Jellyfish

I don't know what I will do next fall without my weekend football games which I've grown to love, irrationally. I used to sit quietly, tentatively, worried about injury and not thoroughly knowing the game. Fast forward four years and I spend the game jumping and clapping and screaming at the top of my lungs, I look forward to them and I don't look at my watch hoping they'll be over soon. I'm just fine never going to another baseball game, or basketball game, but I'm really gonna miss football, yet still have no regrets not allowing the tall one to play until High School.

It's an incredible thing to think back to that tiny boy who dreamed of teams and uniforms from the time he could walk. When he started soccer at four, he yelped all day about how this was going to be the best day of his life, and then spent the whole practice curled in my lap sobbing. He wanted so badly to go out there and play, but just couldn't do it, for whatever reason, for so many reasons. We went week after week, and occasionally, he'd go on the field for a minute or two, but then was back in the lap. What a difference a year makes, and he hit his stride in t-ball a year later, but took it so much more seriously than the other kids that if he didn't get a good hit, he'd pitch a fit behind the pine trees. Working on the sportsmanship, everyone has an achilles heel has been the project of our lives.

So that so many years later, to see this confident young man, strut onto the field wearing that uniform, the shoulder pads and cleats, the helmet, his little boy dream come to fruition and lead his team effortlessly, in complete control, entirely in the moment and in possession of himself, is an astounding thing to watch. He's got the moves, damn, that boy's got the moves and how many of us get to participate in our fantasies in the flesh, even if only for four high school years. He doesn't just play, he's the star and he pulls it off, time after time. In real life, he walks with the slouch of someone who got tall too quickly and has the inherent awkwardness that comes with self-consciousness and and slightly pidgeoned toes, but when he's on that field, or any other, he stands tall, he's graceful, he's just gorgeous to watch, gorgeous. He walks up and down the sidelines, whispering in ears, patting helmet heads, he's the conductor and there's nowhere else he'd rather be and I think of that little, little boy who dreamt of this moment night after night, in one fantasy after another and how many dreams come true? Throw on the image of him completing pass after pass to his childhood friend, a boy I adore and who knew football could make a mama cry. Who knew football, horrible, violent football, the antithesis of all my values could be so beautiful. I'm so nostalgic about this senior year, the end of so many things, the end of an era, but so proud, so damned proud and enjoying it so much, because this ending will merge with a grand new beginning. Turn the page and everyone starts a new chapter.

The little one is really enjoying the theater class I forced him into and he's becoming a performance art piece in progress. He likes to employ a russian accent and spout non-sequiturs when other kids talk to him at school, "sandvitch, sandvitch." What a crack-up, he cares not a whit if people think he's from mars, in fact, he takes it as a fine achievement and compliment. Beautiful. He's on a lego stop-motion movie making binge and I love when I can see his little wheels spinning as he runs upstairs to film and downstairs to edit. He just turned down an ice cream, because when he's on a tear, he's consumed. It's a beautiful thing to be consumed by a project. He's so much happier when he's a mission and it's been a while.

I completely forgot to share my recent experience with jellyfish. I've always been scared of them, didn't know that they don't all sting, but really just thought they were gross. When I went diving off of Jamestown the water was full of them, some as small as a nickel and some considerably larger. I had gloves on and my teacher told me they didn't sting, so I started scooping them up and I thought they'd be like goo dripping off of my hand, but not at all. They look all flimsy and shapeless in the water, but when you pick them up, they make a perfectly round disc in your hand and are rather solid. A hand-sized one is like a tennis ball you've flattened down to about 1/2" thick. Clear and with pink strands in the middle. It feels exactly like a sac of silicone, a silicone breast implant, I kid you not. It's a whole ocean full of silicone implants!

And now it's October, breast-cancer awareness month, the commercial scam of the century. My son's watching his beloved Green Bay Packers on T.V. and the players are all decked out in pink. Pink socks, towels, wristbands, accessories, the goal posts are wrapped in pink, but does any of that translate into money for research? For a cure? I would suggest that women are more aware of breast cancer than of heart disease and heart disease is more likely to kill them. This obsession with breast and breast health is so disturbing and I find it very anti-woman, as in whole woman. As in, no our breasts are not that much more important than the rest of our body parts. No one cares about our colon's because no one is enjoying our colons. I get it, breasts are lovely, I miss mine immensely, but this pink nonesense is out of control and so contrived, so meaningless, shouldn't we want a cure for all cancer? Breast cancer doesn't suck anymore than any other kind of cancer, it all sucks. This pink thing is commercial and it's making money for most everyone other than people dying of disease, which is not one singular disease at all, but comes in many flavors. Everyone gets to feel good except the people who actually have the disease, and certainly any less "popular" cancer. Pink might make survivors feel good, but I'm more concerned with the women who are not going to survive because so much money raised for the "cure" goes to parties and feel-good celebrations. KFC and any other processed food packaged in pink isn't any healthier than when it's not, and these products are a big part of the problem, so as Breast Cancer Action says, "think before you pink". And if you must, go fondle a jellyfish : }

The pink makes me uncomfortable, it encourages people to identify with their cancer. I don't want to be "a breast cancer survivor" decked out in pink ribbons, I just want to be alive. I want to celebrate being alive with everyone else who's had a close encounter with anything. I don't like this hierarchy of cancers, of diseases, and I don't even like breast cancer being viewed as a singular disease, it's too simplistic. As I've learned, breast cancer is quite complex, there are many different kinds of it, some are lethal, some are not, some need a lot of treatment, some not so much, some have more in common with other cancers than with other breast cancers. Let's just fight cancer. Let's stop having parties and glorifying it and making it pretty and fun, let's fund a cure. And let's stop making those struggling with other types of cancer or diseases feel like second class citizens.

How do you spell sofa?

I had an appointment with an ophthalmologist today, chemo can cause trouble with your eyes, and while there is no history of cancer in my family, there is history of certain eyeball conditions. I have undergone countless medical procedures, and am very good at remaining calm and detached, but eyeballs and the examination thereof, give me the deluxe hee-bee-gee-bees {x10}. I can't watch anyone put in contact lenses, my eyes water if someone else has red eyes and the doctor's plastic eyeball model made me queasy. But nothing was scarier than the waiting room before my appointment.

The waiting room was crowded with a disproportionate number of morbidly obese, I don't mean overweight, I mean seriously, obese, very unhealthy individuals. After watching Michelle Bachman on the news ranting about Obamacare killing innocent babies and their little old nana's, I've become so disgusted with the state of things that I really can't stand it. I'm trying to be the apathetic individual that is at the root of so many problems, but sometimes, it's a matter of self-preservation, It's too insane, too depressing, I can't believe how low our national discourse has gone, and I thought I could dwell in my little blue state bubble for a bit. A woman across the room asked loudly "how do you spell sofa?", she repeated it a few times and her friend looked at her quizzically. I thought maybe she was doing a crossword puzzle and an answer was "sofa",admittedly, pretty shocked she needed help spelling it. Then she said to her friend "you know, sofa, the stuff they put in antibiotics, I'm allergic to," her friend replied "oh suffa, that's S U F A." Oh sulphur, you crazy chemical you, which I've learned since, has two acceptable spellings, Sulphur and Sulfur, both of which alas, have an "r" at the end. If you don't want to say the R, that's fine by me, but you just can't deny it's existence.

Right then, the ever-present wall mounted t.v. cut to news, of course of the government shutdown. The woman next to me hollered to the whole room, our small, intimate waiting room, that if we had to have Obamacare, the Congress should have to have it too. Maybe I should have kept quiet, but I aired on the side of polite political discourse, national conversation, and I explained, after someone else agreed with her, that the Affordable Care Act wasn't something you had to have, it was something that would be there for those who chose to utilize it. Congresspeople have employer arranged health insurance, so they don't need the assistance of the ACA, but that many people don't have employer coverage. I mentioned the self-employed, people who work for small businesses, people who work part-time, that the ACA allowed them access to an array of different plans, subsidized according to income, from which they could not be excluded for preexisting conditions, women would be charged the same as men, folks couldn't be dropped if they got sick, all good things that are not available to millions of people currently. And yes, people would be required to purchase at least minimal coverage, just as the government makes us buy auto insurance in case we damage someone's car or hurt someone, minimal coverage would mean that the rates of the paying, wouldn't skyrocket to pay for the care of the uninsured.

The woman insisted to me that despite having had cancer and diabetes and myriad other health issues she'd never been denied insurance, never, ever, and her rates were what she considered affordable and that Obamacare had already ruined her insurance. She was now being denied a lifesaving medication she needs every day because of Obamacare. I mentioned that the law only went into effect yesterday and didn't affect anyones current coverage, but that didn't convince her. Her insurance was great and she didn't need the government interfering with, you know it, you know it's coming, her Medicare.

And it went downhill from there. 

Certified!

Phew, I'm certified. Certifiably certified scuba diver and I get an official card in the mail and everything, so that if I'm hit by a car and someone goes through my wallet at the hospital, they can be duly impressed. Warmest day in weeks, I've been watching the weather forecast go up 1º per day for the last week, the gods were on my side, but Poseidon was a smidge testy.

Slightly rough day today, beginner scuba divers are not exactly graceful, not nearly at all. Today, we climbed down a rocky slope wearing our 6,052 lbs. of gear to get to the water, and if that wasn't harrowing enough, you have to walk into the water on wet, slippery rocks. My relief at getting to the water alive evaporated instantly as my foot touched the first slippery stone and it got pretty ugly from there, although, no doubt had there been a hidden camera, I'd be providing hilarity to someone right now. I got in up to about my knees and lost my balance and was tilting back and forth on a tightrope trying not to land in the net, I thought I had it, I had it... I never really had it and wound up on my back in shallow water on top of my tank. A turtle stuck on it's back fruitlessly waving it's stubby little arms and legs back and forth. Had I been alone, I would have been like that for the rest of my considerably shorter life, but my teacher, in considerably better shape than I, with much effort, helped me up onto me knees and for that moment, I really wasn't sure if I'd be able to get to my feet. Damn, this is exercise and I really need to get back to the Y.

When we finally got to deeper water, he swam down to plant our diver's flag and I laid on my back, warm sun on my face, catching my breath, calming down and it was a few minutes of bliss, pure perfect heaven. We had a great dive, staying down for about 35 minutes, but then we had to come up and do some test skills. I did everything fine, but I was kind of a mess. My mask was loose the first dive, so I broke the first rule and took it off to tighten it. I overt-tightened it and couldn't get it loosened up without help and diver girls want to be independent. Taking it off, caused it to fog up the rest of the time, so I descended either too fast or too slow because I couldn't see a thing, and we're talking pretty low visibility to begin with. I did far too much thrashing about, exhausting myself and swallowing mouthfuls of skanky salt water.

Exhausted after all that struggling in the water I was a little scared for the first time about not getting back to shore and well, I didn't really want to embarrass myself further. I knew I was in really safe hands, but I really, really didn't want to need more help. I already can't get my tank and vest on by myself, I hated needing help with something as dumb as my mask. The currents get stronger as the day goes on, so swimming back is definitely harder than swimming out and the same rocks are involved both ways. We saw a big flounder. next time I pretend to be camouflaged, I'm going to be a flounder.

My instructor is a peach. He's a really good teacher and has made me feel so comfortable. Usually the classes are twice a week for four weeks, but with my parenting responsibilities, there's no way I could get out two nights a week once or twice, let alone four times, so this guy, C.P, has enabled me to do something that has become so important to me on so many levels that I can't quantify my gratitude. He has two kids, High School Senior and one in college and he talks about his wife with the most natural and lovely sense of commitment and partnership, respect and affection. I can't think of anything better in the world than to feel that way about someone, or to have someone not only feel that way about me, but to be able to express it with ease to a near stranger. Of course with my constant issue with sharing too much and chattering too much, I guess if I spend a whole car ride with someone, they're unlikely to remain a stranger. I've always noticed people talking about their partners this way, and was simultaneously aware of the lack of it in my relationship. It was an intangible longing at first, just another deficit that made me sad, but I identified it some years ago and so always notice when people talk of their loved ones with such genuine affection and bonds either with or without them present, it's powerful either way. I know the people doing it take it for granted, but those of us who are never spoken of that way, notice it and personally, I always find it very moving.

Anyway, I really like this guy, and duh, not that way {get out of the gutter}, just did the wife thing... just a great guy and a great teacher and I hope we'll get to dive together again, which really, I'm sure we will. His current class is gonna do their open water dives at the end of the month and I'm going to tag along for one of the days. Now that I'm done with all the testing, I can just dive, none of this up and down, up and down nonsense, the pressure's off {o.k., I never felt any pressure} but the getting from point A to point B issue remains -- it's nice to just fall out of a boat like in Mexico. Grateful for this man's patience and knowledge and cheerleading. We met an older man in the parking lot who'd just emerged from the water and his wife was waiting there with her cup of coffee, they were adorable! She offered us food and it turns out that her husband is a post-cancer scuba diver. He was given two years to live and here he is 15 years later and living the life. I'm going to live the life.

I want my own wetsuit, I want my own wetsuit bad, my only impediment to living the life is I'm broker than I've ever been in my life. I want a black wetsuit with pink accessories. Pink weight belt, already have the pink flippers, and I'm getting a dive knife someday. They strap around your lower leg. I'll never use it, I'm scared of knives and for good reason, I know damned well I'd cut my own leg open with it, but I want a dive knife so I can feel like a bad ass scuba diver. You know, bond girl fantasy, and I'm at that stage in life where my fantasy life is pretty important. I have a great jellyfish story, but I'm too tired and I'm going to have to wrench myself out of this porch chair on this beautiful, gorgeous, fabulous day and go take a shower, cause not only am I exhausted, I stink.

Camouflage

I wish I could remember all the blog posts I've written in my head the past few weeks, so I could write them down. This does, however, indicate a good thing, which is that I don't have the urgency to write which means I'm more in the moment, more content.

When I returned from Mexico to my beloved boys who seemed to miss me a lot, I found myself smack dab in the middle of back-to-school prep, and then little dude got sick and missed the second week of school and now, finally things are settling down into a routine. What didn't wane, or settle down after my trip was my newfound obsession with scuba diving. I was going to let it go, like I'm used to letting things go. I don't have time, I can't afford it, I should be working, cleaning, running in circles, like I do, but instead, I signed up for diving lessons. I'm obsessed with getting certified, I want a certificate god damn it, I need a goal, I deserve a goal and scuba diving counts as exercise, scuba diving counts as rehab and all those endorphins most definitely must prevent cancer.

However, in reality, I am time constrained, so I found a teacher, in between classes who agreed, since I'd already done two dives in Mexico {and of course, I told him I'm a natural} to do a private, expedited course on my schedule which means all day on two Wednesdays and for a shockingly reasonable fee since it includes gear rental. He dropped off the book for me to read and we got together at a dive shop last wednesday. I flew through the first four paper tests, got everything right, he explained a bunch of stuff and we headed for Jamestown. It was a crystal clear, beautiful warm day and we suited up and stomped off into a cove. Just the beautiful day was almost spectacular enough, I don't get out enough.

The first thing I learned is that putting on a full wetsuit is one of the most difficult and wretched tasks imaginable. I realized, or confirmed for myself that the neuropathy is not just in my feet, but that my hands are weak. They're not painful like my feet, but in the studio and in my kitchen I'm a series of drop, spill, drop, drop, drop. Wetsuits are thick and tight, and I just couldn't grasp it firmly enough to pull up, it was embarrassing and consequently I went in with a baggy crotch. Girl don't like baggy crotch. Oh well.

The water was so different than Mexico which is like crystal. Here it's dark and murky with only 6'-8' visibility and not much too see which I discovered, matters not to me. The part I remember the most, the part stamped on my brain is when, having really figured out this buoyancy thing, I settled flat with limbs outstretched on the sandy ocean floor and just stayed there, unmoving. I pretended that I was one of the camouflaging species and that I was invisible and there was something just thrilling and peaceful and transcendental about that moment. It was probably shorter than I remember, but I was one with the sand and it was grande. I know what being a big lump of sand feels like.

After our first dive, I was so exhausted I wasn't sure I could do another. The equipment is really heavy and walking from point A at the car, to point B, the water was agonizing, I was truly afraid I'd fall down under the weight and my air tank would explode. My teacher asked if I was up for another dive, he's aware of my history and hence, I think understands and respects my quest, and while every muscle was yelling "nooooooo", I answered, "yep, let's do it". Once I was in the water I was fine. It's a sublime moment when you feel like you're about to be crushed and then you walk into the water and the weight you're carrying slowly disintegrates and yeah, I guess I'm inadvertently referring to all matter of intangible weight as well.

Ha, this teacher says I'm a natural too. I don't care if they're flattering or patronizing me, I'm a fucking natural! I accomplished all the underwater tasks I needed to, some rather clumsily, and this week I have much reading and test taking to do and then we're back in the water on Wednesday, when I expect it will be much chillier.

I wish I could have taken the regular class, done the four pool dives because they look like fun and I could have met other novice divers, but two nights a week for four weeks just isn't gonna happen for me, so I'm really grateful to have found this really excellent teacher willing to be flexible. Each time I've gone in the water I've been blissed down there and afterwards, the next day, it feels like a dream and I'm not sure it happened.

I must keep my momentum going, must. My new dream is to get a DEM license next spring and dive for lobsters, how awesome would that be? I'm going to be a pink and black, neoprene clad, scuba diving, hunting and gathering, food foraging goddess. And it counts as exercise!

Stephanie

Stephanie is the lovely English gal with the Aussie accent who taught me to dive. She was feisty and sweet as can be, and called everyone “darling” in her darling accent. She said she spoke that way from watching so many Australian soap operas growing up and wound up in Mexico quite unexpectedly. Her parents went on a trip there and spontaneously put a down payment on a house in Cancun and then moved there. Her father is a jolly, adventurous fellow and she only reluctantly came to visit, and well, that was the end of that. Fast forward seven years, 3,000 dives, and the overweight, pale english girl is now a fit, ebullient, dancing on the deck, scuba instructor, newly married to a Mexican musician. I imagine her diving all day and then relaxing in a cozy cantina sipping cocktails while her love serenades her while seemingly singing to the whole crowd. I asked if when she was young, when she was 18 or 20 she had any clue she’d live an adventure life, and she said “nooooooooooo”. She said she was looking forward to raising a family there, thought it would be the perfect place.

I watched a video in the dive shop, but my expert diver companion had already verbally walked me through the basics, so the information wasn’t overwhelming and then Stephanie took me under the dock while they guys loaded the boat, to practice four basic skills and then off we went. The first thing she asked was if I wanted to scuba dive and she was relieved by my jumping up and down, enthusiastic response because she said that often, when it’s the female part of a couple where the man already dives, they’re very often pressured into it, scared out of their wits and the day is a disaster. I am happy to say that I experienced not one moment of panic, fear or anxiety even when I suddenly ceased being able to breathe on my first dive and had to go up. The air in the tank is really dry and I didn’t know that you have to focus on making saliva and swallowing it, and since I’d not done that, all of a sudden my throat just closed up and I couldn’t swallow or breathe, so I went up, no big deal. Second dive was no problem and I stayed down for 50 minutes which honestly felt like 20.

When you're diving you use hand signals, and if someone signals you, you're supposed to respond. The  O.K. hand gesture is for, everything's o.k., which seems simple, but we're all so used to doing a thumbs up for that. Thumbs up means, "oh no, somethings wrong, I have to go up". Stephanie OK'd be throughout and I OK'd back and near the end she did it and I made the heart shape with my hands and she threw her hands up into the air and did the underwater equivalent of jumping for joy. I heart scuba diving, I heart sea turtles and I heart Stephanie.

I’m hoping to do the classroom and pool certification here and then go back to Mujeres and do my four requisite dives with Stephanie, that would be perfect! She’ll probably have an intrepid little baby in a wetsuit in tow. Sadly, I have no desire to plunge into the freezing Northeast water.

Along with my souvenirs, I brought back another unique chapter in my puking diary. I’ve never been seasick and neither had my friend who has dived and snorkeled around the world for decades. The 45 minute ride out to the whale sharks was really fast and choppy, but if you sat on the seat sideways it was like riding a horse, I loved it. I didn’t notice the choppy water when snorkeling, it was too exciting, but when I got back on the boat the queasies crept up on me. One woman, who seemed a bit worse for wear before she even got on the boat had already puked over the side, so that kind of planted the seed. I got through it though and went for another swim, we rotated, only going in the water in pairs, and swam really hard to keep up with some sharks and as I swam back to the boat, zowie, I started puking all over myself with no warning, vertically, while treading water. Blech, vomit and salt water {insert shudder here}, at least it’s easy to rinse off and I felt better immediately. Except that one of our boatmates was a know-it-all prick who could not stop pointing out what had just happened “ha ha ha, you sure fed the fish" {repeat ad nauseum, shameless pun intended}. I felt like such a wimp until we heard my seasoned travelling companion, still in the water doing the exact same thing! The third swim was the best, the whale sharks had slowed down and I was able to swim for a bit directly over one that was about a foot under me, with very little effort. I’m sure the puke diary will continue, but this was certainly my most worthy chapter.

The heck with dolphins

I could float in the warm, blue sea forever. Carefree. Weightless. No aches, no pains, just warmth and peace. There was so much salt in the water, the temperature of a warm bath, you couldn’t help but float, I tried diving in shallow water for some shells and couldn’t do it, kept popping back up. The currents were strong, so I could snorkel without even moving, the current carrying me along. Swimming against it is nearly impossible, it’s swimming in place and exhausting. Soft soothing sand on my feet, laying unter a thatched umbrella, someday, I hope, I will stop humming the theme to Gilligan’s Island.

I had many cocktails on the beach and thought I could suddenly hold my liquor until we realized they pretty much just waved the tequila bottle over the drinks or as R said, maybe had a spritzer bottle. Apparently you need to order a “double with a floater” which means, obviously a double shot and one poured on top. I was pretty happy though, with my frosty, fruity drinks and probably better off without any floaters. And if you’ve read David Sedaris... you don’t want any “floaters” in your drinks.

We snorkeled with whale sharks, inches from them, almost tangled up in them. Slow moving, peaceful, gentle giant creatures. swimming near the surface. Incredible to swim along with a fish, four, five, six times my length. Swimming right above them, whale shark, me and it’s gang of Remoras, living symbiotically. Each shark with it’s own groupies, it’s own enterouge.

We saw a giant sea turtle come up on the beach at midnight to dig a hole, lay her eggs and then stumble back into the black sea. We had a full moon, otherwise we’d not have seen a thing. I fell down on the jagged rocks trying to get a better look and as my leg lit up stinging I thought, that was soooooo worth it.

I scuba dived for the first time. It’s been a lifelong dream and a few years ago I thought about the fact that I’d never done it, never done so many things, bogged down in my life of minutia, of surviving each day, one by one. I thought, well, that window has closed, I don’t even know if I want to do it anymore, I’m so much more fear-based, claustrophobic. But I did it, was bouncing with excitement as we left for the boat, no fear, no anxiety. It was thrilling. Thrilling. And I was a rock star for a beginner. I loved it down there, no panic, just breathe in, breathe out. I was so disappointed when it was time to come up. I’m still intoxicated from it. My goal for this year is to learn spanish and get certified so I can do it again {and again}.

I’ve transferred my dolphin obsession to sea turtles. We saw a beauty while diving, and went to a hatchery the next day. You’re not supposed to touch them, but one of the turtles kept coming over to me in the open tank, so when no one was looking I put my hand in and touched his back and his flipper which he held out for me, seemingly intentionally. He looked at me as I stroked his head and now I have magic sea turtle healing power, I’m sure of it.

R had an underwater camera, so I have discs of pictures and videos to look at and show my boys who will hopefully be glad to see me when they get home tonight and also be impressed. Certainly, they should be impressed with the giant black sombrero adorned all in silver that just fit into my suitcase and awaits the next dress up day or halloween trek or movie set.

I’d like to say I’m happy to be home, but I’m not. There are dishes and laundry and dust bunnies and clutter. Bills to pay and an upcoming six weeks of dental appointments in preparation for losing my dental insurance. And regret, pointless regret that it took me this long to realize such a simple dream, that I’ve squandered so much time being bogged down. I am dreaming of the deep blue sea and my carefree floating self, my sore feet being massaged by the sand, and I am dreaming of sea turtles.

The Oxford Comma

Summer seems to be winding down, only two and a half weeks until school starts which is unfathomable. I feel like I never got into the rhythm of summer. There were fits and starts but it never felt fluid. It seemed to always be too rainy or too hot, otherwise I can’t quite figure out why all those summer BBQs and get together’s never happened. Why the projects never got done. Where the warm summer nights roaming around the city went.

Nine months after treatment ended and I’m at loose ends, I’ve not settled into a new normal. I’m still fighting against a tide that is slowly pulling me in, to someplace that looks like, I know not, and it’s a little scary. A good portion of my income came from selling my work at shows and events. At the time I got sick, I was wanting to do this less, in favor of building up my wholesale business, I was sick of schlepping stuff around, but we do what we have to do. While friends kept my seasonal shop open, providing income while I was sick, my wholesale and consignment accounts dried up, my website became more and more out of date and overwhelming to deal with.

This summer I did what has always been my best show, figuring I could get through it to provide some desperate summer income. Turns out I made about a quarter of what I usually make there and got so over-exhausted I couldn’t lift my tent into my car for the first time ever. E-Z up tents really aren’t very heavy and this thing I’ve lugged around for years with ease was suddenly cemented to the pavement. I was so overheated, I threw up when I got home and could barely function for days. I shared a tent at a different show with a friend, to avoid the tent lugging but again, didn’t make much at all, not worth the work and exhaustion. Then they started an “artists pavilion” at WaterFire, our famous downtown event that draws tens of thousands. They were offering spots with tents, weights and lights already set up, so I figured that was perfect, I could manage that, and it’s a five minute drive from home.

I worked that last night, from 4p.m. to midnight, sales were just o.k. despite the throngs of people and packed tent from start to finish, I know some folks did fabulously, so I can’t blame the event at all, it just seems to be me. I feel like the Elves when they’re leaving Middle Earth, their time there is over, it just is. My time doing this is over, for so many, many reasons, and mostly because it just is like it or not. It's really not a decision any more, it just is.

After the event, I was rush, rush, rushing to pack up because the staff was hurrying to break down tents, and I didn’t want to hold them up or be in the way. I got my car loaded up, checked and double checked that everything was in safely, slammed the door and promptly, and quite efficiently took out my back window with a piece of metal gridwall that was sticking out an inch too far.

The creepy part is that I checked that it was in. Did my eyes trick me in the dark? Or did my eyes send the wrong information to my brain? I didn’t forget to check, I checked and still got it wrong. The sound of that tinted glass shattering was like the King of Gondor saying, and don’t let the door hit you on your way out.

My building has taken away a third of the space I use for Craftopia, and is charging me near the same rental fee, refusing to budge an inch, so there goes that income stream. The winter farmer’s market traffic that I depend on for my store’s foot traffic is losing the same space, so they’ll now be split into another part of the building which will dilute the foot traffic I get, also not good, not good at all. Each and every income stream I’ve spent years building is dwindling and I don’t know what my other options are.

I tried to apply for disability, but while from my whole working life I have a nice heap of social security credits, I don’t have enough credits in the past ten years because of being a stay-at-home mom, and then biz on the side thing. I love how politicians pay lip service to “being a mom is the most important job you can do”, but you're fucked if anything goes wrong, you are no more than the sum of your credits.

The whole social security system is rigged {like so many other things} against anyone that stays home with their kids for a good chunk of time. One’s social security payments will be based on a consecutive 35 year block of work. If you’ve been a stay-at-home, then likely, your work history is an income/no income sandwich with the zeros in the middle, therefore cutting into your 35 year block either way you slice it. Divorced former stay-at-home mom, and you are seriously on your own.

The tall one came home from camp yesterday, finally, I was so excited to see him, but I was working the event. He called and told me that a bunch of the counselors were hanging out at one of their houses in Cranston {a nearby suburb}, and could he go and sleep over. I was sad I wouldn’t see him yet, but I’m not gonna inflict that on the kid, so sure, of course he can go to Cranston as long as he gets a ride home. After unloading my glass filled car which entailed stomping back and forth through the perpetual puddle that is my sidewalk due to summer-long water main work, I sat down, now in the wee hours of the morning to confirm that my teenager was indeed where he was supposed to be. I recently put a geo locator on both the kids phones, both for safety and for truth checking and oddly, his phone was turned off which is very unusual and raised my suspicions. After a sleepless night of excruciating leg and foot cramps I checked this morning and lo and behold, Mr. when-have-I-ever-given-you-a-reason-not-to-trust-me is two and a half hours away in Connecticut.

Let the senior year games begin. While I’m disappointed in him, I’m mostly disappointed that I don’t get my perfect moment of seeing him, seeing him in my state of I-really-miss-you, with accompanying full and happy heart. I have a very pissed off heart right now.

Pissed off, demoralized, generally befuddled, and scraped up by little pieces of window glass.

However, on the topic of the Oxford comma, I use them. I didn’t used to, I rejected them entirely and didn’t even know they were legal. But when I discovered them, I started to use them more and more and now I absolutely, positively always use them. I like them a lot.