All About Me

The title really has nothing to do with the post. I'm just enjoying myself so much. Aren't you? Yes, yes! I meant enjoying ME. I know I'm self-absorbed, but in a way that's very interesting to others.

The post is about three wonderful finds-- real gems!

The first is a novel, Abide With Me, by Elizabeth Strout. Please buy this book. Send her money and fan mail. I gasped by page ten and re-examined my hesitancy to read while driving (I see people with book or magazine on the steering wheel in the thick of rush hour on 94E, between 3:45 and 4:14, from Lexington to White Bear Lake exits, all the time, if you're a state trooper or cop and have a minute to spare).

Yesterday, waiting with five children for a table at Big Bowl, I stood smack in the middle of the mall and sobbed my way through the ending. Reading standing up. I gave in entirely, wet and running. Scarlett and Merrick know enough to step aside; the other children grew nervous, lest some of this emotion stream their way. John joined us later, only to find me trembling at the table, head in hands, still spent.

"Finish that book?" The man knows me.

This is her second and I have already purchased her first, the hugely popular and award-winning Amy and Isabelle. I am kicking myself for all the times I didn't pick up that book.

Second is the astounding Liz Rognes. For those naughty readers who missed an earlier post, I recently ruminated on unrecognized talent in our midst. You know, the Caribou clerk with a band on the side that turns out to be amazing or the security guard at Target who's actually an award winning poet.

Not long out of college, Liz gives voice and piano lessons to Scarlett and Merrick respectively. She also sings, composes and generally pursues. Yesterday, weak after my bout with the book, I went to her myspace page.

Go to www.myspace.com/lizrognes and listen to Falling. John came in while I was and asked, "Is that Jewel?" Please, don't diminish Liz!

To further amaze: when I emailed to ask her if I could put a link on this blog, she wrote, "I have zero recording equipment, so my songs sound like they were recorded on a laptop with a built-in microphone (um....which they were.)" That's what she can do with a laptop? Imagine Liz in a studio. I have goosebumps. Yes, there's a link.

I cried all the way through Falling. Too much art! I can't take so much beauty in a single day.

The third gem presented itself yesterday, too, but is a slightly different animal. This is Leonardo's Basement in South Minneapolis. A non-profit, Leonardo's is indeed a big big basement and it's full of junk: wires, bottle caps, old toys, ornaments, piles of metal and wood, upholstery, coils of foil, computers, roller skates, aprons, keys, screws, feathers, sequins and fur. The list is endless.

Basically, the staff --and there's plenty of them--hands your kid a blow torch or glue gun and says, "Have at it." And Stryker did. Scroll down the photos and see the table and chair my child and his friend built, in under four hours. Stryker had never so much as tapped a nail before. He came home fully lit.

When I picked him up today (he begged to go back), I spotted him with three other excited boys in the 'control panel,' an elevated contraption of computers, wires, poles and pipes and duct tape. He saw me and pushed a blinking button.

"We got the fog to work!" Fog indeed. I was instantly enveloped in the smoke pouring from a huge tube directly above me.

If yours is the budding scientist, a child with a brain wired to rewire, Leonardo's Basement is for you!

Lots of goodies for one day.

Now, The New Dog

Let's start with this fact: Merrick is draped across my lap while I type. Remember the snot-sodden four year old in the previous post? Poor guy!

We wouldn't have Scruffy at all if it weren't for a friend doing her own dog-shopping. Note, this family has taken its time, been particular. Impulsive lot that we are, Scruffy was the first dog we spotted!

My friend sang petfinder's on-line praises, so I went there with my hankering for a poodle. I grew up with poodles; they barely shed and they're friendly, smart (as dogs go), and malleable. I scrolled through all kinds of poodle mutt mixes and then saw Scruffy. There was something about that rat-like face, that Toto tuff of hair. I thought: that's our dog.

Reason wagged her finger. A decision like this should require more research, greater selection.
Plus, John was firmly opposed to anything remotely related to getting a new dog, including window shopping.

So I sent Stryker shopping. I swear this wasn't consciously subversive, but in retrospect, Freud might win this poker game.

At the time, Stryker was bored and kicking about for action. Since I am source of All Things, he was unrelenting: "Give me ideas! Something. I need something to DO." After even a few minutes of this (yes, my threshold is that low) I was ready to suggest a game of 'cross the street blindfolded.'

Three facts about Stryker. Fact one: he LOVES shopping. When we drive by Target, he rolls down the window, leans out and yells, "I love you Target!" I am not making that up. Fact two: He loves animals more than shopping--more on that later. Fact three: Thurston's death hit our 11 year old son, hard. Really hard. It took me a month to convince him that he didn't murder his dog. Again, more later. Oh, and Stryker loves screens of all sorts.

Dog shopping on-line was a miracle, a combination of pleasure too vast to comprehend. "You are THE best mother in the world!"

Successful multi-tasking is such a rush. I simultaneously launched myself in Best Motherland and handed off a time-consuming task. Why not let Stryker log the hours?

Well, hour. He races into the kitchen with pages of possibilities, all terrier mixes. There are 8 to show, but -- and he can barely contain himself--the best, the greatest, the most amazing dog he'll save for last. Our dog.

And yes, that dog was Scruffy. Half poodle, half terrier.

Now, John could not say no to just looking! We purposely left wallets at home so we wouldn't be impulsive. The foster family said Scruffy was perfect. Didn't shed, smart, malleable--plus, minimal barking. "He's amazingly mellow for a one year old. And he loves other dogs and children."

Scruffy sat mournfully on the stoop, watching us drive away. Scarlett cried.

All the lack of wallet really meant was an additional drive to Apple Valley to retrieve our pet. Hey, we managed to wait until the next day!

Blethic

Do I get to officially coin a term? Blethic may end up in the Matronly archives, much like 'chicken,' or the term may pave my way toward fame (finally).

John and I routinely use chicken in this sense: "how's your chicken?" That means: "how's the squawking, flapping, needy, greedy, confused mess of mind and emotion?" So instead of "how's your day?" we might inquire about the state of the chicken. Just seems to encompass more of the chaos, at least mine.

So. . . finally, a comment! See post below. I am now thoroughly infused: audience! Hooray! Even if it's a row of one, munching popcorn and scrolling, alone.

Now an audience needs to be fed, coddled, kept happy (or else hate mail?). This is responsibility! Weight!

I find myself feeling a work ethic toward my blog: when was my last post? Was I clever and interesting in the four minutes and 29 seconds my schedule allows for blogging? If there's a work ethic a blog commands -- obligation -- mine feels like a blethic. You heard it here first.

Blethic could also be appropriate blog decorum for visitors or (in my sad case) visitor.

We won't cement the use of the word, quite yet, since it's so early in the lexicon! I would hate to be picky about content and limit blethic's possibilities before it's even fully launched. Yes, I googled the term and seemed to get back something vaguely mathematical, causing the synapses in my brain to immediately misfire.

Having satisfied my blethic for the moment, I can now take four 9 year old girls and one 4 year old with a sniffling whine-drenched cold to the mall. Oh goodie.

The new dog's story will be next. Stay tuned (see me creating sense of anticipation in visitor).

The New Dog

For those of you who don't know, our dear old Thurston died on August 20th. He had an amazing life that extended beyond the scope of other people's reason. "Isn't that dog dead yet?" was a regular salutation, especially after he started wearing diapers at night. Yes. And then when our nearly 15 year-old Springer-Irish setter mix could no longer move and we were unable to manage his pain -- yes, he lay dying, whimpering despite quadruple the dose of doggie morphine -- we brought him to the vet for the final shot. We draped ourselves around that dog for hours before his death and were all there at the end. To say that it went badly is perhaps the understatement of the century. The children screamed and wailed. When I was returning to the tiny room where we were saying our final good-byes, the somber couple in the waiting room exchanged whispers: "It doesn't sound good in there, does it?" "Horrible."

Thurston! Kiss the next snout you see. This was a dog who could savor a meaty bone while children climbed on his back.

Scruffy came with the name and his story is next. But this turned into a post about our old dog.

Hate Mail

No, I haven't gotten any --yet.

But if you haven't checked out Heather Armstrong's web site (on my links), it's worth going to just for the hate mail. The thrill isn't so much the hatred itself, but the amazing things Heather can do in response. She's particularly acedic in replies to the people who don't actually hate her, but write sort of sympathy emails, or the "I worry about your mental health" emails.

No hate mail here, but critique! Commentary! First from a friend who says "you don't understand the concept of blogging." I'm supposed to write more. And just to show you how darn sensitive I am--how utterly reactive--I am instantly composing this post. This also means I am indeed desperate for audience. Infected with need for audience!

And speaking of Heather Armstrong, that link has been my blog's biggest hit! So of course you've already gone there. Is it a compliment when people say "I love your link" instead of "love the blog?"

I better start writing more-- and sharpening that wit. Maybe I should lower that profanity bar.

Just When I was Feeling Inadequate

Last night I let Stryker skip a large neighborhood event -- a big potluck in a community center that drew over 50 neighbors who've been working to build community and prevent crime through on-line and on-the-ground activities.

When queried, I reported that Stryker had a lot of homework. I lied. He had homework. He stayed home for Play Station 2. He skipped the people for the screen, specifically a game purchased that day, Dance Dance Revolution. Even worse, his successful lobby for the game drew exclusively from Dr. Phil's counsel. I didn't even know he watched. Does it help that he paid for (most) of it with money earned walking a neighbor's dog?

I was thinking about this during the School Day Morning Fights. Sure, the rest of you get television's Sunday Morning Shows: our schedule rolls out fights five days a week. This one was simmering through the van while I ruminated (again) on a desperate plea from one of John's friends. After teaching in India for ten years--surrounded by children but not a mother--she returned to the States and spent some months with friends in suburban Colorado.

Her plea? Give these kids religion! This, from an atheist. Religion, outrage, a sense of social justice--something. She was shocked by our theological shortcomings, by a culture consumed with itself for the fun and feel of it all rather than any greater good.

Dance Dance Revolution. Just makes you want to hum and tap to It's Good to be an American, doesn't it?

Now click on the link (in the list to the right) and listen to just the first 17 minutes and thirty seconds of Kerry Kennedy's Midday speech (today, MPR). The first five minutes are introductions of various sorts, and you're allowed to skip them.

Straighten your desk, dust, check your email, but listen.

Really.

Theological Traffic Jams

Another one of my neighbors who will never read this blog routinely brings our family all kinds of sumptuous treats: pot stickers, nut breads, cookies, rice noodle soups. How lucky to live near a retired restaurateur!

But the neighbor also believes that I am a Nichiren Buddhist. Nichirens areBuddhism's Southern Baptists: full of fervor and invitation. Nichirens follow the teachings of the thirteenth century Japanese monk of the same name; generalizing, the beauty of the belief is that every one of us can achieve enlightenment in this lifetime--and live to enjoy it, too. All the disciple needs to do is routinely kneel before the Gohonzon (a mandala devised by Nichiren) and chant Namu-Myoho-Renge-Kyo and if you're inclined for the entire service, you toss in the Lotus Sutra, too.

Now, I don't necessarily not believe this.

But how did my dear, older neighbor come to be convinced that I was one of her people? So certain (and happy) that she spends hours in the kitchen on my behalf: thinly sliced sushi, ginger and orange curried shrimp, caramelized onions in a mushroom sauce drizzled over catfish?

Who wouldn't be a believer?

Our family has been practicing members of Clouds in the Water Zen Center for several years, a Japanese Zen tradition. But I was raised Catholic. Really Catholic. You can prostrate yourself before Buddha ten thousand times but you can't take the girl out of the uniform.

So I'm a bad Zen Buddhist, half-hearted at best. Lazy and drawn to rosaries.

Enter yet another neighbor (not the chef), another Nichiren Buddhist. He may be the dearest human on the planet. Certainly the sweetest and funniest. Knowing I'm of the Zen bent, he invites, encourages, extends in that down South Baptist People's Religion tradition --and he does this for years. "Come chant with me. Join us!" I walk the dog, mow the lawn, take out the recycling -- and there's my dear neighbor. Come join us!

Finally, I relent. I love him so, all I want to do is say yes. So I do. Yes! It's wretched to reject someone for years. I'll chant. I'll go to the Community Center. I love chanting. Go Nichiren!

He's so happy that I actually get up early for weeks and chant Namu-Myoho-Renge-Kyo. In the basement, so I don't wake anyone up. I'm infested with discord: I don't want to lie; I want my neighbor happy and approving; I want to be all Buddha to all people; and when I die, I want a priest and Last Rites. And I wear Guilt like all those nursing babies, tucked solidly to the breast.

The situation darkens. I recklessly agree that I'm ready for the Gohonzon, the mandala or shrine. My kind and attentive neighbor offers to stop by and drop one off: nine a.m. on Sunday, okay?

Of course, I forget so when neighbor calls to say he's crossing the street, I'm cursing like an Italian Catholic trucker, running through the house shoving dirty wine glasses in cupboards, toys under the furniture and everything else in closets and corners and wishing I had something other than pajamas and glasses on.

I swing open the door to my beaming neighbor--and the 15 strangers there for the ceremony.

The living room thermometer reads 91 while we chant. Sweat sends my glasses to my chin and my guests--brothers and sisters in Buddha--are drenched. Every so often one my children wanders through and yells: what's going on? My husband turns the corner, takes one look at the rows of chairs and makeshift ceremony (and me in my pajamas, night creme barely off the face) and runs upstairs as fast as he can.

Finally, we're meeting and greeting and wrapping up as I apologize for the lack of care given the entire event. "If I had known you were coming!" There wasn't even enough coffee. Every single person was more gracious than I've been in my lifetime; I knew then that I deserved every second of Guilt's fingernails ahead.

That's how I became a Nichiren Buddhist- at least, sorta kinda in a socially 'please like me' sort of way. Remember, I dream about saints and go to a Zen Center. Things aren't simple on the theological plane.

So my OTHER dear neighbor, the chef, learns of my apparent conversion and takes on my family. After all, we share a common religion.

She brings me sesame bread, pickled plums and sticky rice topped with nutmeg and cinnamon flakes. I leave Whole Foods tea and chocolate on her doorstep and run, hoping we're even.

Finally, she rings the doorbell. "Stop bringing me stuff. You good Buddhist. Just chant with me someday, okay?"

Oy. Isn't one of my great-grandmothers Jewish?

Maybe tomorrow we'll find blackened red peppers and curried beef on the doorstep.