START SPREADING THE NEWS

Blah, blah, blah, don't remember the next part, "New York, New York!" You know that song, right? "I want to wake up in a city, that never sleeps!" That one! I'm going there! ME, it's going to be some funky Carrie Link meets Carrie Bradshaw kinda thing, minus the sex, the Cosmopolitans and Manolo Blahniks. Actually, come to think of it, it will be NOTHING like Carrie Bradshaw's New York, darn. Nonetheless, it's going to be a far cry from Portland, Oregon, mothering, wifing, and all the other domestic bliss that is my life.

Don't get me wrong, I love my life, love, love, and a little more love. I also love total escape from it now and then. I love the chance to be "Old Carrie", the Carrie that doesn't worry about how and what everyone else is doing and what they need all the time. The Carrie that meets new and exciting people with new and exciting viewpoints. The Carrie that accomplishes more in a day than laundry and dishes, that can lie down at night and say, "Wow, I can't believe I'm here and this is my life."

Six months ago I was a different person. Six months ago I felt like a lone voice in the world, today I feel like part of a choir. A choir of women all across the country and world that want women to be empowered. A choir of women that want more for their lives and for other women's lives. A choir of women that understand synergy and synchronicity and the power of the human mind and spirit. I feel part of a collective of women that is making a difference in their own homes, neighborhoods, cities and states. Together we are doing what we can to make a difference in the world. We may never be famous nor go down in history, but the future will be markedly different for at least a few people, anyway, because we were here.

When I get back from my adventure the domestic life will resume, and it will be more rewarding, as well. Having gotten some of that other "stuff" out of my system I will be able to feel the deep satisfaction that comes from worrying about my family, and if everyone is where they are supposed to be, and if they have everything they are supposed to have. One extreme will bring peace to the other. The two extremes may help me find the balance in the middle. That's my plan, anyway. I'll keep you posted.

EVERYTHING I NEEDED TO KNOW
I LEARNED IN KINDERGARTEN

I love that poem, book, motto. It is so true.

One of my favorite people in the world is a kindergarten teacher. She has two rules posted in her classroom.

Two.

1) Be safe.

2) Be kind.

When someone comes up and tattles, she asks, "Is that safe? Is that kind?" If it is both, there really isn't a problem, and vice versa.

I have frustrated some of my faithful readers with my "control" of the delete key. I assure you, if I thought what was being written was safe and kind, I'd let it be. I welcome disagreement. I don't accept unkindness nor danger. There is a person stalking blogs with the sole purpose of being unsafe and unkind towards someone I love, and the people that love her. That is unacceptable.

If I am full of hot air, you are encouraged to kindly and safely express that to me. I will not delete such comments. When they become threatening and attacking, however, I will use my power to delete.

I think that is kind.

I think that is safe.

I think that is important.

I took a dear friend to lunch for her birthday. We decided to order a glass of wine. While looking at the expansive wine list, my eyes fell on "Les Enfants Terrible". When the waitress came to take our order I said, "I'll have a glass of the terrible children."

"That's our most popular wine," she replied.

Enough said.

GO ALONG TO GET ALONG

At this moment I am asking myself, when is it best to just go along to get along, and when must remain in the "fight" for what one so strongly believes?

I am thinking the answer is "it depends". Today I choose to be the Go Along Girl. I have hurt people. I have caused pain to those I love the most. That is not in alignment with the three tenents of love, peace and compassion on which I try to base my life. Perhaps greater love, peace and compassion will be the result, but for today I put down my sword. Today I choose peace at any price. Today I keep my eye on the smaller picture, and let the bigger picture grow out of focus. Today I want an immediate settling of the storm I've stirred.

Perhaps we will all see more clearly once the dust settles?

Perhaps we won't?

Perhaps it doesn't matter?

Perhaps being "right" is less important than being happy?

Rojo quote of the day...

"Mom, the next time I'm a baby, I want you to pick me. When I'm a 100, I'm going to turn back to zero."

"I will pick you every single time."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Don't forget?"

"I promise to pick you every single time and never ever forget."

"Good."

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING?

Nurturing, that's a good thing, right?

Not making a big deal out of everything, keeping it together, remaining pleasant, what's wrong with that?

If you asked all the women I know who they think are good mothers, they would describe the most nurturing, calm, pleasant, "nice" women they know.

Not the shrieker, she's a bitch.

Not the one that lets her kids figure out how to get out of their own problems, she's heartless.

I had lunch with a woman that has breast cancer. She told me that in the "energy world", the people involved in alternative health care, the belief is that breast cancer comes from over-nurturing or under-nurturing, and suppression. Usually over-nurturing our husbands and children, under-nurturing ourselves. Suppressing negative emotions, for years.

I can't get this out of my head. I know so many women that have had breast cancer, they are indeed, among the nicest women I've ever known. I'm not sure that had they been meaner, louder, more demonstrative and less nurturing to others that they would have had a different fate. I'm not sure if this belief can ever be studied and documented to the medical profession's satisfaction. I'm not sure it even matters. What matters to me, anyway, is that too much of a "good" thing, any good thing, can sometimes be worse than not enough.

Balance.

Moderation.

Self-care.

Self-awareness.

Do you ever hear anyone describing a "good" mother as someone that has these traits? Yea, me neither.

I'm Dead Serious...

I think I've found the solution to all my problems. I'm going to commit some kind of crime that automatically puts me straight into solitary confinement. How bad could that be? Three squares a day provided by Uncle Sam? S O L I T A R Y. Bring it on! How is that different from serious Buddhist monks that go off, alone, and contemplate for months/years on end? The only wrinkle is I'm really not that much of a criminal, so, I'm taking suggestions. I draw the line at murder, but maybe a nice little bank robbery? Would I have to be armed? Would I have to scare people? Don't want to do that. Could I just walk myself down to the police station and confess to a crime I didn't commit? What's a mother/wife/daughter/aunt/sister/friend/

volunteer/employee gotta do these days to get a little time alone?

Sorry - a bit distracted by the constant humming/recorder music, couldn't get the photo to go with the posting, I'm sure you understand.

THINGS TO DO TODAY:

1. Call doctor re: Rojo's meds - describe insomnia, incessant humming, defiancy, crying jags and constipation as result of new med

2. Address insomnia, humming, defiancy, crying jags and constipation for the FOUR day weekend he now has, after being in school for a full 6 1/2 days.

3. Try to not go cuckoo as he follows me around the house for 14 straight hours, four straight days, humming the theme song from "The Pink Panther" while blowing into his recorder.

4. Continue to do my work for which I am being paid to do, but must now do while accompanied by said "music".

5. Prepare 3+ meals a day times number of people living in/visiting home, since we wouldn't want anyone to have to eat what others are eating, that's so passe.

6. Keep up with laundry, house work, bill paying, phone calls, friendship crisis', etc., with said "music" 2" away at all times.

7. Don't forget I have a daughter, too, that is also home for 4 days, has plans, would like to be taxied back and forth to said plans, but boy with recorder doesn't want to go, so figure out how to pull that off.

8. Answer husband's requests sweetly and patiently, all the while enjoying the "music" and constant presence of beloved son.

9. Make plans to escape in my "free time".

10. Keep sense of humor. That which doesn't kill us, only makes us funnier.

BACK-TO-BACK DEVASTATION

Yesterday was 9/11, a day all of us that were cognizant five years ago, will never forget. Everytime I look at a digital clock and it says 9:11, I pause. Everytime I see the number to call for emergencies, 911, I'm saddened. That day forever changed our world, globally we will never be the same.

Five years ago today, 9/12, my own personal world was devastated. The two days are forever linked in my heart, my mind and my rage.

I was walking with Kathleen on the morning of 9/11, it was only 6:00 AM here in Portland. When I got back home my husband had the TV on and told me of the attacks.

I wondered how we were all supposed to shower, get dressed and go about our day after that. I called my children's two schools to see if they were still meeting, and yes, they were.

I held my five-year-old son's hand and walked with trepidation into his Pre-K class. I thought for sure I would detect something different in the air that day, but everyone seemed to have signed a covenant to pretend nothing was wrong. Who were these people?

For weeks I had been meeting with this teacher. I'd carefully gone over the facts of my son's special needs. I'd shared his IEP (Individualized Educational Plan) that qualified him for services with Portland Public Schools. I'd been very clear about his challenges, strengths and areas with which she'd need special help. We were set. They were ready for him. This woman had taught pre-school forever, there never had been a child she couldn't teach. She welcomed the challenge. I had even made the mistake of prematurely relaxing.

On the morning of September 12, 2001, only a few days into the new school year, the teacher called me and said this situation wasn't going to work afterall. His needs were too great. I needed to move him to a different classroom. She had thrown up her hands and was all done.

My first thought was not, "What am I going to do now?" but "Who dumps this on someone 24-hours after 9/11?"

I was in no way prepared to deal with this second level of loss, fear and anxiety. I was not in my right mind. How was I to make an educational switch for my son under these conditions, and this quickly? Placing him in her class had come after months of visiting pre-schools, interviews, meeting with doctors, consultants and therapists. Now I had to start over from scratch? She generously agreed to let him finish the week there, but by Monday, I was to have made other arrangements.

I did.

I do.

Nobody is pulling that same rug out from me ever again.

Never.

The world may have been forever changed by 9/11, and there isn't much I can do about that. My son's world, however, is a whole different story.

CAN OF BEANS

Sorry, I just have to go one more round with the "Why does everyone cry except me?" question. I was at a gathering of women, all of us mothers of children with special needs. This gathering is ripe for tears, by nature of our common denominator. Some women shed a tear each time we meet. Some shed several, several times a meeting. Me? Dry as a bone. I mean I'm moved and all, even a tint of sadness at times, but no tears. I'm thinking there must be something wrong with me.

One of the best criers said that after she turned 50, she just cries all the time. Her friend told her when she felt the tears coming, to say to herself, "Can of beans." There was nothing emotional about a can of beans. They were completely uninteresting and would invoke no sentiment whatsoever. HA! I cannot imagine a can of beans without laughing now! I cannot go down the canned food aisle of the grocery store without giggling! Think about it, c'mon, beans, they're funny! See? You're smiling right now, aren't you, it's 'cause of the beans! Funny things, beans.

OVER WORKED AND UNDER PAID

A friend told me her teenage daughter had been bitterly complaining about "all" her chores. She had two. Take the garbage to the curb 1x a week, and to empty and re-fill the dishwasher 1x a day. The daughter couldn't even believe the demands on her time, the cruelty, the injustice.

My friend was seeing a parenting coach at the time, and the coach had her write down every single chore required to run a household. Each chore went on its own 3x5 card. Grocery shop, mow lawn, pay bills, cook, clean bathrooms, etc. The stack was impressively large. She laid them all out on the dining room table, had the family gather round, and pick up all the cards that represented the chores they routinely did (not just supposed to do, but actually did). Big surprise! The girl picked up two cards, the other children picked up maybe one card, the husband picked up a few, and guess what, the table remained covered with cards!

What does that tell us? It tells me there's going to be a run on 3x5 cards.

TO HELL WITH WELL

I like rules. No, scratch that, I love rules. Rules create order, order creates predictability, all things I thrive on, yet never seem to have. If you give me a rule I will follow it to the letter, forever. If someone tells me never to do something, that's it, I'm never doing it. Likewise, if told, especially by a teacher, that there is a right way to do something, I'm all about getting it right.

These tendencies served me well in school, especially in writing. I knew and loved all the rules of the English language. They were games to me to be played for fun. The rules made sense, there were inherent rewards for their adherence. Nothing was more satisfying than an A on a paper.

Since finishing school I've continued to write and to read. What I've discovered has been quite disturbing! Some of my favorite writers completely disregard my sacred rules! They begin sentences with "And"! They drop the "ly" on their adverbs! They have paragraphs with fewer than 3-5 sentences, some even have paragraphs containing only a single word! What the hell? And (it's OK to do that, I've learned), they are getting something much better than an A, they are getting published! They are making their way to the best-seller lists, they are even changing lives with their errant ways!

This has thrown me into a complete tailspin. If these writing rules cannot only be broken, but by being broken can possibly improve writing, what does this mean?Does this mean that other rules may perhaps need re-adjusting? Breaking? Abolishing, even? Oh my God, I just did it. I broke some rules. Where's the lightening? Where's the "F"? Maybe good writing doesn't have to be done well...

Ahhhhhhhhhh

I am a new woman, in only one day (really, 4 hours, but who's counting?). My new favorite holiday? Labor Day, People! Christmas Schmistmas! That's the holiday where I knock myself out for MONTHS, only to have it all over in 20 minutes! Not my Labor Day, Baby, no, my Labor Day comes after I knock myself out for months to be rewarded with nine months of bliss! Oh sure, I love my children beyond measure. I just don't remember ever signing up for the 24/7 365 deal. Where is the 40-hour a week mother schedule? Sign me up for that one! I could actually be a good mother Monday through Friday, 9-5, possibly even great, but WHO among us is a good mother all the live-long day/week/month/year after excruciating year?

Yesterday my kids began 7th and 4th grades. It was a teaser day, really, over at 12:00. By the time I did all the first day of school rituals, shared a cup of coffee with old and new friends at the hospitality reception, it was nine o'clock. I saw mother after mother with tears in their eyes. Tears. Please, would someone tell me what is sad about dropping your kids off at school when you are going to see them in three hours, now, and we just found out next week they have two days off already? I don't get it. One mother e-mailed me and said she'd be the mom at drop-off with Vodka in her coffee cup, and tears in her eyes. I told her to look up when she got there, 'cause I'd be the one dancing naked on the roof.

During our hospitality hour a few friends and I were discussing this, two with tears in their eyes, two of us with barely concealed glee. We decided that it was not so much sadness as easily expressed emotion. The two of us gleeful moms readily admitted we just weren't the crying type.

"Yea," said one of the criers to my fellow gleeful mom, "but you cry at "Snowdogs! You have displaced emotion!"

I've been chewing on that ever since. I am also guilty of displaced emotion, but mine comes in the form of rage, not tears. I can get outraged at the drop of the hat, but sad? Not so much. It takes a lot to make me cry, it's just such an exhausting and messy production. Rage, though, that'll fire you up! I'm thinking a tea/coffee metaphor is coming!

Rage is for us caffeine junkies, the ones that like to get "up". Tears are for the tea lovers, the ones that like to come "down". What do you think? Pure brilliance or pure b.s.? I'll let you decide, I gotta go now anyway, only one cup in me, and that ain't gonna do it for all I have to get fired up about today!

JUST TO GIVE YOU SOME INDICATION

I am so beyond ready for school to start, I can't even tell you. No amount of Top 10 lists can adequately convey the tenuous grip I have on my sanity. Just to give you some indication of how bad things have gotten, I've composed a little list of the crazy cuckoo levels to which I have sunk:

• I wrote with a blue pen in my checkbook register. I have had this same checking account since 1981, and have only used black, ONLY!
• I didn't iron the wrinkled balls of 100% cotton that used to be my pretty pillowcases, before shoving pillows into them.
• I went to bed without washing my face or brushing my teeth. Again, something I have not done since 1981.
• I (briefly) considered buying the DVDs of "Alf" when I saw them advertised in the paper!
• I decided I needed a haircut and determined it couldn't possibly wait the 4 weeks remaining until my scheduled appointment. So while driving down the street and seeing "Supercuts" in my peripheral vision, I swerved the car in, had six inches chopped off, paid, and was back on the road in less than 1/2 an hour.
• I have declared war on alternative spellings of names. STICK WITH THE TRADITIONAL, People! C'mon! I'm fragile! I can't take it! These impossible to remember names are the last straw for me!

The list goes on and on, but I think you see what we're dealing with here. The scene here is not pretty, not pretty at all.

What's better than a top 10 list from Fully Caffeinated? Two Top 5 lists! Yahoo!

TOP 5 REASONS I'M TOTALLY COMING

BACK AS MY HAIR IN MY NEXT LIFE

1. It is a true non-conformist. It does not care what the style is, was or is going to be. It calls the shots.
2. It is impervious to perms, color, bad haircuts, it still maintains its own agenda.
3. It has strong boundaries. Where the part is, the part is. Not one hair crosses over the part line. Each side is clear about their "zone".
4. No matter how many different hair dressers try, all cuts end up looking like some small variation of the hairstyle I've had since first grade.
5. It defies color "labeling". It is not, nor ever has been primarily one color or another. It refuses to be put into some neat box that can be checked off, or identified on a driver's license. It's its own color.

TOP 5 THINGS I'M ALMOST TOO EMBARRASSED TO ADMIT

1. My son now tells everyone he sees that there's "not a bruise on him", since he's heard his mother boast all summer that she hasn't beaten him.
2. My son can make the "put me in a straight jacket" pantomime like nobody's business, after seeing his mother model such behavior all summer.
3. My son is impervious to being told, repeatedly, that he is killing me.
4. My new favorite word is "impervious".
5. I spend a lot of time trying to maintain sanity by devising top 10 lists and choosing my new favorite word.

WHY BLOG?

I've been trying to answer the "Why blog?" question for awhile now. It's not an easy question, and there is no easy answer. Here's where I am with that question today.

Did you watch any of the Emmy's Sunday night? Did you catch Conan O'Brien's opening monologue? He told the audience to keep their acceptance speeches brief. He told them there were some rules, one being, don't thank your parents. "If you had a nurturing childhood, you wouldn' t be in show business!" While that may not be 100% true, the point is well made. Acting is one way people deal with themselves. Many of us from alcoholic homes become gifted actors. Acting is a by-product of our childhood. For those not inclined to act, there are other ways of expressing ourselves, writing being one.

As a teacher I learned about the different ways kids learn. Traditional classrooms teach primarily to the auditory learner. There are many kids that learn visually best, others that learn by "doing", kinesthetic learners. For those of us that need to see our thoughts to know our thoughts, writing is a haven. Writing is a way to process what is in our brains, that can't be processed any other way.

When you take the two, the ability to act and the need to process through writing, blogging is born. I would say that by and large, bloggers are people that like attention and process through writing. While we bloggers are really writing for ourselves, we gain a lot from being "published", if you will.

Bloggers are people that need people. We are the luckiest people in the world.

To Whom it May Concern:

I just want to thank you for visiting my house sometime in mid-June, and walking away without your shoes! I've tried to figure out who you are, but alas, the shoes, and the mystery remains. Nonetheless, I am happy that the purple suede clogs are just my size, and surprisingly, go with so many things in my vast wardrobe! Who knew?

Thanks for the shoes!
Fully Caffeinated

HOW TO BECOME FULLY CAFFEINATED

1.) Fully commit to the process. Becoming well/fully caffeinated has no shortcuts. There is no easy way out. As with all things worth having, the perfect cup of coffee is worth waiting for.

2) There are many coffee making options out there, and many will do the job well. You will need to experiment to find the one that most suits your needs. Success can be found with the one-cup-at-a-time Melita method, French Press, Turkish coffee and coffee makers ranging from one hundred dollars to thousands of dollars. Don't be buying a Mr. Coffee, however, and expect more than it can deliver.

3) If using a filter, I find the unbleached cone filters to be the best. Trader Joe's has the best price.

4) Buy excellent BEANS. If you must buy pre-ground coffee, make sure it is good stuff. NOTE: Folgers, MJB, etc. is in no way considered "excellent". Starbucks, Peet's, Seattle's Best and Illy are all known to be great. Many local places have great coffee, too, figure out how bold you like your coffee, then get the local equivalent of that.

5) Grind your beans daily, right before use is best. You will need to grind the beans according to the method used. French presses need coursely ground beans, Melita needs fine. Coffee makers need it well ground, but not into dust. If you can find a coffee maker that grinds the beans then moves them over to make the coffee, buy it! You may have to mortgage the house to buy a Capresso maker, but it's all about priorities. Caution: The Cuisinart coffee maker that grinds and brews will make you cuckoo, avoid at all costs.

6) Measure your coffee carefully. Don't skimp! Use a 2 tbsp. measurer and heap that puppy! A "cup" is considered 6 oz. Don't be fooled! For every 2 "cups" use 2 heaping tbsp. i.e. For a 10 cup coffee maker, use 5 scoops, or 10 tbsps. Got it?

7) Don't even think about flavored coffee! Coffee is supposed to taste like.... COFFEE!

8) Use cold, filtered water. Brita, Pur, whatever, just make sure it's cold and filtered. NO TAP water!

9) Once a month run white vinegar through the coffee maker to clean it. Then run water through two times to chase out the vinegar.

10) Within 5 minutes of the coffee being done, pour it in a caraffe. Get it off the burner, people! The burner burns the coffee. You want hot coffee, right? Not cooked.

11) If you like cream in your coffee, get 1/2 and 1/2. Let me tell you a little secret about 1/2 and 1/2. It's called that because it is 1/2 cream and 1/2 whole milk. Anything that is called "reduced fat" or "fat free" cannot get by with calling itself 1/2 and 1/2! It makes no sense! It's a lie! Don't buy into this travesty! Just pour a "piff" of cream in, just enough to show the coffee who's boss. Remember, coffee is supposed to taste like coffee.

12) Easy enough? Coffee making is a time investment that pays dividends! You won't be sorry!

Hey! Take a look at this new blog: http://reflectionsonthepond.blogspot.com

Enjoy!

THE F BOMB

I hope I don't offend anyone with my profanity, but my nearly 76-year-old mother dropped the "F-Bomb" on me yesterday, and I can't shake it. Yes, it's true, the mother of Fully Caffeinated is now drinking FOLGERS! Yikes!

WE REAP WHAT WE SOW?

My husband had been talking about planting a garden. There was a lot more talk than actual planting, until one day he stuck approximately six seeds in some dirt, and called it "good".

Since that day I have faithfully watered and weeded the "garden". For weeks nothing came up but weeds. Still, I watered, weeded and waited. Out of the blue pumpkins started growing. These puppies started growing at the rate of three feet a day, I swear on a stack of Bibles. I continued to water, weed and whisper to the pumpkins sweet nothings.

Today, standing in the pumpkin "field", as it is now, watering and weeding, literally covered head to toe with mud and scratches, my husband's parents stopped by.

"My! He's quite a gardener!" they exclaimed proudly.

"He stuck three pumpkin seeds in the ground two months ago. That's it," I corrected.

"Well then, he sure has a green thumb! Just look at this! He missed his calling! He should have been a farmer!"

"Yea. I'm sure he'd be quite a farmer if his deep involvement with this pumpkin patch is any indication."

"Absolutely! He'd be the best farmer."

Realizing that I would not be making my point with these people, I simply smiled.

Might I just say this, why is someone else getting credit for my work? Huh? And, more importantly, why am I smiling when I should be planning a parade in my honor?

UNFORGETTABLE

That old Nat King Cole song has been running through my head the past few days. One might even say it is driving me crazy, if not for the fact that it is August 21st, and I have been home with bored, unmedicated children for WEEKS, so am, thusly, already crazy. It's led me to wonder, why are some things so darn hard to remember, and some stick in our craw forever?

I am so forgetful, if I don't write it down, it's forgotten, instantly. Case in point, one would not think it necessary to write oneself a note as to why one is opening the pantry. Alas, one would be wrong. From the time one has thought of what one needs, to the time one stares blankly at the shelves of the pantry, one has forgotten why one first went to the pantry, entirely. One might even repeat said process two or three times before "scoring", and completing the whole retrieval process.

Thus being said, I can tell you all about the girl in my first grade class, Pia Porche Paisley, who preferred that we all address her as Anna Feather. I can tell you about the third grade girl who bragged, daily, that her parents didn't care if she swore. In fact, this girl could shout, at the top of her lungs, "G.. D... F.....H...S...B....A.." and they wouldn't do a thing about it. Not a damn thing.

I can tell you how to make bloody Mary mix, if you don't have the mixer. I learned this skill at age six. I have never once made it, but I know the recipe by heart.

I can tell the names of every teacher I've ever had, what they looked like, what they wore, and something significant that they taught me. I cannot speak ten words of French, and I took the subject for more than two years.

When it comes to those who have "wronged" me, I've got a mind like a steel trap. I could win awards on my recall ability. Why are those painful experiences so locked in, and so difficult to exorcise?

My friend told me a story a long, long time ago, and I've never forgotten it. Her grandparents had a fiesty marriage, a nasty divorce and everyone thought "their" story was over. Everyone was wrong. Years after they divorced, the ex-husband had an accident, was in a coma, and when he woke up he was amnesiac. His ex-wife had been coming to the hospital to visit him. When he woke up and saw his ex-wife, he had forgotten they were divorced! She went along with it, and as the story goes, they started all over, with his clean memory and her clean slate, and stayed together happily ever after.

I'm thinking I could use a well-placed brick to the head. There are definitely some memories that could use erasing, and some new experiences coming in that might be nice to remember.

The point is, oh darn, where was I going with this, I forgot.

JOYFUL YOUTH

From a Tibetan refuge camp in rural India, to the childhood home in which he grew up, my brother brought his wife to join him. They "met" through a mutual friend. A friend that had crossed the world and landed at my brother's feet. A friend that knew two people that were made for each other, even if they spoke different languages, were a decade apart in ages, and had nothing of a shared past.

From this union a child was born, half Tibetan, half caucasion, fully miraculous. As is the custom with Tibetan babies, a Lama named this child. Because this baby would not be making a trek to India prior to birth, the naming would need to be done long-distance. With only a four inch ultrasound picture, the family's revered Lama named the child Kunga Zsheunu. Kunga meaning "joyful", Zsheuno meaning"youth". Perfect. Both parents loved the name, and all that it implied.

The fireplace where once my brother rushed to see what surprises Santa had brought, Kunga now runs to do his prostrations. Where once a father sat, drank and brewed, his grandson points to Buddhist dieties and makes offerings. The house has changed, the people have changed, the future will not replicate the past. This boy's youth is to be joyful.

A joyful youth.

Wow.

YOU CAN GO HOME AGAIN

Once upon a time there was a grown woman that lived in a glass house. She loved her glass house, all the windows, all the light, all the love. She grew up in a house that was not made of glass, it was made of concrete blocks. It was dark, and scary, and sad.

Years passed and the girl grew up and moved away. She did not ever want to return to the dark house, but she had to. As long as her father was alive, she was obligated to visit the dark house. When her father died, she was no longer obligated, and the woman stopped visiting.

More years passed and the dark house was remodeled. The girl's brother became a Buddhist. The house became a center for Buddhist practices. Light began to enter this house that had been so dark, for so long. Windows were added, walls were subtracted. Doors were removed, Buddhist hangings were hung in their place. Air and light and love moved freely in this house.

Where once only sad people lived, now three happy people lived. The girl's brother married, they had a child, the house was no longer a house, but a family's home.

The woman was now drawn to visit this house out of love, no longer obligation. The woman was able to replace sad and dark memories with new memories of laughter and joy. The woman was able to take her children to this house so that they could have their own experiences within its walls. New experiences, pure experiences.

The woman was very happy to have lived long enough to witness the transformation of a house, and a family. A family that moved from the dark, to the light.

WARRIOR OF THE LIGHT

Several months ago an important, life-changing book fell in my hands, The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho. LIFE CHANGING! I have given it and recommended it to lots of people, its goodness rippling. Just this week my friend, Val, with whom I first shared the book, gave me the companion, Warrior of the Light. It is DEEP! It is SHORT! It is divided into bite-sized pieces, one-a-day kinda thing. You could pick it up and open randomly (no such thing), and find some "aha". Some of them seemed to have been written just for me, some, not so much, but each one was a wow experience.

Paulo Coelho has a website you may want to visit. You'll get more of an idea whether this book is right for you or not. I hope you find it as "right" as I did.

www.warriorofthelight.com

Give 'em the Squeeze

I recently had my annual mammogram. I have "suspicious" breasts. Is that overshare? Anyway, I have had two lumpectomies, and now, because these breasts of mine are up to no good, I check them with all the obsessive/compulsive tendencies I lean towards naturally.

As the technician and I chatted merrily, I thought to myself, "What is it about a mammogram that women fear?" She told me the by the time some women come in, they have obvious cancer, but if they'd been coming in routinely, they could have found it early, and easily rid themselves of the disease. Now, I know this is not always the case, that there are weird, fast-growing, out-of-the-blue cancers, but by and large, most can be detected early.

I asked the tech why women put it off?

"Fear of finding something, and afraid it will hurt to have the mammogram."

Fear.

There's that word again.

I told her that personally, I found the whole procedure more comical than anything. You are in ridiculous positions, and your breasts are squished like a pancake, literally. However, it is brief, BRIEF, and the techs have all had their own breasts squeezed like pancakes, themselves. I've yet to meet one that isn't super sensitive, gentle, kind, considerate and sympathetic.

She told me that most lumps are found by lovers. That's great for all the women out there getting some lovin', but for those that aren't, please, check yourself! Really! Give 'em the squeeze! Have a laugh! For a real chuckle do it in front of the bathroom mirror! Make a game of it! Do it. Please. For yourself, and those that love you.

I AM FREE?

Not sure if it was the tone in my voice as we spoke on the phone, or the actual words, but none-the-less, my friend was able to detect a sense of angst. She called back a little later and said, "Are you feeling trapped?"

"Why?" I answered, by not answering.

"No, don't ask another question. Let me ask again, and tell me what comes up for you when I ask it. Are you feeling trapped?"

"YES!" I nearly screamed.

She suggested I get a piece of paper, and on that piece of paper, write "I am free" 25 times. Then, go to the mirror, look at myself, and say, "I am free" 25 times.

"Great! Good idea, I'm on it!" I assured her, and myself.

1. I am f...

"MOM! That's my phone and he won't give it to me!" My daughter enters the room I am in and screams.

2. I am...

"Mom! I want to hold that phone! I love that phone! It is blue! I love the blue phone! I hate the black phone! I need to hold the blue phone so I can answer it when someone calls me!" (NOBODY calls this boy - it ain't gonna happen.)

3. I am fr..

Telephone rings, it's my husband, wants me to talk to him, brighten his day, give him a little pick-me-up. No can do.

4. I...

Phone rings again, it's my mother, needs me to check something immediately on the Internet, life or death situation.

5. I am fre...

"MOM! He still won't give me the blue phone! Will you just get him his own phone! Why does everybody use my phone? It is my phone, I don't understand why it can't just be for me!"

As I launch into how pitiful her story is, and how my heart f'ing bleeds for the state of her life, the doorbell rings. It's DHL dropping off something, but the dog goes crazy and my son does not accept that I don't need to go talk to the delivery person, that it is OK if he just leaves the package by the door. We argue for what seems like an eternity, before I remember the more important task at hand.

6. I am ...

"MOM!!!"

7. I am trapped.

ONE LITTLE VOWEL

Why is it so much easier to say, "Love you," than "I love you."? Why? The difference is in a one-letter word, one letter, not even a consonant, just a poor little ol' vowel. Why the big difference in difficulty? I feel the hesitancy to throw the "I" in there myself, yet always wonder why. What's under that hesitancy, that holding back, that piece of commitment that you reserve for later?

My son, *Rojo, he tells just about everyone he meets that he loves them. "I love you! Don't forget!" He cheerfully exclaims. He doesn't stall for a moment, there is always the "I" in his pronouncements. I've been told my son has a soul like the Dalai Lama's, almost pure, that he has no ego. I think the answer lies within this concept. I am thinking that it is our ego that keeps us from using "I". When you use that I, you are committed. You are putting yourself out on a limb. You are a taking a risk, a chance, you are completely vulnerable. You might get hurt. You might get rejected. You might be embarrassed, or sorry, then what. What can you do then? The "I" is already out there, too late to pull it back in.

If none of us had egos, what would the world look like? Big question, no answer, for we are so ego based as humans, for the most part. Imagine, though, if you will, how different your life would be if you operated from your higher self at all times, and zero from an ego stand point.

Imagine.

Imagine.

I love you.

* No, my son's name is not Rojo, that is his nickname. No, I don't go around naming my children the Spanish names of colors, but if I did, my daughter would be Verde.

TOP 10 SIGNS YOU ARE A

GREAT FATHER/MY HUSBAND

1. You know every child in your children's classrooms
2. You know how to make breakfast, according to very specific directions, for each kid
3. You put your kids to bed at night, say prayers, read or tell stories, and kiss them good night
4. You kiss your children, appropriately and frequently
5. You tell your children you love them, appropriately and frequently
6. When you are angry, you seldom raise your voice
7. You think about fatherhood a lot, and are very deliberate and intentional in your approach
8. You work hard to provide for your children
9. You do not give your children what they want, you give them what they need
10. You play with your children, and actually seem to enjoy it

Note to Kario - best I can do, hope this helps!

FAQ

1) Does your husband read your blog? Yes. He is not allowed to have an opinion, however.

2) Can we change the term Preferred Spouse to Spousal Support Team Member? Yes. Consider it done.

3) Can the SSTM be the same sex as you, and if so, does this create a homosexual relationship within a heterosexual "marriage"? Yes and no. The relationship with the SSTM remains sexless, thus, ensuring it will last.

4) I was just kidding about the homosexual in a heterosexual relationship question, can't you take a joke? Yes, but I retain the right to declare a joke "funny" or not. No funny, no laughie.

5) Do you ever get sick of yourself? Yes, all the time, in fact, I'm on my own last nerve right now!

HOW RUDE!

Welcome to Pet Peeve of the Day! Today's pet peeve is call waiting! PLEASE don't make me paranoid by putting me on hold to see if whomever is calling in might be more important than ME! They aren't, just by virtue of the fact that I got here first! It's called first come, first served!

While we're at it, if I am in your home, do not answer the phone. They can't possibly be more important than me, I am in your home, they are not! You are allowed to have Caller ID, even Caller ID with Call Waiting, then you can surrepticiously check who is calling, and only answer if it is the Queen of England, Dubya wanting your opinion on something, or the school calling to tell you one of your kids is puking.

Oh, and yea, if I am in your retail store, standing in line to PAY YOU MY MONEY, you are not allowed to be on the phone, either! Again, I am in the store, the person on the phone is not. Period.

Share your pet peeves with me, dear readers!

ARE YOU A PIECE OF WORK?

SELF-TEST

T or F: You laugh harder than anyone at your own jokes.

Tor F: You don't give a shit about what you wear, if you love it, everyone should love it too.

T or F: You march to the beat of your own damn drummer.

T or F: You are opinionated, outspoken and a clanging gong.

T or F: It's your world, and the rest of us just get to live here.

T or F: People have strong feelings about you, love/hate kinda stuff.

T or F: People write mean comments on your blog, but send them anonymously.

T or F: If you don't like something, you'll set out to change it, come hell or high water, and to hell with anyone that stands between you and your goal.

T or F: You would do anything, absolutely anything for a true friend.

T or F: You are a work in progress, and you take this progress very seriously, very loudly, and very openly, possibly ruffling feathers along the way. You don't care.

The Aussies are IN! Thank you for the networking, dear readers! Only one more continent to go and I can call "Blackout!"

THE PREFERRED SPOUSE REVISITED

I've been getting some interesting feedback on my concept of the preferred spouse. I've had everything from "the whole term sucks" to "go bigger with that", and everything inbetween.

This week a friend called and suggested the concept be extended like this:

1) Couples entering into marriage/partnership identify the preferred spouse(s).

2) Each person then embraces this preferred spouse as their best ally, their optimum counselor, shepherd through the marriage, advocate.

3) If men, in particular, could maximize the info. contained within the P.S.'s knowledge base, they could skip a lot of unnecessary guessing/fuming/pouting/etc. and get some great ideas on how to go about rectifying the situation at hand.

4) Think of the savings of time, energy, therapy, and wear and tear on the psyche.

5) The key is to embrace the P.S., and not compete.

What do you think? Is this possible? Would men ever go for this? Would women? Would preferred spouses? Huh?

PC or MAC?

It's been like 24-hours since I really pissed someone off, and frankly, I'm bored now. I thought I'd start a new fight, and it goes a little something like this...

Have you ever met a PC user that HATES Mac? Me neither. Have you ever met a Mac user that doesn't hate PCs? Yea! I know! What's UP with that? Why the venom? Why the histrionics? You'd think the subject was really "touchy", like homesexuals in heterosexual marriages, or whether or not I'm a mean, self-involved know-it-all! (Actually, that last one's a fact, not so much a controversy.)

So I ask you, dear readers, help me understand. Are Macs really the only way to go, are PCs really "the dark side"? If you can convince me I need a Mac, I'm totally taking this blog to Apple and getting me a freebie.

BLOG BINGO

I am not a competitive person, really, but I hate to leave things half done. Therefore, with that in mind, I implore you, dear readers of my blog, to help me get "blackout" on my ClustrMap!

I don't know WHAT is up Australia's butt, nor why Africa continues to give me the cold shoulder, but I know between all of you, you must have contacts. Network, people, network! Two entire continents are missing all the fun we have here at Fully Caffeinated!

And, if you care to make it interesting, we can take wagers on which continent buckles first! The Aussies? The Africans? Which one will become Fully Caffeinated next? The race is on!

SOMETHING FISHY

It's already been established that I am the worst mom ever, so it won't surprise you to know that I have my kids on the all-junk food diet. I figure with the number of preservatives they consume in a day, they both ought to live to 1,000. A friend suggested that I try to get EFAs (essential fatty acids) into their systems, one way or another. I could give them supplements, I could massage them directly into their skin, or if nothing else, pour a little in the bathtub.

Off I went to the nearest health food store, I was told to get cod liver oil from Norway, the purest/most expensive one they had. Check, check, found the bottle, mortgaged the house, and away I went. That night I poured the smallest pour imaginable in my son's bath. He took the bath, none the wiser, and I swear, his hair had a sheen to it that wasn't there before.

"This is a piece of cake!" I thought to myself.

"I'm a f'ing genius! Who knew it could be so easy?"

I tried to towel him off, but the towel kept sliding off his oily body. He jumped into clean pajamas, and eventually into his nice, clean, fresh smelling bed.

The next morning every time anyone got near my son, they commented on his stench.

"Why does he smell like fish?" My husband inquired.

"Oh, just a little experiment gone wrong," I answered, trying to avoid all mention of fish oil.

"Oh my God!" my tween daughter shouted each time she summitted the steps. Why does the whole upstairs stink like fish?

"It's not that bad, is it?" I answered, while simultaneously dousing the tub with bleach.

Still, the stench continued. I washed the towel, pajamas, the boy, the bedding, the tub. I again washed the towel, pajamas, the boy, the bedding and the tub. The "stench" was definitely down graded to an "odor", but was in no way gone.

Now it has been well over a week. The bathroom window has been open the entire time. Scented candles have been lit. Bleach, hot water and prayers have been offered to the fish smell, but it refuses to part. It loves it here. It has made our house its home.

Tarter sauce, anyone?

NOTES TO SELF:

1. When heading out of town to do nothing but write, take the power cord to the computer, and/or extra battery packs.
2. Next time I buy a computer, make sure it is one that accepts a universal AC adapter and doesn't require over-night delivery.
3. Next time I spend the extra dough on over-night delivery, read where it says "next business day". Remember that at 6:00 PM Friday night, you are toast until Monday, at least.
4. Remember, before you cut your trip short due to no computer power, that in the olden days, people used something called paper to write.
5. Remember how time to read books used to feel like a luxury, and you didn't even own a computer? Try that!
6. Remember how you used to fantasize about a quiet house, no demands on your time, and nothing to do but sleep? Stop obsessing about the computer and take a nap!
7. Remember that you love people more than your computer. Say this to yourself until you believe it.
8. When you think you're going to be able to sneak home, grab the power cord and sneak out before anyone hears/sees/smells you, think again. The jig is up. You're a total loser mom/wife with only one true love in this world, and his name is Dell.
9. Tell yourself it could always be worse, you could be addicted to heroin, then they'd really have something to complain about.
10. Tell yourself you'll quit tomorrow, you just need to get through tonight.

COMPASSION

I thought I'd take the heat off me, and write something "fluffy" today. I've recently covered religion and sex, and am in no position to talk politics. The problem is I've stirred up a hornet's nest talking about "Brokeback Mountain" and "Transamerica", and I'm kinda proud. I am proud that we have a forum like the Internet to sound off on our opinions. I'm proud that in America in 2006 people have more freedoms and choices than they've ever had before. I'm proud that my blog has brought out some touchy subjects and made me think long and hard about what I think long and hard about.

First, let me make a correction, I spelled evangelical wrong in my "Reverse Discrimination" posting. I apologize. I appreciate all the comments generated by that posting. I am again encouraged by my readers' open-mindedness on the issue raised. I also apologize if I over-shared, and made any of the people mentioned in the posting uncomfortable. I again appreciate that we live in this day and age where religion can be debated intelligently in this country, and not violently, at least on the Internet, but I am not going to get political here.

What I am choosing to take from all the homosexuality in a heterosexual marriage controversy, is that compassion must be applied liberally. I am not gay. I am not married to a gay man, true. I have been the love interest of more than one gay man, however, and am the offspring of one. I know that pain. I do not know the pain of living in a culture that is threatening to one's nature. I am not in a position to know if one pain is harder than another. I do know that pain is pain, and the only anecdote to pain is compassion.

If I sounded uncompassionate, I am truly sorry. I'm passionate about compassion. I am also passionate about living in love, and not fear, and still maintain that choosing fear over love is selfish. Do I completely understand why someone would choose to make a choice out of fear and not love? Absolutely. Do I have compassion for that choice? Yes. Would I most likely make the same choice myself? Maybe. We truly don't know what we would or wouldn't do unless we walked a mile in another's shoes. Would I wish the pain of living in a culture that is not readily accepting of all people, on anyone? Never. Do I hope that I am raising children that will markedly make a difference in the world, and be compassionate, passionate, loving and fearless humans? Every day, all day long.

With that, I passionately apologize to all the people put-out by my postings, and passionately appreciate all those that took time to comment. I have learned from this, and I thank you.

THE SIN OF SELFISHNESS

Wow! I've started a ruckous amongst my blog readers! Check out all the comments on the Transamerica posting! I'll just say this about that...

I am the child of divorce, twice. Divorce is hell on everyone. People get divorced for many different reasons, all of them hard on children, but not all of them due to selfish reasons. When one spouse is abusing the other, and the victim takes the kids and gets out, is that selfish? Or self-preserving and ultimately, protective? When one spouse just "doesn't love the other anymore", is that a selfish reason to get out? I think so. If one spouse just doesn't love the other anymore because they are in denial about, or closeted about their homosexualty, that goes beyond selfishness, and straight to cruel. To not own up to why you don't love your spouse the way they deserve to be loved, but lead them on to think they are inherently faulty and unloveable, is unconscionable. That is what I find fault with. If one spouse marries, tries to live a hetersexual life, cannot anymore, and comes clean with the spouse and children, that is taking the high road/the harder road, the "right" road, the road far more kind and honest. That road leads to understanding, compassion, and forgiveness. Being lied to leads to distrust in self and others.

I'm all about people being whoever they are. This is not a question of whether being straight or gay is "better", this is about whether honesty is better than dishonesty. And with that, I've gotta go "the truth will set you free" route.

Do I recognize that rural Wyoming and urban Texas were hard places to be "out" in the early 1960s? Of course! Yes, in fact, open homosexuality may have cost them their lives earlier than it did anyway. Would two wives and three children have had their lives ruined too? No. That's what I'm saying.

B-T-S

Best acronym ever, B-T-S, Back-to-School, problem is, I'm the one having all the first day of school nightmares. What's with that? I am neither a student, nor a teacher returning to the classroom in September, like so many Septembers before, but the dreams are coming in fast and furiously.

First there was the one that I was going into sixth grade with my daughter, but I was the mother. I made it half a day before throwing down my books and announcing to the class and teacher, "You know, People, I don't have to be here. I've been in 6th grade, I've even taught 6th grade, and my daughter is supposed to be in 7th this year, so ha!"

Then there was the dream where I was in college, I knew I had a full schedule, but I could never remember what all my classes were, or where I was supposed to be going. Each day I skipped at least two classes because I just didn't know enough about them. Hmmmm...

Last night I couldn't find all the parts to my test, and all the staples kept coming out. I wrote my name on every page, but that took up so much time I didn't have time to finish the test, plus someone kept singing, and I couldn't concentrate, and I just kept re-reading the same question over and over.

I was also part of some college group last night, not sure what, a sorority? A commune? A co-op? I don't know, but I was supposed to clear all the tables and take the dishes to the kitchen. Everytime I picked up an empty plate, someone said, "Hey! I'm not done with that!" Wow.

So, I guess what these dreams all have in common is my neurosis, my sense that I don't know what's going on, nor do I know what I'm supposed to be doing about the whole thing. OK, now I get it, those weren't dreams, they are metaphors for my waking life!

TRANSAMERICA

One faithful reader, as well as fantastic blogger, http://go-mama.blogspot.com/, suggested I rent "Transamerica" after reviewing "Brokeback Mountain". While still taking advantage of my husband's weakened state, we watched it last night. Wow. As Go Mama promised, it portrayed a human dealing head-on with her gender and sexual orientation. The movie had a lot of heart and honesty. Within a week or two, Felicity Huffman learns she is a father, meets her son, and shares her secret with him.

Where "Brokeback Mountain" "failed", if you will, is that no good came from the love the two men shared. Lives were broken, lies perpetuated, the status quo was left unchanged. "Transamerica" showed a woman choosing a difficult, but beautifully authentic, life for herself, and thus, her son. Toby, the son, has the opportunity to know, love, and understand his "father". The children in "Brokeback Mountain" remain confused, misled, and I would venture to say conflicted over their feelings for their fathers. This is no legacy to leave one's children. Don't we owe it to our children to first know ourselves, and then be this knowing self to one's children? How convenient to "believe" children can't handle honesty. What children cannot handle is feeling they are somehow responsible for their parent's unhappiness. To be something other than you are, and to maintain this myth for the sake of your children, is utter selfishness, and really, child abuse. Children thrive when they are loved unconditionally. When parents don't love themselves, how well can they love their children?

TOP 10 "THAT'S MY STORY

AND I'M STICKING TO ITs"

1. The truck that drives around playing "The Entertainer"? That's called the Music Truck. No, you don't need to go see for yourself, you just need to trust me on this one. If you get too close the music will stop, then everyone will be mad at you.
2. If you don't believe in Santa, he won't come.
3. You get zits from kissing boys.
4. The clothes in my closet that don't fit anymore? The damn dryer shrank them.
5. It's just a coincidence, not a conspiracy, that all my friends went on vacation the same week.
6. I'm not a "know it all", I just happen to know a lot more than most.
7. I'm not bossy, I just know how things should go, and am happy to lend my expertise to all situations.
8. I'm not self-righteous, I just know when I'm right, which happens to be most, if not all, of the time.
9. I'm not hard to live with, in fact, if I could just get everyone to live my way, there would be no problems!
10. I don't resort to Top 10 lists when I have writer's block, I just think they're really fun to read, and I like for my friends to have fun!

BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN

For many months I've been wanting to see the movie, "Brokeback Mountain". My husband has not. He was adverse to it, in fact. I thought about going with a friend to see it in the theaters, I'd thought about renting it and watching it alone when it came out in DVD. I knew I would love it. I knew it would move me. I knew it would pull up hard feelings. I knew that it would not just be any old movie to watch some evening after the kids went down. What I didn't know was that it was a tragedy.

Yesterday, in a weakened state, I got my husband to agree to watch it with me. We wept. Yes, he squirmed, yes he was uncomfortable at times, but he "got it". The lives of the two men were so well depicted, their torment, their love, their bondage to convention. What made me weep, though, was the women in their lives. The women that loved these men, had children with these men, or were the children of these men, their situation was the most tragic to me. The men had each other. No matter how infrequently they saw one another, they always knew the other was "out there", feeling and understanding what they were going through. The women had nobody.

Even today there would be very few people that would understand, and be able to talk about what these women were dealing with. We have come much further in accepting homosexuality, but women whose husbands are trying to live a heterosexual life with them, are still a silent minority. How unloved they must feel, how faulty, how lonely. I'm sure the same is true for men living with women that are fighting to live a life that is accepted by society, rather than the life that is natural for them. It's tragic to me. It's tragic that our society makes it so hard for people to love each other, and so easy to hate. It's tragic that the world is always preparing for war, and not welcoming love, any way it's wrapped. It's tragic that we still judge others by their sexual orientation, rather than their integrity, compassion, and societal contributions.

It's tragic.

REVERSE DISCRIMINATION

What happens inside you when you hear the word, "Evengelical". You have a response, don't you? You feel strongly aligned with the word, or strongly opposed to the word, and what it means for you, true? I have yet to meet someone that is completely neutral about this branch of Christianity.

Remember the 4th of July carwash story? I was with my cousin and her husband, a pastor and wife team from an Evengelical church in the Chicago area. We had all been together for a family reunion. My family is large and far-flung. Descendants of a Baptist minister, all of us, we couldn't be more divergent in our current religious beliefs, or non-beliefs. My cousin and her husband were debriefing about the reunion, and the different responses they evoked from relatives, just by their presence in a conversation. Whether or not they opened their mouths, whether or not they agreed or disagreed, "approved or disapproved", they were judged as judges. Nobody asked them what they thought about something, or how they arrived at their thinking, they just assumed.

This was hard for them. They had driven three young children across the country to re-unite with their families. They had open minds, open hearts, and were eager to have meaningful conversations and connections with relatives long unseen. They had not driven thousand of miles in the heat of the summer to stand in judgment. They had driven out of love, to be "with", not "against". Few gave them a chance.

Whatever your religious beliefs or allignment, do you agree with every single other person of the same? What about politics? Are you a democrat? Republican? Green Party? Do you agree with every person walking the party line? Are we not a country founded on free speech, free thought, and free choice? Are we not willing to extend these rights to those with whom we don't agree, or scarier yet, with those whom we fear don't agree with us? Why do we feel so threatened?

"Those Evengelical zealots on TV are just as disturbing to me, as they are to other people," my cousin's husband commented. Had I ever considered this? No, I'm ashamed to admit. I, too, assumed that Evengelicals were all for one and one for all. How dare I? How DARE I?

I'm sorry. You have taught me an important lesson, and I thank you. Now I'm going to go pray for sun.

WHAT'S THE BUZZ?

5:00 AM and I am up, the time of day my subconscious loses to the power of addiction, and my morning coffee/internet fix must be had. I love this time of day, and with any luck at all, I can get 1-2 hours of quiet time in before the famdamily starts to stir.

Not today.

"Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!"

My husband creaks down the stairs mumbling, "God damn smoke alarm battery..."

"Didn't we spend a fortune buying lithium batteries not six months ago? Were they not touted as being ten-year batteries? Did we not take every precaution available to avoid this very annoying problem?" I ask, being well on my way to full caffeination.

"*&^%$," he responds expletively.

I refill my coffee, he gets his first cup, and the two of us spend the next half hour standing under the smoke alarms, in silence, waiting to hear which one is the culprit.

"It's in the basement," I insist.

"It's on the main floor," he argues.

And so it goes, for a full half hour, until every smoke alarm in the house has been eliminated, and we're left with the knowing we are haunted. There can be no other explanation. What kind of perverse ghost sets off alarms for no reason, and please, could they do their schtick on their own time? I would really appreciate the effort more if it weren't during my very limited amount of solitude. What happened to "woo, woo, woo?" What's up with "buzz, buzz, buzz?" When did ghosts go all high-tech on me?

Now that we're all up, all crabby, all our teeth on edge, the buzzing has stopped. I have enough annoying human spirits in my house as it is, I do not need any from beyond, thank you very much!