wonderful

Proof that people are good-hearted.

community and family

I have loved Extreme Makeover: Home Edition from the first episode. I admit, it was my obsession with Trading Spaces that brought me to it in the first place. That said, I've been hooked ever since (and not just because Ty Pennington regularly unbuttons or removes his shirt!). Tonight's episode featured the Voisine family in New Hampshire, and so I was vested a bit more for a couple reasons.

First, Granite State pride! Second, a family who lives next door to my brother was nominated and was one of the final few families to be considered. Third, my niece, Caitlin, was one of the blue-shirted volunteers who helped with the project last fall.

In addition to watching the show itself, the local ABC affiliate created a one hour special called "Extreme Makeover: New Hampshire Builds a Dream." It highlighted the community angle, and was very interesting to watch. The actual EM:HE show was two hours long. All in all, it was wonderful to watch and left me needing only one thing (c'mon, click the link!).

On another note, I visited my parents earlier today. A long-time friend of theirs had mailed them some stuff she uncovered while organizing a few decades of recreation-related memorabilia. In addition to three pictures of my parents from 1974 (nice tie, Dad!), there was an editorial from my hometown newspaper. It is dated July 25, 1963. This may bore you to tears, but I am fascinated. So I shall transcribe.

"Man With a Challenge" by Dan A. O'Connell (Editor)

Gerald Cox, 29, earnest and affable, college-trained in the new but necessary skill of Recreation Director, arrived this week to take charge of our town's recreational needs on a full-time basis. It would be the understatement of the year to say merely that the job offers a tremendous challenge. The new Director undoubtedly knows all the basic theories, concepts, and techniques of this pioneer science. He has the advantage of practical experience in the field and has compiled an impressive record of accomplishment in other places. His future here looks good, but unless the people of this community are prepared to pitch in and help, the young man and his program are certain to come a-cropper.

Ours is a progressive town, aware of tremendous change in the making, and conscious of a need to adjust with the times to survive their impact. This awareness and consciousness has been evident for several years. Almost everyone agreed that "something should be done," but nothing ever was, mainly because no one seemed to know exactly what, when, where or how. The problem came to a head this year when people woke up to the fact that so-called juvenile delinquency spawns on adult neglect and community callousness. As a result, the annual Town Meeting in March faced up to the problem, created a Recreation Commission and authorized the employment of a qualified, full-time Recreation Director.

Although the Town Meeting action was unanimous, it should not be assumed that everyone in town has "seen the light" or goes along with the proposition, regardless of the recorded unanimity. Beneath the facade of Twentieth Century trappings and adornment, the town remains an old-fashioned New England community, fiercely and ruggedly individualistic, with inherent distrust of governmental intrusions of its early American way of life. Considerable "selling" of the need to bend with the times, when survival is of the essence, remains to be done. Young Mr. Cox has been given the ball and will be expected to streak down the field to a series of impressive touchdowns. He is on his own and will be required to make the runs without a protective wall of interference. We who wish him well can only shout encouragement from the sidelines and try to set in proper perspective the comment of curbstone quarter-backs.

It would be doing the young man no favor at this stage of the game to promise him clear sailing ahead and no hidden shoals to wreck his programs and shatter his dreams. The plain fact of the matter is that Directed Recreation Programs and Supervised Facilities have long been considered new-fangled hokum by many good citizens who persist in living in the past and refuse to believe that the wide open spaces of youth no longer exist, or are rapidly disappearing under the impact of expanding "metropolitanism." They belong to generations which have accepted and enjoyed the pleasures of modern living without considering the price that youngsters and generations unborn will have to pay. It is only human nature to assume that the whole world revolves about one's own axis. The selfishness is instinctive and unwitting.

There is a great deal of misunderstanding and misconception about the business of Directed Recreation, a terrible inclination to dismiss it as "coddling" or boondoggling" or "time-passing." Nothing could be farther from the truth! A dynamic and intelligent program of directed and supervised recreation for all ages is not a luxury or a convenience, but a civic necessity. There is much more to Gerald Cox's new job than supervising youthful athletics, encouraging arts and crafts, or baby-sitting while children play. He will be responsible for seeing that tragic mistakes do not recur in the future. Our generation is harassed by the spectacle of youngsters playing in the streets because a callous older generation has taken away their pasture playgrounds to turn a fast buck. Civilization is cursed by teen-agers loafing on street-corners because society gives them nowhere else to go and nothing else to do.

Young Mr. Cox has a man-sized job staring him in the face, and a good place to start is at the beginning. He should take immediate steps to prevent a bad situation from coming immeasurably worse by having a heart-to-heart talk with the Planning and Zoning authorities. It is not enough that new real estate sub-divisions be required to provide adequate road, water, and sewerage facilities: there should be sufficient land set aside for playground areas to keep the kids off the street in an age of increasing transport speed. Next, he should try to conserve and improve and expand the playground and park area still extant in our town. They certainly do not inspire civic pride at the present time. He cannot insist, but he should suggest that the uncommitted sector of the Alexander Estate be preserved, as the good Doctor wished, for recreation, not speculation.

But, enough of telling young Mr. Cox what he should do. Even more important than a good idea in a typical New England town is the psychology of convincing people to go along. The people of this town are not Hicks and Yokels, but highly intelligent and surprisingly well read, far more so than their city slicker cousins. They resent being fast-talked, high pressured, or peddled a bill of goods. They are set in their ways, but not obstinate, and like Abraham Lincoln, will do the right as God gives them to see the right. Don't try to talk above them, or at them, but to them, man-to-man. Do this, Mr. Cox, and you'll do okay! Do otherwise, and you're a dead duck!

Many bright young brains, in the course of history, have come to town with the idea of re-making it in their own image, only to fall on their faces, and crawl away into oblivion. Many of them had good ideas, but the wrong approach. We are New Englanders and New Hampshiremen; we don't want to be made over; we relish ourselves the way God made us! All we ask of Mr. Cox or anyone is to help make us better and help us better utilize the facilities and natural wealth with which Divine Providence has endowed us. If Mr. Cox dedicates himself exclusively to doing his job well, he can certainly count on the cooperation and support of the vast majority of our townspeople. Nice to have you aboard, "Gerry"... and Good Luck!

Post-script.

My Dad was the town's Parks and Recreation Director for 28 years until his retirement. In that time, he created, implemented, and oversaw countless recreational and athletic programs, led the conversion of an old school into a community center, built a permanent staff of full-time, part-time, and volunteer recreation staff, and lobbied long and hard (and usually successfully) to save and create parks. It was he who protected the Alexander Estate mentioned in this article. That land is the ski hill I mentioned last week. My Dad rocks.

the truth

Harvey Fierstein offers a sharply written op-ed piece for the New York Times. It is full of brilliant insight that should really just be common sense for everyone, but isn't.

In the midst of the whole Don Imus situation, I've found myself in a wide range of conversations with a variety of people. And I have to say, some of the points trotted out were enough to make me shake my head in amazement.

Mr. Imus seemed to rest happily on his "it was meant to be funny" apology. But it wasn't funny. What was funny about it? All it was was three powerful insults packed into three little words. I'll let Harvey take it from here.

OUR PREJUDICES, OURSELVES
By HARVEY FIERSTEIN
April 13, 2007

AMERICA is watching Don Imus’s self-immolation in a state of shock and awe. And I’m watching America with wry amusement.

Since I’m a second-class citizen — a gay man — my seats for the ballgame of American discourse are way back in the bleachers. I don’t have to wait long for a shock jock or stand-up comedian to slip up with hateful epithets aimed at me and mine. Hate speak against homosexuals is as commonplace as spam. It’s daily traffic for those who profess themselves to be regular Joes, men of God, public servants who live off my tax dollars, as well as any number of celebrities.

In fact, I get a good chuckle whenever someone refers to “the media” as an agent of “the gay agenda.” There are entire channels, like Spike TV, that couldn’t fill an hour of programming if required to remove their sexist and homophobic content. We’ve got a president and a large part of Congress willing to change the Constitution so they can deprive of us our rights because they feel we are not “normal.”

So I’m used to catching foul balls up here in the cheap seats. What I am really enjoying is watching the rest of you act as if you had no idea that prejudice was alive and well in your hearts and minds.

For the past two decades political correctness has been derided as a surrender to thin-skinned, humorless, uptight oversensitive sissies. Well, you anti-politically correct people have won the battle, and we’re all now feasting on the spoils of your victory. During the last few months alone we’ve had a few comedians spout racism, a basketball coach put forth anti-Semitism and several high-profile spoutings of anti-gay epithets.

What surprises me, I guess, is how choosy the anti-P.C. crowd is about which hate speech it will not tolerate. Sure, there were voices of protest when the TV actor Isaiah Washington called a gay colleague a “faggot.” But corporate America didn’t pull its advertising from “Grey’s Anatomy,” as it did with Mr. Imus, did it? And when Ann Coulter likewise tagged a presidential candidate last month, she paid no real price.

In fact, when Bill Maher discussed Ms. Coulter’s remarks on his HBO show, he repeated the slur no fewer than four times himself; each mention, I must note, solicited a laugh from his audience. No one called for any sort of apology from him. (Well, actually, I did, so the following week he only used it once.)

Face it, if a Pentagon general, his salary paid with my tax dollars, can label homosexual acts as “immoral” without a call for his dismissal, who are the moral high and mighty kidding?

Our nation, historically bursting with generosity toward strangers, remains remarkably unkind toward its own. Just under our gleaming patina of inclusiveness, we harbor corroding guts. America, I tell you that it doesn’t matter how many times you brush your teeth. If your insides are rotting your breath will stink. So, how do you people choose which hate to embrace, which to forgive with a wink and a week in rehab, and which to protest? Where’s my copy of that rule book?

Let me cite a non-volatile example of how prejudice can cohabit unchecked with good intentions. I am a huge fan of David Letterman’s. I watch the opening of his show a couple of times a week and have done so for decades. Without fail, in his opening monologue or skit Mr. Letterman makes a joke about someone being fat. I kid you not. Will that destroy our nation? Should he be fired or lose his sponsors? Obviously not.

But I think that there is something deeper going on at the Letterman studio than coincidence. And, as I’ve said, I cite this example simply to illustrate that all kinds of prejudice exist in the human heart. Some are harmless. Some not so harmless. But we need to understand who we are if we wish to change. (In the interest of full disclosure, I should confess to not only being a gay American, but also a fat one. Yes, I’m a double winner.)

I urge you to look around, or better yet, listen around and become aware of the prejudice in everyday life. We are so surrounded by expressions of intolerance that I am in shock and awe that anyone noticed all these recent high-profile instances. Still, I’m gladdened because our no longer being deaf to them may signal their eventual eradication.

The real point is that you cannot harbor malice toward others and then cry foul when someone displays intolerance against you. Prejudice tolerated is intolerance encouraged. Rise up in righteousness when you witness the words and deeds of hate, but only if you are willing to rise up against them all, including your own. Otherwise suffer the slings and arrows of disrespect silently.

Song: "Always Got Tonight" by Chris Issak
Reading Material: May issue of "Reader's Digest" and April 23rd issue of "Time" (still working on the book, too)
Other: Hosted a friend overnight whose building was flooded by the Nor'easter. She had a long night of our cats jumping on her, standing on her pillow and staring at her face, and even pulling curtains down which landed next to her head. I'm betting she never stays here again.

saturday stuff, part iv

So, I was assembling stocking contents when Ted came home from work. While the chicken pot pies cooked, I arranged a few more items, then joined Ted downstairs for lunch. We caught up on some TiVo, and for the second time in a week, Oprah drove me to blog. There are two reasons for that. First is the amazing premise of the show, and second is the fact that it proves my earlier claim that she embodies contradiction.

Let's skip over that second bit, and focus on what's important. The concept of Challenge Day engaged me immediately. Early into the show, it made me think of my company's Diversity Council (of which I am currently Vice Chair and will become Chair shortly). The lessons that can be learned through this type of exercise could have huge implications not only on employee relations but to the success of the business. The program wasn't designed for a corporate environment. Jane Elliott's exercise, though not originally created specifically for the corporate world, is probably more suited to that. But the idea of having a cross section of employees participate in Challenge Day is infinitely appealing to me.

Irrespective of that notion, I do think the program should be utilized by every high school in America. Every year. Forever. Oprah was right -- this is the kind of thing that changes the world one person at a time.

~~~
Did some music importing while writing this entry and folding laundry (I can multi-task). Song count is now 5658. Back to stocking assembly for me.

"Let's Call the Whole Thing Off" by Harry Connick, Jr. (could be called a cover song, but is more one of many interpretations of a classic)

kirstie alley is full of shit

Anyone who knows me, knows that I have admired Oprah Winfrey for many years. I am particularly enamoured with her philanthropic work, although her determination to overcome adversity and become the architect of her own massive success is also quite admirable. In the last couple years, though, the sheen has worn off as she more frequently and enthusiastically embraces the superficial on her show (and in her magazine, which I stopped reading about a year ago). More importantly, I am deeply disappointed when she exhorts to her millions of fans -- many of whom hang on her every word -- that emulating said superficialities will improve their lives.

She embodies contradiction. And she should know better.

Building schools for girls in Africa improves lives. Rebuilding homes in the Gulf Coast improves lives. Allowing audience members to help their communities with the aid of $1000 debit cards improves lives. Increasing the literacy of millions of otherwise bookless TV zombies improves lives. She knows these things: she's done them all and more.

So, when she spends a ridiculous amount of time over a couple years glorifying Kirstie Alley's weight loss extravaganza, I have to wonder a couple things. First, how is she able to conveniently forget her own experience with years of yo-yo dieting? Second, how much money is Jenny Craig, Inc. paying to have their name sprinkled so liberally on one of daytime TV's most watched television shows? Third, in the year 2012, what will the Oprah show episode be like when Kirstie comes back to wage her next inevitable battle of the bulge?

Oprah is guilty of perpetuating the false hope that weight loss is possible (when 95% of the time, it's not), and that it solves all of life's problems (when 100% of the time, it does not). So when I started to watch yesterday's TiVo'd Oprah show -- the one highlighting Ms. Alley's bikini entrance -- I deleted it after only watching the first few minutes. Thinking I'd done my duty for Size Acceptance by rejecting the show outright, I moved on to the computer to check email and read some news.

But there she was again. I might have let the whole thing slide were it not for this article. In it, Ms. Alley simultaneously flaunts her newly-svelte body and claims she's not defined by it.

"I think women -- I don't think we ever feel like we're good enough. We don't feel like we're thin enough or pretty enough or smart enough or work hard enough. And we are good enough... . The bikini thing is neither here nor there, other than the fact, you know, I am 55 years old. So I thought -- come on, we are all good enough. And we look good enough. And we are not our bodies." - Kirstie Alley

Hogwash. Poppycock. Balderdash.

How is it possible to say you're good enough after spending two years chastising yourself in a veritable media blitz? It's not. It's all horseshit. Bullshit. Publicity. And the happy "look, I lost weight and look fabulous and YOU SHOULD TOO!" routine is just one more hammer banging away in a universe of hammers that pound the message that thin=happy+healthy and fat=unhappy+unhealthy and there's nothing in the middle. It doesn't matter that nothing in life is that straightforward.

And I again dissolve into the continuation I don't have the time or energy to follow-through on. So, I'll end tonight's rant on a note mentioned before in this space. John Tierney of the New York Times wrote a nice piece called "Fat and Happy" that mentioned this great concept identified by George Armelagos, an anthropologist at Emory University. Speaking of popular preference for body types, he calls the relatively recent desire for thinness the "King Henry VIII and Oprah Winfrey Effect." This is how it's explained:

"In Tudor England, it took hundreds of gardeners, farmers, hunters and butchers to keep Henry VIII fat. In America today, anyone can bulk up without help, but it takes a new set of vassals - personal trainer, nutritionist, private chef - to keep Oprah from looking like Henry VIII."

ancillary joy

Darrin M. McMahon and Timothy D. Wilson each have a piece in the op-ed section of today’s New York Times. Although entered into with slightly different intent, both pieces arrive at similar conclusions.

Mr. McMahon’s article entitled “In Pursuit of Unhappiness” examines the directive to 'have a happy new year' and summarizes thusly:

"Those only are happy," [philosopher John Stuart Mill] came to believe, "who have their minds fixed on some object other than their own happiness; on the happiness of others, on the improvement of mankind, even on some art or pursuit, followed not as a means, but as itself an ideal end. Aiming thus at something else, they find happiness by the way." For our own culture, steeped as it is in the relentless pursuit of personal pleasure and endless cheer, that message is worth heeding.

So in these last days of 2005 I say to you, "Don't have a happy new year!" Have dinner with your family or walk in the park with friends. If you're so inclined, put in some good hours at the office or at your favorite charity, temple or church. Work on your jump shot or your child's model trains. With luck, you'll find happiness by the by. If not, your time won't be wasted. You may even bring a little joy to the world.

Mr. Wilson’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” addresses the tendency to reflect on the year as it comes to a close. He thinks that’s bad advice.

Social psychologist Daniel Batson and colleagues at the University of Kansas found that participants who were given an opportunity to do a favor for another person ended up viewing themselves as kind, considerate people - unless, that is, they were asked to reflect on why they had done the favor. People in that group tended in the end to not view themselves as being especially kind.

The trick is to go out of our way to be kind to others without thinking too much about why we're doing it. As a bonus, our kindnesses will make us happier.

A study by University of California, Riverside, social psychologist Sonja Lyubomirsky and colleagues found that college students instructed to do a few acts of kindness one day a week ended up being happier than a control group of students who received no special instructions.

As the new year begins, then, reach out and help others. If that sounds suspiciously like an old Motown song or like simplistic advice from one of those do-gooder college professors, well, it is. But the fact is that being good to others will ultimately make us kinder, happier people - just so long as we don't think too much about it.

So, in a nutshell, be nice to people and do good things for them. That's advice I can get behind.

civic responsibility

Everybody hates jury duty, right? Any excuse to get out of it. Boss says there's no way to do without you for that much time. Take advantage of the opportunity to delay it up to ten months. Ask a friend who's a doctor to write a note. Anything just to avoid it.

I understand. It seems like an imposition; an interruption of time, life, routine. I've felt that way, too. The first time I was called to perform this service, I was 27 years old. How is it I went nine years as a registered voter before being chosen? In any event, I happened to be unemployed at the time, and so I thought it was the perfect chance to see what the system looked like from the inside. I relished the thought of being part of a panel of "peers" discussing the details of a case. I really wanted to be involved. Plus, it paid $20 a day plus bus fare. More than I was making at the time.

Washington State Superior Court. I didn't know to bring a book, so the first six hours was spent waiting in an overcrowded room with unhappy people alternating watching cracks in the paint or spots on my shoes. On day two, I'd know better to bring a book. Good thing, as the next morning was more waiting. By that afternoon, the voie dire began. A group of about 75 potential jurors were filed into a courtroom with the judge, clerk, stenographer, lawyers, defendant, and translator all in their places. They asked the first 12 of us to take seats in the jury box.

The questioning was so lengthy that they didn't even get to me by the end of day two. And I was in the fourth chair. Day three, even though things were underway, I still needed a book while things got "settled" that morning. Eventually, we ended up back in the same courtroom and the interrogation resumed. They got to me early afternoon (yes, it took them about eight hours to get through the first three people). The first thing I had to do -- which made me terribly uncomfortable -- was to write a few personal details about myself on an easel pad near the judge's bench. My full name, my address, my age, my occupation, and my marital status. The defendant was sitting right there! I was anxious about a whole room full of people knowing that I was a young, single woman living on 37th Avenue NW. I was maybe a little embarrassed about being unemployed, too.

Once through that hurdle, I believe that the two lawyers asked me conservatively 120 questions. It was an amazing process to experience. The prosecutor wasn't too bad. Basic stuff (but a lot of it). The defense lawyer, once striking upon the theme of drugs and alcohol, was ruthless.

• Did I take illicit drugs. No.
• Had I ever taken or even experimented with them? No.
• Did any of my friends take drugs? Not when they're with me.
• Did I ever go to places where people were taking drugs? No.
• Was I an alcoholic? No.
• Did I drink alcohol at all? One drink every month or two (special occasions).
• Was I on any prescription drugs? No.
• Had I ever ingested cough syrup to get a buzz? I didn't even ingest it to treat a cold.
• Did I smoke? No.
• Did I take aspirin when I had a headache? Only if absolutely necessary.

It was a barrage. His client was caught in a police sting. Guess what he was doing at the time? Selling drugs! I was dismissed on a peremptory challenge by the defense. Three days of my time, and I didn't even get to see the trial. Oh well. I still wonder how long it took them to pick a jury. The wheels of justice grind slowly.

Since then, I have been called several times for jury service but have either postponed it (a neat trick that the state of Connecticut allows you to do once per summons) or been excused from reporting the day before (another neat trick). It was bound to catch up with me and did last week.

On Tuesday, I submitted forms, went through metal detectors, sat in uncomfortable chairs, shuffled from here to there, listened to recorded and live instructions, and read about half of the book I brought (lesson learned from 1993). As the afternoon was coming to an end, I was brought into a jury deliberation room with about 15 other people.

The voie dire was much different this time around. Still in a courtroom with all the players in their places, but each potential juror was questioned individually. That was a bit better: there was no audience full of people listening in, plus I didn't have to write a bunch of personal information on a board in front of the defendant. It probably took ten minutes. No question was too personal or vehement. Within a minute of finishing questions and being escorted out of the courtroom, I was escorted back in and told that I had been chosen. I signed a form and was shuffled out the back door of the courtroom, walking directly in front of the defendant.

The trial started two days later. Evidence presented. Testimony heard. Opening statements. Closing arguments. It was not like movie trials, though, in that both lawyers read from hastily scribbled notes, had long pauses while gathering thoughts, and frequently mussed the wording of their questions. I was also surprised to find how much traffic there was at the back door while the trial was in session. Someone walked in or out of that door nearly every minute. Any every time the door opened, a bitter cold draft blew through. The composition of the 'audience' in the courtroom was constantly shifting.

A woman who appeared to be intoxicated was alternately sleeping, mumbling, or being escorted out by a marshal. The beeps of a cell phone brought the whole proceeding to a halt while the judge determined the origin of said beeps and instructed the busy marshal to remove him, as well. Testimony was stopped several times so that the marshal could receive and execute instructions of his own. It was its own little whirlwind of activity.

The big thing I didn't anticipate was the huge amount of time dedicated to explanations. The judge spent half an hour explaining the whole process before anything began. Any time there was a recess, there was another long explanation. When both sides "rested" that afternoon with 15 minutes left in the day, that the judge didn't even try to give us our deliberation instructions. We had to wait until the next day in court to get them. As it turned out, the next day was actually Monday. Friday's snowstorm cancelled the trial for the day.

Monday morning, we started by listening to the judge read verbatim a set of specific instructions, along with the exact wording of the statutes. Again, it was more than half an hour before we were escorted to the deliberation room.

I had hoped to blend in, be a part of the group, contribute my opinion and discuss others, and go on with my life. But when it came time to choose a jury foreman, the hemming and hawing was too much for me to take: I volunteered to be foreman. I did not want to do it, but I also did not want to sit there and let the debate rage on as to who would take the reins.

We deliberated thoughtfully and spoke about many details. It was a good conversation. The mix of personalities was conducive to a discussion inclusive of many considerations. Lunchtime arrived at 1:00pm, but we weren't done. We returned an hour later and started again. We sent a question of clarification to the judge, were escorted back into the courtroom and given instruction and clarification, and brought back to the deliberation room. That happened twice.

In the end, we were able to reach a unanimous decision on one count, but not on the other. The judge decided to accept our partial verdict. As jury foreman, it was I who had to stand alone in the jury box and respond to the clerk's questions.

Clerk: "On (Count 1), how say you?" (abbreviated version of this question)
Me: "We were unable to reach a unanimous verdict on Count 1."
Clerk: "On (Count 2), how say you?"
Me: "Guilty."

It wasn't until a split second before I had to say that word that I realized how amazingly nervous I'd become. My fellow jurors assured me that I spoke loudly and clearly with no hint of hesitation or waver. But back in the deliberation room after it ended (and waiting for the judge to come talk to us), I was shaking. When the judge arrived, he assured us that he didn't want to talk about our deliberation or deadlock. He wanted to thank us for our service and remind us how very important it is to the process. He was very nice.

It is no easy task to take someone's freedom into your own hands. Thankfully, the others appreciated that fact as much as I did. Nobody was willing to change their positions simply to finish up and get out of there. Some opinions genuinely changed when certain facts were discussed at length, but ultimately everyone stood their ground.

I learned a lot from my time as a juror. Now, I won't be called into service again for at least another three years. I'm not certain I'll be ready by then to tackle it again.

devastation, disgrace, disbelief

There are so many sad stories about slow disaster response in the Gulf coast, it's easy to place blame and point fingers. It's tempting to be distracted by the shouting and the jumping up and down. But while I agree that it's important to pinpoint the cause of lapses in appropriate emergency response time to fix the problems and prevent them from occurring again, the critical issue is to help these people now. Do what needs to be done, and go back to account for it all later.

I've asked before that people give something to the process. Money, supplies, time, blood... whatever you are able to give. I'm asking again. Clean out your closets and find a drop-off center that will ship clothes to the hurricane victims. It doesn't have to cost you a cent to help. Stephanie Klein is donating the proceeds from her online ads for the whole month. Go to her site and click the ads. That stuff adds up. Just ask The Hunger Site.

It's all drops in a bucket, pennies in a cup. It may not seem like much going in, but when everyone does it, it adds up and it makes a difference. It does.

~~~
Can you imagine having mere moments to get yourself and whatever is most valuable to you out of your house and then risking your life to trudge through a raging storm in search of safe haven? When it's over, you realize that you have nothing but what you were able to grab as you fled from home? Then to discover that the most basic human needs like water, food, and sanitation are not available? That poison and disease and schrapnel endanger your every step? That the fate of the people you love most is unknown? That you're jobless despite being employed before the wind and rain came? Any one of these things is enough to try a person's soul. Compounded together, it's nearly inconceivable.
~~~

Please help. I promise to stop asking. Although I admit I may mention it again as progress occurs, I'll cease with the outright requests.

Sleep well.

metacarpal meditations

I spent my entire work day tweaking a new website. Although I spend much of my typical work days on the computer, today seemed particularly computer-intensive. I had very few phone calls, didn't leave my office for any reason other than a trip to the cafeteria (to bring a salad and Fresca back to my desk), and conducted only one meeting -- which took place on my computer! Even my email volume was below normal levels, which was good because I needed to focus on the website.

For some reason, I found myself examining my hands as I worked. It might have been because my fingernails have grown unusually long -- something I attribute to not using the computer much for 3-4 days last week (don't worry, they're not really that long). I'm surprised they haven't all ripped, pulled, and torn by now: they're terribly thin and fragile. Although the nailtips have largely adapted by curling somewhat around the fingertips, they sometimes collide with the keys. It is that mild jolt that makes me look at a keyboard I otherwise never look at. And when I looked to the keyboard, I looked at my hands.

My fingers have always been a bit crooked. For as long as I can remember, the pinkies haven't line up neatly against their respective ring fingers. Gradually since then, nearly all the other fingers have otherwise metamorphosized.

For a solid ten years, I held writing instruments against my ring finger instead of the "standard" middle finger position. I also pressed extremely hard in an effort to have meticulous (neat and dark) penmanship. The combination caused an enormous callous on my ring finger, which over the years, affected the shape of the nail on that finger. Even though I did adopt the standard middle finger position sometime in high school, that fingernail remains noticeably out of whack to this day (the callous did eventually go down, although the inside of my top knuckle on that finger is still malformed). The callous and strange nail growth now appear on the top knuckle of my middle finger.

My left middle finger was slammed between two boulders while trying to move rocks to help build a stone wall when I was 13 years old. The nail popped off in about an hour and took what felt like a year to grow back. Once it did, it never again grew in normally. The left side is distinctly slanted, which causes the cross section of the nail to look a bit like a house roof when it gets long.

Years of bizarre finger exercises may also have contributed to some of the misshapenness (I love making up words). My favorite was to curl my pinky up over my ring finger, then curl them both up over the middle finger, then curl all three up over the index finger, then do the same thing to the other hand, and see how long I could hold it like that. I had a contest with my friend, Diane, in the 8th grade to see which of us could maintain that stance the longest -- all the while being productive in school. I don't remember who won (which probably means that she did), but I do remember that we both came close to making it through the entire day, something like six hours.

I played piano for many years, and have recently tried (although with meager enthusiasm) to resurrect the practice. The old times may have curved the joints in the first place, but now the deformities make for rusty renditions of Bach and Mussorgsky.

My mother has marvelous hands. I wish I had a picture of them. Her fingers are long and slender, her knuckles are strong, and her nails are natural French tips. The first three things I think of when I think of my mother's hands are how happily they hold babies, how fervently they prepare food, and the effortless twirling of her 49-year-old wedding rings. I always wanted to have hands like hers. For now, I'll have to suffice with my own crooked fingers.

~~~
Two asides for the evening.

[1] I must confess. Usually when I write my blog entries, it's well past midnight before I finish them. I have often posted the time at just nearly midnight, however, to reflect the true day on which the entry was created. I will continue to have 11:58pm or 11:59pm entries, but henceforth will include the actual time of posting at the end of the entry. Just a weird Kelly thing.

[2] I'm doing a fairly good job about blogging unimportant topics, aren't I? No real mention of life turmoil or an insanely busy schedule. That said, please, if you can, help those people whose lives have been affected by Hurricane Katrina. Any amount you can afford. I have a collection jar that I use each year to raise money for Rebuilding Together, and I set it next to the cash register in our corporate cafeteria. People basically use it as a penny cup, to discard the change they don't want to carry. All those little contributions regularly add about $300 to the final donation. So, don't worry that you can't give as much as you'd like to. Give what you can. Every cent counts.

~~~
Real post time 12:36am

unexpected

Today, I was invited to become a member of the Board of Directors for the local Rebuilding Together affiliate. I am thrilled! I have participated in a variety of charitable organizations for years, and have always hoped that I would eventually become a Board member somewhere.

My association with Rebuilding Together began in 1992, when it was called Christmas in April. I volunteered to join a group from the Jaycees and Junior Chamber of Commerce in Seattle to repair the home of a disabled woman on Capitol Hill. Some time later, I put together a team of volunteers from my company to work on a project here in Connecticut. That started a tradition, and this year was the fourth time I organized it (with the largest group of volunteers yet -- 45 people!).

The timing is probably bad, given the attention I'll be giving to the Big Meeting that most of my job focuses on (it takes place in May 2006), but I shall try to balance them. Aside from feeling great that Rebuilding Together recognizes my commitment and wants me to be a part of their Board, it's also nice to have something I've always wanted seemingly just show up on my doorstep unexpectedly. What a wonderful surprise.

not enough time

Every time a variation of this phrase escapes my lips, I think I'm making an excuse. Everyone has the ability to choose those things that are most important to them. Then dedicating the time to it is something they figure out a way to do.

I love the idea of blogging, journalling, and writing creatively. The truth of the matter is, however, that there are other things that I have consciously decided are a better use of my time.

Working my job not only helps to pay all our living expenses, it also -- almost more importantly -- provides our health insurance. In my impetuous youth, that was something I didn't give high priority. So, leaving a stable job with that particular perk to move 'cross country didn't worry me. Now, I'm older (it's 14 years this month since my relocation adventure). I've seen first-hand how health insurance can prevent bankruptcy. And I'm not the only one to think about anymore.

That's just one example. There are others. The point is that I have a cyclical understanding that prioritization is a reality, a necessity. I must abnegate my dreams, and simply be thankful for a wonderful family, a good job, and a safe place to live. For their maintenance is not simple at all. It requires an allocation of time. Less important things mustn't threaten that.

~~~

Oftentimes during my morning routine, lunch at my desk, or in other bits of time, I read a variety of information sources online. The New York Times is my favorite, followed closely by MSNBC.com, CNN.com, and NPR.org. There are articles and stories that intrigue me enough that I email them to myself with a reminder to add it to my blog. Well, as of today, there are 44 such reminders sitting in my box, waiting. I rarely make the time to add them here.

In the interest of respecting my own wishes, and with the above-mentioned realization that my priorities lie elsewhere, here is a small list of the topics I've hoped to blog in the past couple months.

• A cute blogging cartoon
• A nice tribute to Rotary International, an organization near and dear to my heart. I wish I had done this sooner, so the whole text of the article would be available for free. It has gone to "archive" status and requires payment to read in full.
• An article that supports my long-standing argument that the speed limit should be reduced to 55 MPH (I remember the two great reasons it was first reduced in the late 70's -- it saves lives, and it saves gas. Doesn't anyone else remember?)
• More ideas on how to conserve energy resources, oil in particular (Americans could save 50 billion gallons of gas a year by switching to hybrid vehicles)
• Blogger has its own blog. How cool is that?! I have to say that I love Google. And I'm not just kissing up because they host my blog. Their search engine, their maps, their free email, their philosophy, their doodles, everything.
• Stress and short-term memory (now I have an excuse)
• How technology can distract you from doing other... hey, what's that shiny website over there?
• The obsession with attractiveness (archive)
• More on fat hysteria (striking note: a study discovered that "overweight" workers are the recipients of more negative attitudes than ex-felons or ex-mental patients)
• More fat hysteria
• Still more fat hysteria (archive)
• The real reason behind fat hysteria
• More of the real reason behind fat hysteria ($46,000,000,000 spent annually in the U.S. alone on dieting programs and products that historically have a 95% failure rate within 5 years)
• Fat hysteria strikes again
• And again
• And again (no, that's not a duplicate of the last bullet)
• An organization striking out against fat hysteria (note: despite its best intentions, $600K isn't going to make a dent in the $46 billion diet industry, but I appreciate your attempt!)

There certainly seems to be a thread that connects the last ten points there. I really should prioritize the time so that I can craft a thoughtful, intelligent, and comprehensive essay on my beliefs where this topic is concerned. I touched only briefly on it in my entry a couple weeks ago, and there is more complexity to my opinion than that.

I was going to include a brief version of it here, but after about 10 bullet points, I decided that I simply can't do it justice. So, it will have to wait for another day. Probably some time in the future when I have vacation, so I can really spend a couple days on it.

To wit. I started this entry over five hours ago. Admittedly, I was distracted a couple times (see Point #7 above), but a significant portion of the time has been spent organizing bits and pieces and thoughts and ideas to create this mish-mash of a blog entry. Imagine what I could do if I dedicated all my time to it. Scary thought, eh?

~~~
Post script regarding the articles that I linked above. There are four reasons I send myself these articles. [1] I agree with the content. [2] I disagree with the content, and want to explain why. [3] I learned something new from the content. [4] They are humorous (see Point #1).

It is important to note that a number of the articles I linked above fall into Reason [2]. It will be in my aforementioned essay that I will take the time to explain why I disagree. Please take into consideration when reading any of the linked articles that their inclusion in no way indicates my endorsement of the topic.

catching up

I'm not really here to catch up: I couldn't do it justice at this hour of the night. But I did want to poke my head out so it's at least slightly evident that I'm still alive. I was in Chicago most of the past week, and other busy life things continue to require my time.

I want to mention a few important milestones. About a month ago, my parents celebrated their 49th wedding anniversary. Impressive, isn't it? I have siblings with annivesary numbers that are also impressive. One brother approaches his 23rd anniversary this summer, and another hits his 18th shortly after that. My sister reaches her 20th in the fall. I'm the toddler by a stretch, with just my 7th approaching in October.

My nephew, Josh, turned 17 the day before yesterday. That means that yesterday was the 17th anniversary of my college graduation (his parents were understandably unable to attend the ceremony!). Josh is a smart kid with cool hair, a penchant for alternative music, and a soft spot for the youngest cat in their house. No wonder he and I get along so well.


Josh and Cosmo - February 2005

I've also spent a bit of time and most of the last two Saturdays of April working on my Rebuilding Together project. This is the fourth year I've coordinated this, and the fifth project (one house required two years). In all, 45 volunteers from my office participated. This picture is only a portion of the first group, but it also includes the homeowners -- sisters, Gladys (in aqua, upper right) and Vicky (in pink, in front of Gladys).


First RT crew - April 23, 2005

Today is Mothers' Day. My husband has to work, so we will be with neither my mother nor his stepmother to celebrate the day. They both understand, but it's always a bit sad not to be able to spend the time with them.

We made it to New Hampshire a few weeks ago, to visit my family and for Ted to attend an Arena Football game with our friends, Sam and Donna (Josh went in my place). I don't know if we'll make it there this month, but we'll be back in mid-June when my oldest nephew, Andrew, graduates from high school.

This is the moment where a tear or two quietly trails down my cheek. My little punkin... is going to college in the fall. Wow. I have two pictures I was going to put here, but Picasa/Hello isn't cooperating. Perhaps tomorrow.

ADDENDA (a couple days later)


Andrew, my 3¾-year old punkin, in 1990


Andrew, my 17½-year old punkin, with Peg for prom in 2004

All right, for not actually catching up, that took more than an hour. It's now officially the middle of the night (didn't I have this conversation long ago?), and I must get to bed.

Oh, one more thing. A poll. I wanted to put this in my side bar, but it was making it all ugly. And I just figured out how to center the blog again, so I'm not tampering with it. Here is my highly scientific survey. For some unknown reason, there's a ton of blank space between the end of this paragraph and the beginning of the survey -- even though my HTML looks just dandy. I'll figure it out later, too.

What's your suggestion for Kelly's solution to midlife crisis?
	Ratchet up work to "career" status and become Director within one year. Then aggressively pursue executive role.
	Scale work back to "job" status and spend the extra time in leisurely pursuits.
	Keep work the same and just better organize personal time.
	Spend personal time researching how to make a living doing what you love, and do it on the side until it's financially feasible to make it full time.
	Concentrate on reading more books and writing more poetry to soothe the soul in crisis.
	Be brave! Quit work and cash out the 401(k). Take some time off, re-group, then figure out a way to make a living.
	Get over it. Be responsible, like everyone else your age.
	You're not even 40 yet!
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