I SAY..YOU SAY...LET'S CALL IT OFF

I need an Enigma machine (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enigma_machine)  to encrypt and decrypt messages between him and me.

The Enigma was a machine used in military intelligence during WWII and is thought to have hastened the Allies' victory.  The machine is complicated (to me), and had to be tweaked and elevated in sophistication as time passed.

Using both mechanical and electrical subsystems, a key is pressed completing an electrical circuit and lighting a bulb indicating a different letter than the one that was pressed.  (of course there is some trickery to this, using a mathematical formula and a 1/26 of a rotation and stops and starts and redirects, etc before the bulb lights up, to complicate the decrypting)

Codebreakers then intercept messages, decode them, and pass on this new intelligence. Efforts are thwarted. Victories won. etc.

According to some, the female brain is comprised of a series of lightbulbs and circuits and mysterious key combination triggers. Press "y" , shuffle, stop, start, eek erk, tweek, pop, bling, bang, chooo chooo, wizzzzz wizzzzz, creek, creek, ...."AHA!" as the lightbulb illumates a letter "q" ...I really think we've communicated here.  

The male brain, however, resembles a piece of cement or chunk of wood---no circuits, no button, no bulbs.  The mystery is less in what is said and more in what is not done.  I say "x" i do "y". Any questions?

This whole male brain female brain stuff, I'm not buying it.  It really only comes into play when one party is being an ass, and needs an excuse---the old feigned ignorance is a handy card to throw.  Injuring by ignorance or intentional maliciousness is only relevant in criminal law. In a relationship it seems to be a failure to meet halfway. Let one party do all the work to explain why the action was hurtful and totally lacked self awareness.  repeat til exhaustion.

Secrets are for wars.  cryptic messages to keep the enemy always guessing.  But, I am not military intelligence and I'm tired of this game. 

After frenzied coded messages, the final battle, comes armistice, and comes the cold war.  Now we'll wait in silence, severed.  In time ambiguity will give way to serenity. But I won't be the one explaining what happened, speaking in more riddles. Nah. the war is over here, and i just want to find home.

HOT!

 Yesterday a man named felix floated into the sky on a balloon and jumped off a platform the size of a skateboard from outerspace tumbling down to earth in a white suit, popping a parachute and landing safely, breaking world records. AMAZING! 

Check out this article: "24 Miles, 4 Minutes and 834 M.P.H., All in One Jump"

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/10/15/us/felix-baumgartner-skydiving.html  and also this youtube video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IFzmguVqp54

Incredible footage. My heart leaps in my chest as he steps off the platform.  There's not much more to say than the old proverbial "cojones whey. cojones."

"To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition" samuel johnson said.  But where is home.  outerspace? the layers of atmosphere between outerspace and solid ground? the solid ground? the higher education classroom? the office? the computer screen? in lover's arms? reading bedtime stories to sleepy kids? in a pot of homemade soup? in a prayerful meditation? in a beer buzz? in a photograph of flying kites? in a victorian house? on a sailboat?

I prefer asking questions than providing answers. But even I know the ledge in outerspace, all suited up, is no place to stand too long.  Ledges require leaping or crawling back inside.  Do something. Face the consequences, yes. But do something. Isn't that the message in life, paired with "grow some balls." 

So, this monday, leap! Or crawl back inside. But get off the ledge. And if you step, may all your falls be epic.(and may your hotness be evident to all)

ROACH BACK

Leif is a fat caterpillar today for his school play.

Leif:  The problem is, mom, that when I say the line "i want fried chicken and jello' i get so hungry.  

Mom: Method acting, son. You are really getting into character.  Just roll with it. Say it like you mean it, cause you mean it.

If he comes to breakfast as a roach, though, I may have to throw an apple at his back. "Wake up, son! Come back to this table when you can act like a boy." And when he comes back acting like a boy, I 'll shout "stop smacking. the table is no place to act like a boy?" the heirarchy of table creatures...roach-->monkey--->boy---->diplomat--->president. (women have a different heirarchy...maybe...ladybug-->kitty cat--->princess--->unemployed diplomat--->vice presidential hopeful)

I am being the "unemployed" at a coffee shop, wearing a wool cap, searching the inter webs for jobs, writing some shitty poems, hacking out a blog entry, reading some self help literature.  Self help to teach me how to over analyze myself and every word that comes out of my mouth and the other person's mouth and draw large expansive conclusions about the world and the inner workings of self and soul and mind and the interconnectedness of the breeze and the trees and my chakras, how to be aware of every noise, sound, thought, word....It's working. It's really working.   I don't need to read self help, I need to get a job. No. I need an eye patch to see less, bind my left leg and add a peg to walk gimpily, get there slower. Dull the senses so to speak.  Awareness is a bad idea. 7 self help books means 7 more miles of distance between you and the nearest person, especially if you don't watch television and have lost all ability to small talk.  Especially if you don't have a job.  I left the house to save my mind. The coffee house owner is handsome and smiles a lot. At least there's that.

"what do you have planned today?" he asks.

"EEERRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...write a blog, overexposing myself making everyone worry about my mental health,  then maybe sabotage my pretty good relationship with a sweet fella by picking apart every word starting with the latin root, ending with my feelings (hey lady--drop blogs not bombs!), mostly and consistently all day no matter what, i'm going to avoid all the laundry and dishes at the house and instead maybe research tiny homes since that makes perfect sense as my boys hit growth spurts requiring 12 ft ceilings and 4 chickens each per supper, also i think i'll research jobs overseas maybe in Costa Rica, since childhood was so idyllic and at any given point we should all misguidedly try miserably to recreate childhood..." smiling knowing my audience "all this while drinking  lots and lots of coffee, and only talk about drinking gin." 

Mostly, just passing the time til my favorite fat caterpillar, in the spotlight of childhood bliss, nails his special lines.

OH SORRY

After company, after supper, after chocolate chip dried cherry cookies, after after-supper chores, we put on our shoes and light jackets for a walk. Around the brick lined path, I walk, they ride.  A snow village, I circle on a fixed track, several houses glow, windows open, insides visible.  

From one (the one with the Romney-Ryan poster pasted to the door) faint singing floats through the glass to us rounding in the shadows. I peek. Noone can see me. I stare: fluffy haired ladies in soft sweaters, hold song books, huddle at varied heights around the carpeted room, some sit, some stand, church songs vibrate through their chests, out their wrinkly lips, bounce gently off the couch, whisp up the painted walls, caress the "LIVE LAUGH LOVE" painted sign that surely hangs between the living room and the alcohol-less kitchen, air thick with heavily scented pumpkin spice candle. 

Through a different window a flashing screen life size even from my far vantage point, a man is beheaded, head rolls, hair picking up grass. The bushes outside this house glow with orange lights. The silhouette of a skeleton and vampire wait between the headless man and me. Luke has face planted in the gutter, post-stunt, bike wheel spinning.

Earlier in the day, an old friend I had not seen in six (6) years reconnected with me.  She issued a blanket apology on behalf of christians "we failed you" paired with "how is your faith?" (this begs so many questions. who is "we"...but mostly it calls to mind a now forgotten language i used to know. a vernacular developed in certain circles that gives moral backing to human whims, and then uses human error as an excuse for the infinite chasm between the previously professed divine mandate and the absolute failure of that divine being's interaction in the human condition. a language that does not communicate concepts but simply sounds. or worse, a language that states the exact opposite of what is happening.  at home we play a game "mom, i love spinach. he he. it's opposite day." "mom, i hate you. he he. it's opposite day." "mom, i can't wait to clean the toilet. he he. it's opposite day." )  

wait. huh?

In Malawi, my brother tells me, "i'm sorry" the locals would say as they bumped him, stared, moved in closer, invading his personal space at every moment, "oh sorry" "sorry" "sorry" closer, breathing in his white face, "oh sorry." 

http://www.petergoff.com/watchingU.html  (you can see some of Peter's Malawi projects here)

I laugh every time I hear him say "oh sorry" his eyes sort of rolling, frustration and hilarity rolled into the repetition of such a well-worn phrase. 

Hey, it's okay. NOT. oh sorry. All is well. Just kidding. It's opposite day. oh sorry. WWJD. oh sorry. 

IT'LL COME

hush
doll
hush
pour a lil rum on
it, apples, cheescake
or heartbreak, that'll solve
it like a solvent, dissolving butta', dear
suga', warm your tears with an aromatic blanket
now now baby ain't no news these arms
can't take ain't no comfort i won't bake
ain't no tonic i won't make
to soothe your troubles,
pour a lil rum on it.
hush
doll
hush.

it'll come. it'll come.

ASK ME

flag pole 

Patriotic mom to children yesterday: "You will watch the first 15 minutes of the presidential debate. I want you to know each candidate's name, and be able to recognize their faces, and the sound of their voice."  

Leif in minute 2 "this is boring."  Mom to self "yep!" Mom to Leif: "hush boy. you only have to sit here 15 minutes. I don't want to hear another word about boring."  

Earlier in the day I attended noon mass in Spanish. This is only my second mass ever.  I have questions, like "why is the singing so very bad?" "why are the fake flowers faded and crumpling to the left?" "why are the real roses dead and drooping almost falling off the stems, but still proudly displayed?" "why can i see a butt crack two pews ahead?" "what time is it?...."

Flash forward to my aunt and uncle's living room, the kids have scattered to more entertaining options, the aunt and uncle occupied with computers and iphones, the debate droning on... I have questions, insert SNL's undecided voter http://www.hulu.com/watch/404175.  (Please watch this if you missed it.) and "what time is it?..."

The day's activities, meant to be some of the more substantial and meaningful ceremonies, feel lacking and pointless as the day winds down.

10:12 p.m., finally everyone is tucked cozily in bed, fans whirring. Last round of goodnights (there are usually 3 or so rounds, depending on things like spontaneous growing pains, throat aches, hunger, thirst, or just extra hugs needed) Ava is asleep. One down.  Two to go.  Reaching to the bunk above "goodnight, Luke. sweet dreams." and a hug, kiss.  Bending to the bunk below, "Goodnight, Leif. Sweet dreams."  Their alarm is set, the window cracked for just a hint of autumn night air.  

As I turn to stumble wearily to my bed, exhausted from the mundane demands of the day, Luke rolls over, "Mom. What's abortion?"  

Stopped in my tracks.  Not just because of the implications of answering this question, and the topics it will introduce (yes! this is exciting. so much to explore.)  But because I live for great questions. That I, Mary, age 33,  am the one to whom he directed the question (and others like it in the past, and others like it from Leif and Ava, and others like it to come) exceeds the not insignificant honor of  law school class rank, academic awards, winning in the courtroom.  

"Great question, Luke. Not tonight, but we will talk about this when we're rested." (I am living the dream. Probably not your dream. But mine.)

SNAP INTO A SLIM JIM

"Chips" Chips? Really? Chips?? oh my lord.  Chips! On national radio, midday, I blew my cover completely. Neal Conan's Talk of the Nation last Thursday, September 27, 2012,  discussed the new school lunch federal guidelines that call for healthier food and smaller portions. Stopped at a red light when they delivered the phone number, I decided to dial in. This exact topic had made its way into my home, not as a policy discussion, but in my children's bird-like cries "I'm hungry, mom!"  I hadn't paid too much attention, honestly. I'd simply given them a bigger after school snack, and when that didn't help, sent them to school smuggling snacks.  "Mom, they don't allow snacks. I'll get in trouble." "Luke, you must eat or your brain will shut down.  If they give you grief, I will get medical permission to send these with you."  He had been complaining that he couldn't pay attention the last 1/2 hour before lunch.  (all of us get lightheaded, cranky, and monster-like if we don't eat at regular intervals) "Dear school, my son turns green and starts throwing desks and smashing pencils when he doesn't eat.  In light of this, please allow him to consume this snack.  Thank you."  

Much of my experience the past five years has been a strange combination of studying policy in the books, while living the exact circumstances described as hypothetical case studies.  For example, interning at South Carolina Legal Services, I attend a day long legal education program about public benefits, including day care vouchers, food stamps, medicaid (this supplementing my Poverty Law class, which required a final paper on SNAP benefits.) Upon arriving home that same day, open my own food stamp appointment waiting in the  mail, after picking up my youngest child from unsubsidized day care, an incredible expense which consumed more than half my income.  

Honestly, I have not sent the kids to school with a bag of chips once.  But, when he asked the question, my mind did this: "out of time, brush the teeth, where's your shoes? shove the homework in the bag, have your jacket?, go back and make your bed! snack? you need a snack? ummm errr what's the easiest food imagineable to grab and go? CHIPS! yes that's it! CHIPS!"   So, I answered in a total false claim "CHIPS!" and then I chuckled. Because I lied. Because I blew it. (because a stream of healthy foods celery and peanut butter, homemade granola bars, cheese sticks, go-gurts, veggie sticks came to mind as soon as i delivered the last "sssss" of the word chips) Because all the food experts gathered in his studio collectively cringed, and then nodded silent "yeps. see? that's why america's kids are obese and stupid. idiot moms in arkansas sending chips." 

But, I'm no fool.  Truth be told, I send them to school armed in the fight against hunger with....SLIM JIMS!