State of Grace

Here's One Way to Overcome the Election Jitters

Boy howdy, let me tell you dollins, there's really nothing like a set of bad bones to keep one distracted from the long national nightmare of this election season.  My inner pragmatic side (who looks like a dour librarian with sensible shoes and a straight line for a mouth) shakes me by the chin and tells me I'm lucky to be focused on pain rather than Palin.  She's right, but what a price to pay to get my mind off that "whack job" from Alaska.

Are you nervous about the election outcome?  Clearly, I'm way nervous, despite the polls and endorsements.  I am a lifelong Democrat who is used to getting fucked over, especially in the last 8 years. Why? One word - chads.  Further translation - Something's going to happen in the election process/machines/vote counting/you name it, it could happen.

Before the hip thing came to the forefront of all I see and do, I was trying to figure out a way to spare myself the dread and anxiety I know I'll be under on the night of November 4th, 2008.  I don't know if I can bear it without ruining myself with drink and drugs.  My immediate circle of support will be unavailable - hubs will be away on another business trip and the kid will be at work.  My dog Malcolm won't care because he's British and he just laughs at us Americans. I can't go out because my level of anxiety turns me into a social pariah, unfit to be anywhere in public, much less a friend's house.  I considered other election night avoidance strategies including - Shun all media and go camping in the Sierras, just the British dog and me. Sign up for a Zen sesshin. Arrange to be cryofrozen and have Molly defrost my ass on November 7th.  That last option would provide the extra bonus of alleviating my hot flashes.

But, no, the gods granted me another way out - hip dysplasia that has always been around, but not evident and acute until this past month, and maybe, when I think about it, the last five years.

Here's the deal - in training for my two marathons, hiking up Half Dome three years in a row, doing a Bikram Yoga practice, all the Jack Russell Terrier wrangling, parenting a teen and a long list of many rigorous activities I perform regularly, my right leg has always been a little wonky.  Now and again, that leg will "go out", feeling like it extended another 5 inches more in my stride.  It wasn't necessarily painful, more alarming than anything else, and I lived with it thinking I was just weirder than most.

As I whined in a previous post, my hips have been more funky and painful in the last month.  For several nights, I had pain in my right hip, groin and thigh so savage, it woke me up multiple times from my usual death-like sleep.   Sometimes I'll take a step that will turn my right leg inward and I'll yelp in agony.  I'm limping and staggering.  I'm a mess.

After a series of x-rays and an appointment with a very nice and accomplished Stanford orthopedic surgeon earlier this week, hip dysplasia and that blasted greater trochanteric fracture was officially diagnosed.  The fracture is not as critical an issue as the dysplasia - meaning that the ball at the top of both my left and right femurs do not fit entirely into my pelvic sockets.  Dr. Google has informed me that this shows up in folks, mostly women, in their 30s and 40s.  I feel strangely proud that this anomoly is just now showing up in my 50s.

The orthopedic clinic experience was excellent.  I'm also convinced I have identified a fine health care  provider:  During the exam, the very nice orthopedic surgeon laughed when I blurted out loud and without warning that I could see the face of Jesus lovingly gazing back at me in the x-rays.  The doc's wr ylaugh confirmed that I have found a doctor with my kind of bedside manner.

The MRI, provisionally scheduled for Saturday, has been moved up to tomorrow.  I have asked for IV sedation because I ask you, how often do we get that extraordinary opportunity? After that's done, we'll discuss the next steps which will be surgery.  In fact, if there's any doubt on anyone's part, I will insist on surgery as the conservative, non-surgical  approach is to (1) Cut back, way back, on physical activity; (2) Lose as much weight as possible - and the only way I can do that successfully is to exercise so that's out; (3) Wait it out until the pain becomes too unbearable - which it is now.

Fuggit, I say, fuggit! Slice on into my funky hips and shave the bones and/or stick in titanium parts! I need to get back in the yoga studio! I need to run! And, I want to be bionic!

Timing for surgery? Unknown, though I would like to plan it for Christmas break. Santa can drop off some helpful elves for my present.

Okay, I have many questions for you dollins.  The only surgery I've had was oral surgery. I've never had an extended stay in the hospital.  In anticipation and preparedness, I'd like to ask you  what I should expect and how I could get ready.  Should I buy nice pajamas? I sleep in my husband's tee shirts, so I'll bet that will be a resounding "yes".  I also wear his old bathrobe, should I invest in a robe, too? Or, will I have to wear those hospital gowns that will have my middle age butt flapping down the hall as I walk around with my IV pole?  Is there any such thing as a hospital survival kit and what should this include? An iPod, probably. Is it true that stitches itch? Will I get to use that push button thingy that pumps more pain killing drugs into my IV line?  Do hospitals have turndown services with a chocolate placed on my pillow? No? Speaking of chocolates, should I spring for a bigass box of See's for the nurses so they'll be incentivized to jump every time I ring my summons bell?

Now, I want some chocolate.

My Hips Don't Lie

All righty then, I'm over my snit about the Haters and Doubters.  That doesn't imply that this blog is now open season for neocon trolls, it simply means that I have stopped frothing at the mouth whenever I get an email or comment with information such trolls urgently want to share like - Obama's going to raise your taxes/Obama is a terrorist/Obama is the anti-Christ/Obama hates your dog/Obama's doing your mama.

Bah! Bogus and childish stuff, most especially the indelicate notion about my 75 year old mother.  She's an elderly Filipina lady who would just as soon whack anyone's face with her adobo stirring spoon, much less allow herself to be "done".  Certainly, the dignified Senator Obama would never "do" her or anyone's mama, but, as a Hawaiian guy, he would be happy to do a plate of Mom's adobo.   The bottom line -  Obama will be cutting taxes for the vast majority of Americans, so he's not going to "do" anybody, even the wealthy, as the data indicates everybody fares better economically when a Democrat is in the White House.

What Barack Obama can do is a few perfect pull-ups right before a speech.

This is a perfect segue to discuss something that I did and I don't know how ah dunnit:

I sustained a fracture at the top of my right thigh bone, a 2.0ish cm crack across the greater trochanter blatantly visible on xray and painfully evident in my gait. 

I started hurting and limping three weeks ago.  At first I thought it was arthritis, being a junior elderly Filipina lady and all.  Never wanting to be a wuss, I carried on with my activities including taking a mini vacation to Maui, power-gardening, professional Jack Russell Terrier wrangling and associating with the house hooligans, Molly and her boyfriend Jordy.  But, my body hollered "BULLSHIT!" with this delusional behavior - every time I pulled myself up from the poolside lounger at the Maui resort, emerge from a car, or rise from the spot of dirt where I've been planting, I have to lean on anything in the vicinity that would lend support - a husband or a garden rake would do - and avoid bearing weight on my right leg.  Then, I have to gird my loins and try to put one foot in front of the other, cussing every time my right foot touches the ground.  After a minute or so of hobbling and muttering the eff word, I find my pace and limp to the nearest bottle of ibuprofen or rum.  Or both.

Last week I thought it may be a good idea to get this painful business evaluated.  Our beloved family doctor (a real family practitioner who tends to everyone around me - Molly, Hubs and my ex/Moll's dad) tested my range of motion on the exam table and I actually cried. That pissed me off as I have a longstanding record for stoicism at the doctor's.  I am a macho chick who delivered her daughter without drugs, survived a needle biopsy that went deep into my left boob, had a skin tag adjacent to my eye clipped with a sharp little scissors and more.  I deserved stickers, if not major lollipop action for each and every one of my acts of courage.  But this time, I whimpered with tears streaming down my cheeks.  No sticker for you, crybaby.

As mentioned, x-rays were done.  The tech gave me a yet-unread copy for my orthopedic appointment on Monday.  This was a serious error on her part as I know enough medicine to get myself in trouble. I spend at least an hour a day holding the films up to a window, obsessing over the crack line at the top of  my thigh bone and observing with horror that my left leg rides higher up on my pelvis than my right.  When I get to the ortho doc's on Monday, I'll take a pic of the x-rays against a proper light box for you.  In the meantime, this is what I've been looking at -

 

My right leg is to the left. The greater trochanter is the outward bulge at the top of the femur opposite the femoral head (the ball in the hip socket).  I don't have Photoshop on my MacBook, but I provide some notes on the flickr version of this trainwreck.

Okay, who wants a MaiTai with an Advil back?  Pouring and dosing now, dollins.  Get in line.  I'm first.

Dow plunges below 10,000. Here's a dahlia to distract and comfort you.

  Fantastic Dahlias 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

Oh, the flower doesn't cut it?  Yeah, I'm with you on that,  but I thought I would try.  Nice try, eh? Gaaah!

Before you go back to monitoring your 401(k) and trying to placate your mother whose retirement portfolio is going south along with your 401(k), I have a tiny bit of unsolicited but perhaps helpful advice - you might want to take up gardening.  I know, you'd rather take up gardening if involves picking up a hoe to wave it around menacingly in the peasant revolt coming to a village near you.  I hear you, I'll be at that anti-government demonstration, too.  But, there is a great deal of solace that comes with using these landscaping tools  in the dirt, whether for dahlia bulb planting or digging a patch of your yard for an organic veggie garden.

I've been hiding out in my own patch of earth, prepping the soil for perennial and vegetable planting.  Here in our part of Northern California, we do our Spring planting in October, before the winter rains that abate in March.  That must sound odd to you dollins outside our climate zone.  While you're raking leaves, we're doing that too along with planting baby delphinium plants and sweet pea seeds.  Last week, I flung a quarter of a pound of native California wildflower seeds on a bare hill.  We'll have a nice field of velvety wildflower seedlings by Christmas and full bloom in late February. 

Getting down and dirty in this wholesome way has saved me on many levels.  Gardening gets me out of my ever buzzing head.  The mind chatter disappears when I'm triple digging compost into our hard clay soil.  Afterwards, I feel like I've done a yoga practice session - hurting (A LOT) but clear headed, calm and grateful.

The downside to getting lost in the compost and multiple packets of seeds is that I don't want to do anything else.  I become a hermit, a cloistered monk.  I have to be dragged away from the raised beds (which will be planted with fava beans for ground cover over the winter, then dug into the dirt in the Spring as a nitrogen rich soil conditioner), then shoved into the shower to get cleaned up for dinner, the movies, or to the book signing last Saturday in San Francisco -  a  big, happy fun time that deserves its own post and a bunch of links to spectacular bloggers/friends who politely said nothing about the dirt under my nails.

(I will say this one thing about the book signing - Maggie Mason, arbiter of excellent style, loved the Hubs' red rimmed glasses.  I couldn't stop talking about Mighty Girl's validation of the Hubs' taste on the 60 mile drive back to Santa Cruz.)

So, for today - more shoveling, raking and planting; writing; Jack Russell Terrier and teenage daughter wrangling and the occasional peek at the business news.  I will try my best to "Keep Calm and Carry On."  I hope you will, too.

Fine cookin' folks, them Filipinos.

Well, dollins, allow me to jump back into the blog waters with the latest stupid thing Dubya said.  And, this time, it's personal:

From the HuffPo, a excerpt from a White House meeting transcript with President of the Philippines Gloria Macapagal Arroyo:

***************************************

PRESIDENT BUSH: Madam President, it is a pleasure to welcome you back to the Oval Office. We have just had a very constructive dialogue. First, I want to tell you how proud I am to be the President of a nation that -- in which there's a lot of Philippine-Americans. They love America and they love their heritage. And I reminded the President that I am reminded of the great talent of the -- of our Philippine-Americans when I eat dinner at the White House. (Laughter.)

PRESIDENT ARROYO: Yes.

PRESIDENT BUSH: And the chef is a great person and a really good cook, by the way, Madam President.

PRESIDENT ARROYO: Thank you.

***************************************

All righty, then! We at the White House know Filipinos as SERVANTS.  But, rest assured, the President says we're great folks and love America! However, more than anything, we can cook like a mofo!

No doubt that White House Executive Chef Cristeta Comerford can rock it in the kitchen.  This is not unusual - I come from a legacy of excellent Filipino cooks including my grandpa, who was the personal chef of a US Navy Admiral.  I have a lineup of bossy aunts who insist their adobo rules above all others and you'd best agree with them.  Perhaps Chef Comerford operates the same way - love my food Mr. President or you're dead meat, preferably the favored protein of Filipinos everywhere, dead pork.

But, try to see beyond your insular world, George W.  Watch who you're talking to - President Arroyo has a Ph.D. in economics.  Prior to being elected President, Arroyo held multiple federal government appointments.  Even her DNA is a big deal - her  father was President of the Philippines.

In other words, this lady is not going to relate to your clumsy associations between her people and their fine culinary abilities.  In the transcript, President Arroyo was polite, but I sure hope her "thank you" was a frosty one.

For the record, I'm a lousy Filipino cook.  I guess there's no job at the White House or in Kennebunkport for me or for my cousin Kevin, a professor in the poli-sci department at the University of Southern California and former Deputy Mayor of Los Angeles.   Yeah, Cousin Kev, tough luck because you're a lousy cook, too.

Gaaaah, dollins.  Just gaaaaaaaah.

And, in her 53rd year, she did many deep lunges.

  Still have the touch. 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

Well, dollins, today is my birthday and look what I got - a baby! Ain't she grand? Alas, the joy was short lived as I had to give her back to her mama Jennifer, one of the many Jennifers I know and love.  We must love the Jennifers because their numbers are great thus we mustn't piss them off.  This is, after all, Planet Jennifer and we're lucky they allow us to breathe their oxygen, much less hang out with their kids.

We hosted this charming girly girl known as Avery GRACE (her very fine middle name in all caps when referenced in correspondence between mama Jennifer and me) last Saturday. Avery GRACE's parents needed a date night and I offered my services which included a seminar on current concepts in opthalmology from the Hubs, the usual feminist rhetoric from me and co-dependent, groveling behavior from Malcolm the Jack Russell Terrier. Indeed, Malcolm appears to love the babies, though I believe his real agenda is to lick any leftover organic squash baby food from their cheeks as well as stealing their toys.

The best part of Avery GRACE's stay? I got to exercise my maternal instincts, long resisted by my girl Molly ("Mom, I can clean my own ears!") but still intact and functioning, as demonstrated in this action packed pic. 

Further to my own baby, Molly-Who-Will-Not-Let-Me-Clean-Her-Ears, some of you kindly inquired about her post-SAT status. I called her immediately after the test, like right when she was walking out the door.  She was on her way to the nearest dive bar to drown her sorrows in an afternoon of underaged drinking. Oh, I kid you, she wouldn't go to a bar, she'd just raid the booze at her Dad's.  Oh, I kid you again, she really went to Jamba Juice. In either case, Molly needed to knock back something as she claims to have known "nothing...I KNEW NOTHING on the test...nothing".  So much for the pricey SAT prep course.

However, just as sure as I know her ears need a thorough cleaning, I also know that Moll had an excellent grasp on the material and did better, way better than "nothing".  She will do the SAT again in September, repeating it until she's satisfied with her score, just like you Dollin Wonky Readers did as per your commentary on the last post.  My thoughts turn to my heavily pierced and tattooed pal Stan, who said he  "...took the SAT three times. Once for practice, once for real, and once more just for fun to see if I could squeeze out a few more points." Stan, you are the awesome man, but dude, I can't imagine doing a test "just for fun." 

Hey, I'm selling myself short here.  I actually have started doing something maybe even more punishing than the SAT.  Last night I began my first session of circuit training, a birthday gift from Hubs.  I left the hour and fifteen minute workout mortified that I let myself become pathetically out of shape.  Sure, I run and have a yoga practice, but I've been needing resistance training something fierce.  I not only met that need in the circuit training (damn you big rubber band thingy with handles! I wanted to shoot mine into Monterey Bay, so desperate was my workout), but got in agility training, too.  I don't know about you, but I associate agility training with dogs.  I will continue to make that connection, because I worked like a dog to complete the agility course of jumping over little hurdles, stepping through that rope ladder on the ground, and slide gliding from one diagonally placed marker to the next.  It's all to develop those fast twitch muscle fibers, though, after last night, the only fast twitch I felt was the involuntary tic on my face that showed up when I drove back home, exhausted and muttering incoherently to the unforgiving universe.

Good. Times.

Tonight the Hubs and I will celebrate my 53rd year on Planet Jennifer by going to an Oakland A's game. It's East versus West, as my beloved A's will be going up against the team of my NYC born and bred Hubs, the Yankees.  We have fabulous seats, on the field, between home and first.  Just in case, Hubs will be taking his glove in pursuit of a pop-up fly ball. 

Dollin Readers, let us take a moment to revel in the fact that my 59 year old Hubs, founder of a successful Silicon Valley medical device company, a Ph.D. (that's Doctor Hubs to you and me), father of six and an all around dignified and serious guy is taking his baseball glove to the game, just in case.   That's HOT!

And, now to book a massage before the game. It's my birthday, mofos! That calls for a massage! In truth, a massage is necessary for my wretched post-circuit training body which needs some deep kneading and pummeling to free it from an inconvenient case of exercise induced rigor mortis.

I extend my love and gratitude along with deep lunges to you, Dear Dollin Readers.  I appreciate your audience and fellowship more than you will ever know.

Late Bloomer Gets Published. World Comes to an End.

Incredibly, you will read nothing about therapy, dysfunctional families and bad childhoods in this post.  Imagine that! You click over to my url and, surprise! Not only have I published a blog entry for the second time this week, said entry will be free of existential dread and struggle.  We'll save the usual sturm und drang for another time because today is a special day, a red letter day, a happy day.

You wonder, what's going on? Why is GraceD so uncharacteristically upbeat and who put on that damn Kool and the Gang song that's always played at weddings and professional sports playoff victories?

Well, I just want to 'Celebrate' because this hot-flashing baby boomer, this Grandma Moses-like late bloomer, this writer/blogger/mother can officially announce that her ultimate fantasy has been realized: I am included in an anthology that will be on sale at a bookstore near you!

Behold, our book - celebrate good times, come on!

 

I have a story in this anthology that Roxanne Cooper told me a long time ago would be suitable for publishing.  To Rox, I thank you for saying such a nice thing.  I'm proud to tell you that I met your challenge and with this accomplishment, custom dictates that you owe me a round, if not two or three, of salty rimmed, over ice (not blended)  Austin Texas style Margaritas the next time we meet.

I am also indebted-for-life to "my Jenny" (drawled worshipfully in a kinda lame but nonetheless heartfelt imitation of Forest Gump).  Jenny Lauck, she of Three Kid Circus blogging fame and renown, suggested to editor, writer, agent and all around wonder woman Rita Arens that I may have some material for this project.  Ever the professional, Rita gave my submission a thorough shakedown, editing out pictures of my dog and the obscure references that are usual fare on my blog posts.  She was able to format my little tale of yelling at Molly then desperately wanting to escape to a Menopausal Hut into a short story.  For this, not only am I indebted-for-life to Rita as well, but I will handing over my only born, the aforementioned Molly, to the Arens household.  Rita, you're getting a deal - Molly is just a year and half away before she's 18 and kicked out of the nest to the cold, cruel world.  Thus, you have escaped Molly's middle school years and toddlerhood. A bargain, I'm telling you.

There are parent blogging superstars in this anthology, and the Table of Contents is not unlike the roster for an amazing music festival where I am an opening band (like, dare I say it, Feist?) to Radiohead-quality rock star writers of these beloved blogs:

Amalah
Binkytown
Birdie's New Mexico Time Machine
CityMama
Finslippy
Friday Playdate
Fussy
IzzyMom
Laid-Off Dad
Mom-101
Mommy Needs Coffee
Mommytrack'd
Motherhood Uncensored
Not Calm (dot com)
Paper Napkin
Rancid Raves
Surfette
Sweetney
The Modernity Ward
The Naked Ovary
Three Kid Circus
Woulda Coulda Shoulda

Adding to the glam and bling of being published, we will be doing book signings.  Be warned, someone responsible better monitor my activities at these book signings, lest I get all full of myself and sign off in the smart-ass way that David Sedaris autographs his books.  Our lovely Rita Arens, who is far more couth than David Sedaris or I could ever be, will kick off the "Sleep is for the Weak" book tour on May 17 at the Kansas City Literary Festival.  Book signings are confirmed for July 18 at BlogHer, August 29-30 at the Decatur Book Festival, September 4 at the Kansas City Barnes and Noble, and September 13 at The Full Circle in Oklahoma City. 

More "Sleep is for the Weak" events to be announced, including book signings in California where I will be on hand to conduct a bonus tequila shot drinking contest for parents of teens and/or toddlers.  Think I'm kidding? You'll have to show up to find out.

Those who need to get a jump on things can pre-order our book from Amazon, Barnes and Noble and indie book sellers, Booksense.  Official release will be September, 2008. 

I can barely stand it, dollins.

Love and blessings to all,
GraceD

 

Day 2 of NaBloPoMo - Test! And, I'd be a gun packing mama if I had to be.

test

******************

Yeah, I got your "test", like a test of my patience, a test from the gods, a test in the form of technical difficulties. My laptop said no, no, no, no Internet for me.  No rehab either.  (I think I have just maxed out on the Amy Winehouse triple no on this blog.   No, no, no more.)

Anyway, I left the "test" above as a way to save my place on NaBloPoMo.  It may not fly, it may not count as a post, and Eden may smack me silly then force me into this pose for such a weak-ass attempt to stay in the game.  But, I will not break down! I shall carry on! Hence, tonight we have not one but two posts of lists, glorious lists.

This is for gwendomama, who loves me like a rock and will lavish me with freshly baked goods just for doing the following classic blog meme, Five Random Things About My Sexy Self. 

1.  I've gone 50 years without knowing that my left leg is shorter than my right.  My doc observed my asymmetrical gams a couple of years ago, just prior to sticking a needle as long as a curtain rod into my right knee.   I was jonesing for that cortisone injection, I had knee bursitis that hurt like a mofo.  The bursitis - and a myriad of other knee and ankle issues - all due to the sad fact that I am lopsided.  This also explains why I trip on my longer leg now and again.  That alone killed my career as a runway model.

2.  I'm all for "the right of the people to keep and bear arms."  Unlike many of my progressive friends, I vigorously object to losing any shred of our Second Amendment rights.   Evil exists and though we'd like to confront Evil with the peace and clarity of the Dalai Lama, I believe that Evil would want to cut His Holiness.  I don't have the open, expansive spirit of the Dalai Lama, and thus would prefer to confront Evil with my own legally owned weapon.  If I were a gay man, I'd have a gun.  If we lived deeper in the local mountains, I'd have a gun.  If any one hurt any of my family, I'd go after them with a gun.  Indeed, I began to feel strongly about citizen's defense when I became a mother.

3.  Also, since becoming a mother, I'm also for the death penalty.  This evil doer was instrumental in making me a believer.

4.  I'm not comfortable swimming in a medium to big body of water.   I do know how to swim and I'm fairly good at it, but I'm not one to throw myself into a sizeable pool, a swimming hole or the ocean.  I don't do laps.  I don't body surf.  Many years ago, I tried to overcome my wariness by getting SCUBA certified.  Though I documented quite a few dives into my dive log , I still felt sketchy.  Please note:  My uneasiness with swimming should not prevent you from inviting me to your pool party.  I'll bring an entree, some wine and I'll be perfectly happy bobbing around in the shallow end on an inflatable ducky ring.

5.  I have not been without a pedicure for a year now.  And, I always wear earrings.  That's about as girly as I get.

No, I will not tag anyone for this meme.  If you have a blog, no doubt you've done it anyway.  But, just for kicks, you could let me know just one odd random thing about yourself in the comments.  Go on, tell me about how you're double jointed or that there's a colorful hummingbird tattoo on your left buttock.

An apology, rabbits and another attempt at NaBloPoMo.

  Spring, thank God. 
   

Behold, the buds and blossoms of early Spring in Santa Cruz, California.  I present these to you, dear and ever-dollin Reader, on bended knee and muttering apologies for slamming Hillary Clinton.  I was impudent and bitchy in that entry  - carelessly lumping the Senator in with the Clinton Administration (though, to be fair to myself, HC does cite her First Ladyhood as 'Professional Experience' on her Monster.com profile and Facebook page), not giving her a break for taking a shot at fixing health care some 15 years ago, and mocking her performance in last week's debate. 

Bad blogger.  I was, in a word, notnice.  For all of this bad juju, I take personal responsibility, but blame can also be placed on the scourge that is menopause, the Bush Administration and, what Steve Martin used to say - that the moon was in Feces.

I won't take down the post.  It will remain because it's a blogging ethic not to pull an entry just because one made an ass of oneself.  Also, there's valuable cultural information about Stoner TV in that entry. 

Before I move on, I thank you in advance for forgiving me, not only for throwing negative vibes into the universe, but also for flashing signs of Spring to those Dollin Readers in colder climes.  That flagrant display of blossoms may be more harmful to readers than the Hillary slam.

Indeed, moving on.  On to March! (Where did February go? Flash in the pan even with the extra day.)  Don't forget to say "white rabbit" immediately upon waking tomorrow morning.  Why? I asked Google who came up with this from the Brits:

"On the first day of the month when you wake up in the morning shout 'White Rabbit' and when you go to bed at night shout 'Black Rabbit' and you will have good luck."

Liking that "Black Rabbit" twist.  It feels sort of Beatrix Potter-esque.

With the beginning of the month comes an excellent challenge to get my ass up and blogging regularly.  I will do Mrs. Kennedy's NaBloPoMo which has gone monthly.  Go, Mrs. K! And, go me!  I'll do a blog post every day for March and I will do it right.  I will do it!  Yes we can! 

How can I not? The theme for March is "lists".  All the hip people love lists.  It's well established that though I am not hip, I'm all about itemizing and bulleting must-dos and must-buys or who's hot and who's not.  And, I will go beyond my Costco and celebrity lists (though I believe you can never go wrong on a blog with a roster of George Clooney's many virtues).  I'm thinking along the lines of:

A-ha moments.

Ghetto features of my house.

The order of products utilized in my shower/beauty routine.  Rationale for use of each product to be described.

Reasons to love (fill in the blank with anything - Mexican flan, the flashlight, Ferragamo shoes, Las Vegas, Sharpie pens, George Clooney)

Trends I have followed like a pathetic lemming.

Great ex-boyfriends who I will not trash, even the ones who left me.

Why I am awesome (may be short or long list depending on the day's self-esteem index level)

Foods that will never cross my lips.

Racist things said by the Duke of Edinburgh, and he's said plenty.  Example.

What I believe you must do in (places I have been on the planet).

I'm having fun already, making a list of my lists.

Tomorrow I will begin with the classic blog meme,  five things about me.  I think I've done this list before,  but I'll do it again because I will be rewarded with brownies.   Really.  That's what gwendomama said and I'm holding that dollin to it.

All righty.  Don't forget - WHITE RABBIT!  Then, BLACK RABBIT!  And, all will be well for the new month.

I shall post if it kills me, or if it kills any tourist in my way!

Sis & Bro
Originally uploaded by GraceD

Tourists! Everywhere! In the Big Ass Apple Store on Fifth Avenue! And, everywhere else!

Still, I'm posting. All hail this blogger throwing down the universal "East Side" gang sign. In this case, I'm representing the Upper East Side where the homies strut around in fancy furs. PETA targets, all of them rich bitches. Still, East Side anywhere rulz.

A good restful day for my brother, Marathon Man Gary, his lovely wife Ida and brother Jim, who is smiling congenially in the pic for all you single women out there. Bro's a catch, ladies, just email me for an intro. Compatibility depends on the following - You have to be low maintenance, cute, smart and fearless on a mountain bike. I repeat, "low maintenance", which means: Don't keep the bro waiting. Don't drag him into stores that have nothing to do with his own personal grooming and apparel. Keep the complaining to a minimum.

We ate carbs all day long. For my brother Gary! In solidarity! At least, that's my excuse.

Tomorrow is Marathon Sunday. Brother Gary is ready, his support staff, Team Gary, is prepared, and the million New Yorkers lining the streets are all set to holler big for our man. Woot!

All righty, dollins. Day Three of NaBloPoMo checked off. I'm the Queen!

Pissed

  Ooo-la-la! Nice couch in Carmel, CA 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

Pictured here is a yummy, buttery leather sofa we spied in a Carmel, CA home store.  Beautifully constructed, big-time comfy and a price tag that didn't make me break out in a full body rash.  A definite maybe for the living room.

Contrary to assumptions and conspiracy theories, I have not  suffocated in a pile of 500 count linen bedding at the fancy home furnishings store nor was I bonked on the noggin by a wrought iron chandler in a trendy-arty boutique.  Both of these klutz-moves are well within my capabilities, but that's not why I've been absent from this here lowly blog.  Incredibly, I've been laying low because I've been a little angry.

Incredible indeed as you'd think that one's blog is a perfect outlet for emoting, an ideal venue for anger catharsis.  This is why many of us blog, aside from the obvious glamor factor. Oh! The glamorous blogging life of writing about feelings while cloaked in a 10 year old bathrobe and tossing back cups of microwaved warmed coffee!

Anyway,  I could work out all that pissyness right here on my own bandwidth,  but I am trying to maintain a policy of  as much as possible.  This is difficult to pull off, given the Southern California fires and the Bush Administration and the scourge of misogyny in every day life.  Instead, I've been unleashing my fury in the comments of my friends' blogs.  I must add quickly that my anger is not directed to my pals, but rather to people who have been telling them what to do and how they should act.

More than anything else in the world I go batshit nuts with how grown women are constantly told how to be.  Between the multi billion dollar fashion/beauty industrial complex to mom telling you to wear a slip (this still goes on for me.  Who even owns a slip these days? I sure as hell don't.), we are besieged with unsolicited messages, no, make that unsolicited messages in **blinking neon signs** insisting that we do this, do that, wear this, apply that, walk this way, talk this way.

Kindly note that I mention "unsolicited".   Asking for advice is another thing altogether.  A large chunk of my adulthood was spent single handedly keeping the self-help book publishing companies profitable.  I don't mind finding out what I need to do and I've become quite good at asking for tips and help.  Heck, half the time I'm on this blog I'm asking you, dear and dollin readers, how I should proceed with many of life's activities, including my latest request for recommendations on furnishing my home.  Quite a few of you came forward with such excellent ideas that, once I've followed your directions to the T, Chez State of Grace will be featured in Architectural Digest and we will celebrate with a grand open house, on-site spa treatments and champagne.  Or, I will simply take pictures of how I applied your suggestions and link to your blogs.  If you treat me with a visit, I promise we will have champagne and a hot stone massage at one of Santa Cruz's finer spas.

There were two online scuffles that involved unsolicited advice to women and warranted, shall we say, my input:

The first concerned the great Erin Kotecki Vest, Huffington Post blogger, BlogHer Contributing Editor and The Queen of Spain.  Though I do not reside in her royal turf of Valencia, California, I am still her lowly subject.  Erin, a former journalist, is a keen observer of the human condition and an insightful political commentator.  She also packs a punch.  Not a messy Ann Coulter  jab at anything flying in her airspace, or a Michelle Malkin sissy flutter of hands, but a clean KO.  Erin is what my old pal Ricky would call "The Big Liberal Hammer".

A blogger who will not be mentioned or linked here doesn't approve of Hammertime Erin and, along with calling her a "shock jock", this unnamed blogger also suggested that Erin restrain herself.  Then she proposed that BlogHer provide "public relations coaching and mentoring to newly popular bloggers" like Erin.

I could have sighed and decided that this blogger likening Erin to Howard Stern simply doesn't understand style and voice.  She also doesn't understand that most bloggers will only take up an offer for PR charm school if a free trip to a tropical resort was involved along with some really good swag.  I could have held that misunderstood blogger's hand and gently corrected her, "Look honey, it's like this - bloggers are mouthy and bold and we read them because they're mouthy and bold."

But, no, I launched a smackdown.  It was actually a rather nice smackdown considering how annoyed I was at the mere suggestion that Erin must moderate her tone from pissed to prissy:

I say may we always have angry, passionate women. These are our outraged sisters and we owe it to them, indeed to ourselves, to hear what they have to say. If we did not heed the call to action from these outraged sisters, we would not have access to the voting booth, higher education and economic opportunities. We would not possess the freedom of reproductive choice. Abused women and children would not have refuge from their perpetrators. We would not have justice.

Right on, fist in the air and soul shake!  However, this manifesto didn't change that blogger's mindset and the conversation thread dissipated into a blip.  Nevertheless, it felt good to make a stand even though I was a little out of breath after writing that comment.

I was just catching my breath when I got the very bad and sad news that nakedjen's marriage came to an abrupt end.  This shook up her blog community something fierce and, being local, I was ready to send in a calvary of sister bloggers, prepared to force feed her cupcakes, administer Reiki, and just sit quietly and bear witness to her pain.

nakedjen deserves nothing short of that level of cupcake-Reiki devotion.  She is really quite a stunning person, truly naked, clothing optional as well as bullshit-free. She shares her truth on her estimable blog as  this is how nakedj rolls, nude in body and writing.  Thus, she was forthright in her blog posts describing the break-up and the ongoing aftermath.

Imagine my wrath when two male commenters insisted that she stop blogging about the break-up.  One  of these guys also suggested that  Jen's ex-husband was going through a sort of mid-life crisis and the way to deal with that is to ignore him.  "Planned ignoring" he called it, a technique he learned from his wife who works with autistic children and employs planned ignoring on them. 

More unsolicited advice, more people who want women to shut up, more fixers who want to fix women who don't need fixing.

So, I got pissy on nakedjen's blog.  And, this time I wasn't nice with my smackdowns.  I had reached the angry pit-bull stage.  No, worse, I had achieved the angry Jack Russell Terrier breaking point.  This required the simultaneous use of  my asthma inhaler and a glass of wine, a chemical combination so mighty that it's banned in the Olympics.

I won't even quote from my commentary.  Just think of me puffing on the inhaler, swigging the wine and pounding on the keyboard.  Add to that the 10 year old bathrobe and you can take it from there as to how I responded to these guys.

There is a happy ending with rainbows, Care Bears, apple pie and bling.

After all the punching and slamming I did on Jen's blog, and given that her marriage ended, I felt compelled to show up at the finish line of the Nike Women's Marathon in San Francisco this past Sunday.  Jen had raised big bucks for cancer research in order to walk this race, and she richly deserved what she called my "banshee" hollers of support.  Despite not eating or sleeping and thinking that she would off herself at one point this past week, Jen completed the marathon with flying colors and a dangerous case of hyponatremia.  It was with pride and love that I was able to care for her post-race with sodium laden liquids, pillows and face licking from Malcolm.

Yup, happy ending with a necklace pendant from Tiffany's, the Nike Women's Marathon version of a finisher's medal.  Excellent bling to be sure.

Well done, nakedjen.  Her account of the marathon is here.  For the record, I am not worthy of her abundant praise.  Anyone would have cared for Jen as I did, she is that wonderful.

 

 

And, a shout-out to Erin, who had to escape her throne in Valenica where the Southern California fires are raging.  She's in Florida, hopefully downing refreshing rum beverages.

As to the issue of my anger, I released it.  On other people's bandwidth, but it's gone.  For now.  After all, Bush is still in office and there's that matter of the conservative Supreme Court and the threat to Roe and that Rush Limbaugh wannabe Glenn Beck essentially said that liberal Hollywood deserved the firestorm in Malibu and guys still want to fix women and...