I think I could be a devotee to a guru/teacher/prophet who provided free childcare and occasionally bought me coke slurpees. But I digress.

So, on this childless day after a childless night, I experienced two things that I have not had since before I became a mom. One of these was a full night's sleep followed by a morning of sleeping in. Glorious. The other was an orgasm. Also, although I shouldn't have to say it, glorious.

Now let me preface all of this by letting you know that, since Jack was conceived, I have had as much interest in having sex as I have had in learning about cold fusion. That is to say, I have none. I'm just not interested. Let's put it this way: Sex used to be like NBC or some other major network channel on my internal TV. Since pregnancy, it's been relegated to some channel in the high seventies, like the Home Shopping Network or CSPAN, channels I just flip right through while surfing. I didn't even experience the crazy sex dreams and heightened sex drive that all of the pregnancy books talk about and post-partum mothers literally get dizzy over while recalling them ("And there was this one with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie..."). And when I say that I have not had any interest in sex, I'm not just talking about having sex with someone else. I have not had sex - any sex - in over two years.

When I tell people this, they usually seem very shocked (note: What? Do you think I'm a hussy?) and worried, like I've just told them I've been diagnosed with cancer. They try to cover their concern, saying things like, "Oh, that's normal. My sex drive took ages to come back, too." While surrounded by her children who are 11 months apart. Or I love it when my non-parent friends chime in on the make-Amber-feel-okay-campaign. It usually goes like this:

Me: I haven't had sex since Jack was conceived.

Them, trying to minimize their surprise, which is hard when one sprays soda out of one's mouth: Really? But isn't that, like, normal? I mean, you just had a baby.

Me: A year and a half ago.

Them: Oh, right. But you're single. It's not like you have a boyfriend or a husband to have sex with...

Me: Is this supposed to be making me feel better?

So, today, when I suddenly and out of nowhere felt, well..., interested, I abandoned all other plans for organizing my kitchen cupboards and quickly drew a bath. I glanced at the clock and realized that I didn't know when my nameless friends would be coming by to drop Jack off (umm, no pun intended). Wanting to time things correctly, I game them a call and learned that I had about 45 minutes before they would come over - plenty of time! I told them that I was hopping in the shower and would see them when they got here.

I'll spare you the details, but let's just say that it was what you might imagine it would be like if you had not had sex for over two years. And let's just say that I let my feelings out about how great this all was quite vocally. Loudly, actually. Like, think Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. Several times.

Okay, so I get out of the shower and am drying off when-

"Uh, Amber, we're in your house." It's my nameless friend. She pops her head inside my bedroom door, which is now closed but wasn't before I took my shower. Which means that she closed it. "We just didn't want you to freak out."

It's too late. I am freaking out. I felt like I had been caught with my hand inside the cookie jar, except the cookie jar was, well... never mind. "Oh, hey. How did you guys get in here?" I didn't ask the obvious question: Did you just hear me fucking myself?

My friend is not making eye contact with me. She is trying very hard to act interested in the carpet. Thoughts are racing through my mind as I try to assess the situation. Maybe they didn't hear me. Maybe they stayed out in the kitchen area, far away from the bathroom. Maybe they just got here. But all is shattered when she says,"Oh, I had to break in. Through your bedroom window."

Which, my beloved internet friends, is right next to my bathroom. I mean, we're talking the same room. She had been, at the most, five feet away from me.

"I'm sorry I had to break in. I really had to use your bathroom or we would have just waited outside until you were done..., er, with your shower."

There is no way to recover from this. Trust me, I have thought and thought and thought about this all day, and the only response to what was happening at that moment was to simply pretend that everything was normal. Except that I couldn't. I felt like there was no air in the room. I couldn't speak, couldn't make a coherent sentence, couldn't say something interesting or witty or clever to camouflage what was really going on. I felt like I had just been..., well, caught having sex with myself. I mean, that pretty much explains it.

"Alright, well..., I'll be out in a minute," I said. As I got dressed, every sound, every moan and groan (seriously, I really hope my brothers aren't reading this) came flooding back into my memory, each one nearly sending my out my bedroom window and down the street, never to speak to my friends again. I walked out of my bedroom and into the living room to find my nameless friend's husband, sitting at my table with his head down on his arms. As if to stifle the pain.

I felt naked. "Hi," I attempted.

"Hey Amber," he said, lifting his head but not looking at me. His wife was outside, smoking a cigarette. I wanted to have one, too, but knew I couldn't enjoy it. I stood there, not sure what to do or say or where to go and then- savior of all saviors, Jack came bounding into the room, providing a burst of fresh, non-sexualized air into the room. Man, was it good to see him.

"Jack!" I cried. My friend came inside and the conversation shifted around Jack... the time of his last poopy, how well he did at the grocery store, how much he ate at breakfast. It was a nice diversion.

My nameless friends left quickly, and without much ado. It was as if we all just wanted to get out of my house, get out of the awkwardness and get on with the business of forgetting all about this horrible afternoon. I'm not sure I will ever know if they were privy to the end of my dry spell, and quite frankly I don't think I want to know. I'm quite content with keeping up the pretense of normalcy. Hell, I've been doing it my entire life.

And if you're reading this, my nameless friend, please pretend that you didn't. Just say something like, "Well, I haven't had a chance to read your blog in a really long time." We can just keep pretending that nothing happened. Really.

I Heart San Diego

Last week, I didn't hear a thing about Brangelina or Britney or Paris. For a full week we had something more important to talk about than where Jake Gyllenhaal had lunch and who is freinemies with who. For six or seven days, the media took a break from Hollywood and focused it's attention a few miles south on San Diego.

Not only did the media take a break from Hollywood, but it also took a break from the war in Iraq and the evils of Blackwater. It took a break from telling me about all of the political drama happening in Washington and it didn't attempt to persuade me to hate a gay senator. Last week, I didn't hear a single report of an attempted robbery, a drive-by shooting, a convicted sex offender being released into the community, a teacher being charged with statutory rape for sleeping with her student. I didn't hear about how the economy was slipping or what is causing the earth to die or why this or that political party is ruining the country. And I didn't miss it.

What I saw instead inspired me. What I saw gave me hope in the human race. What I saw made me want to become a better person. What I saw was San Diegans coming to the aide of one another, donating their time, money, energy, homes, land, food, tents, cots, service, skills, and prayers for those who lost their homes. I saw images of Qualcomm stadium where the evacuees were being entertained by musicians, cared for by doctors, and listened to by crisis counselors. I saw heroic acts of courage and compassion by the firefighters and the amazing acts of kindness and thoughtfulness shown by neighbors.

What's more is that I saw the reporters praising the firefighters, acknowledging the competence of the county officials, remarking about the compassion and generosity of the volunteers. In fact, I was inundated with it! All day long, all week long, images of mountains of donated goods at evacuation sites, videos of people cooperating with the police, interviews with caring people willing to give up their yard for an evacuated horse or their spare bedroom for a displaced family. The entire San Diego community, it seemed, was coming together.

I'm not sure if it was an intentional shift in reporting the news, but I loved it. The radio and the TV were filled with good news, positive news, about how people were helping one another and being in service to one another and I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to be like all of these good people all around me, lending hope and support to those in need. I wanted to be a part of what my community was doing: demonstrating compassion.

And I was not alone in this feeling. Other people around me have talked about how nourished we were by the news, how it made us believe in community again, how it made us proud to be from San Diego where so many good people live. This is such a different feeling than what I usually get when I listen to or watch the news: anger, fear, despair, hopelessness...

I know that the media aires the stories of brutality, violence, and destruction because these stories appeal to our anger and fear. However, it is true that what we give attention to grows. And I believe that if we were shown stories that appeal to our compassion and hope we would see a major shift in our communities, and even the entire planet. This was proven to me last week by the people living here in San Diego who, like me, were inspired and motivated to let the best parts of us show up.

Over the past few days, normal programming has returned to the radio and TV stations and I am no longer interested in listening. I find myself wishing there was a "good news" program that I could dial into and watch inspiring stories of men and women doing what we are all capable of: service and good work. I wish that, instead of hearing about how this war will never, ever end, I could hear a story about how a woman in Nebraska found a way to support Iraqi mothers from her kitchen table. I wish that, instead of watching images of gang bangers shooting up neighborhoods in my community I could be shown a story about the afterschool community center across my street that found a way to give adolescents a sense of purpose and meaning.

Until that channel exists, I have decided to put my TV in the closet. And you know what? I'm okay. It turns out that I really don't need to know what Jake Gyllenhaal had for lunch or what bizarness Britney is involved in lately. I decided to leave my TV career on a high note, with memories of the community of San Diego supporting one another in compassion and service.

Mother Amber, full of grace...

Last night, in the parking lot of Best Buy, I was unbuckling Jack from his stroller when I heard a terribly curt voice say, "I don't want to hear about it! Deal with it!" I looked up involuntarily and saw a woman walking toward me who looked like she had simply had it. I mean, if looks could kill, the whole parking lot would have blown up in a mushroom cloud. Ticked off and annoyed wouldn't even come close to describing how this woman was feeling. Walking behind her was a waif-y teenage girl, presumably her daughter, wearing a look of smug indifference to match her very short denim shorts. I immediately hated her.

Now, on any other day and prior to becoming a mother myself, I would have thought something like, "My, my, my... What horrible parenting. Clearly she needs to work on her anger management skills and learn how to communicate her frustration with her daughter's behavior in a less hurtful way. I'm so glad that I'm such a better person, altogether." Today, I just wanted to hug her and hand her a Margarita.

The worst parts of me show up on days like today. I never thought I would be the type of mother (or nanny) who would snap at her kids, say things with total exasperation like, "What do you WANT?!" I didn't expect to be able to identify, so clearly, with the parents that I have been in judgment of for so long. I'm not sure what I did expect. To be able to rise above what every other human mother has experienced? To be so enlightened that the sound of crying for an hour and a half straight doesn't make me dream about hopping in my car, driving to Mexico, and never coming back?

Maybe it's time to start accepting that being in human form is awkward and difficult and it comes with all sorts of wild emotions and experiences that can't always be perfectly contained or managed, no matter how young or old we are or how many master's degrees we have accumulated. Maybe it's time I stop making this wrong, making myself wrong, making others wrong for having a human experience. Like Lorenzo, who has been screaming from his bedroom for the past 55 minutes while I've been writing this. And me, who wants to go up there and "give him something to really cry about."

And This Doesn't Help.

Meet Miss Douglas, the Tone Deaf Trumpeter

I don't usually do videos on my blog, but I found this one and I decided that it was my duty to acquaint you with Miss Douglas, my new best friend. My favorite part is when she "shoots" her trumpet. God love her.
Tone-Deaf Star Wars Trumpet

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Flood

In psychotherapy, we use the term emotional flooding to describe the sensation of experiencing many emotions bursting forward at the same time, which can be a very overwhelming experience. In plumbing, we use the term water damage to describe what happened to my apartment two weeks ago when some flooding of the non-emotional sort took place. Also a very overwhelming experience.

I know that there is some sort of symbolism in water flowing out of my front door like Niagra Falls, but I don't want to explore how my outer experience is a reflection of my inner experience. In fact, I don't even really want to be present to my life right now. I would much rather numb out with TV and peanutbutter ice cream, lock my doors and turn off my cell phones and just sort of go away. I would, if it weren't for Jack, who yanks me out of unconsciousness with his demand to live life fully.

I've been angry at Jack for slapping me awake, wishing he would just let me sleep for ten minutes. Please. Just ten minutes. But maybe life knew that to allow me to do so would be quite dangerous and so sent Jack to be my EMT, always shouting at me, "Stay with me! Stay with me!" But oh, how I just want to shut my eyes sometimes.

Lauching of Just Jack!

I decided that Jack needed a whole blog to himself. This is, I know, quite an over-the-top-obnoxious-mother thing to do, but it's precisely why I'm doing it over there and not here all of the time.

So, in the event that you are as addicted to really cute things like this and this and this, you might just want to pop over to

Just Jack!

Conversations With Bod

I loved being pregnant. I loved it! I loved it so much that I think that the only reason I want more children is so that I can be pregnant again. In fact, if you know anyone who needs a surrogate, call me. Seriously.

There were plenty of things about my pregnancy that turn women off to the whole process forever. I was very sick during the first trimester, throwing up daily and often. My feet swelled up to the size of small cantaloupes, making wearing shoes impossible. My arms were constantly falling asleep, I gained weight EVERYWHERE, and I am still convinced that Jack had a twin sister that was growing in my newly developed double chin.

But, glory of all glories, I didn't have to suck in my belly anymore. Sweet God and Oprah. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Peter, Paul and Mary. Ashley and Mary Kate, I didn't have to suck in my damn belly anymore. I have been sucking it in for as long as I can remember. Do you understand how wonderful this is, people? Do you really comprehend the marvelousness of no longer sucking it in? Can you grasp the splendor? If so, you are probably like me and have been wearing tight, binding undergarments designed to smooth out the bumpy, lumpiness that has accumulated at your midsection. I, for one, have had a hate-hate relationship with my tummy my entire life. There has been no love present between us ever. In fact, I had come to believe that all of the bad things in my life were, in fact, caused by it. "Because of you," I would say to my tummy, "I am unloveable." I am less than. I am an untouchable. My life just made more sense as a pregnant woman. The amount of food I consume normally is justifiable when I am pregnant. People would watch me reach for a second helping of ice cream, would nod in approval and exclaim, "You're eating for two now, so go for it!," And speaking of food, cravings are totally cool, too. It's perfectly acceptable to drive to Taco Bell at 2:00am when you're pregnant. Not so much when you're not. And you know what else is fabulous about being pregnant? Maternity clothes! Oh, God, maternity clothes. How I love maternity clothes. My body just fits in maternity clothes, and I mean my non-pregnant body. So, as soon as I found out I was pregnant I had made my way into Pea in the Pod and Motherhood as if I were traveling to Mecca, my shopping utopia. I look good in maternity clothes. They are designed to show off a swelling belly and I was happy to oblige them. I put on the paneled pants (Oh, God, to wear paneled pants again...) and the blousy, empire-wasted shirt and suddenly I was transformed from an overweight, apple shaped woman trying to stuff herself into her clothes to a glowing, radiant mother-to-be. The transformation was instant. I was now allowed to have a belly. Oh, man, how I embraced this. I would sit with my hands crossed over my round stomach, as pregnant women do, and feel the freedom of being able to draw attention to this part of my body that I have loathed and hidden and hated for so long. I would rub the surface of it, feel such tenderness for it, for what it held inside. And while so many expectant women hate it when people reach out and touch their belly, I found this to be, by far, the best part about being pregnant. I absolutely loved it. Or maybe I should say my tummy loved it, for it was the first time in her life that she ever experienced such gentle, loving touch. She was the center of attention, in a good way for once. People were drawn to her, longed to be close to her, to touch her and draw from her the goodness that she held within her. Bright, happy faces would surround her and tell her that she was beautiful, that she was loved, that she was a miracle. I know that I should be able to tell her- or myself- all of this when I am not pregnant, but I just don't buy it. I don't believe it. Instead, I tell her- my tummy- that she is disgusting and horrible and the reason for all of my pain. I tell her that I wish she didn't exist, that I would like to have her removed from my life, and that without her I would be happy. Who wants to hear that? I have heard it, from past lovers and brothers and strangers, even. And it sucks to hear it. It's actually quite devastating. And yet, I say it to myself every day, over and over and over again. So I've decided to take my tummy and me to therapy, as if we were some old, married couple who have lived a lifetime together in misery, to see if we can learn how to love one another again. I plan to write about it here, but it scares me to do so, as if I am forcing myself to get undressed in front of the classroom. But I feel compelled to share my journey, my conversation with my body, no matter how ugly and lumpy and awkward it may be. And maybe as I do so I will look around and find bright, happy faces telling me that I am a miracle.

Bear witness with me.

I can't take the emails anymore. I can't look at another dead Iraqi baby in the arms of a US soldier, can't handle the videos of the sobbing widow hunched over her husband's casket, can't look at one more image of a house turned to rubble, bloodied children standing outside of it with looks of horror and fear on their faces.

I just can't take it. Pictures, like this one, send me into a spiral of despair and anger and terrible fear that this atrocity is happening and there is no apparent end to it in sight. How can this be happening? For the love of God, how can this be happening?

Every time I get an email forwarded to me with subject lines like, "Support our Troops! Watch This Video and Pass it On," I am filled with dread and my first instinct is to delete it. I don't want to spend the rest of my night in a dark cloud of despair. I don't want to be huddled over as waves of nausea and panic crash over my body. I don't want to see the Iraqi mother holding her dead child and be suddenly and terrifyingly transported into her world where it is me holding a lifeless Jack. But it is too late. In an instant, I am experiencing her horror and disbelief, her rage and fear, her sorrow and devastating grief. I feel it instantly, knowing that the grief of losing a child, in Iraq or in America, is exactly the same.

It's because of her, and the thousands like her, that I open the emails and watch the videos. I watch to grieve with her, to honor the love that she had for the child that was here for so little time, to witness the loss of that which was the most valuable thing she had. I watch to honor the life that someone else didn't in the hopes that somehow this will ease the loss for her. I watch so that I can say to her, "I see your son. He was here and now he is gone. He was the most beautiful thing to ever grace this planet. I loved him, too." I watch to mourn with her because it is all I know to do.

I love you. I am with you. Peace. Be still.

Treading Water

I thought that I would be excited to see Jack after a weekend away with friends in L.A., but I wasn't. I mean, I was for a few seconds. I was happy to see that he was happy to see me, happy to smell his boyish, yeasty smell, happy to see his little brown eyes and his big, apple-shaped head. But along with all of that came the panic and the hollow-chested feeling that makes breathing hard to do. Along with his sweet, musty smell came the despair of knowing that I am totally alone in the caregiving of this child, that I am responsible for his needs, that it will be only me who will change his every diaper, answer his every cry, take away every dangerous object out of his hand today. Like the plastic bag he just came into the room carrying.

I am overwhelmed by his needs and ashamed at how little I enjoy meeting them. I hate that I hate motherhood. I hate all of the books that say, "Ask your husband to do this or that when you are feeling overwhelmed and tired." I don't have a goddamn husband. I wish I did, but only because then I would have someone to shoulder the responsibility for this little being of light.

I don't know what to do or how to move forward. I need someone to come and take care of me as I take care of Jack, someone to say, "Okay, now, it's time to eat. Then it will be nap time until four and then you need to go grocery shopping and here's the list." I feel pressure to make a decision about my life, to decide what's best for me, but I honestly cannot figure that out. Every choice feels scary; I still have Jack wrapped around my ankles, tripping me up.

When I was training to be a lifeguard in high school, I was required to tread water for 10 minutes while holding two, one-gallon milk jugs filled with water above my head. This image comes to mind as I write, of me swimming wildly, my legs kicking and cramping and it's getting dark out here as I hold myself and Jack above my head, above the water. I can't set either one of us down, but if I hold on to both I'm bound to get tired.

Lost. Reward if Found.

Where did my enthusiasm go? It’s been missing for a while, and in its place sarcasm and despair have made themselves welcome, nestling into my life like an unwelcome houseguest that I feel too small to throw out. And now I’m considering abandoning my home just to be rid of its ugly presence, but I have a nagging feeling that it might just follow me wherever I go.



Exuberance is mirrored to me everywhere, people who are engaged in and excited about their lives, and instead of inspired I am filled with shame and deep sadness. I should be like that, I tell myself. I used to be like that. What is wrong with me?

Tonight, like the night before and the nights before that, I couldn’t wait to put Jack to bed. Oh, thank God it’s seven o’clock. Just a half hour to go. Just a half hour before I can numb out, watch TV, smoke a cigarette, eat several platefuls of food, read email. Just a half hour left before I don’t have to be conscious anymore, or pretend to be. Just a half hour left of keeping him busy, keeping him safe, keeping him out of my hair.

But as I am laying him down I am aware that I have not looked at him in the eyes, have not savored him, have not enjoyed him, have not engaged or embraced him today. He has been a nuisance,a bother, a thing to feed and distract and do. I know that I am missing out on him, missing out on my life with him,

missing out on something very, very precious that I will never get back. I am missing out on my life.

Where did my enthusiasm go? I don’t want to play, don’t want to get down on the floor and wrestle, don’t want to look for snails or get wet in the

sprinkler. I want to watch this episode of The Real World instead. I want to numb out.

The kids try to engage me, look for signs of life. I disappoint them every day, annoyed that they won’t just go play by themselves. Just go play over there, I say. Let me be.

They eventually stop trying. I have become a disengaged adult.


Disinvested.



Enthusiasm is all around me, like in the John Denver tribute I watched on TV, or in the conviction in which the Supernanny coaches the parents that look like me, in my brother and sister-in-law as they follow their dreams to distant lands, in the voice of my friend who calls to tell me that he has passed his licensing exam. It’s in the newly engaged and energetic couple I met at the party I went to just to pass the time, to swallow up the hours of a long Saturday afternoon.

And it’s in Jack. Jack, my little mirror, reflecting back to me what it looks like to live and to love living. Jack, whom I am afraid, hasalready learned not to expect me to dance when he dances, to squeal with him as he squeals, to be delighted with him by the water in the bathtub as it pours out from the faucet.

I have become his unwelcome houseguest, living off of his energy, sucking it in like a gaping black hole.

Where did my enthusiasm go? Where are you, free spirit? Where are you, joy? Where are you, spontaneity, glee? Have you seen my positive outlook? Have you seen my good friend, laughter? She’s been missing for a while. If you see her, tell her I’d like her to
come back home.

Dear Diary...

Another juicy excerpt from my junior high diaries.

(I strongly urge you to read every one of them... they're heavenly.)

January 19, 1989 (12 years old)

Today at school Amber (note to reader: my best friend in junior high was a girl named Amber Rady. We were "the Ambers," or "Amber ditto" as we liked to call ourselves. Uggh. Doesn't this just make you hate junior higher even more?) did a pretty stupid thing. I'll start from the beginning. Jayme Shephard has been having some friend problems like Michelle Tadeo and Leeanna Miller have really left her out and haven't been treating her very well. Well one day Jayme and I were kind of talking about her problems and some of mine. Melissa Maddux had just called her an A. She was crying and I told Amber about it, which was pretty stupid of me. Amber went out and talked to Miss Arend (today) or first she said to Miss A that she wanted to talk to her about it. I wrote Amber a note saying that I thought it was none of her business and she should just leave Jayme alone. If she wants help, she can get it herself. She got really mad and later Jenny Sipp told me that she went down the halls saying "I hate Amber Rice." I tried to persuade her but she went to Miss Arend anyways. Miss Arend came out and talked to Jayme. I asked Jayme what she said and she said that she mostly just said, "if you ever need help then you can come to me" and so on. But Jayme has really changed. She says that she feels God is leading her away from Michelle and Leeanna and God is working in her life. It's really neat to hear her saying things like that. I'm glad she's changed. I hope to become her friend.

January 26, 1989 (seven days later)

Me and Amber made up either yesterday or the day before, I can't remember. It was kind of lame because the thing with Amber is that she always wins. When we talk to each other about the fights we had she always has something good to say and I don't. So I sit there after she has made a really smart remark, waiting for her to say more. By the way - the reason I'm writing so sloppy is because I'm up in the tree in the front yard. Today was twins day and I was twins with Shay Nelson. We looked pretty good. Mrs. Ross and her daughter, Kristen won, though. We were second. I got my hair cut and it looks pretty good. Shay was cool about not winning, but truely I wanted to win. I thought we were real good and we should have won. My goal is to be more like Shay: not drawing attention, calm, nice to everyone, and so on. I know, this doesn't have to do with much but I think Amber thinks I'm teacher's pet for Miss Arend. She thought that way for Shay because Shay passed out papers and other stuff. Amber looks at me funny and stuff. She probably thinks I'm a trator. The thing is that I think I'm teacher's pet also. Not a lot, but a little. Miss Arend is really strict and not very nice but can give you a 1000 watt smile that just makes you feel like Miss Arend loves you!

Why I Hate Japan

My brother is leaving for Japan. In a few days, both he and his wife will be gone. I can't even begin to describe how much this hurts to write. But I write because I need to write about it, need to give this grief a voice, need to get it outside of me.

I don't want to think about how empty my life will feel without them in it. I don't want to imagine the times when I will want to walk next door to their apartment and realize that they aren't there. I don't want to deal with reality that they have made living here tolerable.

And I really don't want to think about them not being here to love Jack with me. This is, absolutely, the most painful aspect of their departure.

They are leaving to create a new life together in Japan, to spend the first year of their marriage in adventure, to get a start that is fresh and exciting. And I get excited for them when I think about this. It took them a lot of hard work to get to this place, the day after their wedding, two weeks before Japan. My support for them has been unwavering, and it still is.

But I am left here in my own life without them, without the adventure, without the new marriage, without the excitement. I have dirty dishes in my sink and a shitty job to go to. I am sickeningly aware of my jealousy of their companionship, of their new start, and of their courage to follow their dreams and suddenly my life feels empty and sallow, like a white washed photo. I hate my job, I hate where I live, I hate being broke, I hate being alone. There, I said it.

So, their leaving is like a double whammy. First of all, I am losing my companions, my immediate support, my friends, my family. I am losing two individuals who stand with me in my life and love it with me. I am losing the comfort of a good neighbor, the person I can drop in on anytime, day or night, and who is happy to see me. I am losing two of Jack's most favorite people, people who he lights up around. God, that is so hard to write.

Secondly, their leaving forces me to recognize the lack of energy I have for my own life, how little I am enjoying it, and how ready I am for a change. And this isn't so hard to write. In fact, I'm really glad to put a label on the lethargic, dissociative way that I've been moving through my days. It's time for a shift; it's time for a change.

I helped Corey pack today. I hated it. But I just want to soak up every minute that I have left with him. The grief and the fear of not having him nearby came in waves as I placed his dishes into boxes, each wave just as hard as the last. There seems to be no reprieve in sight. And right now I cannot imagine ever being okay with their absence, cannot imagine thinking of them without that painful lump clogging my throat.

But I know better. I know that one day I will think of them and I will not have to wipe away tears or clear my throat. I know that I will learn to live without them and their absence won't feel like a gaping, black hole. I've done this before, with ex-boyfriends and roommates and pets. It always feels like death, those first few days, weeks, months. Everything hurts, as if I'm walking around with no skin.

So, I'm going to go do what I always do in times of deep emotional turmoil: read Harry Potter. Lumous to me.

Happy Birthday, Jack!

July 10th was Jack's first birthday. He is now officially a toddler, although the United States government failed to acknowledge this with a letter or some other form of notification. I'm sure it was just an oversight.

Anywho, I made these little videos as a gift to Jack, a way of looking back at his first year and remembering it. Be prepared to cry... some of them are total tear-jerkers.

This first one is Jack's first day of life... grab the kleenex.



A little video about Jack's love affair with water. Caution: this video contains nudity.



Uncle Corey is Jack's favorite person in the whole wide world. Jack gets so excited when Corey walks through the door! If Jack were a cocker spaniel, he would pee on the floor every time. Here's a little video that shows how cute these two are together.



If you made this video, entitled Jack & Co., you know you are kind of a big deal.



This last one is a letter that I wrote to Jack on his birthday. Get more kleenex.

WWJD

I’m going through another phase, as I often do. It's a phase in my thinking, one that I will think will change my life forever- once I figure it out. But I said that last week about about a diet program I saw on TV. Anyways, this current life-changing phase revolves around these two suffixes: –ish and –less.

When placed behind the word self, two new words are created that have very different meanings. Due to my Sunday School teachings and various after school specials, I learned that selfish = bad, while selfless = good. I mean, let’s face it. Jesus was the epitome of self-less: went through hell, was tortured and crucified for the world, etc. And we’re all supposed to try to be like him, right? Isn’t that what it means when it says, “Deny yourself, pick up your cross and follow Jesus?”

I heard a lot of stuff about selfish vs. selfless. Selfless people were always revered on Sunday mornings at church. There would be a slide presentation about the Walsh family in Peru who were living amongst the aborigines who would daily threaten the Walsh children’s lives by putting deadly snakes in their cribs and dragging them down to the river to be eaten by the crocodiles. And yet the Walsh family continued to be of service to the Lord and to the Tichian tribe of Peru by spreading the good gospel. And would you consider sending $20.00 – just the cost of a cup of coffee a day – to the Walsh family so that they can buy the necessary vaccines and snake venom antidotes that they need to continue their ministry?

They never did a slide show on the Stewart family that took a rejuvenating vacation to Cabo that summer after a long year of being a soccer mom and VP of sales at Qualcom. They didn’t talk about how great it was that the Stewarts flew first class and ate at five-star dining establishments in an effort to enjoy themselves and the beauty of the world around them. (Unless, of course, the Stewarts spent their time in Cabo passing out tracks and reciting the sinner’s prayer with other beach goers on vacation. Then they might get a nod from the pastor).

In fact, as a child I was often able to detect a hint of disdain from the pulpit for families like the Stewart’s. It seemed that I was warned against this kind of hedonism, this blatant soothing of the flesh that has no reward in heaven. “Do not build up your treasures here on earth,” “do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit,” “no one should seek out his own good but the good of others,” etc. I was groomed to be a martyr, to care more about others than myself, to feel guilty every time I walked past a homeless man without offering him my last silver coins. I was taught that by choosing a cup of coffee instead of sending my allowance to Peru, I was choosing to let children die.

So, fast forward 10, 20 years and here I am, still wrestling with my guilt over buying my venti iced coffee instead of sending $29.99 to end genocide in Darfur. And I’m serious, folks. I feel like I am choosing to let children die every time I enjoy that sweet, milky coffee that seems to switch me from off to on every morning. How could I be so selfish, the preacher’s voice inside my head asks? How could you deny Jesus in this way? How could you care more about your own comfort over the lives of dying women and children in Darfur?

I used to listen to this voice religiously. Out of a tremendous sense of responsibility for the world’s poor and sick and hungry, I sent my money to Compassion and Amnesty and the Red Cross. I ate a completely vegan diet for two years when I realized how the raising of farm animals devastated the earth and its resources. I’ve lobbied congress, sent letter to my senators, complained on the White House comment line. I became a social worker and a foster parent to rescue abused children. I only buy clothing made in the US in order to prevent the proliferation of sweat shops… but I still feel guilty. I still feel guilty for the amount of water I waste every day, for spending $25.00 on a pretty shower curtain, for wanting to give birth to another child instead of preferring to adopt one. I feel guilty for having what I have and for wanting more. I feel guilty for taking up space on the planet at all.

I’m tired of feeling bad for enjoying a cup of coffee. I want to be done with the anxiety that comes along with this tremendous sense of over-responsibility and I am ready to embrace the beauty of the world around me without apologizing for my first-class plane ticket. But I don’t know how yet.

Perhaps there is a clue to this issue of suffixes in the question written on the slap bracelet I used to wear so proudly: What Would Jesus Do? This always seemed like an easy question: give your stuff away, die for each other, turn the other cheek, become a doormat, etc. But maybe this isn’t accurate at all. Perhaps I had Jesus all wrong. As I recall, he did put Judas in his place when Judas chastised the woman for “wasting” expensive perfume on Jesus’s feet. Judas argued that the money could have been used for the poor, but Jesus told him, “There will always be poor, but I won’t be around long. Enjoy me while I’m here.”

So, what would Jesus do? Seems to me that he might just order the venti iced coffee, and add a blueberry scone to go with it. He might even have done so in designer sandals. Maybe there is a way to enjoy the bounty and beauty of this life without feeling guilty, without feeling as if I’m stealing from the poor. Maybe.