YES, WE CAN.

February 4, 2008

 

This little piece of “propaganda” (as Jay likes to call it–he’s an “Independent” who never votes for Democrats, so I think we know what he really is) has had me in tears off-and-on for the last twenty-four hours.  I have been brought to my knees by this song, finding it to be a universal anthem of empowerment, a battlecry, a song for any cause.  I like it so much, despite what Jay thinks.  But still

Me:  “I didn’t think you would like that video, Jay, but I think it’s really depressing that we don’t share any causes.” 

Him:  “Our son is our shared cause, Honey.”

And I suppose he’s right.  And in the end, truly, I want to know that my child was always my first cause, always my finest contribution to society.  I love being a parent with Jay, sharing our common “cause.”  As different as we are, we are very closely aligned in our parenting philosophies and this gives me more joy than I can tell you.  But I still can’t shake the lonely feeling in my house right now. 

Maybe it’s because I am fresh from a beyond-my-wildest-dreams event yesterday: a showing of The Business of Being Born, a stellar documentary film produced by Ricki Lake that explores the reality of giving birth in America–that it is often more about profit and liability than about what may be best for mothers and babies.  600+ people showed up at The Byrd Theatre yesterday for the showing, which a few months ago, I would never have dreamed.  I had originally thought that perhaps we could show it at a yoga studio to about 50 people, with the hope that perhaps one person might choose something different for their birth. 

The air was electric as hundreds of people poured into the theater–men, women, old, young, black, white…I could not believe that so many people actually CARED about this issue.  Suddently the work our makeshift committee of 13 moms had done over the last several months seemed worth it.

And then to discover the Yes, We Can video THAT VERY NIGHT, made the work seem that much more important, and that much more POSSIBLE.

And the lonely feeling in my house?  Eh, so what?  That’s what the rest of the WORLD is for.  Jay and I share the most important cause.  There are at least 613 other Richmonders who share my other cause, which ain’t too shabby.  And over 600,000 other people clicked on the You Tube Yes, We Can video, so there’s that, too…

Curious about The Business of Being Born? Click on the trailer below:

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I have just realized that it is not so much writer’s block as it is technological illiteracy that is keeping me from posting at-will. 

For instance, the other day, I had a post in mind, but couldn’t figure out how to successfully upload an image that was in pdf format.  Without the image, the post would have been lacking, so I just said f-it. 

A few days later, I had a post in mind which would have required me to link to different sites.  But I couldn’t figure out how to do that, either.  So I got the f-its again. 

Now today, I want to post about a video on You Tube, but I can’t figure out how to do that cool thing of copying the actual picture of the video into my post, so that all people have to do is click on the play button to play the video.  Again, f-it. 

This is becoming pathological.

I need to buy a Blogging for Idiots book or something.  (Oh hey, I bet a book like that actually exists, come to think of it.  I was joking, but maybe I’m onto something here…)

I thought that because I am reasonably competent at writing that blogging would be a good idea.  I did not know I would need to speak Computer-ese in order to have a decent blog.  People, why this did not occur to me before, I have no idea.

But please bear with me.  I promise one day this will be a cool blog. 

  

dsc_2538.jpg 

 Okay so I’ve been struck with this horrendous case of I’ve-just-started-a-blog-and-now-I-can’t-think-of-a-flippin-thing-to-say writer’s block.  This is totally lame!  Especially because on any given day,  I can be found telling any NUMBER of stories to any soul willing to listen–stories that start like, “That makes me think of this one time (at band camp–sorry, it’s a compulsion) when I was four and I ate some magic mushrooms…”or “Yeah, when I went to India and asked my guru the true definition of forgiveness, he said…” or “Did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally crapped all over the wall of a men’s bathroom in a Catholic church in Mexico?”

But noooo.  NOW that I have free license to tell any story, to blab on and on about my ideas, to just shoot the breeze with cyberdom, I’m struck dumb.  “OOooooh, yeah…I forgot to tell you that might happen,” said P. the other day when I was complaining about this very thing.  Hm.  Great.

It’s like getting into bed with the hottest piece of man meat on the planet and like, falling asleep or something.  What the…?!

I think my one year old might have just put a piece of dog food in his mouth.  Ew.  “Why don’t you go over there and check?” you might ask.  Well, People, it’s protein.  And I’m writing.

Oh, the picture.  It’s what I made myself for breakfast on Sunday morning.  It seemed like a really big deal at the time.  I got out the skillet, all happy and anticipatory, and scrambled a fresh brown egg with goat cheese, roasted red pepper, baby spinach, and avocado.  It.  was.  awesome.  The awesomeness was punctuated by the fact that every single ingredient save the egg is something Jay turns his nose up at, which means I hardly ever buy that stuff.  But the other day I was so on FIRE from everyone’s replies to my last post, that I went to the store and went WILD!!  Nevermind that hours later I would find Jay staring dejectedly into a kitchen cabinet, asking, “Uh, honey…did you get anything good to eat at the store?”  Oh.  Oops.

dsc_25250001.jpgSo I saw them in the grocery store and for 8 bucks a dozen, I felt it was a small price to pay for my sanity.  I don’t know why, but flowers just make me so damn happy.  Sombebody-who-shall-remain-anonymous doesn’t really get into the whole flower-giving thing and you know what? that’s okay because I’ve discovered that flowers are really great, no matter who buys them.

What are your little indulgences?  The things you do for yourself just because?  I’m lookin for ideas.  I figure I’m on a roll.  The flowers are just the beginning...

WAAAAAA HOOOOO!  My very own blog!  This is just so cool, I can hardly stand it!  I’m all a-flutter!  I’m…speechless (for once in my life)!  Ok, so welcome to my brand-spankin’-new blog, The Lady in My Head.  I bet some of you are wondering who the heck “the lady in my head” is.  

The Lady in My Head is a fairly newly-coined name for my spot-on, eerily accurate “sense” about things.  Here’s what happens.  I meet someone, or I enter a room, or I hear about a situation, or I spend time with someone, or what have you.  And zzzzzing!  I start to have a “feeling” and then…gosh, I don’t know how else to say it…a VOICE in my head starts talking, telling me “how it is.”  And sometimes I ignore her because it’s just too hard to face the truth.  But more and more, I’ve been listening. 

It’s okay.  You can think it.  You can even say it.  “She’s crazy.”  Yes, People.  I am.  And it’s GREAT.

So the Lady is quite a nice guide, especially when I let her talk and heed her instructions.  Like, when she says, “Stop what you are doing, sit down and write.  I will tell you exactly what to say.”  Or when I wake up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason and am thinking about someone and feeling very strongly connected to her and the Lady tells me, “Go back to sleep.  But when you wake up in the morning, be sure you find a way to make sure that so-and-so gets what she needs.  She’s in pain and needs to be reminded that she is loved.” 

The Lady, of course, is not to be confused with the middle-of-the-night voice that almost always says, “Must.  Eat.  Chocolate.  Now!”  That voice we will call, “Bertha.”  Bertha is ruthless and (oh my God I am naming the voices–I swear to you, I do NOT have multiple personality disorder) takes no prisoners–afterall, what’s one more ripple in the ocean of cellulite on my thighs?  I used to be a size 4.  Now I’m a size I like to affectionately call, “Don’t Take Another Bite!”  But that’s an entry for another day.

So I raise my glass to the Lady who’s brought me safely here, who’s always got my back, who knows the truth and speaks no other language.  This Blog’s For You!  God, I’m corny.  I don’t know where that came from.  I don’t even drink beer.

Hello world!

January 21, 2008

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