The Inner Me

I’m on vacation. I took a week off from work (my official job title is “Stay-At-Home Mom,” though I like to refer to myself as a Write-At-Home Mom (thank you, Sunil Waikar, for introducing me to that phrase)). My husband is going to be a speaker at a conference that has lectures from 7-9am, at which time the slopes open and everyone skis until they close at 4, when lectures resume until 6pm.

This is our third year here, and starting last year, we’ve stayed at a condo with four other families, and each family is in charge of cooking one meal (so we don’t get tired of eating out every meal). This year, since I’m pregnant, I am not skiing (technically, my doctor said it would be okay to ski as long as I didn’t fall. And that, unfortunately, is not something I can guarantee). Instead, I am taking this week’s vacation to write. This condo can’t exactly be considered a rustic cabin in the woods where I can escape the modern world as Thoreau did; we have cable, a wireless internet connection, three televisions in public rooms (in addition to the televisions and dvd players in each bedroom), a recreation room with a pool table and workout machine, a hot tub (which I cannot enjoy – unless it’s by tossing things at the people inside it from an upstairs window, I suppose), and a gourmet kitchen. Nonetheless, this solitary time when everyone else is away skiing is a wonderful time for me to reconnect with me, the real me, and the inner writer.

Well, here’s what I’ve learned about me:
The inner me is sleepy. I sat typing earlier, before lunch (so I can’t blame a food coma), doing a little ten-minute writing exercise. I closed my eyes to picture myself in my garden (as the topic was “You are in a garden”) and I dozed off. I did wake up at 7 this morning, my pregnancy bladder ready to burst (it must be psychosomatic, since my uterus at 12 weeks is still too small to be causing any real pressure on any body parts, or so my husband keeps telling me. Well, since I have no intention of investing in any Depends at this time, I’ll just make sure there’s a bathroom nearby for the next six months, thank you very much). But since back home it would be 9am, it would really be more like I slept in. But I suppose going to bed at midnight (a.k.a. 2am Cleveland time) should be factored in. Oh well, the few minutes I slept seemed to refresh me.

The other thing I learned is that the real me is one heck of a procrastinator. I’m not really particularly a neat freak. And I have been told that housekeeping comes here daily. And yet, after lunch, during which I finished off half a bag of flaming hot limon Cheetos (quite addictive, evidently, and yes, flaming hot), I cleaned. I emptied the dishwasher, rinsed my dishes (I also had a pb&j and a glass of milk, not just half a bag of Cheetos), put them in the dishwasher, put the other dishes lying around in too, then wiped down the counters and the dining table. I went through the TV guide channel (well, the digital cable equivalent) for about ten minutes looking for CBS so I can watch my soap before realizing that it’s Sunday. (Okay, maybe that should be in another paragraph that starts with the subject “The inner me is stupid”). Seriously, I procrastinated today like I haven’t since I was in college. (But honestly, if I went into more details about what I did to procrastinate, I’d just be procrastinating again; for that matter, are these parenthetical comments I keep making just my way of procrastinating to avoid continuing to write, or is it just a sign that my mind can’t stay on topic and parentheses are the only way to let readers know I’m going off on a tangent again?)

But now, here I am with just over an hour before the others come back from a full day of skiing. A whole day has whittled away into just an hour. And that too the last hour before I have to start cooking (since we’re in charge of tonight’s dinner). I suppose that leaves the rest of the week free to write and not enter the kitchen.

I hear the rustling of plastic bags coupled with the clunking of boots on wood stairs. Someone has returned. Nope, it’s maid service. As she went into the kitchen, I had to tell her that the dishes weren’t getting cleaned in the dishwasher, even after running it twice. Her solution: let’s run it again. Well, of course. Why didn’t I think of that?

Ah, the inner me is sarcastic. I guess I have to know what I am to know what I’m not. For example, I am not a koala bear. I could not climb trees and chew on eucalyptus leaves all my life. Then again, if I did that and then wrote, I suppose I could write some pretty interesting stuff. At a zoo in Australia, I learned that koalas are actually kind of violent, and that eucalyptus leaves sedate them, so they’re so cute and cuddly because they’re high. Hmmm.
The inner (and outer) me is anti-drugs. Never tried them, never will, never want my kids to. But perhaps if I can discover my inner koala – yes, I just said I’m not a koala, but maybe I can pretend – I could be a better mother. Some days, I get stressed and worked up to the point that I am yelling at my kids for no reason (I’m sure I’ve written about that before). If I could meditate on the koala (isn’t that what they teach you in Lamaze classes, to focus on something to settle your breathing and calm you down? I never managed to take any of those classes, and since I’m on number three, I figure what’s the point; I know what I’m doing: breathe, push, repeat) and imagine how it would feel to be so calm, so mellow, perhaps I could stop myself from carrying on with my own tantrum. Perhaps this is the real “terrible twos” – how motherhood goes wrong when you’ve got two toddlers.

The inner me babbles. Well, I suppose I’ve known that, as have you, but really, is all this self-discovery really meaningful if I’m not learning anything new?

The outer me doesn’t like cold. I just realized that my recipes are on the computer and maintaining a charge on my computer would be good, so I had to scoot to the end of the sofa so I can plug in my laptop. Well, scooting over on a leather couch when I’ve already warmed up a spot kind of sucks. Oh, the hard life of a writer. And I know that when everyone gets back, after a long day exercising in warm, 51 degree weather wearing what will turn out to be too much clothing (and what the heck am I doing inside if it’s that nice out?! Oh yeah, trying to be a writer), they’re going to open up the windows and doors and try to cool down this place. Well, I suppose that’s when I’ll be going into the kitchen to start cooking, anyhow. It’s all good.

And finally, the inner me is happy to hear the voices and the footsteps of the skiers returning from their day. I’m not quite the solitary creature I sometimes believe a writer needs to be. But then again, if I were locked away in a room writing all the time, I wouldn’t have anything to write about. Or maybe the inner me is just good at coming up with justifications for not writing.

Batata Vada

Back in the eighties, I watched lots of Indian movies. I probably watched about 30 a year, maybe more, until I got married. Then, since my husband didn’t watch them, I didn’t see as many. For the first couple years, the Indian store was a couple of miles away, so when my husband was on call over the weekend, I could rent a flick. But then again, I could also go out with friends, and three hours really is a long time to focus on one story (as opposed to network television, where you could watch four sitcoms and an hour show – well, maybe not over the weekend, but you know what I mean. Sitcoms are great for the scattered mind). I guess the fact that I would rather watch with other people so I wouldn’t dwell on the bad acting or predictable storylines may have factored in as well.

Back then (and probably even still now), the same actors and actresses would star together in the same story with different titles, different outfits, and different songs (all else being pretty much the same). So I have no idea what the name of the movie is, or, for that matter, what it’s about. But what I do remember is a song titled “Batata Vada,” in which the guy and girl are drunk or high (I can’t remember which) and dance around with a giant fried doughball that’s probably five feet in diameter. And I remember one line of the song:
Batata vada, Batata vada
Dil nahin dena thha, dena para.
Which translates roughly to:
Spicy fried potato-filled dough ball (x2)
I didn’t plan to give away my heart, but I had to.
I would say that it loses something in translation, but really, it doesn’t. It makes no sense in Hindi either (at least not to me).

This song has been in my mind all week. And if it would fade, it would return every time I opened the refrigerator, where, on the top shelf, sat a Ziploc bag filled with – yep, you guessed it – batata vada.

Back then, I had no idea what batata vada was. Never had it, never saw it on a menu at an Indian restaurant, nothing. So the song really meant nothing to me. But then I married a Gujarati (someone from the state of Gujarat, India) and learned. My mother-in-law is an excellent cook. And one thing that she makes very well is batata vada. It is, as in the song’s translation, a spicy fried potato-filled dough ball. Boiled potatoes are mashed, mixed with spices, cashews, and raisins, and rolled into small balls. They are then dipped into a batter made of gram flour and spices and fried. With ketchup, they are delicious. My younger son gobbles them up, even when my tongue starts to protest the level of zing (my elder one refuses, saying it’s “too spicy.”).

I am Bihari (from the state of Bihar – which my husband likes to refer to as the Arkansas of India), and while I married into a Gujarati family, and am learning to cook many Gujarati dishes, and can understand most of what my in-laws say in Gujarati, and my closest friends in Cleveland are Gujarati, I am still a Bihari. The Gujarati community of Cleveland knows people as either Gujarati or non-Gujarati (it could just be my husband), lumping all people from the umpteen other states and provinces of India into one. (My husband explains it as being from LA or New York, and everywhere in between.) I have not exactly displayed my Bihari pride, but despite my husband’s insistence, I am not, and never will be, a Gujarati. (So much for a peaceful vacation; he’s going to be pouting about this one all week.)

So what’s the point? I married what seems like the most bull-headedly pro-Gujarati Gujarati in Cleveland, despite growing up in the shadow of their Gujju Pride and well-organized group with fancy dances that won competitions and socialized all on their own, barely aware of the existence of the large non-Gujarati community all around them. I knew all this, and still married in. And love it. And the food.

Batata Vada, Batata Vada
Dil nahin dena thha, dena para.
Spicy fried potato-filled dough ball (x2)
I didn’t plan to give away my heart, but I had to.

STORY: What If

Sometimes at night, I lie in bed staring at the patterns that the streetlights make coming through my windows onto the carpet and the wall. I think about the people out there and what they are doing. I listen to the bed sheets rustle in my son’s room across the hall. I know the morning will call upon all my energy, so I close my eyes and will myself to fall asleep.
But without the distractions of the outside world, my mind reveals pictures I don’t wish to see, thoughts I don’t wish to have, and regrets I don’t wish to remember. But the mind is wanderlust, following nobody’s trail but its own.
A college campus, looking like some castle or fortress of years long gone, stands before me. I watch my daughter climb the stairs, long hair swinging like a pendulum behind her with each step, ticking her way to her future. Sometimes I stand alone, sometimes next to her father, sometimes next to my husband. Either I hug myself or he hugs me, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. I am so happy, so proud. There is plenty of time to be sad when I go home, I tell myself. This is a moment of joy. This scene is so familiar, that whenever I return to this dream I am instantly at ease.
I turn away before the tears reach my eyes and I walk back to the car. I see long, winding roads through trees – yes, plenty of trees with leaves ready to change their colors but not there yet – not until I return to pick her up for her long weekend in October. Every song on the radio reminds me of her, and soon I see the car and the road from above with a touching soundtrack accentuating the mood perfectly – happy and proud yet profoundly sad, reminiscent. I’ll have to remember this song, my dreaming self tells my waking self in an odd state of awareness, knowing all the while that I never will.
Soon I sit in my living room, a mug of herbal tea in my hands, a quilt and photo album on my lap. I sit transfixed on some picture or another, lost in the memory of the childhood that once was. Awake, I can picture clearly the photographs in the album that my dreaming self put together through the years.
A young me wears a hospital gown, holds my daughter in my arms, hair matted and sticking up in a most unbecoming fashion from twenty-two hours of labor. Nurse-swaddled in a hospital blanket, the baby’s eyes are large and green. Beautiful eyes, bewitching eyes, just like my son’s. In fact, sometimes the pictures are interchanged in the dream.
Seven-years-old, my daughter has her hair in two braids and smiles with a missing tooth. She holds a piece of cake and wears a cowboy hat, thrilled to be having the rodeo birthday party we had promised her, complete with a pony. I picture countless hours of whining and pleading and promising to clean her room and do the dishes and take out the garbage if please, please, please, I could have a pony at my birthday party. I smile in my sleep and in my dream, as her father and I exchange knowing looks and agree nonetheless.
Puberty, the talk, I look at the picture taken at the beach the day before she had her first period. Her short hair blew in the wind as she sat staring at the sunset. She looked so calm, so mature, yet so at ease. She has turned to look at the photographer when her name was called, but she hadn’t smiled. The result is astounding, and I am haunted by this picture for days after I dream of it.
But these dreams never tell the real story. Never do I let myself dream of the pain, the guilt, the burden of secrecy, the resulting depression. All that is implied. When I wake up, I am crying. I am overwhelmed by an incredible sense of sadness of what I have missed all these years.
I get out of bed and walk across the hall. I stand in the doorway, sometimes until the sun finally rises, and watch my son sleep. I relive all the actual milestones that I have actually witnessed, berating my overactive imagination for having created a complete lifetime of memories where none exist.
Always the dreams are idyllic, idealistic. Never do they reflect what really would have been. When I awake crying after one of these dreams, I force myself to envision the more likely truth. Only then can I feel the relief and reassure myself that I did indeed make the right decision.
The castle-like campus appears again, but this time it stands at a greater distance, and I look upon it through my car window as I drive by. I have never been inside, but my dream self is saddened by the sight of the school, or perhaps by life. I drive to the restaurant where my daughter is working, check my watch, then close my eyes and rest my head on the headrest. The sound of the door surprises me, and I smile at my daughter, who is obviously exhausted. As I drive, she pulls out her scrunchy and runs her fingers through her hair. We drive in silence, still tense from the morning’s argument, which neither one of us can fully recall. I wish to say something, to mend us, but apparently too much has already been said. As we wait at the red light in front of the college, I stare at the school.
“Mom, it’s green,” she says.
I look ahead and drive.
“You just can’t stop, can you?” she says.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m not going to college,” she says. “So just stop it. Stop staring at the school every time we drive past. Stop leaving applications in my room. Stop introducing me to your successful college graduate friends. Just let me live my life or I’m outta there.”
So this is how it feels to have dreams die, I think. I get it, I really do. She’s chosen to waste her life and there’s nothing I can do to change that.
When I wake up, I try to remember what I was driving, what I was wearing, whether I was working or stayed at home. Nothing. I try to think back to that day, but then I remember it never really happened.
My worst dreams show me not getting along with my daughter. I dare not dream that she would run away and support herself through prostitution, or would succumb to drugs and become a dealer. Now that I have imagined what she would really look like, now that – at least in my dreams – she has become a real person, I cannot submit her to those nightmares and fears that led me to deny her existence so many years ago. No, that is what my waking self sees.
But the fear that grips me most, the emotion that leads to the greatest grief and thus the greatest sense of relief, is the thought of my daughter going through what I went through, living through the decision I made. But I suppose in the end that I guaranteed she would never have to suffer and that is my solace.
I drive past the clinic that started my nightmares years ago. No, that isn’t fair. Outside stand picketers, women and men – but mostly men, why is that? – slowing down and displaying their signs. Do they know? Can they feel my pain? Could they have saved me from a life of regret, of sadness? Had I but heeded their words then, maybe I would not feel as I do now.

How To Name A Blog

How To Name A Blog

So I had decided to create a blog a few weeks before I actually started the blog. I finally came to the realization that the writing I have been doing lately worked well in a blog format. But you know, coming up with a name was not that easy. Or maybe it was, and I just couldn’t accept it. Well, anyhow, I asked a couple of friends for help:

On 2/2/06, Nivi Engineer wrote:
So I've decided to start a blog with my own random crap (I'm just not
edgy enough for Blunt Instrument), and I need a name. I've got
material to post (well, kinda. It kinda sucks but what the heck, gotta
start somewhere), but I can't seem to create the blog because I can't
come up with a good name.

I've come up with Brain Hickey (or Brain Hickies or Virtual Brain
Hickey, or some derivation thereof) but I don't know. not sure that I
love that name.

This blog will probably discuss at various times politics, motherhood,
and who knows what else (maybe football, the news, Cleveland, my kids'
school).

Any suggestions?

How about "My Soapbox" or "Stay Off My Soapbox" or "Soapboxing" ?
"When Write-at-Home Moms Explode"?
"Brain Vomit"?
"Between Meals"?
"Between Diaper Changes"?
"Virtual Stench"
"Is There Such Thing As a Virtual Slap?"
"Go Back To Sleep"
"My Mind On Me Time"
"Nap Free And Not Happy"

In response, I got:
On 2/2/06, Salil wrote:

hahhahaha, just the name ideas are good for a first post.

ixnay on all the "soapbox" related ones. There are 10,000,000 blogs out there with some derivation of "soapbox" in their names.

Would you like to meet some of the desi blogging crew? I think you'd get along great with Brimful, Deepa (aka " maisnon") and Roop (aka " Roop").

And welcome to this world. This sad, sad, scary, sad, sometimes creepy, and always hysterically funny sad world. But filled with amazingly cool people, provided you can actually meet them and drink coffee with them :-D


On 2/2/06, Alok wrote:
If "soapbox" is bad (I liked "So why exactly a Soapbox?" as a name), how 'bout:

"Mommy Manifesto"

or

Mom's Bomb (Balm?)

of

"Hickey Homily"

or

"Engineer Exhortion"

or combine two words like

"EngineeRant" or "NivInveighing" or "DiaPeroration"


On 2/2/06, Nikki wrote:
So far I like between diaper changes :-) Later you can change it to The Mommy Shuttle: Between stops.

¬¬
In the end, obviously, I completely disregarded the advice of my friends and stuck with BrainHickey. Oh well. So why don’t you let me know what you think of the name.

I’ve already gotten this comment:
“Brainhickey? I know I read what it is on the website...”


That says it all, doesn’t it?


Hmmm, not the most interesting entry, is it? But, maybe I just figured a little flashback would be good right now.

And I don't know if that really says anything about "How to Name A Blog." Heck, if anyone wants to take any of the ideas, and use them to name their own blog, feel free (just add a link to this one).

Okay, that's all. The little one just woke up from his nap and is screaming. Me-time is officially over today.

Please, Hide All Scissors

I’m a bad mother. I should really know better, and I apologized to my kids profusely after the fact, but the fact still remains: I messed up. Badly.

Fact number one: my boys are toddlers. One is almost five, the other almost two. Under no stretch of the imagination should I expect stillness for a prolonged period of time from either of them. In my defense, I just wanted to trim a little bit around the ears. You know, tidy up their hair until I managed to get them an appointment somewhere. That’s all. I mean, they’ve needed haircuts for at least two weeks now, and I haven’t managed to find the time to take them in.

So I started with the little one. Actually, I intended to cut only his hair (and not his brother’s), and while he was sitting on the floor in the hallway upstairs in a t-shirt and diaper, his brother read him a story. And when he grew impatient, I got my mom on speakerphone to chat with him. The nice thing is that his hair looked so bad before that I really couldn’t mess it up too badly. Or so I thought.

I finally gave up and was ready to give the boys a bath. But then, my elder son said it was his turn. Fine, I thought, I’ll trim around the ears and get rid of what’s looking like a tail.

Good stories are made up of dramatic scenes. Memories are made of photographs, physical or mental, which remind you of particular moments. And so now, forever, I will picture my son sitting cross-legged in his undershirt and underwear, head tilted downward, his right hand above his head holding a lock of his hair, asking me to shorten it a bit on top.

I should have said no. A good mother says no to her kids every once in a while: set limits, teach boundaries, and prevent bad things from happening.

But a bad thing did happen. Again. I trimmed, and trimmed. I’ve watched my kids get haircut after haircut. I’ve gotten plenty of haircuts through the years. But over-confidence really doesn’t become me.

Fact number two: Watching haircuts and giving haircuts are nowhere near close to the same thing. I don’t think I can stress this enough to those of you out there who ever consider cutting anyone’s hair without training.

I apologized to my boys for giving them bad haircuts (let me reiterate that I gave not one, but TWO bad haircuts). And my elder one, the only one who actually had a clue what I was talking about, reassured me, telling me “it’s okay” and, looking in the mirror, said, “it’s not a bad haircut.” And one of the two stories he picked out tonight was ‘I Love You So’ because “I love you so much, Mommy.” All this, of course, made me feel much, much worse.

So now, on President’s Day, I will find a hair salon that is open (because my usual one is closed on Monday and I can’t bear to send him to school Tuesday looking like that) and I will take both my kids and make up for the horrible crime I committed against my children. (I wonder if this blog entry would turn up on a Google search of child abuse or violence against children, what with all the metaphors I’m using) But before I go, I will have to take a picture – not to embarrass them in the future, but to remind me never EVER to attempt to do this again.

Fact number three: I have had my fair share of bad haircuts. I’ve had long hair, short hair, super-short hair that I spiked (using Close Up toothpaste as the only styling product that would hold up – and by adding just a touch of water halfway through the day, the hold would last for ten hours), and countless perms. I went to Fantastic Sam’s for years, figuring that a bad haircut will grow out eventually. And they did. And between cuts, I would trim my own bangs. But finally, I learned (until today, evidently) that this is one of the reasons money exists. Hair is image. And saving money on something that so affects your identity (whether you’d like to admit it or not) is just plain foolish.

After grad school, I moved to Michigan and, after a successful interview, got a job. I decided to get a haircut before my first day of work. I had heard of the Welcome Wagon, but never thought it really existed (at least not in this day and age). Well, we got a basket that included a coupon for a free haircut. I decided to try it out. Friday afternoon I went to the place (I forget the name) and presented my coupon. At the time, I sported the “Friends” cut, the hairstyle of both Rachel and Monica during the early seasons of the show. That’s what I asked for: a layer on top that curled under and a lower layer that flipped out. Well, this happened to be the first day out of the academy for my stylist, and I went home with two layers, the top of which resembled an overturned bowl that only looked good with a baseball cap on top of it.

On Saturday, I went to a more expensive salon, where Marcia saved my hair and my self-image. She admitted later that she was afraid when I took my cap off that my hair was styled like that intentionally, and was relieved to hear me ask to fix it. And on Monday, I started my new job, self-respect intact.

So now, I only go to reputable salons to get all my hair treatments done, be that cut, color, or an updo for a fancy party. Not being able to get in for an appointment on the same day – or not being seen on a first come first serve basis – are considered admirable qualities in a salon. And with few exceptions, the salon should not be located with a mall, and should never be associated with a department store (though I will confess that I have never actually been to a department store hair department and may be judging unfairly).

So after a lifetime of bad decisions, I’ve obviously learned. And with my young children completely dependent on me for their wellbeing, I consider it a breach of trust, an abuse of power, to have subjected them to this bad judgment of mine. Common sense flittered away tonight, out of sight, and left behind two kids who are cute enough to still look cute despite me.

Sure, my elder son likes wearing a black and white horizontal striped t-shirt with his blue and white vertical striped jeans so that he can “look like a zebra,” and his fashion sense seems to be that ever-elusive sixth, or maybe seventh, sense. But letting him go out in public in a crazy ensemble of his creation is encouraging self-expression. Making him sport a bad haircut that I gave him is unnecessary cruelty.

I'd like to say this made me feel better, getting this out of my system, but the truth is, when they wake up in the morning, they're going to still have these haircuts regardless of how I feel. I only hope my husband gets up and leaves the house before they wake up (or we get out before he wakes up) so I don't have to hear it (I'm not sure if he'll express disappointment, anger, or jokes; I guess it depends on when he wakes up and if I can beat him to the punch).

If You Give A Girl A Blog

I remember that I was on my way to or from some vacation the first time I heard about Foot and Mouth Disease. There was a sign warning about it as we got off the plane. I first interpreted it as “foot in mouth” disease, where you say something that you instantly regret. Apparently, I thought, people talk without thinking too frequently, causing an epidemic of awkward social situations.

Okay, I don’t know if I seriously thought that to be true, but I did think it, perhaps as a joke. Okay, hopefully as a joke. I’d hate to think I’m an idiot.

More recently, I saw a commercial that showed a recliner and the narrator started with something like “Don’t you hate it when you sit down to relax but you can’t? You can’t sit still. You have to get up and do something. You might have Restless Legs Syndrome.”

Well, I freely admit that the first time I saw that commercial, I thought it was a joke. I kept watching, waiting for the “punchline”, the pitch, where what you really need is a Dove Bar or to rent a good movie or some other product that will make you take a break from being a Type A personality long enough to chill. But no, the commercial went on to advertise some drug and tell you to contact your physician if you think you may suffer from restless legs syndrome. Here I was, thinking about how lately, I feel like I have to make the most of my time, that it would be easier for me to clean up the kitchen or pay the bills or do the laundry while the kids are asleep than when they’re awake.

I had read The Hunger Moon by Suzanne Matson and in the back, there was an interview with the author. The question was asked: How did you find time to write this novel with two young kids at home? And the author’s answer was: “I never do anything when the kids are asleep that I can do when they’re awake.”

I love it. It’s brilliant, and I try to remind myself of it when I find myself with “restless legs syndrome” (or at least, my interpretation of it). It’s rather ironic, really, that I would be so incapable of just doing nothing when I sometimes feel I was raised to do exactly that (not necessarily on purpose, but when you’re not allowed out of the house – or are too lazy to try – you watch a lot of television. So during high school, I would watch television from the time I got home shortly after 3 until I went to bed at 10ish. Yep, I watched a solid seven hours of the tube (never really called it that but thought I had already used the word ‘television’ too many times this paragraph)). Okay, I think I got all the parentheses matched up and properly closed.

Which reminds me of programming in LISP. In grad school, I took an artificial intelligence class for which I learned to program in LISP. Now, in most programming languages, you have to keep track of different punctuation and statements. For example:
FOR x = 1 to 5 DO
Writeln(“hello “, x);
END; (* FOR *)
(Boy do I hope that’s correct. It’s seriously been almost five years since I programmed, and since I’d like to be a programmer again, it wouldn’t bode well for me to get a really basic statement like that wrong). Anyhow, that would write:
hello 1
hello 2
etc. etc.
Fine. Not so tough, right. Well, each programming language is slightly different, so if I’m switching between Java, C++, C, and some other language, I’ve got to keep straight which commands go with which language. Writeln (Write Line as opposed to Write, which would result in:
Hello 1Hello 2Hello 3 etc. etc. all in one row without a line break) may be something slightly different in a different language. Java is supposed to be a simplified, more consistent version of C++, which was a more user-friendly, dynamic version of C. In other words, they all have commonalities and little tiny things that make them different to screw you up at 3 in the morning when you just want the damn program to compile so you can go home!

Well, LISP took care of all that. The only punctuation it used was the parentheses (). If you had a loop within a loop within an if then within a case statement, all you had to do was count parentheses and indent properly to keep track of it all. I loved it. Still do. Miss it, really. It could do so much. It was good enough to program ‘Serendipity: the little checkers program that could’ (a later story). That semester, though I barely squeaked by with a B- in that class (thanks in no small part to Serendipity), I found myself thinking and emailing in LISP (hopefully, having read this far, you understand what I mean – organizing all my thought in nesting parentheses (though I suppose I’ve been relying on other forms of punctuation (which I didn’t do then)(such as dashes, periods, commas, etc.) that make the earlier examples less true to LISP)). Sometimes I would have eight to ten close parentheses in a row. Fortunately, the programming program I used (no that’s not redundant) highlighted the pairs for you.

But enough about LISP. I was talking about the irony of my developing my figurative version of Restless Legs Syndrome when I had plenty of practice lazing around. I’ve come to realize that perhaps my restlessness is more avoidance.

“If you aim at nothing, you will hit it” was a quote on my high school math teacher’s classroom wall. Deep, cliché, whatever. I want to be a writer, I really do. And I can blame laziness, lack of talent, bad luck, whatever, for my lack of published works. But it really could be fear of failure. I’ve gotten a couple of rejections, and hey, I save them with pride. At least I sent them out. But then, that’s it. I’ve submitted a few stories to a few contests and magazines over the years, but I’ve never made a serious concerted effort to really get published. I really want to just blame laziness. I could go to the library and get the latest Writer’s Market and send out my work. If I had the time. If I didn’t have the kids with me. If – blah blah blah. I suck. I have to make a habit of sending out my work because I’m never going to publish anything if no publisher sees it.

Okay, enough pep talking. When I come downstairs into our basement (that my husband, his best friend, and I renovated ourselves and it’s awesome!) and watch television for two hours before turning on the computer to type, I’m avoiding. I’m not a prolific writer because I’m not a frequent writer. It does take me a few days to get into the routine of writing after the kids are in bed. But by then, my husband has no more evening shifts and is back to day shifts and we spend the time chilling and watching television together. And those days, finding time to write is impossible, unless he sees I’ve had a particularly harsh day and he sends me off to the coffee shop after dinner while he puts the kids to bed (isn’t he great?).

So in conclusion, I don’t have restless legs, just a scattered brain. If you’ve ever read the book If You Give A Mouse A Cookie (or any of the other ones in the series by Laura Joffe Numeroff and illustrated by Felicia Bond), you may come close to understanding how my mind works. In the book, a mouse gets a cookie, then asks for milk, then a straw, and a napkin afterwards. Then he checks in the mirror to make sure he doesn’t have a milk mustache (which my son pronounces moo’stash, and I’m loathe to correct because it’s so cute, but am I cruel for not preventing future bullying? I also love how he pronounces theater as thee-ate’-er and swear that once I videotape him saying it I’ll correct him), then the mouse sees he needs a trim and asks for nail scissors, then sweeps up his mess and the whole house. Etc. etc. One thing leads to another, and eventually leads back to the original wanting a cookie. It’s really cute, and perhaps I also like it because in a way, it makes it socially acceptable for me to think in my tangential manner.

Fortunately, though, I am usually capable of keeping my foot out of my mouth, because I’m so afraid of saying the wrong thing that I’ll opt for saying nothing – until I get to know people, and then my sarcastic, rude mouth can’t seem to stay shut.

So perhaps my legs are restless because I’m constantly trying to keep my foot out of my mouth.

The Olympics

My husband hates the olympics, so I don't watch it a lot when he's around. Since he's working tonight, I decided to watch. Growing up, my family used to watch the whole thing and loved it. Somehow, though, it's not as fun as it used to be. I think the first disappointment is when they switched to staggering the Winter and Summer games. It used to be so special because you had to wait four years to see it. But now, there's an Olympics every two years. Sure, the weather is different, but America dominates in both anyhow, and they're really all the same. Summer: Gymnastics is the non-sport competition, Winter: Figure Skating (which I find comical how they're trying to make the judging all technical). Admittedly, these are my two favorite events in the olympics, but I will have to concede that my husband's opinion that any competition where judges have to determine if you won or not (as opposed to simply counting who made more goals, baskets, etc. or seeing who crossed the finish line first) is too objective to be a "true" sport. I agree that holy crap do you have to be in good shape to do what they do, but do question how it can be a sport if the end result can be doubted or questioned. But then, same seems to hold for the last Super Bowl (but let's not get into that right now).

So anyhow, Lindsay Jacobellis screwed up. She was cocky and showboated when she should have just finished the race and not fallen on her butt during her run in the Snowboard Cross. So I'm watching Bob Costas interview her, and she's talking about how she was having a blast and she stopped paying attention. But as I watched her in her interview, I gotta say, Bob Costas seemed to be pushing, trying to make her look cocky, and she came across as pretty level-headed. I didn't see any of the footage earlier today, but my gut reaction had been that she better not be whiny or cocky since she did screw up, fall down, and still get a silver medal. I know it's a disappointment to America not to get all golds, but they were talking this up as a major sports guffaw that will go down in history (assuming NBC can hype it up enough, I suppose) because there's no situation just like it. They sited a past Super Bowl when Leon Lett tried to showboat his way into the endzone and a Buffalo guy caught up to him and knocked the ball out of his hand, preventing the touchdown. They said it wasn't the same because the team (I'm guessing Dallas and I could look it up but feel too lazy and it doesn't really matter) ended up winning by 35 points. Well, frankly, I think this is the same. This 20 year old girl - with a Visa commercial before the Olympics even started (that now has much more comic potential) - wins the silver medal in the Olympics, even after showboating and falling on her butt during a race. The rest of her team played it straight, worked hard, and got nothing (I don't know for sure if an American got bronze - or even gold - since I didn't really pay attention; I just know she got silver), and will go home with a fond memory of a trip to Italy and the Olympics, and a time when their teammate with the commercial contract got it all.

Maybe the lesson here is modesty. Obviously these athletes have a strong work ethic. They have to to compete at this level. But the Olympics don't just reward hard work. I'm sure athletes from around the world work hard but don't have the resources and opportunities that Americans do. I suddenly remembered Michael Phelps from the last summer olympics. After winning seven medals, he gave up his spot on a relay so his teammate could have a shot at a medal. I suppose if you've already got seven medals, you can afford to be generous, but still, it stood out as a rare show of grace.

I read a commentary in the paper about how the Olympics are being produced in such a melodramatic fashion, where there's a deep story about each athlete, each event. I kind of remember that always being the case. But since I haven't been watching much of the Olympics, I can't say whether it's worse now than before. And I guess it may not be the athletes that aren't level-headed and decent, but rather the overwhelming melodrama that NBC is pushing that's messing with my image of these athletes. Other than the professional athletes who are allowed to compete in the Olympics (NBA players - c'mon. If you're being paid millions to hone your skill year after year, is it really fair for you to go up against teams from third world countries? What's it really prove?). I don't know if it's still the case, but in figure skating, people had to decide if they would quit after the olympics to join the stars on ice circuit and go pro or maintain their eligibility to compete. Maybe a similar rule should be imposed for other sports. Really, what does it prove if Lance Armstrong can win Olympic gold if he's already won countless (at least by me, right now) Tour de Frances? The Olympics are supposed to be competitions between non-professional athletes. It's already a farce with how much Americans win (is it really fair? It's like the Pittsburgh Steelers playing the Cleveland Browns. Please note: I'm a Browns fan). Can't we at least try to make it interesting? We're already the annoying, pushy, Super Power country; must we take the joy of the Olympics away from the world, too?

Well, it's late and I've ranted enough. Perhaps when women's figure skating comes on I'll settle down and watch (of course, I don't care as much since Michele Kwan dropped out).

A Blank Page

A blank page, the arch nemesis of the creative mind, stares at me. It taunts, its mere presence brings to the forefront of my mind all those inner doubts. I am not really a writer; I’m just unemployed. I tell myself that being a stay-at-home mom is what I’m doing for my kids, but that it’s not really who I am. No, I contend, I am a writer, and staying at home allows me to pursue my writing career. And so, pursue it I must. The kids are with their father, the car is across the street for an oil change, and so I am stranded at the coffee shop with nothing but my laptop and my creativity.
But my creativity is on a coffee break. The blank page stares at me, heckling, telling me that nothing I write is any good, so why bother? His ally, the Internet, lures me. I click over. I browse. I research hotels for our upcoming vacation. And as I wait for a page to load, I click back to see what has become my least favorite color – white.
I see nothing but white. The toolbars fade into oblivion as the overwhelming brightness of what I cannot conquer gleams and shines. I stare at it, willing my mind to conjure insightful images that I may stomp onto the page, slapping its white smirking face. But all I see is white. I cannot think.
I look around. People sit drinking coffee. Some in suits, some in t-shirts and shorts. But they all sit, calmly, free of visible conflict. The most conflict to be found here is in the face of the person next in line trying to decide – before called upon – what she wants to eat. Do I want a muffin or banana bread? Ooh, how about that croissant? That looks good. But such is not a literary conflict. Man versus self for sure, but unless it is the last piece of banana bread that she chooses, and the person behind her is in a particularly bad mood and decides to shoot up the coffee shop in retaliation, it’s really not a story.
I stare out the window, hoping the subject of my next story will walk by and inspire me. So dependent am I on external inspiration. And therein lies the power of my foes.
My mother once bought me a beautiful leather journal for my birthday. Or maybe it was Christmas. Anyhow, it was so beautiful that I felt pressured to use it well. I couldn’t use it as my diary; the boys splashed in the tub today, it was so cute. Or, my period started today. I was really hoping I was pregnant this time. But honestly, I’m also kind of relieved. No, this is not the stuff to put in a real journal. I needed to write beautifully in such a beautiful journal. And so it became my fiction journal, where I would jot down notes or passages that would someday be a part of my novel, a novel that will never be written (at least not by me). So everyday, or every time I got a chance to write in my journal, I would sit and stare at my new blank page, my fresh, clean, crisp, promising blank page, watching me eagerly, awaiting the beauty that I would instill onto its lines. Perhaps it was the lines, and the smaller size of the page, that made that experience less trying for me. But a blank sheet of paper, as I remember, was much less threatening. Because usually, I would have a thought, and then I would rush over to the journal to jot it down. And once I wrote something down, anything, even if I later crossed it out, the page was no longer blank.
But on a computer, I can delete. This document itself started three times. I type, I evaluate, I delete. And the blank page stares back at me each time; flashing me an arrogant I told you so expression that gets bolder each time. I stare back indignantly, telling the page (and myself) that I can write. But then the fact that I am talking to a computer screen fills me with despair as I realize that maybe the blank page is right.
I can’t think that way, I tell myself. I’ve worked myself up and need a break. And I click over to the Internet. At this point, six windows are open, and my selection criteria for a hotel in Paris has gotten much more complex. It can’t be too expensive, or too gaudy, or too loud. A view would be great, but not crucial.
The Internet lures me with its siren’s song, distracting me from my personal odyssey to be a writer. So alluring is its access to the outside world that most days eludes me as I sit playing quietly with one child as the other naps upstairs. With quick fingers and the click of a mouse, I can chat with friends, play word games, shop, run errands, and read the paper. What a glorious invention, truly, the Internet is, and my past life as a computer geek gives me much reason to admire the technology.
I recall my college years, back before the web. I would be up late studying, while a friend at another college worked at the computer lab. Using a text-based email system that connected through telnet, he and I would send one-line messages back and forth to break the monotony of the self-imposed all-nighters.
So as I sit in the coffee shop, I think, “Boy, that would make a neat story, maybe I could develop something along those lines.” But it’s been done. A few years ago, I read a novel composed entirely of emails. And frankly, I don’t remember enough about the early nineties – at least enough of the details – to write about that era. Perhaps time would help define that time. But really, since it’s been over ten years since I’ve graduated, maybe the time has come.
But there’s my problem. I can’t seem to finish what I start. I start many projects, many documents. But then time runs out (or the mechanic calls to say my car is ready), and that’s it. I never seem to revisit the file. Instead, I stress about never having any ideas, not having a muse. And I click back to the Internet, my blank page having won again.

Random Rant About Honesty

So I’ve decided to embark on the world of blogging, creating one of my own. I am, after all, a writer, and what better way to hone my skill than to write. And if I happen to get an audience, well, all the better.
Well, deciding to blog was the easy part; deciding what to write about was not so easy. After all, I’m generally sane, my ranting days seem long past, and I’m kind of paranoid about posting my stories on the internet, since if it’s ever to be published – though clearly not from any effort on my part – I’d like it to be in my name.
So what can I write about? Well, one problem I have is that I don’t generally read blogs, so I don’t know what makes one popular and another not, other than being so incredibly non-PC or controversial that you outrage the readers.
Maybe I’ll give that a try. Of course, this blog may be destroyed because of it, but then I’ll have learned something about free speech and the readership of my blog. So here goes:
I heard a story on NPR a few weeks ago about voice analysis of the latest message received by Osama Bin Laden. Apparently, he has a very distinctive voice and is still out there, now threatening more terrorist attacks on America. There were voice analysis experts questioning the validity of the positive ID, seeing as it came a mere four hours after the message arrived. So listening to this, it occurred to me that Osama Bin Laden, and the continual threat his absence has on the safety of America, has allowed President Bush – for whom I admittedly did not vote, either time – carte blanche rights in this continual “state of war” that our country is in. Another NPR story earlier that week had addressed that issue exactly, pointing out that during times of war, the president has much more power, and that this “war on terror” is necessarily never-ending, thus allowing the president to keep doing whatever he wants. And by continually being the aggressor, he guarantees that there will always be an enemy.
I recently read a quote by Martin Luther King, Jr. that I would like to include here:
“Let us move now from the practical how to the theoretical why. Why should we love our enemies?
The first reason is fairly obvious. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction.” (King, Strength to Love)
Clearly, President Bush’s approach to defeating world violence is flawed. And in putting this country deep into debt, he is choosing to budget a larger military by drawing money away from education.
Maria Montessori was a great, peace-loving woman who, 99 years ago, opened a school for children in a very poor and violent section of Rome, and in doing so showed the world that children, when respected and offered the chance to contribute to their environment, can truly excel. Children exposed to the Montessori philosophy learn cooperation, patience, a respect for people and the environment. I have read her book, The Absorbent Mind, and while I’ve undoubtedly forgotten many details about the book, I remember the awe and immense respect I felt for this woman as I read the book. She was the first woman to graduate from medical school in Italy, and she chose to devote her life – “waste” her life, as her colleagues saw it – to educating children. The Montessori principle is one of peace and cooperation, and the best foundation for life I could possibly hope to provide for my children.
I’ve admittedly gleaned many ideas of this rant from the Head of School at my son’s school. He writes an article every week for the school’s newsletter, and I am always impressed with how genuine a man he is. His most recent writing was about Dr. King, honoring his birthday, and, as usual, sharing some insight into the life and mind of Maria Montessori.
But the point in bringing all this up is that if we want peace, and perhaps we don’t, then the way is clearly not through war. Conflict resolution, not through bullying or intimidation, but through cooperation and respect, should be the goal.
And that, in fact, is what the writers and producers of “Commander in Chief” seem to be saying. That week’s episode showed the president bringing the country – peacefully - back from the brink of war with North Korea. It was beautiful, masterfully executed, and I was at the edge of my seat the whole time, happy to have DVR (it was on opposite “Scrubs”, and my husband can’t stand Geena Davis, so I watched it the next day while my husband was at work), but a little annoyed that the kids kept wanting to play with me (which I did, by the way. I sat on the floor and wrestled with them, we built towers with blocks, and we played “Fall Down,” in which I sit with my feet on the ground and my knees together and up, and my boys stand across the room against the wall. Then they take turns calling “Aaaaaaaaaa” as one boy runs to me, leans his chest against my legs, and I fall down, lifting him up into the air. Then I set him down and he runs back to the wall to wait while his brother has a turn. This is how my 21 month old – when he first started walking at 11 months – learned to take turns).
Speaking of peace and cooperation, my boys do fight. They do. And just yesterday, my elder son wrongly accused his brother of breaking a lamp that he accidentally knocked down. And when I hear the little one crying, the elder one – the only one currently capable of speaking in intelligible sentences – tells me “he fell by himself” and concocts a story about how he was standing there and pulled on the toy and fell backwards into the table and that’s why he’s crying. Never mind that the toy the little one had carried into the room is now in the elder one’s hand. So a little lying occurs, and I wonder how to teach him the value of honesty. We talk, a lot, and I try to instill values in him, and he’s a wonderful kid. But my bag of tricks is kind of empty right now. How do you teach a four-and-a-half year old that it’s not okay to lie? I don’t think punishing him when we catch him in a lie will do the trick, because in punishing him, his thoughts switch from “what did I do wrong?” to “how dare they do this to me?” Maybe I’ll talk to him – right after he blames his brother for something – and ask him if his cheeks feel a little warm, if he feels a little sad, a little bad about what might happen to his brother if his brother gets in trouble for something he did. We’ve already had one situation where I told him I didn’t believe him. He was telling some outrageous story, and I told him that because he’s recently been caught lying a lot, I didn’t believe that he was telling me the truth, despite his insistence.
I don’t lie to my kids. And for the most part, I try very hard not to lie to anyone else either (I can’t remember the last time I did lie). Even if it were just a small fib, even to a telemarketer, I’d rather tell the truth. But not everyone thinks like I do. That’s fine. I don’t judge. Maybe I’ve just always sucked at lying and so it’s made my life much simpler not to lie at all, whatever. I hear parents tell their kids “Sorry, there are no more cookies” when there are, and if it works for them, fine. I opt, with my kids, to tell them they don’t get to have any more. My elder son knows that after six o’clock, he can either drink milk or water, and he accepts that.
But anyhow, the problem with always being honest is that I can’t necessarily tell when someone is lying to me. I have too much faith in people, perhaps, but I kind of assume that it’s easier to tell the truth when it’s not a big deal, than to lie unnecessarily. So if I’m just having a casual conversation with someone at a coffee shop, that person will tell the truth. But how do I know? Unless I meet the person again, and he has an entirely different name, is working an obviously different job than what he told me he had, and he’s with his male life partner instead of the wife and kids he talked about, I’d never know. Not really.
And where does that leave me? What happens to someone exposed to a lifetime of little lies? It’s only a problem if the lies unravel, right? Am I lying when I color my hair? Or when I dress in slacks and a dress shirt when I’m in a sweats and sweatshirt kind of mood? What is honesty? I know by dressing nicer than I feel (though still comfortably) I am altering my mood, so by lying to myself early, I put myself in a better mood. But then, by choosing the clothes my sons wear, am I denying them their self-expression. Or as kids, do you not need clothes to express yourself?
And what does that have to do with President Bush and Osama bin Laden? Well, is bin Laden still alive, or did he die early on, and the voice they’ve been using is either a computer generated one or the voice of someone else altogether? America may not like Bush, but they feel he is doing what he has to do to keep the country safe in these dangerous times. This is not the time to challenge him or his credentials; it wouldn’t be good for the country. Sure, he’s ignoring health care and education and the country in general, but don’t you know how busy he is defending the country from terrorists? And as long as bin Laden is alive, the threat is alive. Sometime shortly before the next election, I predict (based on no fact, mind you, just my years of watching Indian movies where the plots were predictable and the songs were often catchy, and maybe from reading one of Michael Moore’s books) that Osama bin Laden will be found, dead or alive, and that some Republican, perhaps Rudolf Guiliani, will become the next presidential candidate. The terror of 9/11 will finally have come to a close, and Guiliani’s New York has found redemption and the emotional heart-wrenching memory of 9/11 and the memory of how great Guiliani did in the wake of that will make any opponent have to risk sounding non-patriotic. Because these days, any criticism of America is non-patriotic. Civil liberties are being taken away, all in the name of freedom. Maybe this is the audience Toni Morrison was seeking with her children’s book The Big Brown Box:
I know that you’re smart,
and I know that you’re doing
What you think is best for me
But if freedom is handled just your way
Then it’s not my freedom, or free.

But then, maybe I’m just paranoid. I’m ten-and-a-half weeks pregnant with my third child and I’m either nauseous or paranoid that something happened because I’m not nauseous.
So I guess this blog is a little glimpse inside my head. I generally avoid the news because 1) I hate that Fox News is “Everywhere,” (for those of you not in Cleveland, Ohio, this voice whispers the word "Everywhere" annoyingly) 2) I don’t trust it, and 3) I get scared that the world is getting to be worse and worse and what am I doing trying to raise kids in this world? I’ve always believed I would do something great in life; that’s what my mother always told me and I guess I always believed her. But I don’t have a clue what that something will be. Maybe I’ll be a published writer, maybe the mother of the next President of the USA (like his t-shirt says), or maybe I’ll develop some charity or something to really help the world. I just have to keep my focus and sanity.
But until then, I’ll just blog on.

STORY: From Kvetch to Krekhts: Not a Bestseller

I am destined to disappointment. Like an unwanted child, I will never be able to please my maker. Nothing I do will ever be right, and I will never be given “the best,” as it will be saved for my “wanted” siblings. I guess to a certain degree I’ve always known my destiny, but I indulged myself in false hope. From the beginning, I was a story nobody cared to read.
Most stories require rewrites, many tries before being completed. If this says anything, I was conceived in the backseat of a moving Chrysler New Yorker on a trip to West Virginia. A passing thought, a whim is what I am. My creation involved no forethought, no planning. I am more of a journal entry than a story. And yet, instead of ending my misery or going off on a tangent like a journal entry should, my mother pushes me forward, refusing to leave me alone. She knows and I know – and she knows that I know – that nothing will become of me, and yet she pushes me, trying to fool me into thinking that I can please her, thinking if she pushes me enough that I might do something right. Well, no, not me. I know a tease when I see one, and I’m not going to let her push me into delusions of grandeur so she can put me in some loony bin. I’d rather go straight into the trash bin quickly and painlessly instead of in some roundabout, prolonged, painful emotionally draining way.
And so she continues. I can read her mind. I guess you’d call me omnivorous – or is that omniscient? Well, I know she’s taking breaks, watching the road and thinking of her wonderful trip across the United States through Mount Rushmore, the Badlands, Yellowstone and Seattle, and then up the Alaskan Highway to the Last Frontier. She’s thinking about her marvelous adventures and of the sights and experiences and friendships formed, but she won’t write about those experiences that people would actually care about. Instead she talks about how stuffy the car is and how hungry she is on her trip to – yep, you remember – good old West Virginia. She’s saving her vacation stories for later. I get to be about a business trip – a possible overnight trip the day before Valentine’s Day – to West Virginia. Next thing you know, she’ll start talking about “feminine issues.” Boy, am I omniscient or what? She’s also upset because she’s almost menstrual. So not only will she maybe not wake up with her new husband on Valentine’s Day, but she’s also waiting for her period to start. Oh, geez, I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to writing the “m” word and the “p” word. I should probably feel bad (poor overly sappy Mommy is going through something she goes through EVERY MONTH – you’d think she’d accept it and stop complaining about it by now) but I can’t.
Have you looked at the way she’s “dressed” me? Have you noticed the poor sentence structure and word choice? She’s supposed to be a writer and she can’t even construct an eloquent sentence. I’ll never be her “pride and joy.” How can I? She doesn’t give me any attention or care. She’ll say she risked carsickness to make sure I was fully developed. Thanks. Thank you very much for prolonging my misery!
She wants to make sure I develop fully. Wouldn’t it help if I developed AT ALL? What am I about? A trip to West Virginia? Why am I going? What am I going to do when I get there? Do you know the answers to any of these questions? I didn’t think so. A business trip, she says. What kind of business could a “writer” have going to West Virginia? Do you know? Then again, do you really care? If you did you would have stopped reading long ago when you first realized that I FAIL as a story because I don’t tell you anything.
The sun feels nice pounding against my mother’s face. Aren’t you so glad you know that? Don’t you feel like all your questions have been answered now that my mother has decided to impart that valuable bit of information?
She’s hearing voices. The people in the front are discussing the culture and lives of the Appalachian Ohioans. Fascinating. But will she write about them? No. Will she stop writing and participate in the conversation? Of course not. I could never be so fortunate. She should really listen to the conversation and learn about the people living in the foothills of the Appalachians. So many of the clients are from that area. When she writes grants for them, she has to be able to portray them. That’s why she’s going to West Virginia (and of course the county on the farthest corner at that, just north of Virginia; she couldn’t make a short trip, could she?) She’s going to West Virginia to “get to know the client and the area.” She can’t even understand her own story; how’s she supposed to understand strangers?
We’re going over the Ritchie J. something bridge, and we are now in West Virginia. Are you not impressed by her powers of observation? Ritchie J. WHAT? And, since she’s not going to bother editing, nobody will ever know (at least not without having to check a map or the Internet).
So the pointlessness continues. I may get a break when she stops to eat, but I don’t exactly get to enjoy it. I will simply cease to move. Time will stop. I will never get a chance to run on my own time. I exist for others. You do not pick me up after a break and find that I have gone on without you. You never have to adjust your schedule to mine. I have to wait for you. This is why I do not understand the popularity of the TV. It’s been given so much importance that the VCR and DVR were invented in case you absolutely cannot adjust your schedule. I guess you just wouldn’t want to miss even a minute of that well-developed, eloquent, sophisticated medium, now would you?
But I digress. Wow, I never thought I’d get the chance to say that. I mean, I could have said it earlier, but it would have made no sense since I wasn’t digressing. So I shall get back on track. Hmm. That might be a problem. What track am I on? I guess I just wait for some more fascinating descriptions of West Virginia. Oh, I can’t really do that, can I? Silence is all around: no classical music, no conversation, no public radio, nothing. Just the whistle of the wind. So I have nothing of the present to discuss. Well, let me discuss my fate.
I am completed (I can hardly wait). I am printed on fine quality paper (much too nice – it could hardly disguise the real me) and carefully placed in a large envelope (I told you my mother’s a tease). We’ll bypass the tales of the journey, since it is the same for any piece of junk mail. I sit on the desk of the editor of the “New Yorker”. Eventually, the envelope is opened and out I come. The blinding light offers me a glimmer of hope until I am airborne and I hear myself thud into the trash bin. I am pleased, because no page turning occurred to prolong my misery. The editor (or was it just a mail clerk?) makes my death quick and painless, which is exactly how I wish to go.
Unfortunately, I am not so fortunate as to die just once. As a concept (and as memory on a computer’s hard drive) I still exist. So after a few weeks of peaceful non-existence (which, I remind you, I am unable to enjoy), I return on screen and then again on paper, in which form I am stuffed again into an envelope and sent off to another magazine.
Four more times I am sent, and four more times I suffer the same quick and painless death, which, I must say, is becoming rather tedious. So I watch my mother for signs of defeat and see none. This disturbs me, for she seems not to care enough to be hurt at my failure. She is not bothered by the fact that I am not acceptable as I am. She must realize that I must change for people to like me, and yet she does nothing. I feel as if she wants me to feel the rejection, over and over, until I can’t stand it! But she won’t let me end my suffering at that. What kind of monster is she? She sends me from kvetch to krekhts, and she won’t stop there. Wait a minute. She hasn’t said what kvetch or krekhts are, has she? Of course not. SHE CAN’T WRITE!
Kvetch and krekhts are Yiddish words. Kvetch is an undertone of complaining, a constant stream of complaints flowing from your mouth just under your breath, just loud enough that it can’t be ignored and that it irritates the listener. Krekhts is a step beyond kvetch, making it an outward barrage of complaining. Whining might be a close English translation, or maybe nagging (often accompanied by the word “Oy!” Well, krekhts is what I have become. And all because of my mother, who cannot see what she is doing to me.
So rejection wears me down, but motivates my mother. She prints me out and puts me in another envelope. This time, a letter and a check accompany me. Great! A bribe. Doesn’t that make me feel worthy? I can’t stand on my own merit. Well, the check, I am told, is not so much a bribe as it is a payment. Good old Mom, leaving nothing to chance. A bribe may be turned down. So I end up at a publishing company, where I am bound. My jacket is yellow, and in bright blue, the words “From Kvetch to Krekhts:” are written, and below them, in a brighter red, are the words “Not a Bestseller!” Thank you for sealing my fate. My mother paid not only for my printing, but also for advertising. So the kind posters, doomed to failure since they have my picture on them, stand proudly (and look stupid in the process) and do the only thing they can – advertise.
I travel far and wide, appearing in bookstores everywhere. I watch people pass me by. I notice them staring at my poster and me – I can see their feelings of disgust hidden so carefully behind their expressions of curiosity. They pick me up, leaf through my pages. My mother has probably paid these people to tease me. She probably wants to raise my hopes just so she can tear them apart as only a paper shredder of a human could. Well, I won’t fall for it. All I’ve ever wanted is to be in the arms of someone who cares for me, someone who wants to hear what I have to say. Is that too much to ask?
Obviously it is too much to ask of my mother, who, instead of thinking about me, is thinking about how the people she works with don’t know her maiden name. In fact, when she was applying for an updated passport, she read about the pictures, which are to be signed by someone – not a relative – who has known her for at least two years, and she realized that she only knows one person who qualifies, now that she has started a new life in a new town after getting married six months ago.
Is that not the ultimate in selfishness? She’s complaining about having only one close friend that could sign her passport photos – and she didn’t even need to get passport pictures taken. Besides, at least she has someone. Who do I have?
I know. It keeps coming back to me and my sorry little problems. You’re probably getting sick of my kvetchy attitude. So why don’t you put me down? You don’t have to feel sorry for me. Don’t do me any favors. It’s because you won’t put me down that I can’t stop suffering. If you would just put me down and forget about me, just letting me sink into oblivion, I could finally be happy. I know none of you cares about what I have to say; you just feel like since you’ve already started, and since you’re almost done, you should finish. What kind of thinking is that? Do you think that crappy stories will all of a sudden redeem themselves? Don’t you think the writer realizes that if the beginning of a story sucks, the reader will never make it to the end? And what about the feelings of the crappy story? Do you ever consider those? Don’t you think that maybe it feels badly enough? It really doesn’t need you noticing every single fault. You’re not doing it any favors. It’s also not very fair to the writer. You shouldn’t judge the writer by the unwanted children – it’s obviously not the best – but it was necessary to prevent tainting the favorites. You know, the favorites couldn’t be favorites if they didn’t have unwanted children as a basis of comparison. So all you unwanted children, whether or not you’re told this, and whether or not you feel this, you are important. If you never make it on the bestseller list, so what? Look at some of the crap that does.

Cooking Therapy

The strangest thing just happened to me. I’ve been in a crabby mood all afternoon for no good reason. Well, I was hoping to go out to Sherwin Williams and pick up some stuff for stripping wallpaper right after lunch, figuring the boys would be at their best then (for a short period of time, since it’s also right before the little one’s naptime, but since he’d be “escaping” his nap, he’d be generally well behaved). Well, right as I was yelling at the kids to get their socks and boots on, my husband came home – unexpectedly – for lunch, and – not realizing I was thinking of going out – blocked the driveway so I couldn’t leave. Now, it was definitely a pleasant surprise, and I’m not complaining about it, but after he left (late) I had to put the little one down for a nap and didn’t get to go. And since naptime ended early because the dog barked when the mail came at 3:15, the level of crankiness was more than I could take out of the house.

Perhaps it was just the disappointment of being stuck at home, or the usual afternoon queasiness, but I was mighty impatient with the kids all afternoon. When S1 tried to take a pop-tart out and managed to drop crumbs all over the place, I was greatly annoyed. When S2 cried because S1 took the Clifford book away from him, I rolled my eyes. When I saw that S2 had completely unpeeled a banana that he then left uneaten, I shouted. And when S1 decided it would be fun to repeat everything I was saying, I actually gave him a timeout. I gotta say, I am not too proud of that.

But anyhow, usually, cooking is just another chore that I am burdened with. And cooking Indian food – well, that’s even worse. For one thing, it takes time and a lot of dishes to cook Indian food, so cleanup is a pain. And, I just can’t eat Indian food more than once a week. Of course, my husband and kids could eat it every day – and my sons actually eat a lot without too much fussing when there’s Indian food on their plates. So 4:30 rolled around, I was feeling kinda down – physically and mentally – and realized that I hadn’t figured out dinner yet. We had leftover cauliflower all chopped up (from Indian food I had made earlier in the week), so I made some dough. And, as usual, when I turned on the stand mixer to start making the dough, S2 came running into the kitchen and asked me to lift him up and sit him on the counter so he could watch. Then he went back to play. And the two boys played – without screaming or fighting – while I cooked. And as I cooked, I realized that I felt good. Maybe it was that I was accomplishing something instead of just sitting around feeling nauseous all afternoon. Maybe it was getting some time away from the boys – even if they were just in the next room. Maybe it was that I remembered to taste the food before it was done and add more salt to correct the taste. Maybe I’m getting better at cooking, and the reliability of the results – actually creating 95% poofy rotlis – gave me a real sense of accomplishment. Whatever the reason, I finally felt the pleasure of cooking. My husband would offer to play with the kids while I cook so I could get a break from them – offering me the alternative of playing with them while he cooked – and I would inevitably choose the former. But I never felt what he was offering me until today.

And now I think I’ve turned a culinary corner. I know I’m a decent, nay, good cook. And I can make more and more complicated dishes without feeling too overwhelmed by them. And a messy kitchen doesn’t bother me, because I’ve learned that I can find the pockets of time to clean along the way so there’s not a huge mound at the end. And knowing that at the end, everything will be put away and our stomachs will be full and satisfied is a good feeling.

Now, if I didn’t hate my kitchen…

Alternative Energy

So as I listened to NPR on the way to the coffee shop, the news story started with “Here’s a sentence you’ve never heard before” and followed up with something about the US having an energy conference with Cuba. Okay, yes, I’ve never heard that sentence before, but I have to say I was a little disappointed. As far as never-before-heard sentences, I expected something more exciting, because my head certainly started running through all sorts of different possible sentences I’d never heard.
“My mother was a tutu in her former life.”
“Hark, a purple iPod!”
“No, Mommy, I don’t want candy.”
See, all these sentences create images that – well, to me – are a bit more interesting than a news story about an energy summit. But then again, I would seriously like my next car to be a hybrid minivan (minivan because I need it, hybrid for the environment). And I just saw an article about the H-Haus, a new “concept” house at this year’s Home and Garden show made of concrete and super energy efficient and environmentally friendly, the house I would love to live in because it would not only be cool, but also good for the earth.
See, I’d like to be a tree hugger, but I’m too lazy, cheap, and practical. I don’t print out many stories these days; I try to work only on my computer. But is the energy cost of powering my computer greater than the waste of trees from printing on paper or of writing draft after draft on sheet after sheet of paper? I read somewhere that paper bags are actually worse for the environment than plastic bags, and we definitely reuse plastic bags.
I didn’t stay to hear the story about the US-Cuban Energy Summit, though I’m sure it will be covered in the newspaper (that kills trees and prints up way more copies than are read each day) and on the news (which uses oodles and oodles of electricity to record, transmit, and watch). Should I clean with sponges (which – ignoring how many germs they carry – have to be manufactured in a plant of unknown energy efficiency and environmental respect), paper towels (consumable, use-once-throw-away, fill ever-growing landfills), or some sort of disposable, disinfectant wipe (that also fills landfills)?
I read a while ago that the first diaper ever used still exists. Clearly, items at the bottom of landfills don’t get the air they need to biodegrade naturally and thus remain. I can’t even count the number of diapers I’ve disposed of in the last five years (two kids), and compared to that, everything else just seems like minutia.
We live close to my husband’s work, and environmentally, that’s a good thing. The less time he’s on the road, the less fuel he’s using. But then, our house was built in 1917 and is not the most energy efficient. So we probably use more fuel to keep the house warm (since there are recognizable drafts by the windows) than we save with a shorter commute.
And so we constantly debate moving to the suburbs, to a new house, with a better school system. But however we break it down, we end at an impasse.
Environmentally: energy efficient house vs. longer commute (= less time at home)
Education: great (though expensive) private school vs. (is it good enough?) public school
Restaurants: great diversity vs. a bunch of chains
Socially: great neighborhood and friends vs. probably great new friends and safe neighborhood
House: lots of character, no central air, annoying crappy kitchen vs. cookie cutter open floor plan with awesome big modern kitchen.
Other: large property taxes and no public indoor pool vs. being far from our friends and becoming stereotypical suburbanites, which we know is a total mental block that we’ll probably love when we do it.
So what do we do?
I know this had nothing to do with my mother being a tutu in her former life (she really wasn’t – obviously, since that was a sentence never before heard – and couldn’t be, since former lives would have to be as creatures that possess life). Then again, I’d hate to offend any ballerinas, or tutus for that matter, that may believe that tutus do in fact live.

STORY: The Stinker

By
Nivi Engineer

Mama, don’t go. I want to stay here with you. I tilt my head and look past the soft folds of my mother’s white skirt and aquamarine shawl with the knots and the strings in little bunches. The shawl and skirt are so soft. Her off-the-shoulders white blouse makes her so beautiful. She bends down and faces me.
She tells me it’ll be okay. I wrap a lock of her long, wavy black hair around my finger.
Don’t go, Mama. I put my hands on her cheeks.
She picks me up and sets me down on a cold, metal folding chair – tan – and my feet dangle. She puts her hands on my cheeks and kisses my forehead before turning and rushing away.
Even with all the talking and music and chairs being dragged across the gym floor, all I hear is the tap-tap-tap-tap of my mother’s high heels – red – and the clanging of her large silver bracelets.
When it stops the room falls silent. But not really. The noise grows louder and louder around me and in my head and, all alone in a crowded gym, I let out a scream of tears.
Helen sat up suddenly in her bed, cheeks wet. It was still dark outside. She lay down, found her stuffed cheetah, and hugged it to sleep.

* * * * *

Helen heard yelling. They think they are being quiet, she thought, but they’re not. Papa is saying that we have to leave, and Maria says she can’t go.
“There are too many reminders; she will never move on,” said her father.
Is he talking about me?
“You can’t run away from your problems, Hector,” said Maria.
Helen hugged Cheetah tightly and felt his soft face on hers. “It’s okay, Cheetah. We’ll be all right. This is how it is with all of Papa’s friends. They all say goodbye. But we still have Papa, and I have you. We’ll be all right.”
A sliver of light from the hallway shone on Helen’s face as the door opened and she pulled the covers over her head. She heard someone walk in. It must be Maria coming to say goodbye. I like Maria; I’ll miss her.
“Helen, dear,” said Maria. “Are you awake?”
Helen turned away from the door and uncovered her head, but didn’t open her eyes. Maria sat on the bed and ran her hand over Helen’s hair. It feels nice, thought Helen. I like it when she does that; it reminds me of Mama when she was here – or maybe of one of Papa’s other friends, I don’t remember Mama that much anymore.
“Helen, dear. You are such a precious little girl. You are so sweet and smart and-“
Maria turned away from Helen and grew quiet. If she is crying she’ll stay longer, thought Helen, so she turned, sat up, and hugged her.
“I’ll see you,” said Maria.
Helen didn’t say anything, just hugged and smelled Maria’s vanilla smell that always made Helen think she had cookies for her. She never did, but she was nice and let me cry and I’ll miss her anyways - until the next one comes. It doesn’t help to remember them too long or get too close.

* * * * *

Helen entered the kitchen of her new house and, while she knew her father was sitting at the table with some woman, all she noticed was the dog lying on the floor. “What’s his name?”
“Do you like him?” Papa asked.
“His name is Duke,” said the woman. “And he’s yours.”
Helen looked up at the woman and realized she knew her. Helen then noticed the plate of cookies on the table – Oreos, but still – there sat Maria.
“You came back,” said Helen.
Maria and Hector laughed and looked at each other. Then they look at Helen.
“Come, sit on my lap,” said Hector.
Helen didn’t move. Hector scooted off the chair and sat on the floor in front of Helen, holding his hands out. Helen pulled her legs out from under her, and sat cross-legged, keeping one arm around Duke.
“Maria and I have been seeing each other. You remember, right? She just couldn’t come to our house until now because she didn’t have a car. It was her idea to give you Duke.”
“I’d like you to take care of him when I can’t be here, is that okay?” said Maria.
But if she and Papa stop being friends, thought Helen, then I won’t get to see Duke anymore?
“Don’t worry, Helen,” said Hector. “I’ll help you take care of him.”
They don’t understand.

* * * * *

“Listen to me!” shouted Sarah, pounding her rock of a gavel on the rock of a podium. “Our spray is getting in our way. We have to learn to control it. We have to learn to use our other assets to our advantage and stop spraying at the first sign of perceived danger, real or not.”
“How can you say such a thing?” said old Stan, whose white body gave him the impression of being old. “Skunks have survived for generations because of our spray.”
“You’re right, Stan,” said Sigmund. “In the wild, our spray has served us well. But young Sarah also has a very valid point. We are no longer in the wild, but rather live amongst humans. In this changing environment, surely we too must change.”
Stan settled back down onto his seat and let Sarah continue.
“Thank you, Sigmund. Stan, I understand how you feel, but after losing both of my brothers last week, I have had to think about what went wrong. They were young, healthy skunks in their prime. And yet, in their brashness, they entered a cage, thinking they could get the food and get out if they worked together. Instead, the trapdoor shut them both in. I approached them, and they warned me to stay out of sight, or I’d be captured too. I cried, but I reluctantly left. When I went back the next day, they were gone. But the cage sat there, with a fresh snack inside.
“These humans don’t like us,” continued Sarah. “And yet they surround us. We linger where they live because they provide us with a bounty of food unavailable anywhere else.”
“So what are you suggesting we do?” said Stan.
“These humans hate our spray.” Sarah answered. “When they walk by us, they avoid us. Every summer, our tribes suffer many losses in the cages that make us disappear forever.”
“I hear they take us to a secret location and take our hides to make clothing,” someone shouted.
“I’ve heard we’re cooked and sold to restaurants,” shouted another.
“Nonsense,” Sigmund said. “They’ll simply kill us. We are of no use to them.”
“And that,” said Sarah, “is exactly what we have to change.”

* * * * *

Helen looked out the back screen door at Duke, the twilight sky making his black body difficult to see. Suddenly, she saw a flash of white scurry into the bushes in the back of the yard.
“Duke, no! Come, Duke. Inside. C’mon. Sit. Stay!” Helen yelled as many commands as popped into her head, but knew it was too late. Duke, though generally well behaved, got way too excited when he saw squirrels, rabbits, and – evidently – skunks. She grabbed the leash from the hook next to the door and ran outside, ready to tie him to the banister so she could spend another evening – the third one this week – deskunking Duke. As he trotted to her, excited because he thought the leash meant he was getting a walk, she braced herself for the strong chemically noxious odor.
But no. He didn’t smell. Helen attached the leash, telling herself the odor would set in shortly, and stood waiting for the smell. But it didn’t come.
“Hmmm. Maybe there wasn’t a skunk after all,” she said aloud. “Lucky for you, Duke.”
Just then, out of the bushes waddled a small skunk. Helen tightened her grip on Duke’s leash, but otherwise stood still, mesmerized at how harmless this fuzzy little creature appeared. As it got closer, Helen watched, shifting her weight from foot to foot, ready to … well, she wasn’t sure what she was ready to do.
When the skunk was ten feet in front of her, it stopped. It looked at Duke, then at Helen. It slowly lifted its tail, and then dropped it.
It’s trying to tell me something, thought Helen, but what? “What is it, skunk? What do you want to tell me?” Great, she thought, I’m talking to a skunk.
Looking at Helen, the skunk slowly walked toward Duke. It then turned its head and faced Duke as Duke sniffed it and moved toward its hind side to sniff. Helen yanked on Duke’s leash. The skunk raised its tail, and then lowered it to the ground.
“You’re not going to spray him, are you?” said Helen, unable to believe what was happening. “Amazing.”
Seemingly in response, the skunk looked Helen in the eyes.
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Helen took Duke inside, then opened the refrigerator door. What do skunks eat? She wondered. Well, garbage. Maybe an apple. She closed the refrigerator door and went to the fruit bowl. She found the oldest apple and headed back outside. She was simultaneously surprised and unfazed at seeing the skunk still standing where she had left it. She walked down the few steps, all the while meeting the skunk’s gaze. She walked slowly toward the skunk, then set the apple on the ground a few feet away from the skunk, and stepped back. She turned her head at the sound of a bark, and saw Duke standing on the opposite side of the screen door, demanding to be let out. She looked down as she felt something soft against her ankles, and saw the skunk sidle up against her as she had seen cats do in cartoons. It then walked to the apple and started to eat it.
Helen stood staring at the skunk, noting its two thin zigzag stripes, until Duke’s whimpering reminded her that he hadn’t done his business. She walked up the steps to let him out. Duke stopped by the skunk momentarily, Helen watching in fear, but the skunk kept eating the apple and Duke trotted away to his corner of the yard to relieve himself. Duke returned, wagging his tail as he passed the skunk, not stopping to sniff it again, and Helen smiled.
“Bye, skunk.” she said as she and Duke went back inside. “Have a nice night.”

* * * * *


“I’m telling you, it works,” Sarah shouted. She pounded the stone gavel to silent the crowds. “Last week, I made a friend. Two. A human and a dog.”
“Come now, Sarah,” yelled old Stan, his white fur mangled from a recent run-in with a neighborhood cat. “Do you really expect us to believe that you befriended a human and a dog? How naïve do you think we are?”
“They trust me. The dog sniffs me and I don’t spray him, so the human gives me food. See how easy it can be? All we have to do is not react so quickly and we get food,” said Sarah, lowering her voice gradually as the crowd started listening. “Humans are wasteful. We all know that. That’s why we live in their neighborhoods instead of in the wild. They don’t want to eat us, like other creatures do. They just hate the smell of our spray.”
“Yeah, but that’s the point of our spray. We’re not going to scare anyone off if our spray smells like roses,” yelled someone from the crowd.
“No,” responded Sarah. “Our noxious spray is meant to stun and drive away predators. Humans don’t want to kill us.”
“So what do we do?” asked Simon, a young skunk with white circles around his eyes.
“Show humans that we won’t spray them or their pets. Picture it. If we stop spraying them, they’ll stop sealing their garbage so tightly and we’ll have better access to food. Eventually, as they get to know us, they’ll give us food on their own. Just like my human does and countless humans do for cats and dogs.”

* * * * *

“Papa, what do you think of skunks?” said Helen. They sat at the kitchen table drinking lemonade under the ceiling fan in the overwhelming July heat. “SKUNK, double word, sixteen points.”
Hector sat silently for two minutes before setting his tiles on the Scrabble board. “Stinky. Eight points.”
“I think they’re pretty cute,” said Helen. “In fact, we kind of have a pet skunk. Nice, double word, twelve points.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This skunk hangs out in our backyard and leaves Duke alone when I let him out. I give the skunk our leftovers and in return it doesn’t spray him.”
“I know you’ve been distant from Maria. This isn’t just an attempt to hurt her dog?”
“This has nothing to do with Maria. And I like Duke.”
“Well, your story is quite imaginative, Helen. But skunks can’t be trusted,” he said.
“And I tell you this one can be,” said Helen. “You’ll see when I let him out.”
“Fine. But I’ll watch from inside. If I’m going to win this argument, I don’t want to ruin it by having to bathe in tomato juice,” said Hector, smiling at Helen, who smiled back. Hector laid three tiles on the Scrabble board. “Vile, double word, fourteen points.”
After a while, Duke walked to the back door and whimpered, his tail wagging. Helen got up to let him out and saw the skunk, her skunk, standing there. She let Duke out and beckoned her father to come to the door. The two watched as Duke, now standing at the bottom of the stairs, sniffed the skunk, wagged his tail, then trotted off to pee.
“See, she didn’t spray Duke,” said Helen.
Hector said nothing.
When Duke returned, he stopped, facing the skunk. Wagging his tail, he dropped his chest and splayed his front paws in his playful pose. The skunk turned and ran in a circle, well, as fast as a waddling skunk can really run, which is about as fast as a speed-walker. Duke chased after it, jumping over it when he approached. Helen and her father watched in silence.
“So you can trust this skunk? That’s great. But then, why not Maria?” said Hector before heading to the den.
I don’t care what he says, thought Helen. I trust this skunk. And at least the skunk’s not trying to take Duke’s place. Duke trotted inside, and Helen glanced at the skunk, who stared back at Helen. Helen went to get a slice of bread for the skunk, and when she returned to the backdoor, she found the skunk had climbed the steps and was on the opposite side of the door.
“Well, what do we have here?” said Helen, as she opened the screen door to let the skunk in, pretty sure her father would not approve but feeling suddenly defiant.

* * * * *

What a wonderful few weeks, thought Sarah. In the hottest part of the summer, while the other skunks are struggling to keep cool and find food while avoiding capture, I get to relax and enjoy regular meals. All just for not spraying anyone. I can come and go as I please, though now that my meals are provided I no longer need to scavenge for food.
Sarah walked outside in the dark night, heading for the weekly skunk community forum. She couldn’t wait to tell everyone that they didn’t have to struggle.
As she reached the ravine, however, she saw old Stan standing at the podium, standing next to two skunks she had never seen before.
“Hunker down, wouldya! These gentleskunks here are from the next town over and have some very important news,” Stan said, stepping aside to let the bulky stranger take the podium.
“Hello, fellow skunks. My name is Stuart. And I have here…” He raised his right front paw, which held a sheet of paper, “…proof that humans are waging a war against us. It says here ‘How to keep our neighborhoods skunk-free.’ It goes into detail about setting traps to capture us, and tells us that when captured, Animal Control will take us to a secret location and destroy us.”
The crowd started talking, the din growing louder, forcing Stuart to pound the gavel.
“What we need is a plan,” shouted Stuart. “And that is where my esteemed colleague comes in. Please welcome Suzanne.”
As the small framed cream and white skunk stepped up to the podium, whistles announced the crowd’s approval. Sarah frowned as she recalled the boo’s that accompanied her last speech.
Suzanne started to speak, barely louder than a whisper, and the crowd strained to catch her every word. “We must take the offensive. We cannot sit back and watch as each of our family members and closest friends is taken from us. We need to attack.” She paused, letting the words sink in.
Sarah watched in amazement. Instead of inciting a mob mentality that would surely fade by morning, Suzanne is drawing them in by whispering. She knew she had to stop Suzanne from continuing or she would never be able to convince everyone that violence would not work.
“No,” Sarah said, startling the crowd. All heads turned and followed as she made her way to the stage.
“What do you mean ‘no’?” whispered Suzanne snidely.
“We cannot attack humans. They are more powerful and would destroy us all. We would be forced to return to the wild and scavenge for food while fighting to stay alive. At least now we are surrounded by food. Humans waste a lot. Plenty for us to live on. Do you really want to return to the old ways?” Sarah quickly realized that by asking a question she had passed on control, and that she was not going to regain it.
“Of course you don’t want to return to the old ways. You’re happy being some human’s pet,” shouted Stan. The crowd shouted in agreement.
“I see,” said Suzanne, her soft voice instantly quieting the crowd. “Well, I can see why you would not want humans destroyed. But you raise an interesting point. You say we can befriend humans, do you?”
Sarah didn’t trust Suzanne, but took the opportunity to speak. “Yes. They love to nurture, and as long as they are not harmed, they will choose any animal as their pet.”
“So you say it is possible to become a pet, and this will let you eat regularly?”
“Yes, and given a place to sleep, away from the harsh elements.”
“Intriguing,” whispered Suzanne. “We must take this approach. My fellow skunks, we must endear ourselves to these humans. Therein lies our salvation. Thank you, Miss. Thank you for saving us.”
Sarah walked off stage and headed back home, leaving Suzanne whispering to a still enthralled crowd. She understands, thought Sarah. This Suzanne is no dummy. The others listen to her.

* * * * *

As she walked back to her new house, Sarah caught sight of her human and dog taking a late walk in the finally cool Cleveland night. She rushed to join them and chirped. They turned and saw her, then stopped to let her catch up.
The three walked together for several yards, silent except for the dog’s panting. Suddenly, the dog stopped, his tail wagging. Sarah looked up and saw two shapes on the sidewalk, immediately in front of the dog. She moved closer, to the dog’s side, and recognized Sam and Sly, old Stan’s sons. They showed their teeth and were growling at the dog, who, thanks to Sarah, didn’t know to avoid them. Then again, she realized, he didn’t exactly run away from me.
They stepped forward. Sarah stepped forward and to the side, in front of the dog.
“Get out of our way, pet girl!” snarled Sly.
“Leave him alone,” Sarah spoke slowly, baring her teeth afterwards to let them know she meant business.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Sarah. The war is starting,” said Sam. “You don’t want to be on the wrong side.”
“What are you talking about? Suzanne told us to get along with humans,” said Sarah.
“You are such a fool,” laughed Sly. “She got rid of you. Sure we could fool humans into trusting us, but that would take too long. We’re taking control now.”
“How do you plan to do that?” asked Sarah, taking tiny steps backwards, hoping the human and dog would back up. But she could still hear the dog panting behind her.
“By keeping humans and dogs off the street at dusk and dawn. If we see them, we’ll spray them. If they leave food for us, we’ll leave them alone. They’re smart; they’ll figure it out,” explained Sly. “Now step aside and watch the onslaught begin.” Sly raised his tail and started to turn around.
Sam looked Sarah in the eyes. “Listen to him, Sarah. Step aside and return with us.”
Sarah took a step sideways, dropping her head. She heard Sly chirp the first of three times, as he liked to do before spraying, and she quickly turned and growled at the dog and human. They stumbled backwards. Sarah raised her tail and sprayed.

* * * * *

“I can’t find her anywhere. She sprayed those other skunks, we stared at each other for a few seconds, and then she ran off,” said Helen. “Those other skunks were still around, so Duke and I rushed off.”
“There was actually an article in today’s paper saying there’s been a lot of skunk sightings and sprayings,” said Hector, opening up a can of Coke and sitting down on the sofa.
“I’ve had to walk Duke right after school when it’s still light out to avoid skunks, I’ve been so nervous. The first couple days, I kept seeing skunks out, but not mine. I swear they were headed toward me.”
“I saw about five skunks on my way over here. Something strange is going on,” said Maria.
“This is ridiculous. I’ve gotten sprayed three times in the past week. It’s like they’re waiting for me,” said Hector.
“Animal control doesn’t have enough cages to meet all the demand,” said Maria. “The guy said we should spray our lawn with a mixture of – let me look this up – eight ounces castor oil, eight ounces liquid dish soap, and one gallon of water. That should keep the skunks off our yard until Animal Control can make it out here. They’ve never been this busy.”
“What if we left food out?” asked Helen.
“Absolutely not!” said Hector. “They’d keep coming back.”
“But they wouldn’t spray us,” said Helen.
Helen stopped listening, thinking instead of how she hadn’t seen her skunk all week and was worried. She was afraid the skunk had been run over, captured, or killed. Earlier in the summer, she never imagined that she could actually care about a skunk. She thought her father would have come around, but he didn’t.
If they saw my skunk, she thought, they’d learn to like her. She frowned. But she’s gone and they’ll never get the chance.

* * * * *

Later that night, Helen woke up and quietly went down to the kitchen for a snack. She heard voices in the den.
“You have to tell her. It’s not fair to her,” said Maria.
Are they talking about me, thought Helen.
“Stay out of this, Maria. It is none of your concern.”
“Hector, the child lost her mother. And she thinks her mother left her. How is that good for her?”
“I can take care of my daughter.”
What? I lost Mama? She told me to stay.
“And you told her that her mother left her at a dance? You let her believe that her mother abandoned her. How can you let her believe that?” Maria pounded her hand.
The sound made Helen jump.
“Shush, woman,” said Papa. And then he spoke so quietly that Helen couldn’t hear.
“Look. You want me to marry you and become close to Helen, but how can she trust me? How can she trust anyone if nobody tells her the truth about her mother? If she’s lost faith in her mother, and her father keeps lying to her, how can she trust me? How can she trust anyone? You have to tell her that her mother is dead so she can grieve.”
What? Mama is dead? No. No. No. She went to a dance. We saw her win. And she won so she had to go to another contest to win more. That’s where she is. Papa told me. She’s not dead. Why would Maria say something like that?
“She’s too young, Maria. A girl that young cannot handle knowing that her mother has died. I know what I’m doing.”
Mama died, thought Helen. Maria didn’t make it up. He doesn’t want me to know. Why doesn’t he want me to know?
“I disagree. I have known that girl all her life, and you are doing her a great disservice. But she is your daughter, so I won’t say anything. But, I cannot marry you until she knows.”
Helen stepped into the doorway and stood looking at them. They didn’t see her.
“Papa,” she said.
They turned to face Helen. Maria rushed next to Helen and put her arm around her. Helen kept looking at Hector, who was staring at Maria.
“You tell her or I will,” said Maria.
“Papa,” said Helen. “What happened to Mama?”
Maria’s hands tightened. Helen kept staring at her father, who turned to look at her. She walked toward Hector, and Maria let go. He picked Helen up and sat her on his lap. Maria turned and walked out of the den.
Papa sighed.
“Why is Maria saying I lost Mama? You told me she went dancing.”
“Helen, I am sorry. You were so young; I didn’t want to upset you. Your mother was a wonderful dancer. And when she danced, all eyes were on her. She had this energy about her, and her smile … ah, her smile.” Hector stopped talking and stared blankly.
“She was marvelous and won all sorts of dance competitions. We had gone to watch her compete. I picked you up from preschool and we drove downtown. Your mother had been there since morning helping out. She was also so helpful that way. We got there and there she was, greeting people at the doorway.
“She danced with you backstage until her name was called. And then, she asked her best friend, Maria, to take you to the audience, where I was waiting, holding our seats. You mother was dazzling. There were eight of them, but your mother stood out. And she was having so much fun. At the end, everyone stood up and cheered. You were jumping up and down, clapping, shouting ‘Yay Mama!’”
Helen remembered seeing her mother on stage holding her trophy. Helen then remembered the phone call from Mama. She told Helen to go to bed and that she’d see her the next morning. She told her she loved her and that she was so happy seeing Helen in the audience and dancing with her backstage.
Hector had taken her to bed that night. He tried to sing her the lullaby that Mama always sang for her, and Helen giggled remembering his funny voice and how he couldn’t remember the words. She turned and looked up at her father and saw tears in his eyes. She frowned and looked down at his hands wrapped around her own.
“On her way home, she was in an accident. A car sped right past a stop sign, and ran right into your mother’s car.”
Helen looked up at her father’s face.
“She--?” she said.
Her father hugged her tightly and shook, sobbing.
“Papa,” she said. “Papa.”
Maria walked into the den and picked up Helen. Helen did not resist, but rather rested her head on Maria’s shoulder. They stood in front of Helen’s father for a minute, but nobody spoke. Helen listened as Maria’s breathing slowed down gradually, starting out through her nose and eventually growing so quiet that Helen could only feel it but not hear it.
“Hector,” said Maria, “Go on.”
Through the corner of her eye, Helen could see her father’s head lift up.
“I told her,” he said.
“She needs to hear it. From you. You’re almost there. Just let it out,” said Maria.
Maria knelt down until Helen’s feet touched the floor. Helen stood, and then felt her body being turned to face her father. Helen felt Maria’s embrace and was grateful, suddenly feeling too weak to support herself. Her father put his hands on her cheeks and looked in her eyes.
“Helen, your mother did not leave you. She died that night.”
Maria knelt behind Helen, keeping her hands on Helen’s arms. Hector turned to the desk and sobbed, hiding his face in his arms. When Helen started to lean toward her father, Maria stood, whispered “come”, and then led Helen out of the room.
In the family room, Maria stopped and stood until Helen sat down. Then she sat down next to Helen. Helen sat silently for a few minutes.
Papa is crying, she thought. I never saw him cry before. And we left him alone. Papa needs me. Why did Maria make me leave him alone? And why is she here now? Why does she have to be here? I should be with my Papa and she shouldn’t be here at all. Mama should be here.
And then Helen felt the heat in her eyes dissipate as the tears rushed over them. Maria wrapped her arms around Helen, who hugged back, holding on tightly to stop the giant balloon of hurt expanding inside her. She pictured this balloon, red and black, and felt it press on her chest and at the bottom of her throat.
Helen cried and cried, missing her mother, missing knowing and being able to say goodbye. She felt sad, devastated, but also angry. Angry at her mother for being gone when she said she’d come back, angry at her father for not telling her, angry at herself for believing her mother would abandon her on purpose.
But, she realized, she was not angry with Maria. She wanted to be. She had been angry with Maria since her mother had disappeared, because Maria was here and her mother was not. But Maria, Mama’s best friend, had been a friend to Papa, comforting him and taking care of me because Mama could not.

* * * * *

Sarah awoke with a start. She was so hungry and missed her family. She looked out from under the hosta leaves, and realized that she now considered the human and dog as her family.
The weekly forum was due to start soon, and she had to defend her actions to the large community of angry skunks. She had remained hidden as much as possible over the past week and had eaten little. She didn’t want to risk getting her family sprayed – she knew she would have been followed – so she had stayed far from home. She hoped everything would settle down after this week’s forum, when she would have to explain how she could spray another skunk.
The coast clear, she came out from under the hosta and stood at the head of the trail leading to the ravine. She headed down the trail and heard the chattering of the other skunks. Wow, big turnout, she thought, and was surprised to see half as many skunks as the previous week. Suzanne was speaking.
“We’ve suffered many casualties, but we are making progress. Already people are staying inside more, giving us free reign of the streets.”
Sarah listened to Suzanne for a few more minutes, hiding behind the large oak tree that marked the edge of the meeting space. Although she had spent the past week anticipating this moment, now that it had arrived, she didn’t know what to do. She wanted to explain herself, which meant that she would have to make her way to the podium. But that meant that all these skunks would stand between her and escape, should it come to that.
She couldn’t do it. She would have to take this opportunity to make it back to her human’s house. She turned around and silently retraced her path up the trail. After what she had done, there was no way the skunk community would ever accept her again. She would be sent away anyhow; she may as well leave voluntarily.
As she reached the fence at the trailhead, she heard human voices. She looked up and saw that just a few feet ahead of her, standing in a circle, was a large group of humans. One was pointing in her direction. Bottles lay on the ground around them and their voices were loud. Several people carried cages, just like the one that took her brothers, and other people carried guns. Little by little, more people joined the crowd.
Sarah realized that they were coming after the skunks. How foolish, she thought. The skunks grew careless and let the humans see them enter. She turned around and rushed down the trail. What were they thinking taking on humans? Of course it would come to no good. How are we, with a noxious spray and the ability to squeeze through small spaces, going to defeat people that can build cages and guns? What can we do now? How can we survive?
“Run! Everybody run!” Sarah shouted as she reached the forum.
Of course, nobody moved. Recognizing her voice, the skunks chose to ignore her words and do the opposite. She reached the podium and, pushing Suzanne aside, she paused just long enough to catch her breath.
“There’s a crowd of humans at the trailhead. They saw a lot of you enter and they’re on their way with cages and probably guns, and they’re going to destroy us. We need to run and hide or we’re all dead.” Sarah stopped talking when she saw Stan rise and start to approach her. She looked him straight in the eyes as he walked up to the podium and stopped in front of her. He turned to face the crowd, and then rose up on his hind paws, leaning on the podium.
“Sarah, you go ahead and flee. Anyone else who thinks we can’t face these humans, feel free to run. I for one plan to stay and fight,” said Stan.
Sarah watched as the skunks looked from side to side, trying to figure out what to do. “Well, I’m leaving. I know you all must hate me for what I did last week, but that doesn’t concern me right now. I came here to save your lives. What you do now is up to you. Goodbye, Stan.”
Sarah rushed off the stage and took the western path, since she knew humans guarded the southern path. As she reached the western trailhead, she saw no humans – though she heard many voices – and quickly darted across the street. She ran as fast as she could from bush to bush and made her way back home.

* * * * *

“You know,” said Maria, “when I was a child, I used to have a pet skunk.”
Helen looked up and saw Maria standing in front of her, holding the skunk in her arms. Helen felt her face grow warm. Maria sat down next to Helen and stroked the skunk gently. Helen could swear she heard the skunk mew.
“I’m worried about her, Maria. She’s not acting normal.” Helen pulled two cans of Coke out of the fridge.
“Helen, she’s a wild skunk living as your pet. She sleeps with the dog. And NOW you find her behavior unusual,” said Hector.
Maria laughed, pulling the bag of popcorn out of the microwave.
The three stepped into the family room, sat down and turned on the television. As they settled into their seats, the skunk wandered in and stopped in front of Hector. It rubbed up against his legs, and kept pacing back and forth. Hector tapped Maria’s leg with the back of his hand and she looked over.
“Go ahead, pick her up,” said Helen.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Hector.
“That’s what she does when she wants to be picked up.” Helen reached down to pick up the skunk but it pulled away.
“But why me? She’s never noticed me before,” Hector leaned down and picked up the skunk. He held it in midair and looked at it.
“Put it on your lap,” said Maria. “You were just like that when Helen was born. It’s exactly the same, except that the skunk doesn’t need a diaper. Besides, I told you she was acting strangely.”
Hector picked up his legs and rested them on the coffee table, and the skunk settled into his lap. Hector pressed play, and Helen and Maria laughed as they saw that he had rented a Pepe Le Pew video.
“So I read that Animal Control found a den with around fifty skunks and destroyed them all. It was out by that ravine where you said those skunks almost sprayed Duke,” said Maria.
“So I guess it’s over. I guess we’re safe from the evil society of skunks,” said Helen, smiling at Maria.
“Maybe that’s why she’s acting so strangely. You said she came back last night around ten? That’s right around when all this happened,” said Hector. “Maybe she’s suddenly noticing me because she can’t go back to the skunk world and is stuck here now.”
“Maybe,” said Helen, moving to sit next to Maria. “And by the way, does the skunk get to be in the wedding?”

* * * * *

“Sigmund! You’re okay!” said Sarah one evening a few weeks later as she finally ventured out of the house.
“Sarah, I needed to thank you – and make sure you were all right,” said Sigmund.
“Whatever happened to Suzanne?” she asked.
“Well, for all her bold talk, she was the first to run. Unfortunately, she ran right into the humans. She was among the first casualties. After that, everyone scattered. But there were so many of them. Those that survived didn’t see the cages until they had run into them.”
“But you?”
“There are about a dozen of us who heeded your words and followed you out. We had also staked out the trails ahead of time to prepare good hiding places. We stayed hidden for as long as we could stand it, and when we came out, we wandered around and witnessed the carnage. Old Stan lay by the podium. Bodies were scattered everywhere. It was overwhelmingly sad. But as those of us that survived gathered, we agreed to try your method. We vowed never to spray again, and that if we did get to be somebody’s pet, we wouldn’t oppose getting operated on to give our families piece of mind. We’re working on spreading the word about our stink-free philosophy to other communities so that they don’t have to face the horrors we did.”
Sarah smiled as she walked around the block with her friend. She was sad to hear that so many of her friends and relatives had perished during the human’s attack, but was relieved that some good had come out of the situation. She envisioned a day when she and Sigmund could walk along the sidewalk or at least the middle of the lawn, instead of under the bushes under cover of darkness. She knew that although the humans were now relaxed in their belief that all skunks had been eliminated, they wouldn’t hesitate to correct their error if a skunk were found. It was still too soon to wish for a free society that welcomed skunks just as it welcomed dogs and cats. But for now, she was happy to have a family.
Sarah said goodbye to Sigmund and waddled over to walk the rest of her way home with her human and dog. She smiled as the dog’s nose touched hers and his tail wagged. She was pleasantly surprised to find three pairs of human legs as she made her way to the sidewalk.