Project Blog It: Red

Red is my favorite color. When it comes to wearing red, it must be a deep blue-red as a yellow-red or orangey-red makes me look sallow and makes me feel rather insipid. I'll wear red shoes (I love my red Dansko clogs)and a red sweater, blouse, or dress, but the thought of red pants make me cringe. Why is that? I have two red berets which seem a bit snooty, but in a good way.

When my grandmother was alive, for years she would send me a red amaryllis on my birthday--every time I see one I think of her and miss her. For 7 years Sophie has sported various leashes, collars and halters--all red. Her winter "coat" is red with spiffy reflector strips on the back. My new LL Bean gym duffel bag is my favorite shade of red with my initials stitched in black. I miss my red wall in my Virginia Manor apartment and I've entertained the thought of buying a red leather club chair, but I'd never sleep on red sheets or eat off red dishes (except at Christmas). I'd love a red Mini convertible with black leather interior and a few pieces of Le Crueset cookware (in red).

I saw red last night at the conclusion of my nephew's (private) school Christmas "pageant" when all the moneybag families were paraded onstage and presented with photographs (even larger copies of which are hung in the school hallways) of their beautiful White children to celebrate their rich fabulousness and noblesse oblige. Red lights and stop signs impede my progress and two red Netflix envelopes just delivered the next two discs of Battlestar Galatica, Season 3. Yes, you read that right. In just about every episode, there's a beatiful, if rather trashy looking Cylon (tall and 0 body fat with blonde hair) who is always wearing a hot red dress.

My favorite apples aren't the deep red ones, but I love tomatoes, strawberries and watermelon. I love red beans,red bell peppers, Red Zinger tea, red leaf lettuce, red chilies and red fish. Not as fond of radishes or ketchup.

Project Blog It: Treat

I haven't blogged in two months, and when I read this week's prompt, I first started thinking about treat in relation to "trick" and as something fun and unexpected. No original thoughts here, but treats can have a dark side, or at least fail to live up to expectation to some degree.

I continue to slowly but surely whittle my physical being down ever smaller and in that pursuit much of what I used to treat myself with is now verboten. A brownie is no longer a treat, but a morass of temptation that will not only add to my ass but would take over an hour on the treadmill to burn off. Not so much a treat anymore.

I treated myself to a massage last week, and had conjured the image of a large and strapping Swedish man or woman prepared to remind my beat-up body that it isn't all about pain. It was a treat, but the experience was less than what I'd imagined as the masseuse was a nerdy guy named "Stuart" or something like that, and was about 5'7" and 110 pounds.

When in California last month, I treated an old friend of mine to a birthday dinner. It was wonderful to see him, but for the first 15-20 minutes together he was still glued to his Blackberry and headset. When we kissed each other goodbye--I felt as much sense of melancholy and potential loss as I did "treated."

I'm dying to treat myself to a new car, a new laptop and a trip to Dallas in January to cheer on Shmonkey in the marathon, but I must first treat myself to replacing a cracked crown, which will be less than a car, but more than a plane ticket. But then again, my Mastercard company just treated me to a bigger credit limit.

It is a treat to now offically live in a blue state, but that's really only on paper. Had there been anything anti-gay equality related on the Colorado ballot as in other states, it would've passed here too. (Although, the proposed constituational amendment that would've given a fertilized egg the same legal status as a born person went down in flames, which was surprising). It is a treat to know Sarah Palin has taken her happy ass back to Alaska, but you know we haven't seen the last of her. Trick or treat indeed.

Politics For Our Times (or Sunday Morning with E)

Shorter Sarah Palin

(Did you notice I'm not wearing a manpantsuit?)

JOHN MCCAIN

I'm fecund! (cue to family members, including the not mentioned but frequent camera subject "how-the-hell-did-I-get-here" boy-fiancee) and my GUY kicks ass on a snowmobile!

JOHN MCCAIN WAS A POW!

Barak Obama just a pansy-assed community organizer elitist who might want to protect the Constitution!

Alaska has all the oil we need--come and take it!

Why isn't all America White like us?

JOHN MCCAIN!

I'm FECUND (cue to family again--mental high-five for audience aahhing when daughter who will partly raise the baby licks her palm and smooths the baby's head).

JOHN MCCAIN IS A MAN!

Project Blog It: Certitude

I was certain I'd never get around to posting this week. However, yesterday I recalled the words of a man I briefly dated post-divorce: "certainty is the death of creativity." In retrospect, I think he was primarily making a case for never committing. However, this idea has been on my mind.

Some of the most mentally and intellectually sterile people I've ever known are people who live and work out of their certainty that the world as they see it is absolutely reflective of objective reality. It will come as no surprise to those who know me well that this sterile group is composed of a wide variety of Christian evangelical folks. Smart? Kind? Compassionate? Many of them, yes. But creative? Not as much. It is hard to think outside of the box when you believe your box is the only one that matters.

I worked for a woman who was (and likely still is) certain that she was the world's greatest boss, when in fact her likely Axis II diagnosis made working for her an almost daily nightmare. She knew how to make money and she depended upon employees when creativity was needed.

One of the few real certainties in this life is that we all die. Of profound uncertainty of course though, is how and when we will die. For patients referred to our palliaitve care program, a physician needs to comfortably say that he/she wouldn't be "surprised" if the patient died in one year or less. The physicians I work with are never certain that the morphine, oxycodone or methadone they prescribe will adequately manage pain--it requires clear communication with the patient about his/her personal goals and needs as well as creativity and the willingness/ability to think broadly or narrowly as required. I am certain that every time I pick up the phone to call a patient, his or her story will be different and determining an outcome that will best help the patient's position of uncertainty requires creativity on my part.

The High Five Club

What, really, is with the high-five? It happens to me all the time, but here are about a week's worth of personal high fives:

1) Today, when I set up a Saturday meeting with my personal trainer (I know, I know), he high-fived me, and I hadn't even done anything impressive yet.
2) Last night, when I went to upgrade my membership to the new 24 Hour Fitness SUPER sport club next door, the "consultant" high-fived me when I politely laughed along at a lame joke. It wasn't really even funny, so my for my part it was a pity high-five.
3) I was high-fived by a colleague for arranging for a patient to get a hospice consult.
4) A friend and exercise buddy high-fived me after a really great work out.
5) I was high-fived by another friend when I made an acerbic comment that made her laugh.

High-fiving doesn't come naturally to me--it is during high-five moments that I feel painfully the full weight of my NPR-listening, New Yorker-reading, White self. However, I go along with it during moments that feel more appropriate for the gesture: after a good workout or a particuarly sarcastic but funny comment that puts front and center my cleverness and wit. These days, the good workout happens more often than the cleverness. But when I get high-fived just for doing my job, or when I'm 1/2 of a peer pressure high-five, I inevitably end up looking incredibly dorky (ever seen an "air" high-five?). I'm dorky enough--I don't need the added pressure.

To high-five or not to high-five--am I just anti-social?

Project Blog It: The Function of Art

All I'm up for right now is thinking about how art has functioned in my own life. I confess there have been times that my exposure to certain art forms made me feel set apart from the riff-raff. Growing up in the sticks, I'd return home from a summer in Dallas after going to the art museum, the the symphony and the theatre and would look down my nose at the poor souls condemned to life within the boundaries of crusing up and down Hwy 281, hanging out at the Bowling Alley Cafe, or drinking beer at Wayne Smith dam. I didn't completely outgrow that sense of superiority--more than once I've inwardly sneered at people who wax rhapsodic about the "art" of Thomas Kinkaid--one of the richest hacks of all time. "Painter of Light" my ass. But I digress.

Art has brought me solace. Years ago I had a dream in which I was completely alone in the Kimbell Art Museum. There was no sound and it was blissfully cool. I use the memory of that dream as self-guided meditation now when I'm stressed or grieving. At times I "see" particular pieces on the walls, but most of the time, it is about Louis Kahn's building itself.

Art has pissed me off. Art rather bungled has made me laugh (bed rolling across the stage while Rodolfo sings his heart out to the consumptive Mimi) and it has moved me to tears. I have felt closer to friends because of art and I've faced personal demons and false assumptions because of art. I have been provoked and aroused by art.

After all, it really is all about me.

Project Blog It: The Seven Deadly Dwarves

Greedy

S'envy

Lazy

Fatty

Haughty

Horny

Pissy

Snow White thinks they're all going to hell.

Maybe There Is a Magic Pill After All

Project Blog It: Strawberries

A few years ago, Shmonkey came over for a brunch, and I had some strawberries in a bowl on the table. My memory has it going like this:

1) I note with regret that the strawberries are starting to look a bit gone, and that if they were going to be eaten, that was the time.

2) Shmonkey declined, recalling a scene from "Hills Like White Elephants" in which a bowl of iffy strawberries sit on the table.

Now, I haven't thought about this moment in years, but for some reason it popped into my mind when I read that this week's prompt is "strawberries." Here's the thing about memories though--I just re-read the Hemingway piece, and for the life of me I cannot find mention of strawberries! I'm guessing Shmonkey's actual reference wasn't "Hills" at all, but this is my memory. Anyway--I also remember laughing about it--and is a welcome memory at the end of a hellacious week.

My favorite way to eat strawberries? Currently, I get them for use in my favorite smoothie:

Blend together the following:

1 small/med banana
1-1.5 cups blueberries
1 container non-fat blueberry or strawberry yogurt
6-8 strawberries
Skim milk as desired
1 T honey

It makes a lot! Whip some up when expecting some friends for brunch.

Project Blog It: Pure and Utter Nonsense Edition

Yesterday, a physician I work with, while taking an early morning walk with her husband and daughter, got back to the vacation rental home in Oregon at which they were staying in time to see the house explode knowing their two other children were asleep in the house, and probably dead.

They did die.

Other forces at work in the universe other than pure, unadulterated randomness?

Nonsense it purest form.

Miracle Food

Reason No. 4,293 Why This Country is Going TO HELL

Via I Blame The Patriarchy--sentiments expressed there pretty aptly reflect my own.

Satire and Class

Unless you've been under a rock today, you've heard the bit of buzz generated by this week's New Yorker cover. I have to confess my initial, gut reaction was "omigod!" Satire, yes, but while this was visual representation of accusations made about Michelle and Barak Obama that we've all heard before, I still found it rather shocking. However, what I have found most interesting is the discussions about who gets the joke, and supposedly who doesn't. Some have suggested that the editors figured they'd get a free pass on this because Joe Sixpack is the consumate racist, sexist xenophobe AND he doesn't read the New Yorker. And, Joe Sixpack is pretty dumb, yes? He doesn't know what satire is. But the folks who are able to get the joke are nonetheless condemning the illustration as offensive and just plain bad satire. Some criticism has centered on the fact that the perpetuators of the crap that is the subject of this supposed satire are not represented w/in the drawing itself. But is this really needed (especially since only all us smartypants will get the joke)? I mean--about all that's missing is an aborted fetus.

So what of it? Offensive? Bad satire? The New Yorker's craven need for attention and publicity? I've had too many problems uploading the image here--but you haven't seen it already, you can check it out here.

A History of Bliss

At the risk of being accused of jumping on friends' blogging bandwagons, I shall offer my own thoughts about bliss. The first word that came to mind is "fleeting." My experience with bliss is that never lasts very long and is often followed or preceeded by experience or feeling that is painful or pedestrian. Because of that fleeting thang, it hasn't been easy to think of that many specific moments that stand out in memory. Here are a few:

My father's parents used to live in a house at the end of a long, tree-lined driveway in Dallas, and I can remember enduring the long drive from Blanco, but the moment we turned into that driveway (usually late at night as we'd leave after my Dad finished work) I was happy. Those initial moments of being wrapped in my grandmother's embrace, seeing the lights from the house, being allowed to stay up late with my grandmother and watch The Tonight Show--bliss.

There was a distinct moment, in the summer of of 1981, after the Mayflower van had already begun the trip to Ft. Worth and after all the good-bye parties had come and gone, and when my family drove north on Hwy 281 out of Blanco, that I felt a real sense of freedom and possibility of my own life. Not as much fun realizing how much I've screwed it up since then--but the remembrance of the moment and that feeling? Bliss.

Riding in my first "real" boyfriend's Chevy Impala, thigh to thigh, listening to Foreigner--but the real bliss would occur for the two minutes or so during "I've Been Waiting For a Girl Like You" and he would squeeze my hand. Uh huh. Foreigner.

One of the few moments of bliss during my marriage--we lived in a house on a lake--and occasionally on Sunday evenings we would sit on the dock with our feet in the water and laugh about how out-of-place we felt in that place and in that church. It offered rare moments of true companionship. I also had a beautiful garden at that same house, and I swear I grew the most fabulous vegetables. I would go out early in the a.m. and pick tomatoes to take to people at work, and then come home and cook squash, tomatoes, and onions that I picked from my own garden just minutes before. Utter bliss, I tell you.

When I watched my nephew being born--bliss followed by terror realizing he had poor respiratory function followed by hours in the ICU, then bliss again (and still some terror) when I held him and knew I would love him all of my life.

When Sophie was 10 weeks old, she decided to go on a little camping trip without me, and was missing for two days. Shmonkey was driving around with me in the rain, looking for her, when a woman called me saying she saw a puppy matching Sophie's description dead in the road, and then ten minutes later another woman calling to say she saw her in a place only 2-3 blocks from where we were. Sure enough, we rounded the corner, and Shmonkey was out of the car before I came to a complete stop, running across the street and scooping her wet body into his arms. Holding her in my lap as we drove back to the Manor--Bliss. And Shmonk--I will love you forever for that moment alone.

That weekend with ____, and that weekend with ____. Bliss was VERY short-lived-but memories still bring a smile.

Standing on the top of Enchanted Rock just before I left San Antonio, my marriage, others' expectations of how I was supposed to live my life, and an entire, and mostly painful, chapter of my life. Fear before, and I knew more doubt and fear was waiting for me when I climbed down, but for those moments of feeling secure and right in my decision--bliss.

Crawling into pre-warmed sheets in the wintertime. Bonus bliss points for when I don't have to get up for work the next day.

We had our first almost-100 degree day here in Colorado last week, and while we do not have high humidity to worry about, the sun can be pretty intense. But by sundown, the temperature usually drops 30-40 degrees and by the time I take Soph out for her last walk before bedtime, the air is cool, but also blissfully soft.

If you have read this far, my apologies. I linked to Shmonk's bliss post, and I think he is one of 2-3 people who read this blog, so if by chance there are others, you can find links to Skajlab's as well as others' bliss posts from there.

Philadelphia

Am off tomorrow to Philadelphia to see the sights--back on the 5th. Dreading heat and humidity. Update on my triathalon-er pal--all seems to be well--probably pneumonia, but things could've been much more grim.

Triathalon: Not all Fun and Games

One member of Team Sarcasma is in hospital tonight with pulmonary edema and without, as yet, an identifiable cause. Daisy was swimming the first leg of a triathalon today and ended up at the ER. We're told she will be fine, but it has been sobering for her and her friends to think about how quickly and unexpectedly it all happened.

These days I'm pushing my own body harder than I ever have before. Am I daft to think I'm capable of being prepared for a triathalon in August? Granted, it is a relay and the plan is for me to take only one leg of the race, but I only got on a bicycle again (after years of not riding) last week. I'm in better cardiovascular shape than I have been in years, but I'm wondering if I shouldn't exercise a bit more caution. Or not. I'm more aware than ever how life can change in an instant and as a main goal is to enter my mid-late 40's in great shape and hopefully better equipped to work and remain active as I get old(er), I'm still more inclined to challenge myself.

I resisted the temptation to give Daisy too much of a pep (get back up on the horse) talk today--the reality is that if she has heart failure or something equally serious, she may have to restrict her activity for awhile. But her self-confidence has taken a hit, and she's had medical professionals looking at her today likely wondering why she was in that water. I can tell you this though--no matter if I'm physically and mentally ready for that relay triathalon--if I dream that I'm mowed down by a fast-moving peleton--I'm staying in bed.

Et Tu, Triathalon?

Somehow I have found myself agreeing to participate in a relay triathalon with my friends (for the sake of internet anonymityI shall refer to them as Taz and Daisy) and I think I'll be responsible for the cycling leg. Only 12 miles--so I think I can handle that--but I haven't been on a bicycle in a very long time.

To that end, I have begun "training" for this and took my first spinning class today. Somewhere in the bowels of hell one of Satan's evil minions is laughing as his invention's latest victim. The class lasts an hour--I lasted 30 minutes. The instructor advised Taz and I to "stay in the saddle" for numerous sessions until we got the hang of it. I've been doing a lot of hiking, so my legs did pretty well, and my heart and lungs were hanging in just fine at the 30 minute-mark. But, Jesus, Mary and Joseph--my lady-bits were screaming. And not in that good way, either. The instructor would tell us to keep our sit-bones on a certain part of the seat--but that only gave temporary relief.

Event is in late August--just before or after the Democratic Convention here in Denver. We only found out about it yesterday, so training is beginning a bit late in the game--but I'm going to give it a go.

We are Team Sarcasma.

Eat This

Not sure why this is so funny to me, but it expresses a certain je ne sais quoi that a dog just couldn't get away with. Thanks, Natalie Dee.

Gratitude, Part 2

We are inching toward the summer season here, at long last. I love it here this time of year! Only a few days ago it was still snowing in the mountains, and last weekend we had our first day where the temp reached the 9o's. But as hot as it can get during the day, the air is practically humidity-free and it cools down at night. Sophie and I just returned froma short after-dark stroll and it makes me want to put a hammock on my patio and sleep outside.

On an unrelated note--Soph and I are watching "Manufacturing Consent"--documentary about Noam Chomsky, and there is tape of Chomsky on a panel with an ancient Jean Piaget. Sipping some beverage out of a demitasse. Oh to be an aging, but respected public intellectual. I'm just aging.

Homophobes Given Another Reason To Hate California

The California Supreme Court decision that struck down legislation prohibiting legal marriage between same-sex couples has made a lot of people happy. I recently "officiated" at a commitment ceremony for two wonderful friends, who happen to both be women. I hardly told anyone, primarily because I work with one of these friends and she is particuarly protective of their relationship and is careful with whom she shares details of her personal life. Even though the company I work for is considered very progressive and extends health insurance and other benefits to same-sex couples, there are individuals who would stand in judgment. I love my family, but had I told them, there would have ensued the rolling of the eyes and an expression of "first it was those two gay men in Dallas--now she's taken up with lesbians--where did things go SO WRONG?"

But here's who I was absoutely DYING to tell: members of former churches in which I was Spouse-In-Chief who would count this as absolute that I'm on the express Chattanooga Choo-Choo to hell.

It was a perfectly beautiful day and I'm still amazed when people find another person they could imagine being with for the rest of their lives. If Colorado ever follows California's lead (uh huh), perhaps we can do it again, and I can use the phrase "by the authority granted me by the State of Colorado." The ground down south underneath the Focus on the Family compound would surely tremble then. I'm sorry--but spending just one day tormenting religious fundamentalists just isn't nearly enough.

By the way, graphic above is from www.someecards.com

Politics of Weight Loss

Let's face it--there's pretty much no more revered virtue in our society than being thin. A close second is if you're fat but in the process of losing weight. It is as though with every size I drop I'm saying to the world, "yes, I was fat! You were right all along! I have seen the light and am on my way to becoming healthier and more fuckable!" A couple of people at work who barely spoke to me previously (and likely couldn't tell you my name) have found it PERFECTLY acceptable to comment on the change in my appearance. I'm not talking about the encouragement that comes from family and friends who know how hard it can be. But somehow it is as if I'm not just healthier--but a better person overall.

So may I say--what a load of crap! There are numerous factors involved in my losing some serious weight--but none of of these involves my becoming a more virtuous person. If anything I'm crabbier due to pasta deprivation. God knows how anti-social I'll be once I've lost it all.

On an unrelated note--but a rant nonetheless--what the HELL is up with people who find it perfectly acceptable to let their dogs run off-leash willy-nilly??? So Sophie and I are on our way home after a perfectly lovely evening hike and this German Sheperd ignores the half-hearted pleas of his owner to return to her and makes a beeline for Soph. As I'm half-dragging my own dog away, I hear my fellow dog-owner bellow "Come" and inquired of the dog as to what her "problem" is. Stupid heifer.

I Have An Itch

Pug courtesy of Natalie Dee.

Pedoeww

A physician and a nurse I work with have a bet as to when the blackest of my toenails will fall off. The cut on the right foot was a result of opening a bottom file drawer without allowing sufficient clearance. So typical.

May Snow Day

I've lived in Colorado for almost six years now, and it still feels surreal to have enjoyed temps in the upper 70's one day, then sit in a meeting at work the next and watch giant, wet flakes of snow fall the next. By the end of the meeting, everything was covered with snow, but it warmed up enough to melt off before I drove home.

Better workout today--no traumatic middle-school PE flashbacks. Hard work has benefits, but my body feels like I've been beaten about with a bat.

Spending the day tomorrow in a grant-writing workshop--perhaps I can find some money to pay for the violin lessons, a new hybrid, and office space for a think tank.

Gratitude Part 1

Gratitude is, of course, a natural antidote to unrelenting cynicism. Life is only getting more complicated, and on days like today, I feel incredibly small and alone in the world. Wah. However, the few friends I have are true gifts. To those who are here and notice when I'm feeling deflated and take the time to remind me of connections, I thank you. To those I never get to see--I miss you.

Detachable Vagina

A friend sent me this clip and I laughed because I recall having a conversation with some friends about how great this would be--especially when we had our periods. I wonder if Hillary Clinton would've had an easier time as a Senator and presidential candidate. I can just imagine her opening remarks at each debate. Moderator: "Senator Clinton, how do you answer your critics who say that his country is not ready for a woman President?" Hillary: "Well,Ted, it doesn't matter because my pussy is in a safe deposit box for the duration of this campaign, and it will remain there as long as I am President!"

Not a Great News Week for Dallas

While driving to work earlier this last week, I heard a story on NPR about a "cheese" heroin epidemic among children in my old home town of Dallas. Drug treatment professionals must now ponder how to treat addicts as young as 9 years old (or even younger, probably). In Dallas anyway, known users are apparently predominantly Latino/Latina. However, I think the likely key word is "known". A police detective with Dallas Public Schools admitted that "this isn't a problem we can arrest ourselves out of." I wonder if he realizes that with that one sentence he acknowledged the futility of most state and federal illegal drug policy and enforcement.

In other news, I hear that results of the 2006 census showed that the Dallas-Ft. Worth metro area grew more than any other metropolitan area in the country--adding over 162,000 souls. One wonders where they all came from--and if they still think they made a good decision.

Equally and exceedingly more nauseating (but not too surprising) news is that a Dallas titty-bar will not be required to close its doors simply because underage girls as young as 12 perform there from time-to-time. Evidently the license of the Diamond Cabaret could potentially expire this November, but revocation at this point is only possible if "the club knowingly allows prostitution, the sale or use of drugs at the club, or if there are two convictions for sex-related crimes at the club within a 12-month period". Twisty says it better here.

In more local news for me--I recently started work on a committee at work charged with the task of writing an emergency-reponse plan for all of our clinical activities (read: everything). We are to "consider all hazards" including, but not limited to: a flu or SARS pandemic, a terrorist biological attack, other types of terrorist attacks (the Democratic National Convention is here in August, so thinking of worst-case scenarios for that is already underway), or contamination of the water supply (a legitimate concern considering the plight of our Alamosa neighbors to the south).

In more uplifting news, despite the fact that we could possibly still get a bit of snow and that it still gets down in the 30's at night, it looks like Spring has arrived here at last. Sophie found patches of green grass to pee on today and I could get away with wearing short-sleeves and sandals! Perhaps friends who anticipate onset of yet another Texas summer will consider the fabulousness that is a Colorado spring and summer--particularly those who may need time away from the prying eyes of the Ladies of Chador.

Tired

toothpastefordinner.com

I keep hearing (and feeling too sometimes) of the "you've come a long way, baby" argument when talking and thinking about the place and role of women in American life and culture. Of course, this affirmation originated from a print ad campaign for Virginia Slims cigarettes which always depicted examples of ideal American femininity: slender, smiling, athletic, and sophisticated, but not so smart to figure out that smoking would eventually wreck their looks and give them lung cancer. In 1902, Susan B. Anthony wrote to Elizabeth Cady Stanton:


"It is fifty-one years since first we met and we have been busy through every one of them, stirring up the world to recognize the rights of women. The older we grow, the more keenly we feel the humiliation of disfranchisement and the more vividly we realize its disadvantages in
every department of life and most of all in the labor market. We little dreamed that when we began this contest, optimistic with the hope and buoyancy of youth, that half a century later we would be compelled to leave the finish of the battle to another generation of women. But our
hearts are filled with joy to know that they enter upon this task equipped with a college education, with business experience, with the fully admitted right to speak in public--all of which were denied to women fifty years ago. These strong, courageous, capable young women will take our place and complete our work. Ancient prejudice has become so softened, public sentiment
so liberalized and women have so thoroughly demonstrated their ability as to leave not a
shadow of doubt that they will carry our case to victory. "

I laughed at the thought of two 19th century women feeling so optimistic as to think their "contest" would finish in their generation. There have been "strong, courageous, capable" women who have worked hard to further "soften" and liberalize public sentiment and while I'm usually grateful for "how far we've come" I have little hope that things will advance beyond my own "blessings of liberty" and be different for women of my niece's generation. Yes, I was able to vote for a woman in the recent primary, and may yet still have the chance to vote for her in the general election for President, but the contest between HIllary Clinton and Barak Obama has painfully shown that while public expression of racial prejudice and hatred must be unspoken or at least successfully masked, hatred of women may be expressed with impunity. I'm tired, heartbroken and discouraged by this. Last night ABC and 20/20 devoted TWO HOURS of airtime to the subject of prostitution in America. Let's talk about the sad, misbegotten lives of these whores (this word wasn't used but implied of course) but let us not talk about the overall patriarchial political and economic frame that really places ultimately all women as members of the sex class. We just don't all work on the Vegas Strip or at the Bunny Ranch.

Everyone is talking about Barak Obama's speech last week about race--when will Hillary talk about gender? Without doubt she is one of those next generation women that Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton envisoned, but she could also tell them from personal experience that hatred of women didn't go away when women got the vote, when more of us started going to college and/or postponing marriage and childrearing (or eschewing one or both altogether), when more of us became politicians, doctors, lawyers, astronauts, pilots, ministers, and officers in the military. All those advances just made them hate us more. She'll never speak of it as the only thing more unpalatable to many Americans than actually having a woman President is one that talks about how women are still an oppressed class in our culture. So what can I do now to try and help my now 9-year old niece prepare for the obstacles she will have to overcome?

How Much Do You Love America?

I'd meant to throw out some thoughts about Peggy Noonan's recent column (actually a couple of weeks ago now) in The Wall St. Journal in which she begrudgingly acknowledges Barak Obama's ability to draw and then wow a crowd, but dismisses others' attributions of eloquence. She states that "with Mr. Obama, the deep thought part is missing." "He doesn't unpack his thoughts" but rather "asserts and keeps on walking." Now, I find this humorous as her former and now dead boss could indeed turn a phrase (that someone else had written for him) but failed to impress a broad spectrum of people as to his ability to unpack anything, much less thought.

At any rate, Ms. Noonan's true point seems to be in suggesting that Barak and Michelle Obama are really just two highly educated, wealthy, connected, (and possibly snobbish) white people whose skin color happens to be black and who, from the "liberal cocoon" they were raised in are likely woefully out of touch with the daily realities of most Americans. Are they any different from Bill and Hillary, the ultimate "cosseted yuppies"? Quelle horreur! It would seem that perhaps the Obama's are "more inspired by abstractions like international justice than by old visions of American as the city on a hill." Peggy Noonan takes issues with Michelle Obama's recent comment that "for the first time" in her life she is proud of her country. See, Mrs. Obama has enjoyed such privilege that she doesn't have the proper appreciation or an "old-fashioned love for America" in the way that some "working-class Americans" who were "raised by a TV and a microwave and love our country anyway, every day, do.

However, I thought about this idea again yesterday, during a required "Let's Talk Diversity" class at work. I was a bit surprised when the facilitator began talking about white privilege and handed out the questionnaire that Peggy McIntosh developed--one could practically hear the sound of defensive white sphincters contracting. One of my coworkers was offended by the idea that different groups enjoy different aspects of privilege in this country. It is so negative to talk in these terms. After all, we have a woman AND a black man running for President. Isn't this evidence of how far we've come? Why can't we focus on the positive! Well, golly gee, Wally.

Perhaps Ms. Noonan feels that the Obama's haven't enough performed enough public patriotic genuflecting to those "old-fashioned" values and priorities of white Christian America. She asks, "if America's leaders don't love America tenderly, who will?" How do you love America, hum?

Colorado Human Life Amendment

In 1992, Colorado became known as "The Hate State" after voters approved Amendment 2, which banned any law offering protection for employment discrimination based upon sexual orientation and was later overtuned by the Supreme Court. The 6th district of Colorado elected Tom Tancredo, Congress' most famous xenophobe, and the good people in Colorado's 4th district saw fit to send Marilyn Musgrave to Congress. She works hard for her constituents--that is if they are White, heterosexual, and conservative evangelical Christian. And then of course we have James Dobson and Focus on the Family.



Which is why it is not surprising that Colorado voters may have to decide about the Colorado Human Life Amendment--which would grant the same legal protections some Americans enjoy--to a fertilized egg. Mike Huckabee has of course endorsed the measure, saying that "Colorado has an opportunity to send a clear message that every human life has value." That is, unless you are a woman. Huckabee added that "passing this amendment will mean the people of Colorado will protect the sanctity of life from conception until natural death occurs." So does this mean the people of Colorado will start being more concerned about the number of Coloradoans who do not have access to decent health care, safe housing, or food? Actually, I think the definition of "sanctity of life" to Huckabee et al, is limited to existing only. Sanctity has actually little or nothing to do with quality of life.

If this affront to the innate value, sanctity, rights and freedoms of individual women is passed and becomes law in Colorado, it will be quite interesting to see how appellate "originalist" judges like Scalia and Thomas come down on a law that would have absolutely no Constitutional basis. whatsoever.

Artwork by Natalie Dee.

It is probably just as well I did not have children.

Clinic Sunday

I hate being sick, and I usually deny it until feverish delirium sets in or I cannot travel beyond a 18" radius of the toilet. About half-way during "There Will Be Blood", I started shivering from the cold and as the credits were rolling, my friend looks at me askance and asserts that it isn't cold in the theatre. I figured all I needed was a restorative steaming and spicy bowl of pho, but but the time I got home and dug out my old-fashioned mercury filled thermometer, I had a 102.5 temperature. Anyway, I dragged my feverish ass to the urgent clinic this morning and got sent home with a heavy duty antibiotic. I was even offered cough syrup with coedine--which for some reason I declined. Now if there's such a thing as cough syrup with percocet...

Anyway, the real purpose here is to vent my frustrating encounter with my employer and health insurance provider. I arrive with a fever, horrible headache and ear aches, disturbing cough, and my throat so raw and tight I can barely speak above a whisper. It is a Sunday morning, and it is quite clear why I'm there. The nurse who checks me in does the requisite blood pressure, weight check, pulse and taking of the temperature. She then starts asking me when was the last time I had a pap smear and mammogram. Now, my employer and health care provider as spent over a BILLION dollars on an electronic medical record system, which I use myself on a daily basis to reference patient charts (I'm forbidden to access my own). But I knew that all this nurse had to do was hit a button and she could clearly see that I had a pap smear less than 3 months ago, and that I'm overdue for a mammogram. So I get a mini-lecture on the importance of mammography--how early detection can SAVE LIVES! Really? I'd never heard that! She seemed reassured that I do routine self-exams and am scheduled for a mammogram soon. All of this while I'm staring at her glassy-eyed and hacking up orange phlegm. She then notices my neck scar and asks about my thyroid. After I mention that she should be able to find my latest TSH levels under the flowsheet section of my chart, a light goes on in her head and she figures out I must be familiar with the system. What do I do? Well, I'm a social worker in palliative care. "I LOVE SOCIAL WORKERS" she gushes and goes on and on about how angelic we are to so unselfishly devote ourselves to the betterment of ALL MANKIND. All of this before I've been able to see the freakin' doctor--the one with the DRUGS. I don't remember if I said anything about the fact I'm an anti-social social worker or not, but she finally hustled out of there and finally saw the doctor, for whom I had to describe my symptoms and their onset for the THIRD damn time since I'd walked in the building.

So I'm sorry this is the first post after a rather long haitus, but I needed to post something new, and this is as good as it gets today.

Oh, and by the way--Daniel Day Lewis is beautiful and amazing.