Self-Esteem in a Post-Modern Society

My latest mission: to lose the weight I've gained since I quit smoking, and then some. So I joined an online 10-week challenge group, and today was our first "weigh-in" - meaning we all posted Day 1 (before) pics and measurements.

It was really hard for me to take those pics of myself, see the numbers on the tape measure, and then share all that info with a big group of anonymous women who are all in the same boat. But I did it. And, while it literally hurts my eyes to look at my own pics, in everyone else's pics I see nothing but beauty...and bodies that these women should be proud of.

Today's hard lesson is that my opinion of myself must be low indeed if I can barely look at photos of the body I inhabit, yet be completely impressed by the beauty of women whose bodies look much like mine.

I'm not going to do a deep dive on the effects of our beauty-obsessed society on the self-esteem of American girls and women. And even men. I think we all know that story. But I can make these pledges to myself following today's anxiety-inducing experience:

• I shall practice being kind to myself.
• I shall realize that my body, imperfect as it is, is the only body I will ever have. I must take care of it, but I must not expect it to be something it cannot be. To subject this body to a manufactured idea of "perfect" is a waste of valuable time and energy.
• I shall remember that this body is imperfect because it has been through a lot. No body can take abuse and not come out with scars (or stretch marks).
• I shall dedicate myself to ensuring that my daughter can live and thrive in this brutal Vogue society. She will understand that she is beautiful, no matter what she looks like. And she will never hear me utter the word "fat" in reference to my body.

I will continue on this latest "Healthy Jen" journey, but I will do it for the right reasons. I will do it for my own health, happiness, and well-being; I will not do it because a TV producer or magazine editor says I should. And I will be happy with the results.

Nobody said self-examination was easy; in fact, it's just this kind of discomfort that will help me grow. And no, I won't be posting my Day 1 pics here. Maybe I'll share my before and after pics at the end of the 10-week challenge. :)

I'm a Mom. I'm an American. And I'm Pissed.

America experienced yet another unspeakable tragedy yesterday, when the 20-year-old mentally ill son of a teacher got his hands on his mother’s guns. After killing his mother with her own gun, he blasted his way through an elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut and shot 20 children and 6 adults dead before killing himself.

I, like every other American, am devastated by the senseless killings of innocent children in their own school. As the mother of two small children - one of whom is almost school-age himself - I can’t help but imagine the terror those babies felt, and the trauma the survivors experienced. My heart breaks when I think about the 20 families whose kids didn’t come home from school yesterday. No parent should lose a child this way. It’s inhumane.

The Connecticut school shooting is only the latest example of an unstable person with a gun unleashing mass destruction on innocent people. According to the Washington Post, America has seen 6 mass shootings that took the lives of 5 or more people so far in 2012. Examples include:

April 2, Oakland CA: An Oikos University dropout lined nursing students against a wall and methodically shot them, killing 7 and injuring 3.

May 30, Seattle WA: A coffee shop patron with a history of mental and behavioral problems opened fire after being asked to leave, killing 5 and injuring 1 before committing suicide.

July 20, Aurora CO: A man in riot gear opened fire in a movie theater during a midnight showing of “The Dark Knight Rises.” He killed 12 and injured 58.

Aug 5, Oak Creek WI: A white supremacist opened fire in a Sikh temple, killing 6 and injuring 3 before committing suicide.

Sept 27, Minneapolis MN: A man being fired from his job pulled a gun and opened fire, shooting 6 people dead and injuring 3 before killing himself.

Gabby Giffords. Columbine. Virginia Tech.

Workplace shootings. Mall shootings. Salon shootings. Movie theater shootings. School shootings. A shooting at a Las Vegas casino. A shooting in a daycare parking lot. It’s constant, and it is tragic.

I’ve been seeing a lot of conversation on Twitter calling for stricter gun control. While the prevalence of guns - and the relative ease of obtaining a gun - certainly contribute to the problem, I believe guns themselves are not the whole problem.

The vast majority of mass shootings are carried out by a person with known mental health issues. These are people who are described as “different,” unable to relate to or connect with other people. For example:

Jared Loughner, shooter of Arizona Representative Gabrielle Giffords, underwent a “personality change” at some point in his life, becoming reclusive and “obsessed” with conspiracy theories. During his time in jail he was diagnosed with schizophrenia and declared unfit for trial. He was ordered by the courts to be forcibly medicated in order to make him fit to stand trial. He pleaded guilty to 19 counts in August of this year.

Andrew Engeldinger, Accent Signage employee in Minneapolis who opened fire after learning he was losing his job, had been growing more paranoid and reclusive in the months leading up to the shooting. His parents noticed, and tried desperately to get him some help. He was never diagnosed and never sought treatment; in fact, he cut off contact with his parents after learning of their efforts to help him. He died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound after killing 2 of his managers, 3 coworkers, and a UPS deliveryman.

Ian Lee Stawicki, who opened fire in a Seattle coffee shop after the barista declined to serve him, had suffered from mental illness for years. He had been more erratic in the months leading up to his rampage. Despite the best efforts of his family, he could not be convinced to seek help. According to his father, “He wouldn’t hear it,” he said. “We couldn’t get him in, and they wouldn’t hold him.”

They wouldn’t hold him.

I’m reminded of a shooting here in Minnesota several years ago, when a man was committed to the psychiatric ward of a local hospital by his brother-in-law. He was released after 24 hours, having been deemed a non-threat to himself or others. He walked out of the hospital, drove to his sister’s house, and killed her – and her entire family, including the brother-in-law who tried to help him.

This right here is the problem. I understand that mental illness is a squishy thing to deal with. I get that the safety of the general public must be balanced with the civil rights of a mentally ill person. I know that not every mentally ill person is going to seek help or secure a diagnosis. But you know what? I believe that MUCH more can be done.

I believe that this country’s mental health policies contribute heavily to gun violence. A mentally ill person + a gun = a lethal combination.

A combination of more effective gun control measures and comprehensive policies around dealing with the truly mentally ill are what it will take to curb all this senseless violence. True reform will require teamwork and transparency:

The gun lobby, rather than opposing all gun control, should recognize that free access to guns really isn’t a good idea; and that arming all Americans also is a terrible idea (this is not the Wild West, folks).

Our mental health community, including hospitals, treatment centers, and providers need to pop their little bubbles, and work together to share information in order to provide the best quality mental health services to the people who need them most.

Our government – federal, state, county, and local – need to develop common-sense mental health policies that will help mentally ill people while protecting innocent American citizens. In addition, the government needs to do its part to help keep guns out of the hands of people who will use them to kill. (There is a difference between having a gun for self-protection and having one for the express purpose of harming people) Our current policies and laws clearly are not working.

I call upon Amy Klobuchar and Al Franken, U.S. Senators from Minnesota, and Erik Paulsen, Minnesota District 3 U.S. Representative, to step up and start making the change that is so desperately needed in this country. You are all highly respected government officials, and your constituents voted you into your jobs for a reason. We expect you to channel your Minnesota values and stand up for the Americans you represent. Innocent Americans are dying for no reason.  I do not want to hear anymore how your thoughts and prayers are with the families in Newtown, CT. Now I want to see some action. There is no more room for complacency.

Enough is enough.

On Dating...In Your 30s.

Dating. The (seemingly) endless game of trying to find that one special, perfect person who complements and completes you. Who provides companionship, support, love and affection. Who is your lover and your best friend. The one person you simply cannot live without.

Sounds fantastic, right? I mean, who doesn't want that, and who doesn't strive for that on some level throughout their lives? The drive to find your match seems to run underneath every daily activity. If you're single, you notice the good-lookers at the grocery store, at church, at the gym, in the car next to you at the stoplight, everywhere. The radar is always on. 

I'll tell you what: my happily married friends should count their lucky stars. This dating thing is tough.

For one thing, the talent pool is very different from when I was in my 20s. Back then, it was rare to meet someone who had yet been married or had kids. Hardly anybody had any baggage. It was all about just getting together and having a good time. If there should be a spark, great! If there wasn't, it was really pretty easy to bounce back from a failure and try again. No harm, no foul.

Now, I am 36 years old. I have kids, I have a failed marriage under my belt, and I have lived enough life to know what's really important to me. I may have some trust issues, I'm rather protective of my space, and my kids absolutely come first. I most certainly am not the "Jen-on-the-town" I was a decade ago.

Turns out I'm not the only one who carries residual baggage that comes from life experience. The men do, too. And that, friends and neighbors, increases the dating difficulty factor by about a thousand percent. I know exactly what I want (and what I do not want), and finding someone who meets my stringent criteria has been...well, difficult.

I finally jumped back in the dating game a little over a year ago. I haven't been a serial dater by any stretch of the imagination; I am quite picky about who I meet. That's the beauty of online dating; a simple glance at a profile is all I need to know if someone is worth having a conversation with. Even then there's no guarantee. Thanks to online dating sites, in the past year or so I have dated:

• A freshly divorced single dad who was emotionally unavailable and so passionate about his sports and activities that he was busy literally every hour of every day.
• An emotional wreck of a man who was painfully insecure, needy, and clingy - and who, I discovered rather quickly, had a pretty serious alcohol problem.
• Another divorced single dad who seemed nice enough, but was literally unable to ever sit still or stop talking. Also not overly reliable or responsive. He just kinda fell off the radar.
• Yet another divorced single dad - except this one was different. He seemed to meet every single one of my criteria: smart, educated, employed, stable, the list goes on. I could not find one thing wrong with this one. Until he freaked out and ran away. We reconciled after several months, and all seemed to be going well...until he did it again. This one, while absolutely perfect in every other way, has some deep emotional issues. I can't help him with that, and I don't need that kind of hassle. 

And I think I'm such a great judge of character.

Four nice enough guys, but every single one of them has plenty of baggage and emotional issues of his own. It's impossible to find that soulmate under these conditions. In fact, I'm becoming more and more convinced that he doesn't actually exist. Those romantic comedies are so full of shit.

While it would be nice to have companionship, I don't really need a man. My life is probably more peaceful without one. Heck...I can always start collecting cats.

Happily married friends, count your blessings. :)

The End of an Era (I'm Movin' On).

As I sit here contemplating all that's left to do in the 36 hours between now and moving day, it occurs to me that a house is so very much more than brick and mortar. Or wood and nails, as the case may be. I feel compelled to ruminate on that just a bit, if you're up for a little emotional rambling. :)

I clearly remember the first time I laid eyes on this house. March 1, 2007. I was married nearly a year, pregnant, and super excited to find the place that my family could grow in - and call home. We had looked at dozens of houses online and in person, but none of them spoke to me the way this one did. I saw it as we drove down the street (in a blizzard, mind you), and it took my breath away. I knew - I KNEW - that this was where we would land. This was home. I had to have it. And six weeks later we moved in.

I had big plans for this house. As far as I was concerned, we were going to stay here a long time. Maybe not forever, but long enough to raise our family. We started down that path. Our son was born, and then our daughter. Our neighbors were our friends. We were well on our way to being the quintessential happy suburban family I'd always wanted.

But - it turns out that not everything happens as planned. Sometimes not even close. I aimed for Pleasantville and got the Bates Motel, or something. Instead of the Cleavers, this house saw the end of a marriage, the destruction of a family, and probably more pain and tears than joy and laughter.

You'd think I'd be glad to leave this house behind, and in most ways I am. I recognize that finally leaving this house means a well-deserved fresh start for me. But I'm a sentimental person, and I often think about the optimism and bright eyes I had when I moved into this house. Remembering that makes me sad for all the dreams I had that didn't really come to be.

The good news is, this move is the final chapter in a long, tawdry tale. I really do get to start fresh, on my own again, and rebuild a life that is all mine. And that, my friends, has been a long time coming. So I guess I shouldn't spend too much time feeling sorry for myself. This is my opportunity to move on - me and my kids. It will be good. :)

And on Thursday, I will bid adieu to Elk River, and to this house. I can't believe that day is already here.

Who Am I To Mess With Mother Nature?

You probably saw my recent Facebook posts about my Baby Sparrow Saga. I'll tell you what; I never knew I could get so emotional over a bunch of birds. Here's how it went down:

Early in the spring a couple of sparrows built a nest on a vent above my basement patio door, inside the screened-in area underneath my deck. There had been an identical nest in the identical spot last year, so I wasn't surprised to see them return, and I didn't think anything of it. Aside from sending the birds flying every time I stepped out of my office for a smoke, my relationship with the birds was pretty typical and uneventful.

Until Monday.

On Monday morning I gradually realized that something outside the patio door (which is in my office) was making a heck of a racket. I looked outside and saw the mama and daddy birds hopping and darting around, cheeping like mad, obviously in distress. I got up and took a closer look - only to find their nest lying on the concrete patio. It had fallen off the vent above the door. After grabbing some gloves and a stool, I went out and took a closer look. The nest had at least one living baby in it, and two others had fallen out either on the way down or upon impact, and were lying on the concrete. These baby birds can't have been more than a couple days old. Completely devastated, I gently picked the babies up, placed them back in the nest, and hurriedly put the nest up on the header board of the deck. Not where the nest was before, as there was no way it could go there again, but I hoped it would be good enough. I quickly grabbed my stool and went back inside. And then I watched. And hoped the mama and daddy birds would come back.

And they did. Pretty much as soon as I went inside, they did come back, and I caught a glimpse of mama in the nest, inspecting her babies. Whew - disaster averted. Or so I thought.

Late yesterday morning I looked out my patio door to see if the nest was still there. It was. I then looked to see if mama and daddy were still hanging around. They were. Then I spied something lying on the concrete patio just outside the screen porch. It was a gray shape that looked suspiciously like the babies I had returned to their nest just the day before. With a knot of dread in my stomach, I grabbed my gloves and went outside. Sure enough, it was the corpse of a baby sparrow. Two others lay next to it. I gathered them up and tossed them in the woods -- it was really hot, and they stank. I was so sad, but not overly surprised...I thought they might have been injured in their original fall and died in the nest - only to be heaved out by their parents overnight. I checked the nest from above through a crack on the deck floor and saw two more babies - one obviously alive, one obviously dead. I thought I might see the dead one on the concrete this morning when I got up.

This morning I set my own babies down to their breakfast and stepped out onto the deck for a smoke. I looked over the railing - and sure as shit, there was a baby lying on the concrete. I about died when the damn thing moved. I immediately ran downstairs, brought the stool and the gloves back out, and returned the live baby to its nest. I found the corpse of the dead baby and tossed it. 

And since then, all day long, I have been extremely concerned about the welfare of the one surviving baby. I don't know how the damn thing has survived two ten-foot falls, but it's still breathing every time I check on it. I even saw mama sitting in the nest and apparently feeding her baby. The last time I looked in on it, it was hanging half out of the nest - still breathing, and I once again put it back in. Perhaps another attempt - this one failed - by mama to heave the baby over the side again? Quite frankly, I don't think it's looking too good for my little buddy. I'm pretty sure he'll be dead by morning, and probably lying on the concrete for the third damn time.

I kind of feel like this is Human vs. Bird. I suppose there's a reason the mama bird tosses her babies out of the nest, and I'm probably interfering and meddling by continuing to pick them up and put them back in. But I'll tell you what - the poor little thing is still alive, and I'm all for giving it a chance to live. I know that humans and birds are nothing alike, and I understand the concepts "survival of the fittest" and "the circle of life." But I am a mother, and my maternal instinct kicked into overdrive as soon as I saw the nest on the ground on Monday. I just had to try and save these poor defenseless brand-new baby birds. I guess I'll never understand why small-brained animals behave the way they do, or why their instincts tell them to do certain things. Maybe the real problem here is that I have to see it because it's right outside my fricking door. If the nest wasn't attached to my house, this wouldn't be a problem.

Maybe it's time to bird-proof the old screen porch?

One Week and Six Pounds Down!

I have had more than my fair share of misfortune in the last 12 months. A shitty husband (with apologies, respect, and love to any of his family members that may be reading this), separation, reduced time with my kids, two failed short sales and resulting impending foreclosure, IRS troubles, divorce, bankruptcy...I've been through the wringer, to put it mildly. Truth be told, I've spent much of the last year feeling like a victim, like I just didn't have all that much to feel good about...including (and especially) myself. It has most definitely been a very tough year.

A little more than a week ago, I had an epiphany. There is something I can do, over which I have complete control, that would help me to finally feel better about myself. And that something is losing weight. This is my opportunity to stop feeling sorry for myself, and instead start feeling proud of myself. Confident. Comfortable in my own skin. Whoa - there's a concept.

Trouble is, losing weight is damn hard. And it's a damn lot of work. It's easy to talk yourself out of doing that work in favor of taking the easy way and pretending to not care what you look like. But I've discovered that it's impossible to not care. You do, even if you think you don't. I decided I'm tired of wearing oversized t-shirts to hide my body. I want to feel comfortable in whatever I'm wearing, whether it be a dress or a bathing suit.

One thing I've learned about myself, and I suspect this might be true of Americans in general, is that my brain and my body are wired completely differently. My body craves the good stuff like veggies and lean proteins. That's what my body wants and needs to function. My brain, however, doesn't see it that way. My brain wants instant gratification in the form of processed sugars, fats, starches and salts. That shit tastes so much better than the good stuff. So my brain has been forcing my poor body to take in this nutritionless but totally tasty crap and somehow make it work. This results in the "3:00 crash," too much caffeine, sleepless nights, and the inability to keep up with the kids. 

So after my epiphany, I decided to start making some changes, pronto. To start controlling what goes into my body and see what results I get. I've done this several times before, so I know how it works - but this time I have the best of all reasons: to start taking care of myself and renew my pride in myself. First off the menu: Mountain Dew, crackers and chips, cheese, and bread. Back on the menu: veggies, fruit, and water. Oh - and working out regularly has become a must. MyPlate on LiveStrong.com has been an indispensable tool for tracking what I eat and the progress I'm making.

And, well, the results after the first week are stunning. Six pounds lost in a single week. I'm starting to see white stretch marks (the GOOD stretch marks) in areas that have already substantially shrunk. I can already wear pants that just two weeks ago I couldn't even button. I proudly wore a tank top in public yesterday. I haven't experienced a 3:00 crash yet. I've been sleeping better. All great things, and all excellent motivators. Signs that all the work and willpower is paying off.

I'm not deluding myself - I know that one successful week doesn't make for an easy journey. But I'll tell you what - it just has to be easier than what I've been through in the last 12 months - and will yield much more positive results. I mean, there is nothing better than renewed self-confidence...that's what will give me the power to rise above the negativity. I cannot wait.

Check this shit out...

The New Old Me.

Well, it's official. As of 9:00 last Friday morning, my marriage is over. At the risk of seeming macabre, I like to say this:

R.I.P. Jennifer DeVries Caron (4/15/06-4/22/11)

I've bid farewell to Jennifer Caron, and have welcomed Jennifer Rae DeVries back. It feels really good to have my old name - my real name - back.

It's crazy to think that five years has come and gone. It's crazy to think that I'm divorced, and now a single mother. But I'll tell you what - even though I didn't plan it this way, I've always believed that things happen for a reason. In this case, the reason is the two beautiful children sleeping soundly upstairs. I know that everything in my life had to happen exactly the way it did, because any deviation from the path I took would mean I wouldn't have my kids. Clearly my marriage wasn't meant to last -- but when I look at my little man and my baby girl, I find it very difficult to be bitter. Instead I'm grateful. Optimistic. Confident. Feeling more and more like my old self every day. And I'm feeling deep in my bones that there's something bigger and better waiting for me just over the horizon. Whatever that may end up being, I'm so glad I'll be able to share it with my kids.

These two goofballs are the reason for everything I do.

Price Phillip, age 3-1/2

Kendall Rae, age 14 mos

Tattoos Really Do Tell A Story.

As many of you have heard or seen, in November I finally got myself inked.  I've always wanted to get a tattoo, and first started seriously considering the idea at the age of 16.  Of course, at that time I was too young to get it done myself, and besides...I knew I wanted one, but I didn't know what I wanted or where I wanted it.

A real conundrum, to be sure.  It took me 18 years to finally figure it out.  The day after Thanksgiving my KC friend Sarah took me to a tattoo studio near her house - Exile Tattoo - and the wonderful Steven Campbell worked his magic on my skin.

Prior to heading to Kansas City for Thanksgiving, I spent weeks honing my designs.  I knew that one of the tats would have to be my goose.  Story on that coming up.  The other was to be my mommy tat, and that one took a bit of time and research to decide on.  My mommy tat needed to be personal and symbolic, yet unique.  I wanted a piece of artwork that depicted strength (the Celtic knot), motherhood (the heart shape of this particular Celtic knot), and how important my kids are to me (their names and birthdates, and the purple/white in the knot for their birthstone colors).  I had all the separate elements, and Steven did a fantastic job of putting them all together for me. I asked that the tat be placed on my upper left arm, close to my heart.  Here's the end result (remember that this pic was taken right after the tat was finished, so it's a bit bloody and swollen):

Maybe a bit extreme for a very first tattoo, but it's exactly what I wanted. And it didn't even hurt that badly.  When Steve was done, I felt like I had just gotten the world's biggest flu shot in my left arm.

Next up, the goose.  This one would turn out to be my most deeply personal and inspirational piece of body art -- more so than I'd even anticipated.  See, I consider the goose to be my "totem" - my animal spirit guide, such as was believed by Native American cultures.  The goose is a symbol of loyalty, bravery, and determination. The goose is fiercely protective of its young. The goose never leaves one of it own behind.  Nowhere in the animal kingdom is there an animal that better describes and represents my own personality.

My father nicknamed me "Goofy Goose" as a very young child, and called me that for many, many years.  In college, I carried on the name by introducing myself as "Goose."  That nickname really stuck; there are many cherished friends who still call me that, to this day.  The goose is a part of my soul; I felt it appropriate to honor that by inscribing it on my body.

I chose a silhouette of a flying snow goose, and decided to place it on my inner right forearm and color it solid black.  There it would be easily visible, and a constant reminder that it is OK to move forward with my life, putting myself and my children first.  The goose would be my promise to myself that I will never again allow anybody to take advantage of me, treat me poorly, or destroy my self esteem.

And that is a promise I have taken very seriously.  It's amazing how a simple visual reminder like a tattoo can change my perspective.  In the six or seven weeks since I got this tattoo, I have shed many anxieties, started rebuilding my self-confidence, and even exorcised an old demon I'd been carrying around for several years.  I feel more like myself than I have in a very, very long time.  The goose reminds me that I deserve nothing less than 100% - in relationships, in friendships, at work, anywhere.  Nobody gets to make me believe differently.

I have a long road ahead of me as I work my way through ending my marriage and starting my life over. It is a process, and a taxing one, at that. But with the support of my amazing family and wonderful friends, and the magic of my goose tattoo, I know I'll get there.

Giving Many Thanks.

I'm doing Thanksgiving Kansas City style this year, celebrating with my bestie Sarah.  I drove down instead of flying, spending roughly 8 hours in the car.  I left super early in order to avoid incoming nasty weather, and the first half of my trip was utterly uneventful.  Weather was fine, roads were dry, and I literally lost count of all the windmills and cell phone towers in Northern Iowa.

Then, as if on some heavenly timer, the skies opened and it started raining the minute I arrived in Ames.  Normally not a big deal, but the temperature hovered at 32 degrees, and the risk of the rain starting to freeze was very real.  So I slowed down, put my hands at 10-and-2 on the wheel, and took my time.  I sure didn't want to end up in the ditch.

After about 20 miles, I rolled in to the northern edge of Des Moines.  The roads were wet but not overly slippery, but I still took it slow.  I saw some commotion at the bottom of a hill - mile marker 95 - and wondered what was going on.  There were several cars pulled over to both sides of the road with their hazard lights blinking, people standing around in the median.  I slowed to crawling behind the gawkers and saw why: a big, battered silver pickup truck lay on its side in the center median.  Several people stood around the truck, some holding kids, their hair being violently whipped by the 30mph freezing wind.  One gentleman in an Iowa State jacket hustled around the median, picking up the bags and items of clothing which had been strewn every which way.  A woman's head popped up through the driver's side window - she was standing inside the cab - and she looked very shaken.  The people around her started helping her out of the truck.  Emergency vehicles had not yet arrived; I'm guessing I came along maybe two minutes after the rollover accident happened.  Apparently the roads were in worse shape than I thought they were.

The scene brought tears to my eyes.  This family's Thanksgiving holiday was ruined, their possessions lying in the rain in a highway median.  Their vehicle was totaled.  It appeared that everyone was OK, but having been in accidents myself, I suspected they would all make precautionary trips to the hospital to get checked out.  They would not get to their final destination to celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday with family or friends, and that made me sad.

My tears weren't only those of sadness.  I was absolutely amazed by the quick response and compassion of strangers.  There were no fewer than a half dozen vehicles pulled over, and there was a literal crowd surrounding the ruined truck.  I'm sure that strangers held the kids and calmed them while the parents made sure everyone was out.  I imagine that the guy in the median was a stranger helping to collect the family's stuff.  It would be so easy to just keep driving after witnessing an accident - but the overwhelming majority of folks stop and do what they can to help.  That scene really underscored my belief that people are inherently good - and on this Thanksgiving, I needed that reinforcement.

I am thankful for the kindness and compassion of strangers.  I am thankful for my bestie Sarah and her hospitality this weekend.  I am so thankful for my family, who have been utterly instrumental in helping me through this trying year.  I am thankful for my friends - I don't see them nearly often enough, but they continue to love me for me, and I love them just as much.  I am blessed to be the mother of two beautiful and amazing children, who remind me that life really is exciting and new every single day.  Happy Thanksgiving to you all - thank you for enriching my life.

Who Needs MySpace?

I decided to do away with my MySpace account today.  I did manage to save the one awesome thing I had there - a video of Price the first time he walked across a room.  This made me tear up, and it seems like such a long time ago.  Won't be long before Kendall's doing the same thing.  *sigh* They grow so fast...


Price Walking

Soul Food.

I never thought I'd be a gardener.  But over the last three years, I've found a certain peace in maintaining a garden, and a ton of pride in sharing the literal fruits of my labor with my loved ones.  It's interesting; I find myself planting far more produce than I could ever eat myself.  Granted, at the time I planted I thought I'd have a family to feed.  But it feels so much better to share.

This spring I decided to break out of my little 5 ft by 5 ft patch and build a bigger garden.  I did a lot of online research and meticulously planned.  Shawn and his buddies built me 5 enormous raised beds, giving me 250 square feet of garden to play with.

And on May 16, with my mother's green thumb assisting, I planted my garden with, from left:

Green beans and sugar snap peas
Red potatoes and sweet potatoes
Watermelon and cantaloupe
Spinach, leaf lettuce, and carrots
Pumpkins and cucumbers

Outside of the garden, I planted tomatoes and bell peppers in Topsy Turvy trees, and planted strawberries in my old garden patch.

As the summer wore on, I watched with tremendous pride as the seeds germinated and grew.  I lovingly weeded out as necessary so the remaining plants could grow unhindered.  I would take periodic breaks from my work and go outside to weed or water the Topsy Turvies.  I watched bees buzz between the flowers on my pumpkins, cukes, cantaloupe, and watermelon to pollinate them and turn them into fruit. I ate beans and peas directly off the vine. I stood staring at the potato plants, wondering how the underground tubers were growing.  I could not wait to start harvesting and tasting the results.

Here we are now, nearly to the end of summer.  The tomatoes, peas, spinach, lettuce, carrots, and red potatoes have run their course...and were delicious!

I wasn't sure if the chipmunks would let me have any strawberries, but I guess I prevailed:

I have so many cucumbers, and I don't know what on earth I'm going to do with them.

Yesterday I picked two cantaloupe and five pumpkins, and more of both are on the way.  By the way, the melons are better than anything you can get in the grocery store. Period.

The green beans just keep on producing...and they are so good, when you cook them they taste like butter.

I wasn't sure that I would get any watermelon, but take a look at this. Can't wait to find out how this puppy tastes.

Listen to me, I'm like a proud mother.

This garden has given me so much more than food.  This garden has provided distraction and peace during a very difficult time in my life.  It has given me common ground and things to share with my neighbors, my family, and my friends..  It is a source of tremendous pride -- being able to nurture a seed into a beautiful and edible food is challenging, fun, and very satisfying.  My mom says I comefrom a long line of farmers, and affectionately calls me Farmer Jen.  I'm beginning to think the moniker's pretty close to the reality!

Faith vs. Superstition

On my lunch break I hopped in my car and drove over to St. Maximilan Catholic Bookstore in downtown Elk River. I asked the mild-mannered lady behind the counter if she sold "little St. Joseph statues." She asked if I was trying to sell my house, and then got up and pulled a smallish box out of a drawer behind the counter. I thought, but didn't actually say:

Are St. Joseph statues in such hot demand that you have to keep them behind the counter? I mean, who's gonna steal a little plastic statue?

I told her that I'd heard it works. She said, "Sure, if you have faith and aren't superstitious about it." Uh oh. Am I that transparent? I thought for sure I was busted. She then handed over the box, but I thought I detected some trepidation as she did so.

I took the box and commented on how cute he is. After that I thought for sure she was going to take him away from me. I hurriedly paid $8.50 and got out of there, feeling a bit like a heathen.

I found I couldn't wait to get home and meet the little statue I've affectionately nicknamed Joe.

Here's what I got for my $8.50:

I pulled Joe out of the box and discovered three small sheets of paper: An Introduction to the Saint Joseph Home Sale Practice, A Petition to St. Joseph (a prayer, basically), and the original Prayer to St. Joseph (over 1900 years old!). On the back of that last one was an address to which I could send a donation, should I graciously decide to share my good fortune with the Pious Union of St. Joseph.

I read over all the papers to see if there were any specific instructions I should follow. Finding none, I decided to bury Joe in a vacant portion of my backyard garden. I grabbed the statue, my shoes, and my camera and trekked outside.

It took me a few seconds to decide on an appropriate garden spot for Joe. I decided on the empty carrot bed, as it was closest to my house. I grabbed the garden trowel and dug a hole:

I gently placed Joe right-side up in the hole and covered him with dirt. I even remembered to mark him so I would know where to find him later:

And then, because I really want to try and be faithful rather than superstitious, I stood there next to the garden and recited aloud the Petition to St. Joseph:

Dear St. Joseph, head of the most perfect household, foster father of Jesus and guardian of His mother Mary, I confidently place myself and all my concerns under your care and protection. I ask that, through your powerful intercession with God, you obtain for me all the help and graces that I need for my spiritual and temporal welfare and in particular, the special favor I now ask: the prompt sale of my home.

Good St. Joseph, I know with confidence, that your prayers on my behalf will be heard by God, and if it is His Will, it will be done.

Thank you St. Joseph, for having responded to my call.

Amen.

I don't think any of my neighbors saw me doing this, but if they happened to look outside, they probably think I'm a little cuckoo. Okay, a lot cuckoo.

But hey. You do what you gotta do, right? Here's hoping St. Joseph heard me and decides to send a little mojo my way.

I'll Try (Almost) Anything Once.

I'm not Catholic. My dad comes from a long line of Catholics, even went to Catholic school. Me, not so much. My feelings about the Catholic church have always been complicated, even though I've never understood why. Maybe something about that dream I had as a kid where the Jesus on the crucifix turned into a big bad gorilla, and I had to hide amongst the bikes in the parking lot bike rack to keep from being eaten.

But that's an entirely different blog post.

I'm considering another brush with Catholicism as I try like hell to sell my house. That's right...St. Joseph and I are about to become good friends.

St. Joseph is the Catholic patron saint of family and household. They tell me that if I bury a 4-inch plastic statue of the guy upside-down in my yard, and then pray to him, that my house will sell quickly. Um, what?

Now, I'm not the superstitious type. Nor am I Catholic. I'm having some difficulty understanding how this could possibly work. How on earth can there be any spiritual significance to a mass-produced plastic statue that comes in a kit? I mean, really? But everyone I've talked to swears by it, including a close Jewish friend of mine who says her mom's and her grandmother's house sold after they planted St. Joseph in the yard.

That's good enough for me.

Tomorrow I'm going to swing by the local Catholic bookstore and pick me up a St. Joseph kit. I'll bring it home, bust out the garden trowel, and bury him upside-down in the yard. According to the kit's instructions, of course. And then...I'll pray.

St. Joseph, send some mojo my way.

This Is My New Reality.

I'm sitting here in a camp chair on my empty deck, smoking a cigarette (yep, I fell right off the bandwagon) and drinking V8 V-Fusion straight out of the bottle. It's a nice overcast evening, my beloved kiddos are in bed sawing logs, and I'm reflecting on my life as it is today.

In case you haven't heard, it's a lot different now.

I'm on the path to becoming a single woman again. I won't go into specifics; just know that it has been a long time coming. It sucks, I'm sad and mad and hurt and perplexed and tired and hopeful and optimistic (I got the salad bowl of emotions going these days), but I also know it's for the best. I've spent the last few weeks with my head in the sand, trying to figure out what happened and what to do next. I don't know that I've come even close to figuring anything out yet, but I'm making slow progress.

Shawn moved out a month ago. We have our house on the market and have had 5 showings in six weeks -- way better activity than I expected. We're splitting time with our kids 50/50; one week on, one week off. This is probably the most difficult thing I've done in my personal history. When the kids are gone, I miss them terribly. I mope around for an entire week, not knowing what the hell to do with myself because caring for them is literally all I have done for the last three years. When they're with me, I'm whole again -- but finding out how hard a job single parenting is. I feel like a half-time parent, which breaks my heart.

(Umm, neighbor with the fireworks? You just scared the bejesus out of me. Thank you very much.)

So it's been an adjustment, and will continue to be for a long, long time. Right now I'm not sure I'll ever get used to splitting time with my kids.

Beyond that, though, I'm feeling pretty good about what lies ahead of me. I have a lot of work to do paying off debt, healing, and reestablishing myself...but I'm not afraid. I'm excited to start moving ahead. The only thing holding me back is the house. Once it sells, watch out. :)

I also sometimes wonder if love will ever find me again, and what that would be like. I'm no spring chicken anymore. In fact, I find more and more white in my hair every day. I've been out of the game for so long that I might have forgotten how to play it. How many single guys my age are even out there? But then again, that kind of thinking is premature. I have a lot of healing to do first before I can even think of sharing myself with someone again.

So. This is my new reality. Like it or not, it's what I have to work with. I'm fortunate to have a wonderful support system; without my family and friends' love and support, I would not be able to get through this. I love you all more than I could ever tell you.

Culture Shock.

Hi! I know, it's been awhile. Turns out that having a baby puts a serious crimp in blogging time. :) But - here I am now! And I've been composing this post in my head for days.

My little brother got married last week. One week ago today, in fact. That in itself is so wonderful and deserves an entire post. He and Tara chose to do a destination wedding...and the destination was Isla Mujeres, Mexico...located about seven miles off the coast of Cancun in the Mexican Caribbean.

I've never really been out of the country. Well, I guess that isn't technically true. I spent one weekend in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada when I was very young. I don't remember too well. I also spent one insane night in Tijuana during the summer of 1997. I also don't remember much of that, but for entirely different reasons. :) I took a cruise to the Bahamas in 2003 as well...but a cruise is really a very controlled environment. I didn't see much of anything while on that trip.

This time was to be very different! One week in Mexico, woo hoo! I had my passport, my swimsuit, my pasty white Minnesotan skin, and plenty of SPF 30. I was set. The journey to Isla was pretty uneventful; the flight was about equivalent to my flights to southern California. The shuttle from the airport to the ferry was only slightly crazy. The ferry from Cancun to Isla was kind of fun, even though it was raining.

I didn't really notice anything around me until I set foot off the ferry. Isla looked so...so poor! There were many damaged and abandoned houses and properties. The streets were cobbled and very narrow. Entire families were piled on mopeds. All the signs were in Spanish. People made their homes in tiny spaces between buildings or on second floors. Natives with leathery skin and dirty shirts sat on ratty lawnchairs outside ramshackle shops or houses. On our way to our hotel, what I saw wasn't paradise; it was poverty. I felt a bit depressed. I'm not sure what I expected, but this wasn't it. I'd never seen anything like this before.

Then we got to the hotel. No five-star resort this; Cabanas Maria Del Mar had a tiny little lobby, but a beautiful garden around which most of the rooms were situated. In two of the sections of the hotel, the rooms themselves were dated in decoration, and many systems, such as electrical and hot water, were rather suspect. The floors were tile. There was a small TV that broadcast pretty much exclusively Mexican programming - in Spanish. Did you know ESPN broadcasts in Spanish? I didn't.

Our room had air conditioning, which was a bonus in such a hot and humid climate. But the shower leaked all over the floor, and -- get this -- we were not allowed to flush used toilet paper down the toilet. That had to go into the wastebasket, regardless if you went Number One or Number Two. This utterly horrified me. I managed to accept and get used to the idea as the week progressed; but I never really liked it. On a high note, the forced change in habit did something to my brain to ensure that I stayed nice and regular all week. ~sigh~ Anyway, this was the rule because on Isla, they flush their waste -- including human waste -- directly into the ocean. This depressed me a bit more.

The turning point for me -- when I started seeing the beauty of the island rather than the poverty -- came after our first meal. I had embarked on this trip already afraid of the food and the water. I'd heard some nasty stories about "Montezuma's Revenge." So I wasn't sure if eating at any of the many restaurants on Isla would make me sick...I figured I'd have to find out the hard way. And I was very pleasantly surprised. Not only did I not get sick, but the food was excellent. And so was the beer.

After that, I began noticing how friendly the island natives are. Tourists are their bread and butter, so I suppose they have to be friendly. But they also seemed content with their lot in life. They may stuff seven people into 600 square feet, and everyone may sleep in hammocks, but at least they have a roof over their heads. Such a different mindset than Americans. Here, no matter what you have, it isn't enough. The house isn't big enough, the car isn't prestigious enough, your kid has to go to Harvard. In Mexico (on Isla, anyway), kids attend public schools for about 3 hours a day and only learn the very basics. I doubt many of them end up going to college. Instead, they get into the tourist trade, maybe make their product by hand, and work their asses off. All for that 600 square feet and a moped.

By the end of the week, I was comfortably speaking basic Spanish to the locals, dealing in pesos rather than American dollars, and enjoying every moment on the island. I saw the paradise. The major difference in culture was a big eye-opener for me, and helped me to put my own life into perspective. It's hard to take what you have for granted when you see people who have next to nothing. I imagine this is exactly how Angelina Jolie feels when she does her thing for the United Nations.

I will forever remember my trip to Isla, and I hope to return someday. I have a million pics posted to Facebook if you want to check them out. :)

Ten Years Ago Tomorrow.

On February 11, 2000, this world lost a beloved soul. John Charles Jansen passed away unexpectedly at the age of 27, leaving behind a devastated widow, a grieving family, stunned friends, and a legacy.

It was a tangled web we wove, Johnny and me. I first met him at a church youth group function. I was maybe 12 or 13 years old. He was four years my senior. He was wicked smart with a lightning-fast wit and a mischievous grin. He sang like an angel and played the piano. He made me laugh. He gave neck and shoulder rubs that to this day cannot be matched. I thought he knew everything...looking back, he was probably 80% BS, but at the time I thought he was utterly brilliant. I adored him from the beginning, and we became fast friends.

Fast forward a couple of years, to 1992. My first year of Summer Assembly, a church camp with a long and storied tradition in my church. I was one of only three people from my youth group to go that year, and the only girl...so I was essentially on my own as far as making friends. Turned out to not be a problem. On my first day there, I was walking down the hall of the girls' floor of the dorm, and happened to see a young lady unpacking her stuff in her room. I stopped at the door and asked her for the time. We were inseparable from that moment on. Jennifer and I shared a first name and a love of Mountain Dew...and that's where the similarities pretty much ended. She was a year older than me, grew up on a farm, and had a high school class of maybe 50 people. My dad used to joke that she and I were like City Mouse, Country Mouse. But we hit it off big time and became BFFs.

That was also the year that John and Jen hooked up. Sort of another City Mouse/Country Mouse pairing, but they were good for each other. John went off to college in Oklahoma later that summer. He and Jen kept in touch by phone and by letters. John also sent me a few letters telling me all about college life and how he pined for Jennifer. It was really very sweet. He ended up leaving Oklahoma and coming back to Minnesota shortly thereafter. He was in the Cities, finishing up school at the U of M. Upon graduation from high school in 1994, Jen went to Rochester for nursing school. They managed a successful long-distance relationship for nearly six years all told...a feat unlike anything I've ever seen. They finally moved in together after Jen graduated nursing school and moved to the Cities.

Shortly after that, in 1998, they were married.

I was always on the periphery of all this, going to college in Wisconsin and trying to manage a long-distance relationship of my own. I didn't have nearly the luck, which ended up being prophetic. Because at John and Jen's wedding, I met Mike. Mikey was Johnny's buddy, and I was vaguely familiar with him from high school. Also a year older than me, Mike had lived next door to my best friend all through high school, and was the type to grow his hair long and wear army pants and combat boots. He'd grown out of that phase by the time I met him. He and I hit it off fast, and were officially together within a month of John and Jen's wedding.

And that made the Fantastic Four: John and Jen, me and Mike. The four of us did EVERYTHING together. I probably spent more nights at John and Jen's house than I did at my own. We would hop in our cars and caravan to Jen's parents' farm or my parents' cabin every chance we got. We visited Troy and Julie in Wisconsin -- even spent two New Years Eves with them. We spent time with Harry and Nicole and their little guy (who isn't quite so little anymore). A whole lot of alcohol was consumed (in fact, Johnny made the drink that got me drunk for the first time), many bonfires were enjoyed, Jen cooked I don't even know how many excellent homemade meals for us...life was awesome. We were young, having fun, partying, and pretty much invincible.

Until I got the call that changed my life.

Jen called me at work that Friday morning, hysterical, telling me that Johnny had collapsed at work. I dropped everything, picked her up at home, and drove like a bat out of Hell to Johnny's office. We were too late...he was gone by the time we got there. Jen was a widow at age 24, after less than two years of marriage. Mikey had lost his best friend in the whole world. My dear friend, who gave the best bear hugs and made me literally shriek with laughter, would do so no more.

Johnny's untimely death deeply affected everyone who knew him. Jen, Mike, and I didn't know how to carry on without John. The aura of our little group was darker now, filled with tears instead of laughter. So much sadness. We tried, but we couldn't do it. Within the year, my relationship with Mike had ended. Shortly thereafter, Jennifer and I severed our friendship too. The sadness and the grief became toxic to our relationships (I think because we all reminded each other of John and what we had lost), and we all needed to go our separate ways in order to heal. God, that was the most painful time of my life.

As it does, time did eventually heal us all. Jen and I reunited a few years ago and still talk occasionally. So much changed in the five years that we were separated, and we both matured a lot. Our friendship will never be the same as it was ten years ago, but she will always be a cherished friend to me.

Mikey and I don't keep in contact really, but we are FB friends so we can each keep up with what the other is doing.

I sometimes wonder what sort of path our lives would have taken if Johnny had lived. Would we all still be together? Or would the separations that his death spurred have happened anyway, just under different circumstances? We'll never really know, but I'm pretty sure that each of our lives would be different than they are now.

Here's to you, Johnny. Ten years have passed, but it still feels like you left us yesterday. I miss you dearly.

John Charles Jansen

1/9/73 - 2/11/00

Troy, John, Mike in back, Harry in white. Taken 9/98.

On Finding Balance

I honestly think that finding your true balance is the most difficult thing to do in life. There are so many things to juggle, and so few hours in a day. Things like work, home, family, friends, and so many other obligations. I've discovered that it is very easy for me to lose myself as I work to meet the needs and demands of those around me. I also think this is an age-old problem for women in general. Never really thought this would happen to me, but tonight I realized that it most certainly has.

Imagine a playground teeter-totter. A balanced life, where a girl can take care of others and take care of herself, would show a perfectly horizontal board. Not too much weight on either end...just a comfortable balance. In my mind, balance = contentment.

I realized this evening that I have zero balance in my life. The board on my personal teeter-totter is completely cattywampus - the "others" end is planted firmly in the ground, while the "self" end hovers beyond reach in the air. Without even realizing it, I've allowed myself to put the needs of my children, my husband, and my career ahead of my own well-being. What? When -- and how -- did this happen?

The last five years of my life have seen many, many major changes. Job change, marriage, house, Kid #1, another job change, hubby's entrepreneurial success, Kid #2 (due any minute)...it's enough to overwhelm anyone:

• After coming within a cat's whisker of being fired from a job I loved by a crazy, vindictive boss I hated, I spent seven months unemployed and looking for a job. I think I cried every single day during that time.
• Becoming a wife was a HUGE adjustment for me. I'd been single and living on my own for so long, it took me a long time to get used to and fully accept sharing my life and my home with someone else. I sometimes still struggle with it. But not like I used to.
• About a year after we married, and while I was pregnant with our son, we bought our first house together. A huge milestone, to be sure, but one that carries plenty of stress.
• Our son was born six months later. My most joyous and scariest personal moment. I had no idea how much having a baby would change my relationship with my husband...and really, my whole life. All needs except his became irrelevant the second I heard him cry for the first time.
• The second job change took me out of a long daily commute and office environment, and put me in a telecommuting environment, where I get to work from home every day. Overall a hell of a gig, but I rarely leave my house anymore.
• In the last year, my husband's business has utterly exploded. It's wonderful to see him succeed, but his work takes him away from us a lot. And he deals with more than his fair share of stress.
• And now, our daughter is due to join us any day. I'll be so glad to be done being pregnant, and just cannot wait to meet this little lady. But I'm also a teeny bit apprehensive, knowing that our lives are going to change again as we learn how to parent two children.

This is my life these days. Quite frankly, it's kind of a lonely life. I don't get out much, I don't see my friends much, I don't do much for myself anymore. I've lost my balance. I don't get many opportunities to be good to myself, and when they come up I find myself feeling guilty for doing what I need so badly. I really can't blame anybody but myself...I don't really seek those opportunities out anymore, either.

So. Sob story aside, I've decided that 2010 is the Year of Jen. I'll need to give myself some time to recoup and readjust after baby arrives...but come this spring, I'm going to start paying better attention to myself. I know now that I have to, in order to be a better wife and a better mother. I don't have to be a slave to my husband's schedule, my house, or my reluctance to ask for babysitting help. Some ideas that I plan to implement (and I'm always open to more ideas):

• Regular date night with my husband
• Reach out to and get together with my friends more often (I really miss you guys)
• Join the local MOPS group to meet more mothers of young children near me
• Re-register for ECFE classes with Price and baby
• Find a volunteer opportunity in my community
• Go to my brother-in-law's shows when his band performs
• Re-join the YMCA and sign up for a volleyball league
• Reduce my dependence on e-mail and Facebook, and pick up the damn phone more often
• Pay better attention to how I dress. Wearing PJ pants and T-shirts all day every day just isn't good for me.

It feels kind of good to have a plan. Now I can't wait to implement it. But, I suppose...first things first. OK, Baby...you can come anytime now. Mama's ready.

On Mommyhood

One of the most wonderful things about my cellphone is its ability to take video. So many times I've been able to catch precious Price moments on video because I always have my phone.

I've posted most of those videos to Facebook, and today I watched them all. What struck me with all of them is how much I laugh while taking video of Price. Watching him grow and learn and talk and try new things delights me so much, I just have to giggle. And I love being able to share that joy with anyone willing to watch!

I'm counting down the days now until the arrival of #2. Trying to anticipate how our lives will change yet again with another baby is stressful. Worrying about how Price will adjust to a new baby is stressful. But you know, watching videos of my son does put it all into perspective. A new baby is hard, hard work at first...but everyone adjusts and life smooths out. I sometimes forget this as I worry worry worry.

I mean, come on. We've gotten this far without killing or screwing up our first kid. The second should be a breeze, right?

What Do I Want To Be When I Grow Up?

Ah, you gotta love January. The holidays have passed, the new year (new decade, in this case) has begun, and this is the prime time for folks to stop and take a good look inside themselves; to ask, "Am I happy with my life and where I'm going?"

Now, most of the time the answer is rather superficial. "I'd be happier if I could lose 20 lbs". "I'd be happier if I could find a different job." "I'd be happier if I could quit smoking." And 9 times out of 10 those resolutions fall by the wayside as people resume their normal way of life, content to go on as they have and deciding that nothing really needed changing.

That's how it's always been for me, so for many years I've shied away from making any new year's resolution at all. There's a weird pressure that comes with making life-changing decisions and choosing January 1 as the implementation date. Some things you just can't plan that way, I guess; you can't force them into the framework of a new year's resolution. For example, every time I decided to quit smoking on January 1, I failed. I finally quit for good, spontaneously, in February of last year. Twice I decided to seriously try losing weight and succeeded, and neither time on January 1.

Bottom line is, change is totally possible outside the new year's resolution. But there's one thing I've always wanted to do, and haven't yet succeeded at any time, on any level: to write. I've always been a writer at heart, and it's one of my life's goals to write a novel someday...to follow in the footsteps of my idol, Stephen King. But for whatever reasons, I've found it extremely difficult to apply my energies and limited time to this effort.

Sometimes I think I must not want it that badly; I reason that if I want something badly enough, I'll make the time for it. Turns out that available time is hard to come by, between my full-time career, my 2-year-old son, my current pregnancy and forthcoming infant daughter, my husband, my house, and family obligations. There just isn't much left, unless I'm willing to give up sleep. And I'm kinda not. SO -- I know what I want, but I don't know how to make it happen.

The ideas always come. I just have a hard time sitting down and putting those ideas into words, and transcribing those words onto paper. I have the confidence in my skills, in my abilities to tell a story. I'm just out of practice. Rusty. Distracted. Sidetracked. Bowing to competing priorities.

So, in 2010 I'm going to make a real effort to make the time and produce at least one story that is fresh-baked out of my own head. I'm not even going to worry about publishing or any of that back-end stuff. My "resolution" is to get back into writing shape and finally do something for myself. I suspect that it will feel really good to do that. And who knows? Maybe this effort will finally take me down the path that I've kept blocked for so many years.

Time To Take The Blinders Off.

I'm a bit embarrassed to admit this, but I discovered yesterday that I am truly politically ignorant. And the more I think about it, the closer I come to the realization that I think I've done this to myself on purpose. I'll explain.

Yesterday during a long ride in the car, my dad, who teases me about my liberal leanings and often tries to engage me in political discourse, decided to "take my political temperature" and quiz me about politics, macro and micro. And while it was an entertaining conversation, it was an eye-opener for me. For example:

• I harbor a dislike for our current governor, but couldn't really explain exactly why. Although, in my defense, I was just slightly informed enough about T-Paw's budget cuts to be able to cite the removal of funding for Minnesota's General Medical Assistance program -- which leaves a number of poorer adults in the lurch. I felt like I had a small victory there, and this truly is one of my major issues with our governor.
• I recognized most of the names he mentioned, but didn't really know who represents me in Congress. I was horrified to learn it's probably Michele Bachmann -- whom I regard as a true crazy-lady.

We had a lively conversation about the Vikings and their latest push for a new stadium, which led to a discussion about taxes. The hubby and I just happened to have had a meeting with our accountant on Friday morning to finally learn our fate from 2008. We were shocked to learn that the success of my husband's business placed us squarely in a MUCH higher tax bracket last year, and we owe better than $30,000 total. A ridiculous number, and one that is starting to make me question my status as a self-proclaimed Democrat.

Now, I'm not an official member of the Democratic party, but I do have a history of liberal beliefs and have traditionally voted Democrat. I believe that Americans have a duty to help their fellow citizens, and I also believe that Obama is our next FDR. However. I'm also starting to realize that the supply of money is limited. Government-supported social service programs, education, the military, and, soon, health care all require money. I'm starting to see that that money comes directly out of the pockets of hard-working Americans. I'm finally feeling the frustration that comes with working my ass off to make enough money to support my family, and I don't get to keep around 1/3 of it. Yeah. That sucks.

What else sucks is that this frustration feels completely out of whack with my beliefs: that social services, universal health care, and a better education system are very much worth our investment. Two pointless wars, bank bailouts, and private sector bailouts -- not so much. All of these causes are competing for the American dollar, and our current economic troubles only compound the problem. Past poor decisions in the housing and financial markets are now diverting badly-needed money from the causes that need it most...all in the name of economic recovery. All to try and help our great country avoid spontaneous combustion. 10% of Americans can't even pay taxes because they lost their jobs -- and somebody has to fill in that that gap. Right now China is filling it in, but eventually they'll stop lending to our government.

The question is, where does it stop? Will I have to give the government 50% or more of my salary before they tell me they have enough to stabilize this country? I think Obama was dealt a shitty hand, and he's playing it the best he can. But pretty soon something will have to give.

Hm. I went from feeling bad that I don't know enough about local politics to giving a pseudo-macroeconomics lecture. Anyway, the point is this: it might behoove me to remove the blinders and start paying attention to what is going on around me. And maybe, just maybe, it might be good for me to find a way to contribute. I'm no politician, and you'll never see me running for office...but there are plenty of ways to get involved, right? First things first...perhaps a newspaper subscription...