Horoscope, and Jealousy or Just Left Out?

I was reading Elle magazine this morning over breakfast (egg, bacon and cheese sandwich on a biscuit) when I came across my horoscope. "Zip up your puffer and hit the powder" read the first line.

Oy. Thanks, Elle. I have a few more steps to finish before I zip up my puffer and hit the powder.  As you all may know, I tore my ACL winter skiing, had surgery and can't ski until at least the end of February. The rest of my family skis once a week, more during Winter Break. I normally like Elle and have been a subscriber for years. I wanted to scream and laugh and cry as I read this. I don't blame the magazine because they don't know. It was a good thing I was eating something amazingly delicious to wash away the pain.

I was talking to my physical therapist, Evan, last week. It told him my family was skiing and I was stuck at home or in the lodge. "It sounds like you are jealous," he said, switching between physical therapist and regular therapist. I suppose physical therapists need to be somewhat like regular therapists to motivate and inspire their patients, as well as to listen to their woes. Sometimes I have a lot of woes.

Am I jealous, feeling left out, or both? I don't know if jealous is the exact word. I don't subscribe to skiing magazines or watch skiing videos. I don't aspire to ski beyond easy blacks or blues. Jack says there are people who take "bike walks" which is a leisurely bike ride where you look at houses and coast along. Jack doesn't think it is really biking until your heart rate is at 80% max and you are constantly pedaling. To make an analogy to skiing, I am a "ski walker," happy to go at my own pace and take in the scenery as I go down. I stop and smell the snowflakes. I don't need to go full blast to get the adrenaline rush. I get enough adrenaline starting at the top of the hill. I don't need to feel afraid to have fun.

Yet, given the choice between hanging out in a coffee shop or skiing, I'd ski. Given the choice between biking and skiing, I'd ski. Before my accident, I used to find a friend and we'd ski during the week when the lift lines were super short. I was totally fine skiing without my family. So maybe I am a little jealous.

I also feel left out. My kids and husband come back from skiing and I get a report on the conditions, runs, and crowds. I wish I were up there with them, to a certain extent. They are running on the black diamonds, and I would be on the blues. I'd be holding them back, making them ski at Snoqualmie Central instead of Alpental. Or I would find a blue run at Alpental that I could manage without killing myself, and do it over and over again.

It doesn't matter if Evan and I ever will get the bottom of if I feel jealous or left out. He got to the point which was starting me on skiing exercises so I'll be ready one day to zip up my puffer and hit the powder.

Vegan Friend

Earlier this week, I was at a holiday party where my family ran into another family. This family is vegan--mom, dad and both daughters. They have been vegans since we have known them (about eleven years), so this is not a new thing.

I was sitting with the dad at the party, and somehow we started talking about food. I think we were talking about juicers and yogurt makers. Talking to a vegan about food is like being a mother of three and talking to a nun about sex. It is awkward and you have experiences that they can only imagine. Except different. Nuns and priests chose to be celibate, as vegans chose their lifestyle. The difference is that many vegans chose to be vegans after being omnivores as children.

I am not sure how the conversation came up, but I said something like "Food was different in the 70's," to which James replied, "What did you eat growing up?"

This felt like a taboo topic, but I followed his lead. What was I to stay? "I feel uncomfortable talking to you about food, but since you brought it up..." I've also heard it is rude to ask people why they eat what they eat. "Are you vegetarian because you don't like to kill animals or for health reasons?" is considered crass. Although I think there is a natural curiosity about life that get smothered because of politeness. I suppose the question about vegetarianism puts that person in an awkward spot of having to reply, "You like eating the dead carcasses of animals? Why?"

I talked about what I ate growing up. Canned corn. Canned peas. Canned green beans. Steak once a week, but cut very thin and cooked to the texture of shoe leather. Pork chops prepared the same way. Chicken and rice baked in Campbell's cream of mushroom soup. Cracklin' Oat Bran in my lunch instead of Doritos. Doritos. Ham sandwiches on white bread with mayo. Homemade pizza every Friday night.

When I got to the steak, I started to say "This wasn't a thick, juicy Delmonico cooked medium rare..." but I stopped. Yes, I like eating the dead carcasses of animals. Why? Because they are delicious.

James grew up in the midwest and ate traditional Jewish cuisine, including potato pancakes and cheese blintzes. He was his mother's helper in the kitchen and had to remove the skins from the chicken for her, which would be a seriously gross job for a kid. I agree that there are certain ways of preparing food that make one wonder why one eats meat. I never head to cut the head off a chicken that I was going to have for dinner, but my grandmother did. 

James also ate pork chops growing up. 

"I used to eat liverwurst sandwiches growing up," I said. "I used to like it but at times it was too rich."

"My mom used to make liver pate growing up," he said. "She would make it from goose or chicken liver. I liked it. We went on a vacation to Boston once and we each had a whole lobster," he said. "I loved it. It was delicious."

I didn't ask if he wanted to eat one again, but it was as if he were still fostering the memory, as someone might carry a torch for an ex-boyfriend or girlfriend. Was he carrying a torch for lobster?

"Have you ever eaten a raw oyster?" he asked. Hmm. I wasn't sure oysters were an appropriate topic, but again, what was I to say?

"Yes," I said. "I had my first raw oyster a few years ago when Jack had a recruiting dinner for work. After that, I loved them. We went to Vancouver Island on vacation a few years ago and we ate oysters every day for a week. I only eat three at a time as an appetizer. I've never had a full dozen as a meal."

"My dad used to eat a dozen oysters for dinner," he said. "I've never eaten a raw one, but I've had them cooked." James reminded me of the Boy. The Boy has tried to eat raw oysters a couple of times, but couldn't do it. Last night at dinner, we went to a restaurant that had fried oysters. He asked if we could try them, and he ate two!

So James -- is he like a "priest" but for food? Maybe he does like seafood and meat, but has such strong self-discipline not to eat it. I have a friend who is a recovering alcoholic. The cure for alcoholism is not drinking. Is it like that?

I felt like I was crossing some boundary talking to him about food, or rather him talking to me about food. I am friends with his wife, who is also vegan. Was it wrong for him to tell me how much he liked eating a lobster? Does he like lobster in the present tense or the past tense? Did he like it, or would he still like it? Does he talk to his wife about how he likes/liked lobster? Do some vegans take a meal off and pig out on surf and turf? If a vegan were to slip, what would they eat first? Butter? Eggs? Something without a face like a mussel or an oyster but are kind of gross if you really think about it?

What would James' wife consider cheating? First, let's assume the cheating person isn't me. What if James went to dinner with another woman "platonically," but he decided to eat a lobster with her? Would that be better or worse than a romantic dinner with another woman at a restaurant where he ate the vegan meal and she ate roast chicken? While I know kissing or other outwards signs of affection would clearly be bad, would violating a chosen family bond be worse?

Strength Training and 40 pounds

I went to physical therapy yesterday and Evan talked to me about getting back to skiing. I can walk, bike and run, so in the grand scheme of life, I am pretty functional and I should be glad. The only part I don't like is when Jack and the kids go skiing every weekend and I can't. I don't want to begrudge them skiing because it is a great sport and probably the best way to spend a day in the snow. It involves all kinds of happy and healthy endorphins, which are according to Wikipedia "a morphine-like substance originating from within the body." Fresh air, going fast, great views, learning new skills and improving existing ones? Who doesn't want that?

Evan said while it is is great that I am running, I need to continue to build strength. "People think they ski on both legs, but there are times when times when you are bearing all of your weight on one leg. Your left leg really needs to be strong if you want to ski."

Hmm. Given the choice between lifting weights and running, I will chose running. I don't consciously make this decision, but instead I go to the YMCA, run first and then think "I have to..." a) get back home, b) run an errand, c) take a nap, etc. before I go to the weight room.

"How strong?" I asked Evan.

"You should be able to lift 150% of your body weight with both legs up and bad* leg down, 100% of your weight on your bad leg," said Evan.

Dang, I thought. I thought about how much I weigh now and how much I weighed before the Boy was born.

"How about if I lose forty pounds?" I said. That means I will have to lift forty pounds less on the single leg lift and sixty pounds less on the double leg lift.

Evan nodded. "That is one way to do it. Every pound you lose takes three pounds of pressure off your knee." I can't figure out the math on that, but Evan has a degree in this so I trust him.

While Evan thinks running isn't helping my strength, it actually is. Hopefully, I am losing a little pudge, which then means I will have less weight to lift. Win-win.

* He didn't say 'bad.' He used a nicer, more neutral medical term.

Skiing!!!

I went skiing yesterday. It was awesome. It has been more than nine months since my surgery, and I figured, yeah, I am ready. I am ready to go. When I got there, I scoped out the Magic Carpet and saw five year olds out there. I can do this, I thought. No problem. Those kids are more flexible than I am, but I follow instructions better.  

I put on my boots. I was glad I had been lifting weights and doing strength exercises. I forgot how heavy ski boots are. Maybe my next pair will be lighter. I snapped my boots into the skis and slowly started. I stayed on flat ground, close to the Magic Carpet. I rode the magic carpet a few times. I was the oldest person on the carpet except for instructors and parents teaching their kids how to ski.

Evan, my physical therapist, suggested I might try snow boarding. I could, but I already know how to ski, and snow boarding would be a whole new skill set. Maybe next week.

The freakiest part was getting on the chair lift. The second freakiest part was getting off the chair lift. The Boy and his friend were there as I glided down the green run. The bad part about green runs is that there are lots of beginners and the snow is kind of crappy. This snow was soft, as it was warm near the bottom of the mountain. I heard it was icier on the higher runs.

Just kidding! I didn't ski yesterday. I am practicing my fiction skills. I did drive the Boy and one of his friends to the slopes yesterday. (Claire-Adele went to another ski area with her friend and the friend's dad.)

I got up early, picked up the Boy's friend, and drove to Snoqualmie. The roads had no restrictions, which was good. The morning before, it was snowing and chains were required. We have an all wheel drive to help get us over the pass, but there is always some Chevette out there that thinks it doesn't need chains. Or a 4WD pick-up with an empty bed spinning out of control. Thankfully, I didn't have to deal with that.

I got the Boy his season pass and then went to the cafeteria, along with the other parents who don't ski.

Ugh. It was depressing.

All of the parents who don't ski sit in the seats that look out the windows and on the mountain. The tables and chairs aren't very comfortable, especially when you have to sit there from ten until three. There is a bar upstairs. I thought about going up there to see if they had more comfortable seating (they probably do) but I wasn't sure I wanted be in a bar at ten in the morning on a Tuesday.

In the end, it wasn't that bad. The resort doesn't have wifi, but I brought several magazines and a few books. The boys had a good time.

While I was in the lodge, I started thinking about what an odd sport skiing is. I can see how it probably got invented in the Swiss Alps where people needed to get around, and sleds were probably not practical for every situation. Think about it: people strap long sticks to the bottom of their feet and slide down a mountain. Not only is it weird, but people pay gobs of money for the privilege of doing this.

I suppose I will remember one day why it was fun when I get back on the mountain. It is like I have forgotten, like it doesn't exist any more for me except in an abstract way. It is as if I moved to a new country when I was small, and all I have left are vague memories of what my homeland was like.

Adventures on the Couch

My thirteen year old son, the Boy, has recently been complaining he has no friends. He ran into a friend walking home from school and said he was going to call this guy when he got back from running an errand. When he came back from his post-school, pre-break orthodontist appointment, he glumly sat on the coach in my bedroom and started watching Dr. Who. This is not a auspicious start to Winter Break.

"Want to call Dan?" I asked, hoping the Boy wouldn't become a permanent fixture on my couch for the next two weeks.

"No," he said, earbuds plugged in.

"Want to call another friend?" I asked.

"I have no friends," he said. Grrrreat. Please god tell me something better will happen to make these next two weeks not complete miserable. Please find my son something better to do than sit on my couch in my bedroom. Please.

About twenty minutes later, his phone--which was plugged into the charger in my office--started to buzz. I assumed it was a text message, hopefully from a friend asking him to get together. Please be someone asking him to get together...

"Your phone is buzzing," I called and the Boy got off the couch and got his phone.

He promptly sat back on the couch and began a texting conversation that has lasted more than 48 hours. Apparently, he had to clear his social calendar so he would be available to text this new person, who does not have a name. His phone is now always in his pocket, and when I peek over at his phone, it is on the texting screen. I don't know how the phone stays charged.

Claire Adele told him is butt was going to get out of shape if he continued to sit like that, which is interesting because she sat on our living room couch for her entire 8th grade year and her butt, as she describes it, is a perfect bubble butt. I guess bubble butts are now desirable. I wish J Lo and company would have made a round tush popular when I was in high school.

Yesterday, we put up our Christmas tree. I told the Boy to put down the phone so he could participate in a family activity. I recommended he tell his Friend that he was going to be offline for an hour or so. He got out his phone, and texted the Friend.

The Boy helped my untangle the Christmas lights and put them up on the front railing of the house. As he was helping me,  I asked "What do you text about? All you do is sit on the couch. Do you text about your adventures of sitting on the couch?"

This is what I imagined his conversation to look like:

The Friend: What are you doing?
The Boy: Sitting on the couch.
The Boy: What are you doing?
The Friend: Sitting on the couch.
The Boy: Cool.
The Friend: Yeah. Cool.
The Boy: Here is a new emoji.
The Friend: Great! I love emojis!
The Boy: Still sitting on the couch.
The Friend: Me too!
The Boy: My couch is beige with a large indent from where my butt is.
The Friend: My couch is tan.

I told the Boy what I imagined his text conversation looked like, and he actually laughed. A real giggle. He knew it was all absurd, but still he laughed.

I can see how kids get into sexting. They exhaust all other topics in the universe suitable for texting, and then the only thing left is sending each other photos of body parts.

Last night, the Boy asked me if he could get a new chair for his room. Someplace comfortable where he could sit, presumably for hours where he can text his new Friend.

Ode to Melinda Gates and Age of Innocence

I am starting to write a novel about women of privilege. I have a friend, Lisa, who lives in a rarified and wealthy corner of the world. She started telling me all of these crazy stories about her world.

"You should write a book about this!" I said.

"No, Lauren," Lisa replied. "You are the writer. You should write about it."

Wow. I thought. She has a point. I could write about this. It would be so different than writing essay and memoir. I thought I'd give it a try. Writing a novel is harder than it looks, which is fine. In memoir, writers can stick to the truth more or less. The truth is typically more compelling and complex than a whitewashed version of events.

I met with a friend, Sereena, for lunch yesterday who comes from an opposite world. While she is super educated and intelligent, she had a bout of homelessness after she was struck with a disability and lost her job. She was not suffering from chronic homelessness caused by mental illness or an addiction, but rather she had a spell of bad luck. She has been in stable housing since I've known her. Sereena is a wonderful education advocate and I have a tremendous amount of respect for her.

Why am I writing about a world of privilege instead of the plight of those suffering from poverty or racism? I am hoping to figure out how my friend Lisa's crazy world relates to the rest of the world.

I am doing massive amounts of reading as research for my novel: Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, The Great Gatsby, and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I am reading Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton for the first time. The novel is about privileged New York society in the 1870's, when Wharton was young. I saw the movie with Daniel Day-Lewis years ago, and I hated it back then. I thought the movie was boring and nothing happened. Someone told Ian McKellen, the actor who played Gandalf in The Lord of the Rings movies, that he didn't understand the plot of these movies. He was reported to have said if you want to understand what is going on, read the books. The same holds true for Age of Innocence.

Edith Wharton grew up in a class where women--and most men--didn't have to work. Edith chose to have a literary life, and volunteered in Paris during the Great War.  Wharton wrote this book after World War I, after she had seen a great deal of suffering. I haven't yet figured out what inspired her to write it, but I hope to get there. I don't think she likes her main characters. I think she thinks they are vacuous and self-absorbed. Newland Archer reminds me of one of my high school boyfriends, and not in a good way. (Not Sean or Rob, in case either of you are reading this. My other high school boyfriend whose name will not be mentioned here.) Nevertheless, the book is interesting.

Many of the women in Lisa's world are both privileged and relatively powerless. Their wealth comes from their husbands. While they have everything they want, they lack purpose, even though they have enough financial freedom they could do whatever they want. Lisa is a stay-at-home mom and she loved her boys. She embraced motherhood more than other women I know who gave up careers for their kids.

My husband Jack will often ask me, "If you could do whatever you wanted to do, what would it be?" That is hard question to ask a mother like me when my kids are not yet settled and require my attention.

I wonder how the women in Lisa's 1% world would answer that question. Most of them play tennis. Some of them exert their power in mean and cruel ways over other women who have fewer means. I asked Lisa if any of these women do meaningful volunteer work, like serve on boards for arts, health or human services organizations. Do they write novels or music or are they trying to save the whales?

"No," was her short reply. She didn't even ponder. She almost yelled it.

In thinking about women who lead privileged lives, I started to think about Melinda Gates. I know some people in Seattle criticize the Gates for their undue influence in education. Let's remove that from this equation and look at what else Melinda Gates has done. Instead of frittering away her fortune, education and intelligence, she has put all three to good use. She advocates for improving health for pregnant woman and getting global access to birth control, and not just writing a check and hoping someone else will make it happen. She goes to the places where the work needs to be done, and she talks to people who are directly involved.

I remember reading a story in a magazine about Melinda's trip to New York City. She was in a posh hair salon, and the women working there didn't know who she was. The women who work there probably take care of the "Who's Who" in New York, but they didn't know Mrs. Gates was married to the richest man on the planet. This says a lot about Melinda's low-key approach. She'd probably rather hobnob with a midwife in New Delhi than strut down a red carpet.

I was googling Melinda and I saw her Twitter feed where she talks about access to healthcare for women all over the world. In her pictures on her Twitter feed, she isn't wearing visible make-up or jewelry. She looks downright frumpy but she is smiling and looks happy. I love it. Good for her! I am sure she has an amazing jewelry collection but that is not what is she using in her image to the world.

Sure, some people might think, I could do all sorts of cool stuff like that if I were as wealthy! But that is the point. Some people are wealthy (well, no one is as wealthy as Melinda and Bill) but they choose to spend their time, money and energy primarily on frivolous things like the characters in Age of Innocence whereas Melinda does not.

My friend often says she looks at people by how they carry their burdens. I would add to look at people how they carry their privilege, as well.

89.81%, or the End is Near!

Today, I practiced my one legged triple jumps. Before I can return to sports, my left leg (the injured and repaired one) has to be at 90% of my right leg (the uninjured one.)

Before I practiced my triple jumps, I warmed up with my agility exercises. I was super sweaty and my legs were hot. In physical therapy, Jason has me jump with my right leg first, then my left. I did the same today.

Sorry about my terrible linoleum. It needs to be replaced.

I jumped 108 inches with my right leg and 97 with my right. If my math is correct,

97 / 108 = 89.81%

Boo-yah! I am hoping I can round up and call that 90%. I know I'll have to repeat that in physical therapy under proper supervision, but yay! I am close!

Last time I was in physical therapy, I jumped 115 with my right leg and 84.5 with my left. If I compare my best jumps of both days, I am at 84%, which is still pretty good. Evan said super-star athletes might have 90% recovery by nine months out, and I am sure they have repeatable performances, not just jumping one morning in the kitchen. Super athletes probably have stronger uninjured legs to start with. My left leg has a low bar for comparison.

I also need to practice my single jumps, too, which are worse than my triple jumps for some reason. I think I am getting momentum on my triple jumps, which is boosting me along.

I also had to practice "sticking" my landing so I wouldn't wobble, double-step, or drop my other leg when I landed. Better technique here helped my performance.

I am excited! The end of my recovery is near!

The Black Dog and the Bubble

I mentioned in a previous post that I have a friend who was recently diagnosed with depression. I have other friends who have depression but I met them after they were diagnosed and already into treatment. For a variety of reasons, this friend can't take medication for her depression. She has to rely on psychotherapy and maintaining a healthy lifestyle to minimize her symptoms. She is discovering the before and after of her diagnosis. What used to be perceived as tiredness and lethargy she now recognizes as depression.

I have another friend with type I diabetes. This friend can prick her finger and get a quantitive read on her blood sugar levels. She then has to figure out what to do next to adjust so her blood levels return to normal. People with depression don't have something that concrete to tell them something is off or amiss. Plus, your mind thinks what it thinks, and it often thinks it is find, even when it is not.

I remember when I was consulting, there was an expression "You can't manage what you can't measure." There was a strong emphasis on trying to quantify things that might not necessarily be quantifiable. How can we quantify a mood like depression? I wish it were easy to measure so then it more easily be managed.

My son's elementary and middle school used to use the Mood Meter created at Yale to help kids label their emotions, but I am not sure how it can capture fuzzier emotions, like "I want to sit on the coach and watch YouTube videos for hours instead of going outside" or "I don't really have any feelings right now. Everything is gray."

I wish there was a depression simulator, where you could go into it for fifteen minutes or so and experience depression. Not that I really want to go there, but I want to know what it is like inside her head so I can be a better friend and support her. Depression are migraine headaches are the two illnesses I fear the most. I don't want to take a drug to give me the feeling of depression; I would fear the drug might be permanent, and that would suck. J. K. Rowling gives a great description of depression with the Dementors in the Harry Potter series.

And then I wonder how much of the Black Dog has visited me, and perhaps I have been unaware of it. I wonder if Jack has a mild case of it, too. Maybe both of us live on the bubble, and have managed to keep it at bay with exercise, socialization and getting good sleep. Maybe the Black Dog would have a more permanent part in our lives, but so far we have managed it.

When I was a kid, I used to ride my bike everyday after school except for days when I had extra-curricular activities, like Drill Team. I needed a full night's sleep to feel normal. Now I also need a fistful of vitamins to feel perky: cod liver oil, folic acid, and Vitamin D and B, plus magnesium to ward off Alzheimer's. Jack runs or rides his bike to work everyday. When he goes three or four days without exercise, he is grumpy and short-tempered.

"I need to go for a run," he said the other night after dinner. Yes you do, I thought. I no longer think of exercise as a luxury. My campaign manager for when I ran for School Board would occasionally ask for a few hours off to lift weighs.

"No problem," I told him. If he needed to exercise to feel normal, I needed him to exercise.

I was recently talking to a group of moms and it came up that almost all of them were on anti-depressants. I was one of the only ones in the group not to need them. (Yet.) After my ACL tear and surgery, I needed to exercise everyday for forty-five minutes to build strength in my legs. What should have been a perfect excuse to sit on my butt and feel sorry for myself ended up being not that bad. I was almost surprised that I wasn't more miserable that I was. Part of me I wanted to be miserable so I could figure out what to do next with my life. I couldn't possibly be happy or content when I was in such a sorry state.

But I kind of was content. I wasn't euphoric or ecstatic, but I wasn't as miserable or painfully bored as I thought I'd be. I somehow managed to keep off the bubble. I am a firm believer of listening to your body and mind "Pain is your body's way of staying 'Stop!'" is one of my favorite expressions as it applies to so much more that physical pain. Boredom serves a purpose: it forces me to find something new and meaningful to do. Misery tells me I need to change. I look at these feelings as a gift telling me to move, not something I need to dread.

I can say that but then I still have a healthy fear of the Black Dog approaching as I age. I don't want to live where I have to be so diligent to keep my sanity. My dad manages his type II diabetes with diet and exercise, and as long as that works for him, he isn't on medication. I plan to do the same to keep my mood in place.

What if I get injured again or become ill and can't exercise? My mom had a bad case of depression after my brother and I were both out of the house. This time also coincided with menopause. Is this something I have to look forward to? Will depression be an accessory that comes with the change of life? I pray not. I read somewhere the estrogen protects women's brains from mental illnesses like schizophrenia. Some women are sane until they hit menopause, and then they become certifiable. If this happens to me, I will hopefully gracefully submit to medication, therapy, and whatever else I might need to keep my mind.

Moon versus Mars

The National Geographic Channel has a new television series called Mars. Or maybe it is called MARS. Mars was a god of war--it makes sense that this television show would be titled in all caps, shouting. Like the plot of the wonderful book, The Martian by Andy Weir, entrepreneur Elon Musk wants to colonize Mars. The goal is to get to Mars by 2030 or 2033. I don't recall which.

It will take two to three years to get there, plus they will need to send a bunch of stuff there earlier so the planet-aunauts will have supplies there before they arrive. I can understand why they would need to send stuff early and why they would need to send so much stuff--it is a long, long trip. This would be the difference between going to stay at a hotel downtown for a weekend and moving to Europe. Unlike Mars, you can buy clothes and food in Europe. Mars does not yet have retail.

While I think traveling to Mars would be exceptionally cool, I wonder why don't they colonize the moon first? I am not trying to negative about Mars, but rather practical, if space travel is ever practical. The moon is so much closer. If nothing else, they could do practice runs to the moon before they take off for Mars. They could practice setting up their habitats, driving around, and figuring out food. Much of this practice has taken place on the International Space Station (ISS), except they have been self-contained on the ISS. They might get outside for a walk once in a while, but not like walking down the street from one moon house to another.

Imagine the moon colonized. It could be the like the station at the South Pole. You could have scientific research centers there, and the systems to support life, like food services, laundry, tech support and facilities management. One of my friends learned to drive a truck in the snow and got a job as a truck driver on Antarctica.

You could have the same thing on the moon, but you could also add a hotel for tourism. People could visit the moon, and fly there when they send up new batches of supplies like food, water and oxygen. The tourists could spend a few days there, and fly back when the send back empty supply containers. Would people want to go to the moon? As I get older, I think more about comfort than I do about adventure. How many people want to go to frigid Antarctica, and travel across choppy seas where the weather isn't compatible with human life? Not that many, but perhaps enough. The same could go for the moon.

Plus, my memory kind of sucks compared to what it used to be. I am sure there are fifteen steps to get on a space suit before going outside. I can barely remember my phone and poop bags for the dog when I leave the house for a walk. Will I remember to check my oxygen tanks levels, or would I say "Screw it--I don't want to die" and stay inside? What else would we do there besides go outside, look at rocks and have the experience humanity for millennia have dreamed about? Think about the ancient Greeks, dreaming of going to the moon while sitting on a beach, eating olives and figs. Would they really go if they knew it was so gray when they were used to the azure seas? Would there be wifi on the moon? Or would they put the tourists to work, making them move stuff around or help with experiments?

Perhaps the moon could become earth's garbage dump, or would it not have enough gravity to hold our trash down? Would old hamburger wrappers drift off and become space debris? What about sending food scraps there? Would that organic material compost? My guess is that it wouldn't unless it were given oxygen, water and heat. We could practice all of this stuff on the moon before going to Mars.

What would happen if we really colonized the moon or Mars? Would they have their own economy? What would they do for money or jobs, other than try to stay alive? What kind of society and laws would they have? Would new rules and norms develop?

What is the plus side of the project? Realizing dreams. I've had dreams at times that I am traveling to Saturn and Jupiter. The Boy would be a young man by the 2030's. I am sure it would be exceptionally cool to work on that project, and project that humans have been dreaming about since they first looked at the night sky and saw planets.

While my son works on the Mars project, maybe I'll go to Greece.

Phases of Womanhood: Maiden & Virgin, Nurture & Mother, Queen & Crone

I am in a writing class that discusses feminine archetypes through mythology taught by Mary Oak at North Seattle College. My friend Eleanor signed up for the class, and she recommended I join her, so I did.

This class nearly saved my life. It gave me a new lens through which to understand the past twenty-five years, and it made me think of my life in less depressing terms than I had been seeing it.

In the beginning of the class, the teacher talked about the three phases of womanhood:

• The Virgin
• The Mother
• The Crone

I found this to be mildly depressing at first. A few weeks into the class, the teacher expanded the three phases:

• The Maiden
• The Nurturer
• The Queen

My eureka moment came when I heard the word "queen." This is what I have been waiting for, my Queen phase. I am done with nurturing and ready to move on.

In mythology and in the feminine archetypes, the Maiden phase is when the woman in free and independent. She can make her own decisions about her life. I like "maiden" better than "virgin." When I think of "virgin," I think of girls who didn't leave their parents home until they were married. When I think of "maiden," I think of Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City. She wasn't married and didn't have kids, but she wasn't living with her parents and certainly wasn't a virgin.

Ironically, the Nurturer/Motherhood phase is when women are most vulnerable. Women are no longer independent as others rely on them. The singer Adele was interviewed in Vanity Fair, and she talked about her three-year-old son. She said something to the effect of she wished she had four hours where she could just do whatever she wants. I could relate back to when I had toddlers and was tied to that responsibility. Even when I worked, my weekends were my own usually. Even if I volunteered, it was something I chose to do--it wasn't chosen for me.

With kids, you don't decide when they are going to have a meltdown or need a diaper change or when they will be pure delight. They are independent beings with their own moods and will. In general, this sense of obligation is much stronger for women than men. I have never every heard a father say he wished he had four hours to himself. There might be some dads out there who have said that, but I haven't met them.

The Queen phase doesn't mean "queen" in the regal, bossy sense. Instead, this is where women regain their time, power, and independence. They have earned experience and wisdom.

As I start to look for a job, I don't think of my time as a parent as time out of the workforce. I think it of it as my time spent as a nurturer. Sometimes I'd get frustrated with myself for not looking for a job sooner, or when I'd get a set-back. Last year, I tore my ACL. I was nurturing myself and re-learning how to walk. My son fell ill a month ago, and part of my "job" was to nurture him back to health. I spent a lot of time taking him to doctor's appointments and making phone calls to understand what was happening. When I looked his illness through this lens, I felt less frustrated. I now see myself in a stage of life that will eventually fade as my kids gain independence, and a new phase will begin.

My daughter talks at times about not wanting kids. "They will ruin my career," she says. Looking back, I can see that. At other times, she talks about her future grandchildren. She wants to skip from maiden to queen and still have kids. I can't blame her. Isn't this what happens to men?

Since I've learned about these archetypes,  I have developed patience. To paraphrase Snow White, someday my queen phase will come. And I'll be ready.

Triple Jumps and Dreams of Skiing

The Boy has been checking the snow reports at Stevens, Mt. Baker, Snoqualmie, and Crystal every morning when he wakes up. He checks again after school. The snow is falling and he is excited. He outgrew his old skis and got new skis a few weeks ago, and he is ready to give them a run.

I can't ski yet. I just passed the nine month anniversary from my ACL repair surgery (yay!) but my surgeon said to wait a year to allow the allograft repair to fully integrate and heal (boo). I wasn't sure how I would feel about ski season coming back. I mostly tried to avoid thinking about it, and now it is here. Will I ride with them in the car for hours to sit in the lodge and play solitaire, read a book or drink hot chocolate? Might I be tempted to head to the rental place while Jack and the kids are high on the mountain and try the greens? Would I be able to resist? Would it make me more or less depressed?

I went to physical therapy yesterday and I asked what tests I needed to pass before they would allow me back on the mountains. Evan, Jason and I discussed this.

"These are tests that will allow you to decide when you are ready to ski," Evan said. "A year on the calendar doesn't mean anything if you are sitting on the couch the whole time."

"What do I need to do?" I asked.

Evan stood on one leg, his other leg perched behind him and he was in the shape of a tee. He flung the back leg forward and jumped on the standing leg about six feet forward.

"You're bad leg needs to be 90% of your good leg on this jump and the triple jump," he said.

I didn't think I could do one jump on my good leg, let alone my bad leg.

"Let's give it a try," Jason said cheerfully. He had more faith in me that I had in myself. We went to the open gym area and I practiced jumping. I had to stick the landing, not take a second step or wobble and put my other leg down.

For a single jump, I went about 26 inches on my bad leg and 39 inches on my good leg which means my bad leg is 66% of my good leg. Twenty-three percent more to go! I did better with the triple hops: 84.5 inches with my bad leg and 115 with my good leg. I was at 73%!

When I finished jumping, I did agility exercises, which I love. I feel like I am dancing when I do it, or that I could dance soon after. For me, getting back to "normal" also means feeling like I can move quickly without my brain stopping my body before I take a step, processing "Is this going to be safe? Will the left leg hold?" I feel like my brain has my left leg on parole, and it has to check in for approval before it does anything new.

Last night, I dreamt I was skiing. It wasn't a fantasy dream like I was flying or racing down runs that I couldn't do before, but a practical dream of my first time back on the slopes. What would it be like? My left leg wasn't agile or strong enough to keep everything in control. Would I be able to quickly stop or maneuver moguls? I could possibly avoid moguls and steep stretches, but sometimes there are tough passages that require extra dexterity that I don't have yet. I would probably not kill myself or re-injure my knee on a green, but would it be worth the risk? Sometimes the green runs are more dangerous than the blues because beginners are going down hill with little to no control.

Jack has a colleague who is a big skier who tore his ACL years ago. Each year before ski season starts, he takes a "Back to Skiing" exercise class to get back into shape before he goes downhill. Next year I plan to take the class.

Better yet, I wish there were a machine where I could safely practice skiing indoors. Treadmills are for running, stationary bikes are for biking, and rowing machines exist so landlocked people can pretend they are on the open water. I know "real" exercise is more fun than indoor exercise, but I'd love to try a skiing machine...

Reinvention, and Limbo-Land between Public Sector and Business

A good friend of mine is considering looking for a job after being out of the workforce for twelve years. She used to be a teacher and she loved to teach. She is deciding what her next move is.

"I love to teach. I like the classroom. I don't have the time or energy to reinvent myself," she said. "If I am going to go back to work, I want to go back to a place where I am comfortable, not where I need to figure it all out from scratch. Going back to work is going to be hard enough with getting used to a new schedule for me and the kids. I can't imagine that plus trying out a whole new endeavor."

There are times in life where we need and want to try something new, where we need to push ourselves out of our comfort zone and try something different and exciting. This can be thrilling.

At other times, it is best to stick with what we know, the old and familiar. Most often, we have the hybrid of a little bit of both the old and the new. For my friend, going back to work after kids by itself will be new since she never worked while she had a family. Teaching will be what is familiar.

I think about this and it makes me reflect on my experiences and getting back to work. Before kids, I worked in consulting firms. After kids, all of my volunteer work was with non-profits and the public schools. I've been in both worlds for a long time, and I am trying to decide which realm to re-enter: business or the public sector? It makes me think about the differences between the two. This isn't to say one is better than the other, but more to think about how they are vary. I have respect for the work in both areas.

Business is motivated by profit, whether for shareholders, partners or the owners. Public sector work is motivated by a mission: Keep the streets safe. Educate children. Put out fires.

Businesses value efficiency and effectiveness. The public sector (when working well) needs to consider multiple perspectives when implementing a plan, and that takes time. In building a new library, city council might need to talk to seniors, parents with kids, people with disabilities like loss of vision. How will this new library meet the needs of the diverse members of a community?

A business can pick and choose what products they want to sell, and eliminate those that aren't working. If a product or service doesn't have a market, companies drop them. The public sector has a responsibility to meet the needs of a variety of constituents. Firemen can't say "It isn't cost effective to put out fires in rural areas." Public schools can't say "It isn't efficient to educate kids who don't speak English or who have disabilities." Or, "Our graduation rates are abysmal. Let's drop 12th grade." Failure isn't an option.

Businesses typically have one leader who makes decisions. Public sector decisions are made by consensus building and compromise. From a school board to congress, both groups need to convince other members of the governing board of their ideas. In a company, an employee might have to convince their boss.*

Businesses sometimes value system approaches on things like budgeting, project management, and communication. Public sector organizations often rely on subject matter experts to run the organization, even though those people might not have expertise in running an organization. Police run police departments. Firemen run fire departments. In my work with schools, I served on numerous committees with teachers. Teachers are subject matter experts on teaching, but few knew how to manage a project. For the most part, this is fine. Teachers don't really need to know about project management, budgeting, or communication planning. It becomes a problem when systemic changes need to be made. I saw the district was challenged because the administration, most of whom were former teachers, didn't have strong enough skills to get the job done.

I can see positive sides to both, and both can learn from each other. Likewise, I don't think it is realistic to think the government can be run like a business because it isn't. It would be like asking an elephant to swim like a fish. If you want to haul logs up a hill, call an elephant. If you want dinner, call a fish.

It would be nice, however, to find the sweet spot between the business realm and the public sector.

* This doesn't include change management which would apply similarly to both business and the public sector.

Middle Age

My son is going through middle age. This is not the typical middle age between birth and death. He is thirteen and going through the middle age between being a child and being an adult. I talked to a friend of mine today and she said, "He doesn't want to go backward, but he isn't ready to go forward." That would describe my teen.

I remember seeing a graph once that described regular middle age as such:

As someone who is in my forties, I can relate. The good news is that it should get better in the next few years.

I feel like this applies to my son in his teen years:

I have read articles about the teenage brain, and how it is in the process of pruning unnecessary synapses, or whatever part of the brain they no longer need. The good news is that it should get better in the next few years. This was also true for my daughter, who is now sixteen. I was at an event with a bunch of parents a few years ago when Claire-Adele was about thirteen. I was complaining about her antagonizing behavior, and how I found it annoying at best and enraging at worst.

"She is in the band, right?" Ron said. "I thought kids in band were good kids."

"She is a good kid," I said, "But she is a horrible person."

They all laughed. Brian was quiet for a minute, and then said, "My brother said there is a reason they call it 'Sweet Sixteen.'" I thought about that comment today. Kids get calmer and kinder as they age, as do their parents. Today Claire-Adele was trying to mock me and be mean about not driving her to school,* but she really lack the power and punch she had a few years ago.

I see the Boy struggle with wanting to be independent, make up his own mind. I remember when he was a little kid and I directed almost everything he saw and did. I would let him choose what clothes to wear, but the clothes were bought by me and my mother-in-law. He could choose which book to read, but I bought all of the books. When he got a half hour of TV time, he could choose which Thomas the Tank Engine he wanted to watch. And on.

Now I have less say over what he listens to, reads and wears. He had a Kindle, and ninety percent of the time, I don't know what he is reading. Once in a while, I check the Amazon account to see what he has bought, but that is it.

I don't want to go backwards in time to when I was the creator of his world, but I miss the time when he was more impressionable, and I could make the impression. I miss saying "This is what we are doing this weekend!" and my kids would happily go along. This weekend, I wanted to see the Sherlock Holmes exhibit at the Pacific Science Center. I thought the Boy would like it, but he didn't want to go. He'd rather rest on the couch. My friend Eleanor suggested giving him chores to do as an alternative option to get him out of the house, but the Boy chose practicing his music for an hour over hanging out with me.

Maybe that is the difference: Jack was working, and the Boy would have to hang out with me. The Boy seems to gravitate towards his father lately, which is good. I am happy for both of them, but I still miss my baby.

* She walks every day unless she has to bring something large or heavy to school. That was not the case today. It wasn't even raining.

Ode to the Zoka Bar

O Zoka Bar, O Zoka Bar!
How you ruined my diet without sugar.
I walk into Zoka, and look in the case.
Last time I was there, you were gone.
Today, you smile at me.
"I don't need a Zoka Bar today," I tell the barista.
"But sometimes you do need a Zoka Bar," she says.
So I take one.

You are big enough to share with my whole family,
but my whole family is not here.
I nibble at your edges, savoring each
chocolate
nutty
peanut butter
condensed sweet milk
coconut
graham cracker crust
bite.

In college, you were the seven layer bar, but now you have grown
into something larger and yummier than before.

I nibble away but keep your rectangular shape so I can't tell
how much I've eaten.

My friends couldn't meet today
so you join me with my gunpowder green tea.
You wipe away all benefits of the antioxidants.

I bring you home.
You are my crack, my meth, my amphetamines.

But you aren't.
You are my sedative, putting me to sleep at two in the afternoon.
I was tired to start, but you shove me over the edge.

I come home, and make truffle popcorn and order Mr. Gyros for dinner--
other delicious foods to distract me from your brilliance.
They fail. I dream about you as I walk the dog.

Jack and the Boy aren't home tonight,
It is just me and Claire-Adele.
I offer her a bite, to share, so I will not
Devour the whole thing.
"It is good, but not good enough for me to eat more."
Damn her self-control!!!
Leaving me with the remaining 3,000 calories.

I cut small bites, mere morsels, to savor.
My stomach bloats, rebels, but my tongue demands more
Though the rest of my body says stop.

O Zoka Bar, O Zoka Bar!
How you ruined my diet without sugar.

Mental Illness, Movies and Bad Guys

[SPOILER ALERT in this post for Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them]

I don't know if there is such a thing as Mental Illness Kindness Day, but there ought to be.

One of my favorite people and good friend was recently diagnosed with depression and anxiety. It is taking me a while to figure out what this means. My mother had depression and was on medication for years. Hers didn't kick in until after I was living on my own in a different state, so I didn't see to the day-to-day impacted on her. My father tells me stories of how she would cry for days.

Yesterday, I went to see Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them with this friend and our kids. After the movie, this friend said she didn't like it: "The bad guy was a psycho bent on destroying the world." This hit her close to the heart.

Having just been diagnosed with a mental illness and starting treatment, she struggles with the loneliness of the disease and understanding how her body impacts her mood in such a way that makes her unmotivated to leave the house. She is functional in some respects of her life because she has to be, but in others, she falls. She tells me of her dark thoughts and wishes them away. "When I get bored, I think. When I think, I get depressed." I can't imagine what it would be like not to want to be inside your own head, wanting to escape your own mind.

In some sense, the answer could be to be distracted to the point of not thinking, but then she introduced a new word to my vocabulary: maladaptive. Maladaptive means using a coping mechanism that doesn't improve mental health, like drinking or giving in to other addictions like video games. Adaptive strategies are exercise, being around friends, exploring nature and getting enough sleep.

Her issue is that bad guys in movies are often disturbed or crazy. I suppose a bad guy can't simply be sane because then perhaps he wouldn't be a bad guy because theoretically he or she would know better than to commit evil acts. That being said, many if not most people with mental illnesses know the difference between right and wrong, likely at the same rate sane people know right from wrong. Some folks with mental illness have a very heightened sense of right and wrong -- they might be more sensitive to injustice than a typical person. My daughter pointed out that Putin is sane and Lincoln was crazy. Does that make having a mental illness a good thing? If you only use those two as an example, I suppose so, but life isn't so simple.

I am asking Hollywood this: can we have more empathetic depictions of people with mental illnesses? Can we have some heroes who suffer from bipolar disorder, or OCD? I googled famous people with depression and it was twelve pages long. How about showing a biopic of Lincoln that includes his depression?

Run, Baby, Run! Part 3 and South Park

If you told me last year at this time that my blog would have a category called "Running," I would have said "You have got to be kidding." I also would have said the same about "Knee" and "ACL." ("What's an ACL?" I would have asked.)

Now, I have become one of those people who writes down their workouts.

This is my running schedule for yesterday which was not March 7. (It was the top sheet of paper from a note pad.) I have a "Return to Running" program sheet given to me by my physical therapist. I am supposed to do a run/walk combination, where I gradually increase the amount I run. There is a fancy schedule for this -- I don't make it up as I go along. Yesterday, I was at the "run for two minutes eight times" phase. I am supposed to warm up for five minutes, run for two, walk for one, and do that four times, walk for another two minutes, repeat the two minute runs and one minute walks four times and have a five minute cool down.

Clear as a bell, right? You can see what I have to mark it out by minutes. It is hard to keep track of what I am supposed to be doing when, so I wrote it out and posted it on the treadmill. It worked.

I brought my headphones to the YMCA yesterday because this was going to be a longer run and I thought music might help to keep me going. When I got to the Y, there was a sign up saying the cardio machines with fancy screens are now connected to cable television and there was a list of channels. That's cool, I thought. Still, I was running right before lunch, and I figured there would be nothing on midday so I listened to my "Physical Therapy" music playlist. As I have mentioned before, watching television during the day makes me suicidal. I am not exaggerating by much. When Claire-Adele was born, I thought I'd pass time by watching television in the morning and afternoon. I would watch great stuff like Regis and Kathy Lee and reruns of The Nanny. Afterwards, I lost my reason to live. Even if I were running and getting endorphins, I thought it might not be a good idea to watch television. It is winter in Seattle, which is grim enough without adding other reasons for the Black Dog of Depression give me a visit.

At the end of my run, I was curious about the cable television. Comedy Central was on, and I figured at least there would be reruns of old comedy shows midday. How bad could it be?

South Park was on. I had never seen an episode before. I had heard it was a little crass, but I figured I was wearing headphones. How bad could it be? I was on a treadmill at the front of the cardio room. The stationary bikes are behind treadmills, and the step machines are behind those. Think of an orchestra or band seating arrangement: the flutes are in front of the clarinets who are in front of the brass section, and behind it all is percussion. I was in the flute position. Half of the people in the cardio room could see what was on my screen.

Maybe those of you have seen South Park know what is coming. I didn't. In the two minutes I watched, there was a cartoon depiction of role play sex where the dad is the UPS guy and the mom is in skimpy underwear. Most of this takes place in the dark, so the couple on the stationary bikes behind me probably couldn't see this. A little boy walks in, sees his mom with the "UPS Guy" and is traumatized. He can't speak, so he draws a picture of the scene with stick figures with very large and accurately drawn genitalia. I am sure the large penis was clearly visible to the folks on the elliptical machines and stationary bikes. You might think I am exaggerating, but I've spent a LOT of time of those bikes and I could see the treadmill screens. I turned off the show, and finished my cool down. I slunk away, not making eye contact with anyone in the cardio room.

That is my embarrassing story about watching cable television in the middle of the day. Nothing good comes of it.

I did have a good run, though, in spite of being mortified for watching a porn cartoon at the Y. Today I was at the grocery store and one of the songs on my "Physical Therapy" playlist and I was like Pavlov's dog. The bell rang and I was ready run.

Potlucks: Love and Hate (but mostly Hate)

My daughter is part of this terrific social justice class at her school. We are grateful that she can be a part of it. She is learning a ton and is gaining poise and eloquence, all of which is good.

I love this program except that it hits me in one area of my life that I absolutely hate: potlucks. The parents and students meet once a month for a potluck dinner and then a meeting about the program. Last Thursday, I found myself making a baked penne dish with Italian sausage and mozzarella cheese on top. I was pissed. Why should I have to cook a fucking meal before I attend a meeting? Is this just a Seattle thing that didn't die in the 1970's like they did in the rest of the U.S. when moms went back to work and didn't have all afternoon to cook for an evening event? This is why caterers and pizza delivery people were invented, along with regular meetings where you don't need to feed people.

I was complaining as I was making the baked penne. "It's a potluck," my daughter said. "You don't need to bring anything. Other people bring stuff, and it all works out." Her cross country team hosts potluck dinners, and she never brings anything. Even though I hate potlucks, I think it is wrong to show up empty handed, which is why I hate them because of the pressure to bring something. The girls'' team and the boys' team usually meet together except for once. At that dinner, the only food there were salads and store bought cookies. The mom who hosted was highly annoyed when she had to make pasta for all of the girls. I can't blame her. The other option is to list what people need to bring, which is also annoying. Why do some people get to bring beverages when others have to bring side dishes? Who makes side dishes anymore these days? Should I bring five pounds of steamed broccoli? My daughter would never be able to show her face at school again. 

(My god, I sound like the late professional curmudgeon, Andy Rooney.)

The potlucks for my daughter's social justice program are about the same as the cross country potlucks: lots of salads and store bought cookies, very few main courses. Fortunately, the parents get to eat first, and the kids get the scraps. 

Thankfully, school potlucks have become more chill as my kids have aged. When my kids were younger, and the parents were just getting to know each other, potlucks were like a fashion show where people cooked into impress.

Seattle has lots of people who consider themselves foodies, thereby raising the stakes of potlucks. Once, The Boy's kindergarten class had a potluck picnic on the last weekend of school. Jack was working, and I had the two kids to myself. I didn't feel like cooking and was feeling passive aggressive about having to cook something fabulous for this event. I went to the grocery store and bought a two-pound vat of yellow potato salad, the kind that comes in a plastic tub with a handle to make it easy to carry. 

"You didn't!" Jack said. "You represented our family with store bought potato salad? And it wasn't even the good, fancy, organic deli kind? It was the kind they make in Cincinnati and ship across the country?"

"Yep," I said. "You were welcome to make your potato salad before you left for work." No comment followed.

I didn't write "McGuire" on the big tub in Sharpie. That would have been bad. One of the dads (who I late became friends with) made baklava and spanakopita. I am not kidding. There must have been a sale on phyllo dough someplace. In short, there was nothing I could have made that would come close to those dishes. Pre-made yellow potato salad was the best I could do. The baklava and spanakopita were awesome. I was glad someone else was willing to spend hours cooking for a kindergarten potluck. The kids didn't eat the baklava or spanakopita. This was purely for the adults. I brought home close to 1.75 pounds of potato salad.

So what do I love about potlucks? The suckers who make stuff like baklava and spanakopita! (Ha! ha! Just kidding, Eric!) Sure, they are showing off their cooking skills and how much free time they have, but I'll take it. 

Even non-foodie potluck have their good points. Eating with people you don't know gives you something to do and talk about. 

"This lentil salad is great! And so is this kale and lemon salad!" 

"Oh, I like it too!" 

And there you are, talking with strangers.

Life vs. Literature

My daughter read Lakota Woman by Mary Crow Dog for her language arts class, Hands for a Bridge. It is a social justice class that sends students to Northern Ireland and South Africa for two weeks to learn about social conflict. They also examine social conflicts here in the U.S.

The Hands for a Bridge group has a family potluck dinner once a month, and last week the kids were asked to talked to their parents about Lakota Woman. When I was in high school in Columbus, Ohio, I took a class called Native American Culture Studies, taught by Tom Molnar, where we learned the history of Native Americans. We had a field trip at the end of my senior year of high school where we spent a week on the Navajo and Hopi Reservations. It was the first time I had ever been west of the Mississippi outside of a family vacation to St. Louis when I was six. I had never been to the Southwest before, and I was blown away by the landscape. I felt like I was on a different planet.

Claire-Adele and her friend Madison talked about the book which I had not read. Both girls had read stories and books by Sherman Alexie, as had I. Lakota Woman was different.

"She was drinking a fifth of vodka by time she was twelve," Claire-Adele said. "Everyone in her family was drunk all of the time."

"There was also the historical trauma they were dealing with in addition to the poverty," said Madison.

I started thinking about this, and then spoke up about my trip out west to the reservations. I had gone in 1987, three years before Lakota Woman was published. I missed reading it when it came out. Lakota Woman takes place in South Dakota instead of Arizona and New Mexico.

"When I was visiting the Navajo and the Hopi, I didn't see the poverty as much as I saw the people," I said. "The kids when to boarding school, not because the goal was to indoctrinate the kids, but because the land was so sparsely populated that the closest school for some of these kids was eighty miles away. They couldn't make the round trip twice a day. They would arrive on Monday and leave on Friday."

I remember we showed up on the night of their prom. They were all dressed up in their gym, and we crashed the party wearing jeans. It was terrible. We had just returned from a hike in the wilderness (I would say woods but there were no trees) and we were covered in red dust. Before that, we stopped at the home of one of the students. It was a small cinderblock house all painted white with a couch and a television set on. Rugs covered the walls and floors. The dad was watching a show. I thought to myself, So this is what poverty looks like. It isn't as bad as I thought it would have been, but then I had no idea what to expect. Everyone was dressed well and there was food. I don't remember where we slept for the night. When we went out to the Hopi Reservation, I stayed with a family in their new pre-fab home. It seemed pretty nice to me, and the kids had a new high school. For other parts of the trip, we camped outside, often without tents, throwing our sleeping bags and pillow on the ground.

"We hung out with these kids for a week," I said. "and we never talked about alcohol, poverty or problems in their families. The kids were super quiet--they hardly ever spoke. They were present, not aloof or distant."

I had always thought that literature was a poor substitute for life, not the other way around. I would have thought that going to see a place and meet people would be more important than reading about them in a book. This conversation with my daughter in front of strangers made me rethink this. Even though I had been to the reservation, I didn't understand it in the same way my daughter who had read about it did. Mary Crow Dog said the things that the girls we traveled with did not say, that they couldn't say.

150% and Slack

My husband Jack is a physician with administrative responsibilities. He works long hours, including nights and weekends on top of his regular 9-to-5 responsibilities. He says he has two or three different jobs with one title, and that is true. He gives 150% of his effort and energy to his job.

This is a problem. I've always known it was a problem for our marriage and family, but this week the light bulb went off that this was not good for his department or good for working women with families.

In his field, they expect everyone to give 150%, and the schedule and workload is assigned as such. But what happens when one of those people can only give 75%? Usually, these people are women. Being a woman myself, I should take their side, right? Even though I am a stay-at-home-mom/recovering volunteer whose husband makes enough money that we can comfortably live on one income? (I need to eradicate the phrase "We don't need the money" from my self-talk.)

Anyhow, what happens if you have a job where you need to give 150% and your child develops a chronic illness that needs to be stabilized? What if you get divorced? What if your parents become ill and can't take care of themselves and you are the only child or responsible offspring? What if you nanny is hospitalized? What if--god forbid--these all happen at the same time? Who picks up the slack?

For a single mom, she takes care of her family and her co-workers pick up the slack. Her former partner might not be part of the picture any more, or might not consider family work a priority.

For some married working women, they take care of their family and their co-workers pick up the slack. Even for women doctors, their husband's job take priority.

"I can't work nights or weekends for three weeks because my husband is out of town" or "I can't give you my schedule until my husband gets his surgery schedule."

The conflict here isn't between husbands and wives, it is between the two people who are responsible for raising children, which is different. Before kids, I used to travel for work and never checked Jack's schedule before I agreed to go. Throw a child into the mix, and everything needs to be negotiated. Someone has to raise the kids, because kids can't raise themselves. Nannies and au pairs are helpful, to a degree. My daughter is sixteen and incredibility independent, but she didn't know how to pump gas until last night. Someone needed to figure out the skill gap and fill it. That was me.

Previously I wrote that the Mommy Wars take place between moms and dads instead of between women. I now think the collateral damage of that conflict extends to the workplace. The workplace suffers when husbands put their jobs before their wives', and then the damage comes back home. It is a whirlpool that keeps going around and around.

Men think their jobs are important, which is fine. Their jobs are important, but so are women's jobs and so are raising children.

Many workplaces have changed so that they bring more family balance into the picture, which is great but not always sufficient. I met one woman consultant at the Change Management conference last month whose firm had a program to encourage women to come back to work after they had a baby. Her child is now four and she is still working. No such programs existed when Claire Adele was born sixteen years ago. Those programs would have been helpful for me to a degree, but it wouldn't have changed my husband's job or the amount he had to work. When I was working, there was a big push for new moms to get paid leave. I thought it was awesome until someone said men should get it, too. The incrementalist that I am thought it was a bad idea because it might take away from women, but I was so wrong. Men need to take parental leave, too, so women don't have to do it alone. Giving men parental leave is an employer's way of saying, "You are a parent, too. Don't dump it all on your wife."

I remember when the Boy was born. He was born the Monday after Easter. I remember sitting in his room on the futon chair breastfeeding him when he was four days old. Claire Adele was two and a half, and was spinning around in circles in the middle of the room. Jack popped in to say goodbye and left for work. I nearly died. Two weeks later, he went to a conference in Italy. It was hell.

My solution: maybe jobs shouldn't require 150%. This might be blasphemous for me to say when I am looking for a job. I am sure some employer might google me and see this and think "She won't be committed." Maybe they are right, but maybe they need to rethink commitment. But the point isn't about commitment, it is about slack and who takes care of things at home or work when the shit hits the fan.

At home, it is women who often pick up the slack when things go bad. At work, it is typically men or women without kids. Again, this is like the whirlpool of reinforcement. The more women pick up at home, the more they pick up at home. The more men pick up at work, the more they pick up at work. The balance continues to get out of proportion. This is what needs to change, and one way to do that is to not to have the basic expectations to be 150%. This is fine when life is perfect and no one has a sick child or parent or no one gets divorced, but the model falls apart when something happens--and it does because it is life--there isn't excess capacity. We need to add slack into our systems and into our lives.

Sidelines Talk and a Shingle Job

Last weekend, I went to two of my son's soccer games. The best part of games is talking to other parents on the sidelines. I am one of those parents who rarely talks about the game. I pay enough attention so when my son discusses various plays on the car ride home, I can nod along like I know what he is talking about. I usually get about 50%.

At Saturday's game, I talked to fellow transplanted Chicagoans about the Cubs victory. We were yucking it up to the point we were unaware an injured player from the other team was being taken off the field. Oops.

Sunday, I talked to another mom, Amanda, about getting a job. I had never met this woman before--our sons had never been on the same team until this year when the league changed the age brackets. She seemed to know I was looking for a job before I said anything, like she had ESP. It was surreal. Or maybe she was at another game and I was too busy blabbing with the moms I already knew and she overheard me say was looking for a job. Either way.

Amanda is an independent compensation consultant who works with a few other people. Years ago, I was in compensation consulting at a large firm. We collected survey data about how various positions were paid, and advised large companies on salary structure for employees. It was interesting to learn, but dreadfully boring after two years when I learned the basics. After that, it was repeating one of a dozen or so reports for different companies. I needed something else, which is when I got into change management.

I told Amanda I had been in compensation consulting, but hadn't done it in decades.

"The field hasn't changed," she said. "It's still comparing median market rate salaries to what a company pays."

I thought about this--maybe I could get a shingle job, like my dad used to say. Lawyers and accountants can work for large organizations or they can put up a shingle, get their own clients and be their own boss. Maybe I could do this for compensation consulting. It wouldn't be thrilling, but it wouldn't be too intellectually or emotionally taxing, either, for my first foray in returning to the paid workforce. I'd have to ramp up, but I already know the basics. This was intriguing...

"I really want to get out of the house and work with other people," I said.

"Oh," she said. This pause was not good. "I don't really connect with the people I work with. We have nothing in common. I rely on my friends in my different communities for social interactions. I mostly work at home part-time, because I am still carpooling my kids before and after school."

I work at home enough. The goal for me would be to get out of the house, not stay in it. Part of what I loved about my volunteer work was working with other people. On the other hand, volunteer work doesn't come with a paycheck.

Yucks and Yums

My daughter is very active in YMCA leadership programs. Last summer, she was a Counselor in Training (CIT) at Camp Orkila on Orcas Island. As such, she fills us with knowledge she shares with campers.

"Don't yuck on someone else's yums," was the gem she came up with this weekend when she and her brother were disagreeing on which board game to play: Bohnanza or Scrabble. Claire Adele and I played one round of Bohnanza and then the Boy and I played Scrabble.

The Boy hasn't been feeling too well lately, and to pick him up, I reminded him the Ski Bus sign up was open. I asked if he wanted to sign up, and he said yes. I told him his father was planning to take him to buy new skis this weekend. The Boy was thrilled. He went to the basement and dug up last year's gear, and tried everything on to see what fit and what didn't. In the past year, the Boy has grown more than four inches taller. He needed new everything except a helmet.

As the Boy was trying on his old gear, I grew wistful. I had only seen him ski once in his new ski jacket last year, and that was when I tore my ACL on the second run of the season.

The Boy, ever sensitive, knew that while his excitement about hitting the slopes hard to suppress, I might be a little sad about not getting the green light to ski this season. My new surgeon said to wait at least a year until after my surgery before I ski again. That would be the end of February for me.

Sigh.

"Hey!" the Boy said as he tried to squeezed his foot into his too small boot. "You could snowboard!"

What? I hate snowboarders. I take that back. I hate bad snowboarders. Bad snowboarders fall into two categories

1. Those who are unaware of their blindspot and run skiers over, and
2. Those who don't know how to snowboard and ride down the hill with the board perpendicular to the fall line and scrape the snow off the slopes.

I know I shouldn't yuck on someone else's yums, but here is a bit of anger poetry from a few years ago, previously posted on my blog:

Snowboarders

Raping the slopes

And pillaging the powder,

You leave an icy trail

Like a snail leaves

Slime.

You can't see me

As your flat board

Irons the corduroy.

"Seriously," the Boy said, amazed at his own brilliant idea. "You wouldn't have skis that could twist your knee. It would be safer."

Evan, my physical therapist, told me the same thing. He is a snowboarder himself, so he might be biased. "Only 2% of snowboarding injuries are torn ACLs. One-fourth of all skiing injuries are torn ACLs."

I ignored Evan when he said this, and here is my son, cheering me on to try something knew, something I previously yucked on, something that would get me safely back on the lift with my family in the winter.

Washing Away

Last week was a rough week. I'll skip the details, but trust me, it was rough.

A few weeks ago, I was at a Change Management Conference in Portland, Connect Change 4. Change Management is an interesting field because you are making people do things they don't want to do, which is change. As someone who helped manage and advocate for change, both in the corporate world and in the public sector, I know change is hard, whatever kind of change it is. The processes have to be right, you need buy-in, you need to make sure people know what the change is, you have to listen to find out where things are and aren't working, and this is all on top of people's moods. Sometimes change can be for the worse (think a corporate downsizing or life after an earthquake), so resiliency is a big part of change management. How can we help people bounce back after the shit hits the fan?

One of the topics at the conference was "How to Have a Good Week After a Bad Weekend." One of the speakers talked about the impact of her divorce on her work life. She tried to hide her failed marriage from her colleagues, bury herself in busyness. Anther speaker, a physical therapist, was a facing financial catastrophe, which kept him pre-occupied during work. Having been through months of physical therapy, I can't imagine having an unhappily distracted therapist cranking on my knee.

This was interesting to me because I am not in the workforce right now, so my weeks and weekends kind of blend together. They take place in the same place, for better or worse.

So what happens when I have a bad weekend at home? It blurs into the rest of my week. After this past rough weekend, Jack went to work and the kids went to school, washing away the challenges. They got back on their horses and had distractions.

I didn't. I stayed at home and metaphorically and literally cleaned up while everyone went on about their lives, escaping the mess. How can I wash away a bad weekend when my weekends don't end?

Ghosts of Wrigley

The World Series is on right now, and I can't watch. I can't watch. It is too much. I might have a stroke or a heart attack.

My Grandpa Conti was a Cubs fan since he came to the U.S. in 1920 or so. I saw signs at Wrigley that said "This one's for Grandpa!" It wasn't just my grandparents--there are millions of Chicagoans who have never seen the Cubs win a World Series. Millions of ghosts are in that stadium in Cleveland tonight, cheering on the Cubs.

Scott Turow wrote the best thing ever about the Cubs. He had a beautiful essay published in a book, otherwise, I'd have a link here. It was about the meaning of Cubs, and how this transcends generations. Turow was a Cubs fan like his dad, and Turow's son became a Cubs fan like him, all cursed with seeing their team suffer defeat.

Win or lose, here are some great things about the Cubs:

• They define the meaning of unconditional love. We love Wrigley Field and beautiful days drinking pop or beer and eating hot dogs. I remember Jack and I went to a game in early April with his friends. These seats were the worst seats in the worst weather. We sat in the last row by the fence, and the wind and rain blew right through us the whole game. But I remember it. Outside of Wrigley, Jack remembers my grandfather in the nursing home listening to the Cubs on WGN. He never gave up on his team.
• Maddon has given us a great phrase: "Try not to suck." This could be the meaning of life. Win or lose, if you try to do a good job, that matters.
• This season has created something very special: a fourth generation Cubs fan in my family. The Boy would have something to talk about with his great-grandfather, and that to me is amazing. 
• Maybe someday is today.

Okay, gotta watch the end.

#trynottosuck
#flytheW

What I Miss in my Life is Fire

Note: I am in a writing class that is focusing on goddess archetypes. This piece was inspired by St. Bridget, the Irish Hearth Goddess.

What I miss in my life is fire.

I used to have a fireplace. The house I lived in in Ohio when I was a kid had a fireplace. Our house before that in Chicago did not. When we lived in Chicago, we would go camping almost every weekend from late spring through early fall and my mom would satisfy her need to build fires. When we moved to Ohio, one of my mom’s many requirements was that her new house had a fireplace.

My mom knew how to start a fire and how to keep them going with minimal effort. I admired her skill and knowledge. It was like magic how she knew about fires. In Ohio, the fires were decorative and relaxing, not to keep the house warm. The fireplace in Ohio had glass doors, so you could shut them at night before the fire died out, and we could go to sleep.

In college, when Jack and I started dating, I got the flu. He brought me a gift bag filled with trinkets he bought at Walgreen's. In it was a votive and a candle holder. I watch the flame dance and I smelled the vanilla wax. I began to understand my mother's curiosity and interest in fire.

My first apartment in Chicago had a fireplace. I lived there for eight years. We would order a cord of wood from a guy in a truck who would pull up on the corner of Clark and Belden. We kept the wood in the apartment until one year when we found little bugs that bore holes in the wood. I became terrified that I had brought some version of a termite into the apartment, so we moved all of the wood to the wrought iron fire escape in the back of the building.

Our sterile, low ceiling apartment in St. Louis did not have a fireplace. The small, square apartment had no privacy, no beauty. It was in a “nice” neighborhood. While other buildings had character, our apartment was inoffensive, without charm, not of an era.

Our first house on Westminster Place in St. Louis was a manse. It had three floors, and on the first floor were three inert fireplaces, too small to be up to code, the chimney’s closed off like an infertile beast. In the empty fireboxes, I placed large candleholders. One held a dozen votives. Another held three pillar candles. The fireplaces in the upstairs rooms were closed off by drywall, hiding the inner usefulness, hiding beauty and warmth. Even though I haven’t lived in that house for twelve years. I dream of taking a sledgehammer to the drywall and finding the hidden hearths.

Our cozy home in Seattle does not have a fireplace to fight off the damp chill. Instead, our house is a nest tucked in the trees. We have a view of the volcano from my daughter’s room. That is a different fire, boiling deep, deep, deep beneath the mountain and snow, magnificent and terrifying at the same time. But we don’t have a fireplace.

What I miss in my life is fire.

Stillmother

The Atlantic Monthly had a question in the November magazine: What do we call parents who have lost a child? What do we call women who gave birth but who aren’t mothers?

I lived in this limbo for a year and a half between the death of my first daughter and the birth of my second daughter. Ada was a forty week stillbirth who was delivered on her due date. I was a mother with no child to show for it. I wasn’t really a mother though, as I had no child to call my own. Aside from preparing for and giving birth, I had no experience of mothering.

I was talking to my friend Sharon who commented on the term stillbirth. She thought it was a fitting name for an infant who died in the womb. "The baby came into the world," she said. "It was 'still' born."

"And it was still, as in not moving," I said. "Maybe the term for a mother of a stillbirth is stillmother, or stillfather. The mother is still a mother, but not a moving or active one."

We could have stillbrothers and stillsisters, though it would be hard to know which child was alive and which one was deceased. The terms could apply to any child that died, as the parents are still parents.

Ada's eighteenth birthday was October 15.

Reachire, or "And then depression set in..."

I am part of a "get a job" group for women who are attempting to return to the workforce after an extended absence for raising kids. Julia, our leader, sent out an invitation asking us if we wanted to attend another event with her sponsored by another organization, Reachire, which is also trying to help women return to the workforce after parenting.

This organization is different than Julia's. According to its website, this group selects women who attended competitive colleges and worked in corporate jobs before leaving to have kids. Julia's group takes a variety of women--teachers, sales people, journalists, business owners--not just those who attended Ivy League schools or want to return to a middle management job.

Reachire provides training in the latest office software tools, as moms have not likely been using SharePoint or Tableau in their daily lives. Reachire also different because it gives women temp work at corporations before helping to place them in "returnships" at large employers in the region. My understanding is that Reachire works with companies to create these returnships to help women return to the workforce. Some of these jobs require an extended leave from the paid workforce.

This sounds awesome. There is a fee associated with the program--$2,000 for sixty ours of training over five weeks--which is not listed on their website but can be found with a Google search. But hey, if I can get a job with a large, local employer, the fee would be less than my first month's salary, which is more than I am making now. It could be a worthwhile investment if I got a job afterward.

The day after I saw this, I got a bullet from one of the jobs I applied for. I researched this job, learned how to use SQL and Tableau, and activated with my network to talk to the people who worked in this department.

And then, as Bill Murray said in Stripes, depression set it. It wasn't that this program Reachire wasn't cool: it made me realize how firmly the front doors are shut at large corporations against women who have taken time off to raise their kids. Those doors are closed so tightly that a group like Reachire, started by a Stanford and Northwestern University's Kellogg graduate, had to create a side door for moms to get back in. Me and a thousand other middle-aged moms would have a better chance getting into the hottest and hippest nightclub in New York wearing yoga pants than getting a job at Amazon.

Julia posted an article on LinkedIn called "There is NO 'Gap in My Resume'" discusses how parents looking to return to the workforce can talk about their experience while parenting. We have lived and learned during this time. One of the most telling comments was from a man who posted that HR folks don't even want to look at people who have a month long gap in their resumes.

Wow. A one month gap? That sucks. My resume and the resumes of thousands of other moms returning to the workforce would never get read in an organization with that criteria.

So what to do? Find a job a job where I am overqualified but will help me get my feet wet? Give up on Corporate America and go with a small company willing to take a risk on someone like me? I could go back to consulting, but I fear the true workaholic job. One firm looked interesting until I saw on their website that they promise their clients 100% travel from their consultants. I get it. Before kids, I'd hop on a plane any day of the week except Saturday for my job. Some years, I'd have very little travel if I had local clients. Other times, I was out of town three or four days a week. My family already has one workaholic parent--I am not sure my teenage kids could handle a second. (The day my youngest leaves for college, I am considering taking one of those traveling jobs if I have to beg to get it.)

I am figuring out what to do next. I ran into a friend at my daughter's cross country meet and she returned to work when her oldest of three daughters was a senior in high school. Looming college tuition bills scared her husband and he nudged her to get a job. She loves working for a small company. She gets to wear a million hats and every day is different. The leadership opportunities there abound, albeit on a smaller stage. Maybe that is the way to go.