girl at large

A Year in Review, More of the Same

 

 

 

 

 

91 Doctors appointments

54 Physical Therapy appointments

36 Mental Therapy appointments

19 scans

16 weeks medical leave

11 days in the hospital

4 days in the ICU

2 infections

1 sepsis

0 concerned calls, texts or emails from my sister and brother.

 

The number of concerned calls, texts or emails from my sister and brother in 2023, 2022 and 2021=0.

 

The cold shoulder is not a boundary, it’s a weapon. It’s meant to hurt. It works. It hurts. I give. 

 

I debated a long time about blogging on this subject. I have been careful in twenty years of public journaling to broach work subjects and family conflicts with sensitivity, or in most cases, not at all.

 

But I have to process the pain, and this is where I do that work. Here and in the paint pans. I don’t know how to describe what has happened, because I don’t know what has happened, I don’t understand it. In the case of my brother, I literally do not know. Everything was fine (well, not fine, he hasn’t reach out to me at all during my cancer treatment), but then he went from being mildly neglectful to downright hostile, ignoring me and never answering the question of what was wrong? He even blocked me and my husband. (Paulie? Really? Seriously the nicest, most clear-headed, even-keeled person we know? Blocked?).

 

So, new landscape for me. How to process profound pain and grief while also considering privacy? How to have my say but respect theirs? How can I when they don’t participate? I’m treated as if I’m already dead; ignoring someone with a terminal diagnosis is especially cruel. It feels like a tiny death every time an email, a message, a plea is unreturned.

I’m invisible, they’ve rendered me voiceless. Except here, so here is where I am. 

 

Cancer makes strangers of family and friends of strangers. I know two things for certain about cancer—

 

It takes over your life.

You’ll be surprised by who shows up and who doesn’t.
 

“Can We Talk About How This Is Not Dairy Queen?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the kids and the Clauses take a coffee break

“Can we just talk about how this is NOT a Dairy Queen?” It’s one of my favorite quotes of all time, from a visit to a local burger ice cream shack in small town Nebraska that everyone referred to as the Dairy Queen. It was not. It wasn’t even in an old Dairy Queen building. But it was a special memory. And the phrase fits any awkward situation. 

The Kohler brochure was titled “Winter Wonderland”—horse drawn carriage rides! real reindeer! and Santa!

The reindeer were 20 bucks to photograph. Also, mange.

The horse drawn carriage was indeed a carriage and had real live very nice horses, but its path was around the parking lot. And around again. The parking lot.

The shops are an outside mall, no central interior. It was cold. Windy. Cold. I lost Mom. Walking from store to store, looking for a lost woman who looks like me only deafer, I was also looking for the promised Santa.

No Santa by the carriages, no Santa by the reindeer, no Santa in any shop. No signs for Santa, no freakin Santa! I found Mom. 

Fuck it, come on Mom, let’s go in to the grocery store and get a hot coffee and wait for Paul and the kids.

Paul and the kids…were inside the grocery store getting coffee! Warm, rosy cheeked, smiling. Paul wasn’t getting a coffee for me. Until he saw my face…make that a double mocha.

It was chaotic, the grocery store and coffee counter had no defined spaces, we were flustered, the lighting was weirdly dark….I make my way to a tiled area of plastic tables and chairs, the “cafe”. I’m making my big-ass-winter-coated way through to a table for us when I realize that the occupants of the neighboring chairs are Santa and Mrs Claus…on break?

This is it, this is The Winter Wonderland.

No music, no special chairs, hardly any decorations, no elves. Only two chairs, the dear sweet volunteers and a cheap ass black plastic Halloween bowl of mini candy canes. 

I had a complete meltdown. Just out of frame is me, the middle-aged woman, overwhelmed mama, head down on a plastic table, sandwiched between aging parents and growing kids, with a maxed out credit card and maxed out senses, sobbing. Which, when you think about it, really is the TRUE sign of the season. 

Spuds and Duds

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The kids cos-playing Republicans at the hotel.

I really try too hard. I try to do too much, too fast, too everything. But damn it, someone has to give this sorry-ass-ragtag-dysfunctional family a nice Thanksgiving!

My siblings aren’t speaking to me, and that’s all I can say about that. So, it’s us and Mom for the holiday. (Thanksgiving is my side, Christmas is Paul’s famiglia. Marital code 3471.2)

Thinking about last year, another too-much-too-soon fatigue fest, I decided to stay closer to home and go full luxury.

KOHLER. The American Club. Ooooooooooohhhhhh. Oooo la la. Or should I say “uh oh”?

I should have known when we walked through a gaggle of investment bros in Patagonia vests in the lobby…what was I thinking? Ok, so it’s a bit stuffy and outdated, but it will be comfortable and relaxing…

Our room’s power went out. And got fixed. And went out. And got fixed. And went out again. I have a powered medical device I need to use twice a day. This was not good. But no other rooms near the kids and Grandma were available until the next day.

Our four spa appointments, tediously made three weeks before on an online platform as complicated as a tax form, were lost. I had meticulously planned for three pedicures at the same time, and then a facial for myself alone. Nothing, not in the system. And no openings at all.

Ok, let’s try the pool. It was quite nice actually, and we LOVED the free shuttle van. I have to install a sauna in our basement now.

We were a bit frazzled, and my side effects were in full revenge-mode, even after a nice swim. So, we were hoping for a special, delicious, wonderful Thanksgiving meal to save the holiday. I had made reservations for the Wisconsin Room Thanksgiving by recommendation of Kohler staff —we wanted to have a sit down meal where we could all chat comfortably, even with hearing loss (vs the Thanksgiving Grand Buffet option). It was something to look forward to. It’s The American Club, it’s fancy schmancy, it’s KOHLER. 

The food was served in…pans? Like…pans. Not sizzling fajita pans (still the height of exciting and fancy in my 12 year old memory), not elegant oval au gratin pans, not a hot cast iron skillet (would have loved a Hot Brown), not even ramekins…pans. Like roasting pans. Think mini lasagnas. Also, actual lasagnas would have been great.

 

 

 

 

The pans had high sides, making it impossible to properly cut the food. We hacked vertically at the filets, glancing around at other tables to see if we were missing something. Like plates. 

The pans were cold so the steak was also cold. I have a dodgy right arm and Mom is 80, so the strange pans were even more awkward for us, but I can’t imagine anyone being able to satisfactorily slice their green beens in those silly things. 

They served the boring side dishes family style, which was hilarious—-still no plates! The mashed potatoes, sprouts and stuffing had to go in the PANS. I’m a snob. At a white tablecloth restaurant, for a meal that outrageously expensive, I want my food on a plate.

It’s KOHLER. They literally make PORCELAIN.

Cancer Is So Rude

 

I was heading to my new breast cancer center, navigating a hospital building shaped like a traffic circle to my first chemo in my new location, my new doctor, my new care team. An unfamiliar space, a familiar procedure. The elevator popped me out at the second floor; I turned to study the direction signs. A tall, loud white woman stood there, at the intersection of the cancer clinics, talking on her phone. Loudly. I can hear everything she’s saying, each sentence more troubling—

“He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to come to the shelter, he wants to die. That’s what’s going to happen, he wants to die and well, let him DIE then.” And so on.

I pass her quickly, roll my eyes, and walk down the long carpeted hallway (hoping I picked the correct hallway!). Then she does too.  Still talking, marching close behind me for about half my trek. I picked up my pace, annoyed we are both going the same way.

I lose her before the waiting area. I can breathe again, literally. I slow my pace and focus on preparing my tense body for the upcoming infusion, hoping my veins will behave. Phone Talker had stopped in front of a window, leaning on the sill in a posture of ownership, her voice bouncing off the hard glass. More alarming words spit out, but she’s staying in one spot. In a few more hurried steps, I can’t hear her anymore. Relieved, I check in with the very friendly staff and settle in to a chair facing the sunny windows. Big breath.

Then, Loud Lady enters, still on her phone. She leans on the reception counter, continuously talking to her phone while the staff check her in. 

Then she turns back towards my bank of chairs, pacing back and forth, somehow talking even louder.

“You should have seen it, BLOOD EVERYWHERE!”

She passes in front of me, a cloud shadow over my head. I lean forward into her field of vision, gesture for her attention and say as gently as possible—-

“Ma’am, you’re having a very disturbing conversation that we can hear!”

She turns away from my eye contact, continues with her phone friend, her voice thick with disdain—“She said I’m having a DISTURBING conversation”. She rolls her eyes with her whole body. 

She continues to move down the hallway, but instead of leaving, she loops back, then back and forth, pacing and talking in front of the twenty people waiting in scattered groups, all of them cancer patients. All of them, all of us, have to be there, have to wait, have to endure her. Because of the check in, I assume she has to have treatment too. This registers but I can’t locate any empathy. She may be one of us, but she’s the shark in our aquarium.

Exasperated and annoyed to lose my comfy spot in the glassy sunshine, I move to a chair further away, behind a dark sheltering column. Finally I make some distance between myself, fragile and anxious, and the troubling intrusion of Loud Lady.

Like all my cancer experiences, the problem follows me, invades every aspect of my life and hovers in my vision. Threatens to overpower me. All I can do is move out of the way.

 

Seeing Myself

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been working with a therapist for the past year to deal with the fear, grief and upheaval of metastatic cancer life.

Dealing with cancer now brings up a lot of stuff from back then. All your old messed up shit comes rising up to the surface when you think about your mortality. So we talk about now, and we talk about back then, and we talk about how they connect. And how to free myself from some of the old shit, so I can face this new shit. Oh the irony! Figuring yourself out just in time to die.

In the spring, she suggested I may be ADHD, and recently we dug a little more in to that. I know it’s trending, I know everyone is TikTok-diagnosing, especially women and later-in-life diagnosis—-but hear me out!

What if…

What if my anxiety…

What if my anxiety and depression…

What if my anxiety and depression and crushing sense of perpetual

failure…

What if all this time, it’s been ADHD?

I was skeptical. Another diagnosis feels like another burden. I have never once thought that ADHD might apply to me. I just don’t fit the stereotype I have in my mind. And no other therapist has ever mentioned it—however they have “diagnosed” me with social anxiety disorder (nope), panic attack disorder (nope), borderline personality disorder (big nope!), and more… So what is one more wrong label?

But also, what if this is the right label?

I made a list for Dr.B. I listed all my ADHD-like behaviors, my quirks and work-arounds, things I avoid, things that make me uncomfortable, memories of school and childhood that rang ADHD bells, my struggles at work and with emotions. I wrote it all down.

It was six pages. Bullet-pointed, categorized and described in great detail (usually in parenthesis).

At todays appointment she laughed conspiratorially and said “This was a joy to read. This is hyper focus. This is a rabbit hole”. Yes, she said, waving the six pages, THIS is ADHD!

And it’s gonna be fine.

The Yoga Lady Has No Robes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had an unsettling interaction with a provider this week. I was seeking some physical therapy relief for my Woody Fibrosis Neck (caused by radiation), chest scar adhesions, and restricted range of motion on the right side.

Pretty basic stuff that my usual PT handles well, but this provider was recommended to me because she does Myofascial Release, a relatively new massage/PT technique. The hope was it might do wonders for the chest adhesions and fibrosis especially. What was not new, to me, were the red flags of a provider who doesn’t really get it.

There was no robe to change in to, and the therapy space was….not ideal. Strike one.

Then she did the dreaded head tilt, heart clutch and “I feel sooooooo baaaaaaaad for you”. Strike two.

Then, as we reviewed my medical history:

Tsk tsking when I said the insomnia is caused by the steroids.

Saying “Well….” when I said the anti-estrogen therapy was causing joint and muscle pain. 

And on and on, finally culminating in a devastating dismissal of my very real experience when she scolded me. “You have to get out of your Thinking Brain and do the work to get into your Feeling Brain”.

Lady, what I have to do is get out of here. 

Abortion Made Me A Good Mother

I’ve written and rewritten todays post, alternating between feeling bold and feeling uncomfortable. Here goes bold:

Abortion made me a good mother. When I was 17, my birth control failed. I knew immediately that abortion was my choice. I knew I was supposed to feel bad about it, and I did some performative dramatics about it, but truly all I actually felt was deep relief. And a little embarrassment.. I WAS careful, I did know how to prevent it, I thought I did everything right. It still happened.

But what didn’t happen, thanks to a legal abortion clinic in my state, and a wonderful doctor and nurse team who cared for me with respect and kindness, was the implosion of my life. Or my boyfriends life. He went to college, I went and did my thing. We avoided poverty, disrupted education, coerced marriage and a handful of other negative things. Also we didn’t have a child. Because we didn’t want one. And that was my right. My choice, and the absolute right choice for me.

Ten years later, it was the right choice again. Again, I was careful, and it happened anyway. This time was harder, I was older and “should” have been ready, but my boyfriend was not supportive, and I was broke, drinking a lot, and suffering with depression. I felt a little bit worse than the first time, but mostly because I loved a guy who didn’t love me back the same. I knew, again with relief, that I made the right choice. I couldn’t parent then, and not with him.

Another ten years after that, I have a wanted pregnancy that ends in a miscarriage almost immediately. Then, quickly after that, a successful pregnancy and my family begins. The family I knew I could support, knew my body and mind could handle. The family I could never have had if I was a teenage mom or an unstable parent. 

Why do I even need to explain or defend myself? Self determination, the ability to decide if and when to reproduce, was fundamental to my life, to my growth and ability to be a contributing, stable person in this world. It was my body, my life, my health, my path to choose.

That has been taken from us, taken from our kids. I thought it couldn’t happen, but here we are. I don’t know the path ahead, how we restore our full rights. I know that I am grateful for the people who fought before me, and I am indebted to them, for the realization of my full potential, and for my beautiful family. 

‘Tis The Season

Should I Eat These Crackers (nuts, cookies, olives, etc)?

Are they unopened? —-then probably not.

Are they a brand you don’t recognize or usually see in the cupboard? —-probably definitely not.

Are they fancy? —-oooh, probably really shouldn’t.

Is it December? —-Danger danger danger

 

Did you answer yes to two or more of these questions?  If so, don’t you dare eat those crackers, they are for COMPANY.

COMPANY! 

How Blue Is The Sky There?

I have an email account for Felix just for the purpose of two apps, a by-product of Covid remote school. Sometimes I look at it to see what it’s like to have an empty inbox.

To feel the cool, fresh breeze against my brain. The nothingness, the sweet calm.

No one asking “Did you get my last email?”. No one reminding me to resend the attachment that was, in fact, attached. Not a need to reply “per my last email..highlight highlight highlight”. No chains of Reply All that have NOTHING TO DO WITH ME OR MY JOB. 

What is that like? What color is the sky there? Are the birds always singing? When I see the blankness of that screen, I hear birds. Sweet sweet birds.

We All Have a Strength

Charlie asked me to explain Daylight Savings Time to him on the walk to school today. After fumbling and failing miserably as we walked across the school yard, I said “Shush we’re walking through all the sixth graders and I still have anxiety.”

I then proceeded to explain Anxiety with the knowledge and confidence of a TED speaker.

History zero. Mom one.

 

 

In The Company of Dangerous Men

You were arrogant, and set me up to be attacked. You literally lay in wait for your moment to belittle me, a stranger to you.

You enjoyed being superior. 

You, who do not know me at all or our company’s history or policies, called me a hypocrite.

 

You opened our relationship with an attack that you enjoyed doing. Your body language (leaning back in position of power, tapping my business card, legs crossed) said I’m pulling a power play and I’m enjoying it. 

 

Me, in the position of lesser power because I am your guest, I am trying to keep your companies business and I make my living literally by whether or not you buy from me, AND because I’m a woman, had few choices.

 

When I tried politely to tell you what it was like to be us, how you were WRONG, you spoke over me, interrupted me and argued meaningless points like “stormed out” vs “walked out”.

 

At one point, in pathetic desperation, you pointed your finger at me and accused me of being biased. Why? Because I lumped you and your companion in the same category, the category that suffers from so much bias (eye roll). That category is “rude people”. If you don’t rein in your companion’s atrociously bad behavior, guess what, you are also guilty.

 

You took every opportunity to prove your weak WRONG point, and didn’t consider for a moment that you could be wrong until I showed a visible emotional reaction, stood up to leave and told you that I couldn’t work with you.

 

Only when threatened with me quitting/firing you did you stop to consider my position.

 

When you did apologize you didn’t apologize for your initial behavior or your behavior at our meeting but for “causing you stress”. A classic move, blaming my reaction to the problem instead of owning your WRONGNESS. You made it about my feelings instead of your feelings which were superiority, inferiority (because making this point was so important to you I assume you are actually quite insecure in your own abilities) and power. You literally looked satisfied when you used the word hypocrisy. It was delicious to you. You enjoyed making someone else feel discomfort and fear.

 

You were so committed to being right that you then continued to bring up another point, this one truly meaningless, just to stick it to me. Pointing out a minor website error benefits nothing except your own sense of self importance. When I said you probably have to do a hard refresh to see the update you then went BACK TO YOUR OFFICE TO DO THAT just to prove me wrong. I said well, maybe it just got missed, it’s not a big deal.

 

When I checked later, because the website is also my responsibility among all the other jobs I have to do to keep our business rolling through crises after crises (one of which has been exacerbated by anti-maskers like your buddy), it turns out you are WRONG AGAIN. I said do a HARD refresh, which is different than just refreshing your browser. The error you referred to was indeed already updated at the time of our meeting. Of course, it was my own insecurity that made me double check. Here I was, reacting to you, taking my precious time to double check a minor error WHICH DOES NOT MATTER.

 

It only mattered as a tool for you to again show your arrogant superiority over me and make me uncomfortable while trapped in your presence.

 

You are an asshole.

 

 

Seriously?

Covid limbo work times have been interesting, and odd. We are busier than we have been in months.  Eighteen months of pent up demand has been unleashed all at once. Also unleashed—every bad customer’s bad behavior. 

This week I had a live chat customer who asked a question that required a little research. I asked if I could email them the answer later in the day.

”I prefer not to give out my email address”.

Um, ok. Bwaaaahaaaa. On my side of the LiveChat interface I can see their IP address, how many times they’ve visited the website, what pages they’ve visited and for how long…and a live map of their location.

But ok, keep that email to yourself. 

The Subtypes

The Mozzarella  (a solid packed in water)

 

The Club Sandwich (layers of constipation and diarrhea)

The Scooter (sometimes also called the Squeezer)

 

The Pressure Washer

 

The Hot Pressure Washer

 

The Fluffy 

 

The Green Monster. (You ate nothing green, you drank nothing green, it’s just green for no reason)

 

The Sequel (I didn’t like the first one)

 

The Last Train (one more time before bed)

 

I know it so well and yet I still can’t spell it.. diareea, diharehea, diereha…diarrhea!

 

You Are Not Entitled To My Life

“I’ll need you to be masked”

“That’s ok you can wear a mask”

“I know, but I also need you to wear a mask”

“You need ME to wear a mask?”

”Yes”.

”We can talk about that back in my office”

“I’m not meeting with anyone who's not masked, just like my email explained. I’m immune compromised, I’m a cancer patient”.

“I’m a cancer survivor too. And I’ve already had it”

“I’m in active treatment. Please wear a mask”

”It’s a pain”

”It’s my life”

“Fine”. Asks receptionist for a mask.

“The mask they gave me sucks, I’ll have to go to my car to get a better one.”

“Ok, I’ll wait right here for you.”

“Sorry but I despise masks”

 

Thanks for valuing my life less than your mild discomfort.

Clear Air

I snapped today. One of my cancer care team said “warrior” one too many times and I finally let them have it. As much as my squeaky, raw radiation laryngitis voice will let me anyway.

I hate warrior/hero/battle culture. I am not any different than any other cancer patient. It’s all suffering. We all suffer. When someone just as “strong” as me dies, what does that say for the strength of their fight? The depth of their will? Nothing. Because it’s not a fair fight. Warriors choose to go to battle, heros are heroic because they choose to go in to danger when others shirk. No one chooses cancer.

Give me the space to be weak. Just because I’m not crying in your office doesn’t mean I don’t cry in my car. Telling me Im strong because I’m “doing it all” while I’m in treatment? Ugh, it’s not strength, it’s reality. I still work because I have bills to pay. I still take care of my kids because they live in my damn house (LOL).

Cancer don’t care. My doctor should.

Inauguration Hot Take

The monochromatic outfits we all loved have to be inspired by The Crown, don’t make fun of the Queen ever again.

Men need better dress up clothes. Get some interesting coats dudes.

Bernie is in front of me at the post office every time. Every event needs a mascot.

I didn’t know it was Gaga because I had on only audio at that moment, I thought it sounded weird. I am clearly not musical.

The whole of my creative life will not add up to one tenth the impact of one line of Amanda Gorman’s poem.

I was on the Ohio turnpike (excellent waysides!) when I heard the American Carnage speech; I’ll always remember the camaraderie with other carloads of women’s marchers headed to DC as we listened.

I was not ready to love Garth, but there it is, I do.

I really really want a hard copy of this week’s Scholastic.

The leadership of one person does make a difference. The integrity and dedication of a team of many competent people makes a difference.

We have a lot of work yet to do. 

Chemo In The Time of Covid

(This is my favorite photo of exhaustion.)

I’m in the infusion room right now and all the nurses are talking about the next phase decisions coming down from their organization leadership. So far I’ve overheard chat about—-surgery and electives are going to be stopping, procedures that might have been overnight admissions are now only proceeding if the patient can tolerate same day outpatient, they started another tier of hazard pay at +$30/hour, “But what difference does that make if you get quarantined and yeah you made all that extra money but you get back to regular when you’re off and you have all that hassle for your family and get sick yourself”

Etc, etc. It is very different chat than three weeks ago when my chemo nurse freaked me out sharing her unsafe Halloween party plans. Wisconsin is currently exploding; for weeks now we have been one of the six worst states for cases, geographical spread and hospitalizations. Tragically, the death rate will follow the same trend.

Even little things are affected by the recent surge and hospital overload; for example the hospital pharmacy is perpetually backed up. I’m on hour two waiting for my meds that were supposed to start at 10am. And of course Paulie couldn’t even be in the building this time. Previously he could at least be in the waiting area, and he could be in the room at the diagnostic appointments, but no more for any new patients now. Can you imagine getting your disease diagnosis and prognosis news alone?

I’m glad they instituted the changes for safety but for total patient care it fucking sucks. I really feel for anyone needing medical care during this time.

Stay vigilant everyone! I know we are fatigued; its exhausting to maintain a constant Threat Level Ten. Hopefully our new leadership will give us the scientific information, competent pandemic team, and compassionate & coherent speeches we all need to persevere and push through to better days, with more lives saved than lost.

The Call Is Coming From Inside The House

The night before the positive case notice, when we still had summer at our house.

There’s a lot of Covid information out there, and a lot of it is confusing. Sometimes there’s a source that combines smarts, facts and a style of communicating that really works for me. Below is one of those posts, and very timely one to boot.

This bit of critical information became very real to us when I asked my physician father if we had to be masked indoors all the time with Charlie even if there was a good chance of already being infected (it was 10 days from exposure to test).

He explained that the initial amount of virus as well as EXPOSURE OVER TIME can affect how sick you get even after initially infected. That bit of information, easily absorbed in a visual and visceral way, made it much easier for me to embrace this whole-family, always-masked Isolation stage with a bit of hope. Having an action that I can take to help my family is taking back a little bit of my role as a parent.

The saddest thing for parents and caretakers is when this thing gets in your home. Until now, this house was our safe place. The very place where we had stayed for so long to protect them.

——-

Here is the post I’m referring to:

Hi, I'm back as Robin-Schoenthaler-the-Boston-cancer-doctor-who-writes-about-Covid.

(And it’s okay with me if you want to share.)

Today I’m talking about how Masks May Be Magic.

Massachusetts is still okay, trending up a bit in terms of numbers of cases but hospitals are fine, deaths are low.  

The rest of the US outside of the Northeast:  it’s just unspeakable.  The numbers are unfathomable.  

How bad is it? 

Here’s an analogy:  

More or less, the US is having one Wuhan a day.  Remember how terrible Wuhan was and ended up being?  That many cases are happening every day in the US.  

Here’s some statistics: 

How fast are cases exploding? 

0 cases to 1 million cases: 98 days

1 million to 2 million cases: 44 days

2 million to 3 million cases: 27 days 

3 million to 4 million cases: 14 days

 

Here’s a story: 

Every Thursday night I listen to this whiz kid Infectious Disease doc from Texas talk about Covid.  She talks non-stop for an hour and whips through about 55 papers, summarizing study after study after study.  She’s like the kid in high school who was absolutely the smartest person in the room and made it look easy; she’s amazing.  

At a recent broadcast she was quoting a paper and all of a sudden she started crying.  I couldn’t even figure out what was happening (I was doing dishes in my Eternal Multitasking Fashion) but when I stopped loading the dishwasher and looked at my computer screen, there she was, wiping her eyes and weeping.  That’s what life is like in Texas.  

In the midst of this misery, let’s talk about something positive.  Let’s talk about masks.  

I love masks.  Right now they feel like are like our magic protectors, like holding garlic up in front of Dracula, or wearing a special amulet that keeps the evil eye away.  

Or maybe like wearing a condom and not getting syphilis.

Why are masks particularly important with Covid?  

Well, as with Everything Covid, “we are building the plane while we fly it.”  We are accumulating data as fast as we can and some trends look promising. While some of this may change over time, for now this is what we know.  

First off, it appears, unbelievably, that the rate of people who are infected but have no symptoms is around forty percent.  (These are people who had positive nose swabs but stay completely asymptomatic.)

FORTY PERCENT!  It’s awesome that four out of ten people don’t suffer from the disease at all, don’t have long-term sequelae, etc.  

But it also means four out of ten people who have Covid have absolutely no idea they are infected, don’t know they’re contagious, don’t realize that every time they speak/yell/cough/sneeze they may be spewing tons of infected confetti all over the place, don’t know they may be an actual danger to family and friends. 

But if they're wearing a mask, they’re not so dangerous.  

There is now a good amount of research, old and new, showing masks filter out the majority of viral particles.  All masks matter, to varying degrees.  Without getting into a song and dance about the exact numbers, here’s the basics: 

 --N95s are better than surgical masks

 --cloth masks are way better than nothing

 --two masks (one on me, one on you) are better than one

 --having it on your chin doesn’t work 

Masks can work to protect other people from your infection. 

and

Masks can work to protect you from other people’s infection. 

and furthermore

Masks can work to protect you from getting ANY virus inside you. 

Masks can protect you from getting LOTS of virus inside of you.  

You always need a certain amount of viruses spewed at you like the above mentioned confetti to get sick. It can’t be just one solo virus — it has to be thousands.  Masks have been shown to cut those numbers down.  

Even better, there is evidence that the volume of virus that gets into your mouth or nose is related to how sick you get.  So when you wear a mask and hang out with people wearing masks, early studies seem to indicate you are increasing your chances of having milder disease. 

It even appears that masking increases the rates of being asymptomatic!  In some very interesting early studies, we are seeing this happen. It’s happened on cruise ships, it’s happened in food processing plants — even in the midst of big outbreaks, infected people who use masks are more likely to be completely without symptoms.

When we don’t wear masks, we have more deaths. We saw this so tragically in Italy and New York among health care workers. 

When you do have places mostly masking (eg >80%) you may well see fewer deaths.  San Francisco (a great masking place, like Boston) has had ONE death since July 16 despite 1500 new cases.  And deaths have stayed low post-surge in the Far East countries where masking is part of the cultural norm and most countries where masking had been mandatory. 

This is not to say that masking is a miracle cure-all; we still need physical distancing and hand washing and staying home when sick.

Still, what a lot of reasons to wear a mask: 

 — you don’t have to walk around with the guilt of being Patient Zero

 — you have less chance of getting it

 — you probably have a higher chance of being asymptomatic

 — you may well have less chance of getting super sick

 — you may have less chance of dying of it

And you won't make your doctor burst into tears in the middle of a presentation.

by Robin Schoenthaler July 26, 2020, Facebook.

Scary New World, Same Idiots

I went out beyond my house yesterday for the first time in many weeks. My exciting adventures out into the world have never before had such a modest destination. How did it feel? What thrilling things did I experience? First, I have forgotten how to drive. And Brown Deer Road is still uuuuuuugly.

When the governor relaxed some restrictions for retail businesses last week, I was extremely nervous. I felt pushed to move faster than I could be ready for, it moved the timeline up by two weeks. But I was coming around, with every preparation it got easier to imagine a store being open. And now finally having help (PPP funding means my furloughed coworkers are back!), I felt a bit better that it could be done safely. I was beginning to see the path.

Then, wham, the court knocked down the Stay At Home order, and people got stupid. 

Driving out to the shop I saw many groups of clustered people, very few masks, stores open, clumps of people waiting in unspaced lines and inside small stores, non-family groups walking...a city-wide rush to be alive. All made worse by a sunny day.

Driving down three commercial strips I could see many examples of good Covid and bad Covid practices in action, sometimes right next to each other.

Crowds of people waiting inside closed doors at the Jimmy Johns? Not good. A cluttered second hand junk stop with no clear shopping path? Not good. Groups of friends outside catching up and loving on a neighbors puppy dog? Nice, but not good. The lake must be the new destination for lesbian couples because no way dozens of pairs of walking ladies are all each related.

You know why I get upset when I see someone out without a mask? Because even though yes, you probably don’t need it on a solitary walk, I don’t know your plans.

I don’t know when I might turn a corner and my solitary walk bumps face first into your solitary walk. I don’t know if you have a mask in your pocket and just needed a break. I don’t know if you aren’t wearing one because you forgot it, or because you don’t care about the risks to yourself and others. No mask leaves so many questions.
Wearing a mask says you’ve taken the time, the effort to be safer. It takes effort to get one or make one, it takes priveledge in many cases. A mask is a sign that you’re taking this seriously and I can trust you. And if you are privileged, helllloooo my white lady neighbors...who the fuck do you think you are not to wear one? Oh right, that says exactly who you are.

Back to my drive...from the road I could see that Traders Joes has it right, with spots marked outside where folks were waiting 6’ apart (actually looked like maybe 8’). I felt confident that I could go there and be as safe as possible. (If I ever dared into a grocery store again. I have got the online ordering & random night time delivery thing down, love it, might never go back).  The risks are too high, the chances too random to allow myself to feel anything but secure.

But that’s just my concern for myself and my family. What about the employees? The staff that have to be there to serve and corral the reckless? Try to manage customers and sanitation when the company didn’t get them enough equipment or instructions? Who do you think you are to put your need for a sandwich above their health and safety? Who are these corporations that have opened without proper training, supplies, and support? I won’t be a part of that. If my destination doesn’t do it right, I’m not going.

As you can see, I even like my parking socially distanced.

 

Timing Is Everything

(Delivery truck and crew by Viv, circa 2018)

Pro Tip: when supporting small and mid-sized businesses, keep to the services and products they have OFFERED. Don’t ask for more. Don’t ask for an exception. Don’t ask for shit Karen. 

The phased back to work plan can work, but only if we observe all the safety guidelines. The next phase can’t happen is the first phase fails.

Don’t assume everyone has the capabilities to meet those safety procedures right this minute. Just because they technically CAN do business doesn’t mean they are READY to do business.

Many businesses laid off and furloughed their staff.  Bringing staff back too soon is financially risky, and not the right decision for folks who make $50k or less. Many staff CAN’T come back because they have underlying health conditions or are caring for their own families. Or they don’t want to because they know their job functions are inherently risky or that their employer may not be capable of making their work environment safe. Or they may just not be ready to come back for WHATEVER DAMN REASON THEY HAVE THAT IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS ACTUALLY.

Businesses literally probably cannot physically do more than what they offered you. Be grateful.

The World on Fire

This has been one of the hardest weeks of my life. We say that and then something worse happens. I began this blog because of 9/11. 

This is worse. Worse personally because I have more to lose. Professionally because I have more responsibility. Emotionally because I also lost a friend to fucking murder last week. And for the world, because it involves the entire world. (Though the fallout of the wars after 9/11 would also qualify but who’s keeping track).

In trying to make sense of what we are facing with this virus, I’ve been overwhelmed by the scientific information, underwhelmed by the government response, and feel generally confused.

The post copied below really helped me today.

I was finally successful in quitting smoking years ago because I heard a radio snippet beautifully describing what is actually happening to your lungs during morning cough. The lungs sweepers are waking up and sweeping out the junk like seaweed in the waves and when you take that first delicious morning smoke, that puts them to sleep and they wilt and stop working and that is why the cough subsides.

This firebreak analogy speaks to me in the same powerful way:

——————————-

 

Hi Friends:  It has been a week since my last post.  If you understood it, you realize that the increasing numbers of people with Covid 19 in the US are what we would have expected.  We have had an escalation of interventions as a reaction to the numbers which might give us pause to think we are worse off.  This is not true.  If you shoot an arrow, it takes time to hit the target.  If you intervene in a pandemic, it takes 4 weeks to know if the intervention was successful. On March 9th, the cover of the New Yorker showed our president with a mask over his eyes. Since then, the arrows have been launched..  Let me provide an example of what is happening that I hope helps you understand our current situation.

 

Imagine a huge forest.  Lightening hits a tree, a fire starts and begins to grow.  Smoke is seen but no sky jumpers are sent in because the lookout person is probably exaggerating. (This is the point at which we could have confined the virus).   The fire grows out in all directions getting larger and larger.   It becomes impossible to ignore and the decision is made to create a firebreak.  The firebreak needs to encircle the entire fire. Measures are taken and creation of the firebreak is underway.  (Increased testing, social distancing, and closing public places) The bosses know the fire is increasing, and nothing can be done to save the trees between the firebreak and the flames.  (The current numbers we are seeing).  Will their intervention hold?  As the fire comes closer, the bosses question whether it is big enough to hold back the umrelenting inferno.  They evacuate houses on the non-fire side (Telling people at high risk to stay home and call for extra help.)  The bosses recognize that when the fire hits the firebreak, sparks will fall all over the forest and they will need to be aggressive in trying to put them out.(Without testing, the sparks are landing and we do not know where to start stomping them out.)  If there are too many new fires started, the firebreak only slows things down but still allows time for more help to arrive in the form of more weapons (Testing, drugs(Remdesivir is going into a large study) and vaccines) or rain (Summertime and the realization that the vast majority of trees will withstand the fire, i.e. big Minnesota pines survive and then release pine cones only after heat! )

 

Our fire, Covid 19, is a nasty bug that first emerged in an outdoor open marketplace in Wuhan, China in early December.  The person who contracted the virus unfortunately got on a subway in a metropolis of 11 million people. The virus was officially recognized when 41 people came down with pneumonia 27 of whom had been in this same market and 14 from other parts of the city.  On Jan 1, China informed the World Health Organization (WHO) and closed the market. CV 19 then spread from Wuhan to a cruise ship, to a megachurch in South Korea and to a mosque in Iran. The germ loves crowds and hitching rides on asymptomatic people. Italy went from 3 dead to 3000 in one month. 

 

In three weeks or so, we should be able to see if our current actions, our firebreak (Social distancing and school closings etc.) have helped.   Nothing has happened this week in the U.S. that was unexpected with regard to the number of people infected. All of these infections are the result of our past inaction.

 

So, what to do? Try to ignore the daily heat being generated in the media.  Limit your TV watching of news and social media because it is designed to increase anxiety. There is a lot of nonsense, too.  NPR is calm and does a nice summary.  (Yesterday’s newscast ended with a performance by Yo Yo Mah, the famed cellist.  ‘Songs of Comfort’ provides a way to use the arts as a positive resource in times of crisis). If you are restricted to a home quarantine, stay put along with anyone who lives with you. (My suggestion.)  Interestingly, we are in a phase where the absolute risk of an individual contracting Covid 19 in the next three weeks is low. (The fire is small compared to the forest).  The reason we have built a firewall is to eliminate the possibility of a person with Covid 19 from passing it on to others.  If restricted to home… learn from the cloistered nuns.  Set up a daily schedule of routines. For example,  I no longer have a swimming pool to go to, so I started Yoga. Joan is learning the Ukulele.  Bake bread.  The Washington Post reminds us that Isaac Newton had to leave the university in 1665 because of a plague.  He went to a farm to think.  It was during this time that he began his work in calculus, theories on gravity and light. Thinking and research at home may lead to something.  Have your uninfected neighbors help you by bringing supplies to your doorstep when they go out.  (Work out a neighborhood system).

 

The average incubation period for Covid 19 is about six days, and the main symptoms last on average six days.  Then recovery. The average time to hospitalization from onset of symptoms is about six days and marked with shortness of breath and fever. If you have symptoms of “flu” at this stage in the epidemic, you probably do have the flu, and not Covid 19. It would be nice to have testing available to find out and we will soon.  The recognized cases will rise as we do more testing and stop missing mild cases.  the death rate is the number to watch regarding progress.  Four weeks from now, we will see if we have slowed this thing down. It will be brutal for awhile.   It is hard watching a maelstrom rushing toward you hoping the firebreak will hold. We live with anxiety or faith.  Personally, I do believe I hear planes coming with lots of fire retardants!

 

If you want to imagine killing the nasty virus, imagine doing this experiment.  Fill a sink with water.  Pour some cooking oil over the water’s surface.  Then add one drop of liquid soap.  Instantly, the oil’s film will disappear.  Just like a virus membrane!  That is what soap does to this virus.  Wash your hands frequently and always for 20 seconds to get that soap in all the little crevices.   In the end, there is no doubt, Covid 19, the fire, will end, and we will move on. We will be funding NIH and CDC a lot more! I hope these thoughts provide additional context for whatever you are experiencing and help with your understanding.  (John Bachman Facebook 3/19/20)

Unlearning Society

I honest to god was shocked when I found out intersex “correction” surgeries on newborn babies are still happening. I thought that doctors would use some other more modern scientific method to determine gender. Of course at the time I ignorantly assumed gender was always in some way physical (chromosomes?). I know better now.

I learned that these surgeries were still happening during a casual discussion of all the various ways gender occurs naturally and how far we’ve progressed in understanding. Or so I thought.

As my physician father said, “It’s not a medical problem, it’s a society problem”.

Ok boomer, you’re right on this one. :)

(I’m referencing this article:https://www.cnn.com/2020/01/10/us/intersex-surgeries-gothere/index.html)

 

 

 

Home Is Where The Mortgage Is

 

This fall’s early snow delayed taking the best “After” shots, but I don’t hate the way it camouflaged the crummy roof. The house exterior looks amazing, but it’s 58 degrees and breezy inside. Next year, storm windows. The year after that, condo.

Come Out with Tits Swinging

A middle-aged dude just rolled up in his Mercedes, slowed down, pulled close to the curb, and TOSSED HIS GARBAGE BOTTLE IN MY COMPOST BIN. I am over 45, bra-less in a nightgown and slippers and I am enraged. All I need is curlers and you can see the picture. I ran out to the street. If I'd been faster and if it wasn't so early in the morning, I would have thrown it back at his sedan and yelled. This is what home ownership does to a person.

 

My favorite part of these incidents is that SHOREWOOD IS REALLY SMALL. Dude, I know your car. Dude, I know YOU.

 

I'm currently taking suggestions for the note I'll leave when I return the bottle to the hood of his car. Nice detail: the bottle is full of HIS SUNFLOWER SEED SHELLS.

 

Also, currently taking suggestions on paint colors for the house trim. Home ownership has many curses.

On Rage

It's been a tough week. After yet another well-meaning person displayed lack of insight on the subject of Kavanaugh's impending appointment to the Supreme Court, I'm exhausted. Three times I said "or, it could just be enough that he assaulted someone". Three times, and still the return comment was "yeah, but also he's a drunk, and he lied, and...". Yes. I get it, all those things are also true. But why wave your hand and shoo away the sexual assault? Why is that not enough? And why, as I stand here saying to your face, very clearly, that it SHOULD be enough, can you not stop and hear me? Hear me, as a woman, as a person who is affected, who has experienced this, and take it in. Listen.

Every time you say "Aside from the  sexual assault allegations, he's also unqualified because xyz"...What you're saying is that credible sexual assault allegations aren't enough to disqualify someone from a position of power and influence. And I can't hear that shit anymore. CREDIBLE SEXUAL ASSAULT ALLEGATIONS ARE ENOUGH TO DISQUALIFY ANYONE FROM A JOB. When will we be heard? Every single time someone says "Why didn't they say anything?", this is the perfect example. BECAUSE IT DOESN'T MATTER. ALSO WE DID SAY SOMETHING AND YOU DISMISSED IT IN THIS AND A HUNDRED OTHER WAYS. Well-meaning men have been doing this kind of thing all week, and even my favorite well-meaning male allies can just eat it right now on that. Thank you and that is all.

Fuck Whales, Save Context

This topic of this article is really important. I’m only beginning to understand.

https://www.vox.com/2018/8/3/17644704/sarah-jeong-new-york-times-tweets-backlash-racism

Fuck whales, save context. This article and others I’ve read related to the story (with a variety of views) of Sarah Jeong and others makes me hope that I learn fast enough how to educate my kids on context, internet literacy, consent, research, and critical thinking. Also, art critique skills could be useful, it’s the same questions: Who is the audience? What is the intent? How successfully was it executed? How else could it be interpreted? 

The internet is scary. It’s also amazing. It’s all the things, and it’s embedded in my life.

I’ve been blogging since 2002 and posting photos of my babies and life on Facebook since 2009. Two things have given me pause lately. One, I sent a link of an old 2012 blog post to a friend and I noticed that in the post before it I had used the word “ghetto” in the title. That made me cringe. I was tempted even to change or delete it. But I didn’t; a reminder that language and understanding changes, that I learn and grow is a good thing.

Second, I was recently enjoying a fluff story trail of “Where Are They Now?” about memes and I noticed a majority of the images were of young people or children who are now—zip—adults. First, wow that was fast, kids grow up in seconds. And second, crap, what would Viv think at age 13 of some of the photos and captions out there of her at age three? Do I have a right to do that? Does she have a right to privacy before junior high?

Oh god, she’s going to have to go to junior high. Delete delete delete

The Sun Shines On Us All

At the beach this evening, resting my sore feet in the cool sand, I could see this scene to my right and to my left. Families, friends, kids, grandparents, daters and skaters and aunties and babies. On the walk down the bluff, I heard three languages. I spotted interracial couples and families, more than one hijab, differently abled folks, seniors, lgbtq folks, and even a lone hold out cigarette smoker. Clumps of families in every conceivable configuration dotted the beach. Hand holders, shouters and strollers shared the boardwalk. 

When the world seems upside down, when the newsfeed is unbearable, when the political divisions feel like looming civil war, remind me to go to the beach. To the beach where everyone is bonded,  where the array of humanity is beautifully broad, where everyone is there to capture the same thing—good selfie light.

A Seat At The Table

Each article, each radio interview, every profile featuring women running for office, women winning elections, women leading boards, and women leadership in general right now is stoking my rage. Why? Because the popular angle is “women are good for business”, “women do things differently so they are better” and all that lean in crap. Even if the studies aren’t flawed, even if the premise isn’t condescending, why the fuck should it matter?

Why do we need to prove our worth? Our capabilities? Our profitability? Why must we apologize for taking our seat at the table? Why do I need to convince you that my female presence is not only harmless, but beneficial to you? What if it isn’t beneficial? What if women are just as fallible and human as men? What if we get greedy, can be corrupt, can be inept, can be wrong; do we then get expelled?

Women are half the population, women are human beings, women are engines of the economy, makers of humans. WOMEN EXIST. That is reason enough to demand representation at every level in the government that rules us, the institutions that affect us and the corporations that profit from our labor.

Period. Ditto everyone that isn’t a straight white man. 

All Politics Is Local. Also, the Universe doesn't care.

On Tuesday night, I refreshed my screen a hundred times, waiting for the local election results. More than ever before,  I really cared who was elected to the Village Board. Shorewood has had a lot of development in the last five years (and by a lot I mean an eight story apartment building, a parking garage, a two city block Metro Mart complex with another parking garage and then right next to that another six story apartment block--all visible from my front porch. Oh, and the cute church on my very corner got torn down for a bank-from-a-box currently under construction). I love the walkability of our neighborhood, it's literally why I moved here, but a lot of how the most recent development was done is more than the little village could handle. I'm still learning, still catching up on board meeting videos, but my understanding is that there is wide spread discontent regarding these issues: 

1) Not enough community involvement in scale, design and use decisions (i.e. That enormous building is ugly as shit).

2) Inadequate planning for traffic changes; to date there is still no village wide traffic study.

3) Inequitable facade improvement grants up to $200k from a program that was supposed to support older buildings and local business at the $10k level.

4) Over use of TIF (Tax Incremental Finding) to "get" development deals instead of letting the market dictate.

5) And of course, our taxes keep going up.

So, it's ripe for political change. The previous VB President is retiring, and two Trustee seats were up for reelection. Apparently, (and I'm only up to speed on a few Facebook group and online forum gossip mill posts), there has been a lot of discord, infighting, and trash talking between the old guard (those who created, financed, and approved the questionable developments) and the new guard (two women Trustees who surprised everyone by unseating incumbents in the last election cycles). So, that's the set up.

It made for a very exciting few weeks in this little hamlet! The Milwaukee County Executive even weighed in on our little race (with his private money) by endorsing some candidates as part of an expensive, glossy yet vague big-money political action group ad campaign. Yard signs were stolen, previous VB Presidents allegedly banned from Facebook pages, gossipy smear letters annonymously mailed to citizens...politics really brings out the best in people.

I was really hoping for change, for my three picks to win. Allison Rozek for VB President, Jessica Carpenter for Trustee and Davida Amenta for Trustee (2 trustee spots were open, and Davida was seeking reelection, Allison was a sitting Trustee running for the President spot).

At 9pm, the local news site said my gals had lost, with 100% precincts reporting. I was dumbstruck. I knew Allison was a fifty fifty chance, Jessica was safe with a second place showing, but Davida got bumped to third which meant she lost her seat. That was the worse case scenerio--if Allison had lost she would still retain her Trustee seat, but without Davida on the board her coalition for change was weakened. Davida losing was really crushing, I believed her seat was safe. But it was not to be, I was gutted.

So, I tossed and turned all night..I made mental plans for a get out the vote campaign, I was rearranging my schedule to attend every village board meeting, writing my Concerned Citizen statements, grinding my teeth...

In the morning, I checked the Facebook to read their statements. Stunning reversal! THEY DID WIN! All three of my picks WON! Turns out the local site had it wrong, Allison won by 103 votes, Jessica took the first trustee spot handily with the most votes, and Davida retained her seat with a squeaky but safe margin.

I cried. I actually cried. Now, they may all make mistakes and we may find that all the decisions the previous board made were on the up and up, but most important to me is that now we will KNOW what is going on. This new group has promised to change the way the government communicates with and involves the residents, they have promised transparency and accountability. They better deliver, because my heart can't take it!

It was an amazing morning, it felt so fantastic to get a win. There's nothing we can't do! March! Vote! Fund raise! Change is coming! The future is female! What a day!

And then I put my car in a ditch. So, thanks Universe, for the reminder.

 

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America's Seedy Underbelly is Your Neighbor Larry

(bumper sticker says ‘I choose the obnoxious prick over the corrupt bitch’)

Really? Who raised you? If you're daring enough to put this out there (there was also a huge Trump banner inside the garage, right next to a Jesus poster), I give you credit for speaking your mind. Also, you're evil. And not Christian.

I enjoy proof of well-to-do Trumpers; the "poor white men" narrative has always irked me because I KNOW there were just as many silent Republicans in those upper tax brackets who put him in office.

I love America. Trumpers don't own patriotism, or family values, or loving America. We spent the week driving its highways and byways, like any good country song. Everywhere we went there were faces and voices of every stripe and persuasion, for the most part all friendly. Traveling with family may bring out the worst in you inside the minivan, but out at the pumps, we are all alright. And trapped in a snowstorm in the quickimart, we are all one.

Be better to each other. Especially you, "Christian" a-hole.

 

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Don't Get Me Started

I made the mistake of getting engaged with the local Village Board election coming up in April.

Paulie hasn't had the chance to attend a forum or read much, so I keep him informed.

This morning was all about the TIFs, the lack of bidding out professional services, and the issues that never even got on the board agenda. One of the candidates for Village President said "I don't set the agenda, YOU set the agenda" to the forum crowd. Um, yes, actually the bylaws state that the Village President DOES indeed have sole authority to set the agenda as well as to select committee members. So, 1) misleading and pandering B) didn't answer the question which was what is your method for setting the agenda. Paulie wasn't there, so I played it out for him, word for word. Quite a lot of the forum got repeated for his benefit come to think of it.

We covered all three candidates for the two Trustee positions, and the two candidates for Village President. Experience, qualifications, positions, and of course detailed analysis of their replies to my email questions. Then there's understanding the complicated Tax Incremental Funding and the relationship between the Board and the Communitiy Development Authority and that big money transfer made this year instead of closing one of the TIFs early, and did you know they DON'T GET COMPETING BIDS for professional services? And that they don't have CONTRACTS? And there wasn't a look back clause with the developemer that got the $5 million GRANT and then flipped the entire project in 10 months for $20 million profit? And so on...

Paulie, from the shower: "Honey, why don't you just go ahead and run so I can get ready in peace some day."

 

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All The Little Things

 

When I wore my favorite dress on my birthday and forgot that the fourth grade teacher did "birthday spankings". He made me crawl through the "spank machine" of my classmates legs as they paddled my bottom, at the end of the tunnel he put me on his lap, lifted my dress and spanked my bottom.

 

When the gym teacher asked if I could "run with those things".

When my freshman (high school) roommate came over to my bed while I was sleeping, woke me up and made me pretend to give her finger a blow job in front of her gaggle of friends to humiliate me.

Every single time someone said "but you have such a pretty face".

When the doctor, during my very first pelvic exam, slapped my thigh and said "What are we going to do about these saddle bags?"

When the school president asked "Which one is the smart one and which one is the pretty one?"

The time the guy started to go anal without asking.

The time the guy creeped his hand over to caress my thigh while his other hand was holding the hand of his girlfriend on my couch.

The time the two male business partners started talking about a female vendor: "How could someone that good looking smell so bad" as we waited for the meeting to begin. When the next party arrived, who was male and not their employee, they stopped talking.

The time a grown man pinned a sixteen year old me against the pole on a crowded train car and rubbed himself against my backside until he was yelled at and ran off at the next stop.

Every single time someone assumed that fat is an insulator from assault and a barrier to love.

 

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My Balance Is My Own Damned Business

 
                                                                                                                                                                                 

"By a show of hands, how many here this morning are married?" "Again by a show of hands, how many of you have kids?"

This is not a family event. This is not a parenting class. This is not a working parent support group. These are the OPENING LINES of a PROFESSIONAL WOMEN'S DEVELOPMENT event. Professional Development. As in business, the workplace, professions. As in growth, learning, development.

I should have had a clue from the start at my table. The ice breaker activity was answering the question "What is the best thing that happened to you this week?". I was running about five minutes behind the rest of the group (having stood outside the daycare at 6:55 am, dropped Viv off when they opened at 7 am, and then hauled across the county to attend the 7:45 am event), so as I sat down with coffee, I cheerfully shared my big win of the week. Up for a long-shot, very large-dollar project bid, a junior member of my sales team had just got word that we won the deal. When she called to tell me, I had to hold the phone away from my ear because she was yelling so loud with excitement. It was a big moment for the company, a big moment for the team, a huge moment for her. And I was thrilled to be her coach.

"So, that was a pretty rewarding win this week". Smile, head nod, next.

Gal next to me, at this moment a complete stranger: "But Kate, what was your personal win this week?"

"Um, actually, I've spent a lot of time coaching her so for me it was a personal win." Roll eyes, turn to hear the introduction of the keynote speaker. I thought, well, that was awkward, but let's see what the keynote has to offer.

It did not get better.

Line three of her presentation was "You can have it all". Um, we are all working women, and now we know which of us has kids. It's 7:55 am. We are all here. At a work event. Please, tell us something we don't know. It would factually appear that we do know how to "have it all". What even is that? That is not a thing.

When do male-dominated or mixed-gender BUSINESS EVENTS ask such questions? They don't. Don't get me started on the rambling, self-obsessed drivel that was a presentation on how she got to where she is, which is the Bench. Ok, I'll start, here's a sampling:

" A lot of women have to work these days, I mean houses are expensive. Everything is expensive". "My brother's wife raised her kids to be stay at home moms, they got pregnant young, out of wedlock, then got married and then got divorced. One got remarried, and he's very supportive and now shes back in school but shes so far behind. I mean, education is so important". "All my kids are going to college, they are going to college no matter what. Don't get me wrong, for some kids it's trade school. And that's fine. College can mean so many things. But my kids are all going to college. And I can't say enough good things about Google Calendar, it's a must."

PROFESSIONAL WOMEN'S DEVELOPMENT.

New World on Order

I can order any item I want---from baby formula to a winter coat, and it arrives at my door the next day. I can read hundreds of magazines, newspapers and journals (enjoying Science!); all of them are now literally at my finger tips. The world enters my home, my work, my life. I can listen to any radio program, when I want, where I want. On demand, it's all on demand. We are takers.

A week ago today Mom and I were on the Washington Mall, in a sea of pink pussy hats. It felt wonderful to be relaxed, not on guard, not defensive. Everywhere I looked, every eye I caught, every whoop and wave was affirming. "I'm not crazy, I'm not overreacting, this situation truly isn't normal." And most profoundly: "I am not alone."

We are not alone. The world is in our handbags, but we are not in the world. The world is a big, beautiful, messy, human place. I want to be a part of it. America, be a part of it.

 

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This has always hurt. Just not so noticeably.

4th of July 1982, Pioneer Village, Nebraska

I have had my feet in two worlds for large parts of my life. Growing up in a smallish town on the edge of an industrially polluted lake where my classmates were not expected nor encouraged to go to college, I was the (obnoxious) Doctors Kid. My big-city mother struggled in the suffocating small town, my father thrived in what to him was a sprawling village of opportunity. In private boarding school I was disgusted by the classmates who used their parents high-end drugs and their own teenage cruelty to ostracize me. I found friendship among the townies. But not all the townies, just the arties and gays and other misfits would have me. I found people I liked, and who liked me, and I found my own way. Along the way, I took snippets of interesting things from my urban, artistic, democratic family on the one hand, and my rural, veteran, republican family on the other. I am intensely proud of the diversity of thought in my own background and the interesting, varied and often hilarious people who created it. 

I have said often that having that dichotomy kept things balanced and gave me a buffet of characteristics to choose from to form my own identity. Work ethic + art + bookishness + community + creativity + travel + solitude + Patsy Cline= my own perfect mix. 

When I left the Midwest, I promised myself that I would live in the South, Europe and the East and West Coasts. (I didn't make it to NYC, but there's still time). Every four or five years I would pick up and start over in a new place, with new social norms and new people. It enriched me. I fueled me. Each place I've lived gave me a new view of America, and I found something to love in each one. 

The pain in my heart on Wednesday was fueled by the knowledge that people I know and love, people I admire and adore, voted for Trump. I know they are not all racist. They are not all cruel. They are my people too. They deserved so much better. They have been used. They can't possibly think this is ok, can they? Did I every really know them? Does their hate extend to me? And yes, a vote for Trump is a vote for hate. At best it is a vote for an erratic, foul mouthed buffoon you wouldn't invite to the American Legion fish fry, at worst it is a vote for a fear-mongering, race-baiting fascist.(I could go on about my pain as a woman, but it's all been said).

Those people are not all rural either, it's not that simple. They are not all "out there in the sticks". Just last week, on trick-or-treat night, I ran to my corner Walgreens (I live on the corner of White + Liberal) for more candy. In the recently-raided aisle, I was scrounging for the last bags of chocolate when the woman next to me said "Ran out?" I said "Yes, they came in droves!". To which she replied: "Don't get more for those Over-The-Rivers!".

Black children. That's what she meant. N word is what she meant. I scooped up every bag on the shelf and walked away. I was speechless, and in that moment felt stunned. Every kid who came up my step that night got handfuls and handfuls of candy. All night I fumed at that ignorant, mean-hearted woman. But I thought she was a one-off, an outlier. An anomaly.

The problem with Wednesday was just that -- it was day. And all the secret hate, the quiet bigotry, was out in the light.. And it was all around us. It WAS us. 

I can't cover it all here, I hardly know what I'm talking about, there are more knowledgeable voices than mine already saying everything. I have always written. Of the moments in my life both mundane and profound, I have written. My diaries date back to Reagan, I have every letter Grandma ever sent me. I write because I have to, like a habit. I write about this because, because...oh, I don't even know. All I know is that, like America, I am full of contradictions. I am striving to be better, I fail often, and I want a good world for my loved ones.

I know one thing---we are worthy of better.

Babies Are Awesome and Not At All Gross

Today during lunch out at a restaurant (out of the house!) Charlie simultaneously loaded his diaper and blew milk out of his nostril.

 

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The Ring of Fire Is Not About Johnny Cash

The second baby is both easier and more difficult. I knew what was coming, so I dreaded labor and delivery. My experience with Viv was so tough, I feared a repeat. And no, "getting a healthy baby at the end" does not erase a bad birth experience. It certainly helps over the alternative, but a crummy time is a crummy time.

The birth plan this time around was certainly more flexible (and less lengthy--"Take it as it comes") but still focused on as natural as possible. When baby was breech at 36 weeks and my conservative OB/GYN firmly announced it would be a c-section if he didn't flip by 38 weeks, I was in a panic. I saw the chiropractor every other day, did accupressure and stood on my head for twenty minutes each night. A surgeon's daughter avoids surgery like the proverbial plague.

Lucky me, it worked!

I was so relieved to avoid a scheduled c-section that I didn't see the preeclampsia coming. A few spiked blood pressure readings didn't alarm me, but sharply declining platelets and scary liver function readings did. A scientist's daughter also knows when to trust the numbers. It's a good thing I'm so organized and had wrapped up work a week before my due date, because it was time to get that baby out!

 

-When faced with an unknown, Paulie goes to his comfort zone. As we were scrambling out the door Saturday morning for the emergency induction, he vacuumed the cars. Both cars.

-When your childcare plan (i.e. Grandma) says they are going on a winery tour the weekend before your due date, be sure to ask WHERE. Do not assume it's local. It's more likely, inexplicably, in Appleton. By charter bus.

-Intravenous Magnesium is the devil. The devil that saves your life, but the devil.

-I've never been so happy to get a catheter. Or had such a deep, meditative exchange with an anesthesiologist.

-Doctors tell, and you think you understand and nod your head like you understand. But after the doctor is out the door moments later, the nurses interpret. And then you truly DO understand. You understand that the nurses do everything. And then they also clean up your food tray.

-"Why does the window hurt so fucking much?!?" I asked Paulie over and over during transition. I had an area in my abdomen, near my hip that the epidural didn't take effect on. It happens sometimes. The nurse explained it to me, calling it an epidural "window", while Paulie was in the bathroom. As he leaned over the bed to comfort me, he was so perplexed when I grunted "No, godfuckingdamnit it's not about the blinds".

-Pushing when I felt like it, as I felt like it without the sitcom "push push push" count down was so much better. Pulling on a towel like a rope, with both Paulie and the doula pulling in the other direction was brilliant. That baby popped out in thirty minutes!

-A doc who saves your stuff (as one observer noted "She worked the hell out of it") is forgiven for all else.

-My hair looked amazing.

 

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Play Time Out

The play area yesterday was crawling....with parents. The kids hardly had room to move, much less swing and jump. I remember French playgrounds where parents sat on the sidelines and had coffee and adult conversation while the kids sorted it out. I love you Vivi, but I find the playground incredibly boring, and I won't hide it. I brought a book to the park when I was a kid, I'll do it again now. You'll deal.

 

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Labor of Love-ish

Here we are having a little rest tonight after working non-stop on the house for three days. Viv likes to play on the slide in the front yard while I check on my flowers and bird feeder. Each marathon weekend like this ends in sore muscles, empty bank accounts and a bit more affection for the house.

Let me explain Paulie's bathtub-in-the-hallway selfie: We both hate Clawfoot tubs, it's one of the connections that bonded us deeply in our early romance. They are old, uncomfortable, impossible to keep clean and worst of all, they were originally made to be hog scalds. I can never unlearn that little factoid. Add to that the expense of adding a complicated customized shower on it (nearly equal to just replacing it completely) and that tub is out the window. Or down the stairs as it where.

Thirty minutes after listing it on Craigslist as "you get it out, it's yours for free" this morning, I had twenty emails! It was gone by noon; carried quickly down the stairs by a pair of burly brothers.

Now, of course, we have created a typical Kenmore problem....the place it vacated is now screaming for a large, luxurious and spectacularly expensive tiled shower enclosure.

 

 

 

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I Hate My House

I hate my house. But I shouldn't. I spent the last twenty years enamored with modern design and architecture. I ran a modern design shop, worked for a modern furniture store, grew a huge modern design library (and moved it multiple times), read every magazine (I miss Echoes), read every blog and haunted every real estate listing. Palm Springs felt like heaven. Three family members have had places in the Mies buildings. My grandfather built two modern gems. Even my Nebraska photographs are love letters to simple farm vernacular. How did I end up in a dark and detailed Milwaukee craftsman bungalow? I know nothing about this house. That's the problem. I know nothing about arts and crafts architecture, nothing of the forces of the time shaping design, nothing of the manufacturers and makers who made a mark. It didn't interest me before, but now I have a vested interest. (Though mortgage rates are at a historic low I'm told). Now I start learning.

Curb Appeal

The exterior of Kenmore has, from the beginning, nagged at me. Something is not right. When I first walked in, it was the general warmth of the front room and specific detail of the sunroom floor tile that made me say "Finally, a real house!". But the exterior, especially the front, has never had that same effect. It's dour, dark and almost blank. For a structure with tons of character (ie: original, poorly maintained features and fixtures), the face is a disappointment. Every time I turn in the drive, I frown back at it.

The brilliance of having a twin house next door (our neighbor Augie's house and ours were built by the same man, at the same time in 1927---one for him, one for his parents) is that I have a very handy measuring stick right next door. Augie's bungalow is lovely, deeply detailed and all the original features have always been meticulously maintained.

It also, in spite of having the downward turned gambrel roof line, is smiling.

After studying the structural elements, reading a few chapters of Renovation Volume 4 and finding the Window Police online (www.oldhouseguy.com), I think I have it figured out!

Its not just the depressing color scheme or lack of landscaping, it's the hideous aluminum storm windows and aluminum facing that are bringing Kenmore down. The storm windows stick out, literally, from the face of the brick, rather than stepping in or sitting flush with the window frame.

At some point, in the name of progress, cheap aluminum storm windows were added to the house. They are the triple track, finger-cutting kind that never function properly. To make matters worse, aluminum trim was used to cover every piece of wood molding, framing and trim around all the exterior windows and roof overhang. The result is flat, featureless and frightening (whats under there? how much water damage is the "maintainence free" aluminum hiding?).

The interior windows were also allowed to fall into disrepair. Few of them have their cords and weights working, most upstairs are painted shut, and all the wood frames are so dirty and crackled they need to be stripped and refinished.

It all adds up to the knee-jerk reaction of wanting to replace the windows. Until I studied Augie's house and read more of Mr Historic Windows's rants. New replacement windows would have been a ruin, thank goodness we can't afford them! An affordable alternative I'm excited to try is Indow Windows (www.indowwindows.com). Interior storm windows, they are simple to install and keep historic windows intact. From Portland no less. I'm already stripping the interior wood frames one by one, and Rocky is going to give us a tutorial in rope and weight repair.

So, come spring, we will be removing the ugly storm windows and trim. A huge project will likely be revealed, but I'm hoping a happy face is too.

 

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Life is Unfair.

" Friday's shootings bring the total in the last week to 26. Eight people have been killed in those shootings."

That's just one week. In my town. In Milwaukee. Not Syria, not Afghanistan. I'm so frustrated and sad and feel helpless to do anything about it. We are slaughtering our own, letting our neighbors and fellow Americans get injured and killed. As if poverty and segregation and humiliation wasn't enough. And as long as we (by we I mean white, privileged, educated, wealthy, ---pretty much every single person I know) can distance ourselves with excuses and gated neighborhoods from the poor, the left behind and the institutionally enslaved (incarcerated), it will continue.

It's so dishearteneing to hear complaints about workers fighting for a better minimum wage--"I had to work hard for only so much, they should too". I hear so many ways that we justify poverty; justify our Having and their Suffering. I've heard immigrants disparage other immigrant populations. I hear elderly folks and veterans cling to their social benefits, but deny others even the basic entry to schools. I hear young people bemoan their student loan debt (I don't disagree), and in the next breathe say that fast food workers only make so little because they are uneducated and it's their own fault. We can only measure our success as a community by how we care for the least among us.

Some days, though I am a dedicated atheist, I feel like a lonely Christian.

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Appreciation Under Duress

I thought it was bad when the daycare sent home a list of instructions for "child week" last month---wear this color on that day, dress up as your favorite character, and more. I have enough to do ---work, baby, home. Do I really need assignments for my six month old? But I thought, it's only one week, it can't be that bad.

And then another note arrived in my daycare "in box". This time, it's Teacher Appreciation week. Complete with instructions on writing the required note to the teachers and participating in the pot luck (with food or check---a blatant request for a check?!). I don't like forced appreciation. I was all for bringing in some cookies for the ladies and writing a thank you note to the director who is leaving for another position soon, but that was before I was informed of my obligation to do it!

Of course, Viv is appreciative, and a considerate child, so she wrote her letter:

 

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Boxes and Baskets

A few tips for that week between when you packed up all your belongings and the day you actually move:

Un-used diapers make handy pot holders. Coffee can be filtered with paper towel. One lightbulb can be moved from fixture to fixture.

If the pizzas are ordered from a different place each time, that means you did not "just order pizza" three times in one week.

Beer is just as important a packing staple as tape.

There is no good, space-saving way to pack lamp shades, curtain rods or pillows.

Somewhere in this house is the bottle of asperin. Just not in this box, not in that box, not those boxes I opened over there...

A rough day can be made better by sneaking a Peep from the baby's Easter basket!

 

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New Year, New House?

Why do people more frequently say a house is too small?
I have yet to be advised that a house is too big, even when it's a 2300 sq ft beast ( not counting basement and garage). That is twice what we need---twice the renovation cost, twice the heating and cooling, twice the maintenance, twice the work.

It's just us three, Vivienne will not suffer for having been raised in a modest house with only one bathroom. Yes, two would be more convenient. But it's not the end of the world. And we can always add one.

I'm not going to commit to buying a house in an area I find boring as hell just because it comes with an extra crapper.

The garage, however, is a different story. According to Paulie, and I am beginning to see his point, you can never have a too large garage.

Searching

House hunting in winter sucks. Our budget means a fixer upper, which we love, but come on! It has to be at least mostly structurally sound. Milwaukee has some ugly, ugly housing stock right now.

According to the listings, the highlight of the Wisconsin home apparently is the basement bar.

I am determined not to buy a house by the pound-- bigger is not always better, especially when it comes to Midwestern heating bills and renovations. I'd rather have a little gem that I can afford to fix up now with the best materials rather than in ten years and too cheaply. I miss the days of being able to vacuum my whole apartment without ever changing outlets. I don't want to own and maintain rooms we never use.

But every house we have seen, regardless of size, has been a trashed mess. Do people really live like this? Is this really all you get for your money?

My dreams of something "cool" with "potential" are fading. At this point, I'd settle for "not gross".

"Birthing Center" --Yeah, Right.

Things that freaked out me during the tour of the "birthing center" at the hospital:

-You can't walk down the hall with baby in your arms, it must be in the hamburger-warmer-cart-crib at all times in the hallways.

-"No one really ever uses" the water tub so it's not a problem to only have one.

-Three different staff members proudly touted the brand new state of the art bar code baby security system so I don't have to worry that someone will "steal my baby". They actually said "steal your baby" three times.

-The new security system will probably go off if you stand too close to the windows. Natural daylight is out!

-They bragged about having 2 cesarean rooms. Cesareans are operations, the hospital has 10+ operating rooms. 

-We got 10 minutes of step by step instructions on how to use the digital baby photo booth (again, baby can only be in the hamburger warmer cart). Zero minutes on pain management techiques offered.

-You are transferred from your delivery room to a postpardum room an hour after delivery. An hour. That first precious hour is interrupted with a room change. I don't think even the Ramada would do that.

-The only thing they directed towards Paul, the only eye contact even made with  him (my birth partner, my husband and the freakin' father!) was to address how and where to park upon arrival. 

Pink Overload

I wandered down the kids toys aisles at Target the other day when baby shower registering (registering against my will--that's another story!) and was floored by the blatantly sexist coloring and design! One side pink, one side blue.

I don't get it, I remember toys when we were kids being colored like the items they were imitating or in neutral brights---the grocery store play set was colored like a grocery store (if a somewhat garish one). The play kitchen was primary colors. Not all pink. And when did erector sets only have a boy on the package? And when did legos become boys only too? And why does a car for girls have to be pink for a girl to like it?
And the vacuum is in the girls aisle only?

How did we slide so far backwards? I'm not usually the type to make a stink about these things (we need bigger problems) but jeez!!!! I'm disgusted.

Dare I even walk into Babies/Toys R Us or will my head explode?

Dear FIAT,

I am so disappointed in the new Abarth ad featuring Charlie Sheen. It makes the Abarth look like a wealthy mega-consumers personal indoor golf cart. Charlie Sheen is an ill person suffering from drug and alchohol addiction who has mistreated his family, fans and coworkers. He is NOT a good representative of Fiat. I own a 500, and adore it. I was thrilled to see the Abarth at the LA auto show and was seriously considering purchasing one this spring. I am not sure any more. Please get the message right for both the 500 and Abarth----its a car worth much more than the shallow celebrity endorsing, pandering, low bar advertising we've seen so far. Its a passionate, head-turning, Italian design icon thats a kick in the pants to drive! Tell that story!! Thank you, Kate Mikkelsen

Thank you.

Geraldine Ferraro

It never occurred to me that I couldn't do or be anything I wanted because I was a girl. Because I'm unmotivated or incompetent, yes, but never because of my girl-ness. And that was in part because Ms. Ferraro was on the ticket when I was 12 years old.

I distinctly recall thinking "What is the big deal?" In one way, that is wonderfully typical for my generation--many of us don't see the big deal about sex, race, sexual orientation, etc. But let us not forget that it was so different not so long ago, and that for many of our peers around the world, the lack of that freedom is a very big deal.