Woke up this morning
With this feeling inside me that I can't explain
Like a weight that I've carried
Has been carried away, away
But I know something is coming
I don't know what it is
But I know it's amazing, it saves me
My time is coming
And I'll find my way out of this longest drought...
It feels like today
I know, it feels like today, I'm sure
Its the one thing that's missin'
The one thing I'm wishin'
Life's sacred blessin'
It feels like today...
Feels like today
You treat life like a picture
But its not a moment frozen in time
It's not gonna wait
Til you make up your mind, at all
So while this storm is breaking
While there's light at the end of the tunnel
Keep running towards it
Releasing the pressure, that's my heartache
Soon this dam will break...
And it feels like today
I know, it feels like today, I'm sure
Its the one thing that's missin'
The one thing you're wishin'
The last sacred blessin'
It feels like today...
Feels like today
And it feels like today
I know, it feels like today, I'm sure
Its the one thing that's missin'
The one thing you're wishin'
The last sacred blessin'
It feels like today...
Feels like, feels like your life changing
Feels like, feels like your life changing-
Its the one thing that's missin'
The one thing you're wishin'
The last sacred blessin'
Feels like today...
Feels like, Feels like your life changing
Feels like, Feels like your life changing...
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
It's Finished!!!
Well, almost. Just need to install the sound system before the 3-Day.
Hooray!!!!!!!!
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Short Venting Session
Border Patrol Agents in prison: Whether or not that was a righteous shoot, the message passed on is that the Citizens of the United States will protect the "rights" of a fleeing felon in this country illegally before they will advocate for the split-second decision-making of their own peacemakers.
Legislation regarding police pursuits: If you're a fleeing felon with the ability to drive really fast, you get a "Get Out of Jail Free" card, because we're not allowed to try to stop you. Maybe you'll clip some innocent motorist and add murder to the list of crimes you'll get away with.
Continued voting by the residents of the State of California for "social programs" at the expense of a Corrections system in a state of emergency and law enforcement agencies that can't pay overtime: There isn't an unending pool of money here, folks. If you continually vote for new "social programs" without also voting for new taxes to pay for those programs, you don't get to be on the news crying "victim" when it took the cops 12 minutes instead of 5 to get to your house. Where do you think that money is coming from??
Grr.
Legislation regarding police pursuits: If you're a fleeing felon with the ability to drive really fast, you get a "Get Out of Jail Free" card, because we're not allowed to try to stop you. Maybe you'll clip some innocent motorist and add murder to the list of crimes you'll get away with.
Continued voting by the residents of the State of California for "social programs" at the expense of a Corrections system in a state of emergency and law enforcement agencies that can't pay overtime: There isn't an unending pool of money here, folks. If you continually vote for new "social programs" without also voting for new taxes to pay for those programs, you don't get to be on the news crying "victim" when it took the cops 12 minutes instead of 5 to get to your house. Where do you think that money is coming from??
Grr.
Friday, February 23, 2007
A Reminder - Just in Time?
To the right, in my list of links, those who may be interested will find the link to the Go Gratitude! Experiment Introduction movie. After viewing the concept behind the experiment, you can choose to participate in the experiment itself by accepting 42 daily emails that inspire, encourage, enable, and facilitate Gratitude in all aspects of life.
I'll be the first to admit that it's a little bit bizarre and somewhat cheesy.
But I'm signing up to receive the 42 daily affirmations again because I realized that I'd forgotten the lessons I learned about 14 months ago when this little experiment changed my entire outlook - just when I needed a new outlook most.
I felt 80% better after watching the introductory movie. I felt 100% better after one week of participating in the experiment. And the feeling lasted for... well, it lasted until I forgot the lessons I'd learned because my hard drive crashed and I wasn't able to continue to reference the affirmations.
Yes, I know that I am more easily amused than most and so am attracted to things like 42 daily emails that appear in my Inbox to "teach" me something. But as of January, almost one million people have participated in the experiment.
And from a quantum view, that's more than enough to change the world.
I think I'm ready to feel that powerful again.
I'll be the first to admit that it's a little bit bizarre and somewhat cheesy.
But I'm signing up to receive the 42 daily affirmations again because I realized that I'd forgotten the lessons I learned about 14 months ago when this little experiment changed my entire outlook - just when I needed a new outlook most.
I felt 80% better after watching the introductory movie. I felt 100% better after one week of participating in the experiment. And the feeling lasted for... well, it lasted until I forgot the lessons I'd learned because my hard drive crashed and I wasn't able to continue to reference the affirmations.
Yes, I know that I am more easily amused than most and so am attracted to things like 42 daily emails that appear in my Inbox to "teach" me something. But as of January, almost one million people have participated in the experiment.
And from a quantum view, that's more than enough to change the world.
I think I'm ready to feel that powerful again.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Back in Time
My daughter wanted to go to a concert tonight; a band comprised of several relatives of several friends was scheduled to play at a local venue in an all-ages show. She is kind to me and, since she wanted to go so badly, acquiesced to allowing me to accompany her (probably because I wouldn't have allowed her to set foot in that joint any other way).
I enjoyed the show: I've been a performance artist since I can remember and try to support local talent whenever I have the chance. We stayed for two bands and both showed such energetic promise that it would have been difficult to remain unaffected.
But by far the most entertaining and touching part of the evening was watching my daughter and her friends. They love each other. They touch so easily and show affection with perfect trust and open, unguarded faces. They dance any way they want to and without a care - or not at all - and they support each other in their creative oblivion. They note my presence and suck me into their dynamic without blinking an eye or promoting any kind of silly "no parents" expectation. They look out for each other and demonstrate a fierce clannishness at the first sign of fear. Their surety of themselves and each other is evident in every word, gesture, and good-natured prank.
I left the venue fourteen dollars poorer and profoundly affected.
I enjoyed the show: I've been a performance artist since I can remember and try to support local talent whenever I have the chance. We stayed for two bands and both showed such energetic promise that it would have been difficult to remain unaffected.
But by far the most entertaining and touching part of the evening was watching my daughter and her friends. They love each other. They touch so easily and show affection with perfect trust and open, unguarded faces. They dance any way they want to and without a care - or not at all - and they support each other in their creative oblivion. They note my presence and suck me into their dynamic without blinking an eye or promoting any kind of silly "no parents" expectation. They look out for each other and demonstrate a fierce clannishness at the first sign of fear. Their surety of themselves and each other is evident in every word, gesture, and good-natured prank.
I left the venue fourteen dollars poorer and profoundly affected.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Tragic Update
The young man from the previous post succumbed to his injuries two hours after the accident.
Monday, February 19, 2007
The Law of Gross Tonnage
A 12-year-old autistic child was hit by a woman driving a mini-van last night, just around the corner from my home, as he fled the local Hollywood Video store with an armload of DVDs he had just stolen. He is critically injured and may not survive.
Apparently the young man was notorious for DVD-snatching: this store (where I also rent and buy movies) keeps previously viewed DVDs outside in boxes and sells them 4 for $20. Unless you happen to be 12, autisitc, and out after dark with no parental supervision. Then they're free.
Until the unthinkable happens, of course. Can anyone count the cost of those DVDs now?
It's heartbreaking, as it would be to hear of any child critically injured in an accident. More so in this case because this is a child who obviously needed - and obviously lacked - responsible parenting. I do a lot of work with Autism NOW and AutismSpeaks, and have the honor of knowing families who have approached the awesome responsibility of parenting this unique population with creativity and passion; I know parents who have found ways to ensure that their children's needs are met that wouldn't even cross the minds of most people. Families with autistic children take parental responsibility to the pinnacle. Usually.
Because autistic children can not be unsupervised. Not at age 2, not at age 12, in some cases not in adulthood.
But what really sticks in my craw is the fact that this situation is indicative of a greater circumstance that breaks my heart every day: sometime during the last 30 years, parenting became an option, rather than an obligation. And it seems to me that fewer and fewer people are choosing to exercise that option. I could posit a plethora of theories to explain why this has happened, but why bother? The damage has already been done.
And I will never have to worry about job security because of it... though I'd be happy to work at Wal-Mart if it meant that people had started taking responsibility for their children and put me out of a job.
I'd be retired already if I had a nickel for every time I've heard a mother say, "He's bigger than me!! What am I supposed to do?" I'd have my own island if I had a nickel for every time I've heard a parent state that they don't discipline their children corporally because they fear their child will "report" them to Child Protective Services. I could build a private correctional facility with the money I'd have if I charged a nickel every time a parent told me that he or she (or both) can't supervise their children because they "have to work." I could pay an army of tutors with the nickels I'd have from each parent who has failed to send an older child to school in favor of having them stay home to babysit the younger children.
I could build a 100-bed residential rehabilitation center with the nickels I'd gather from parents who've provided drugs and alcohol to their children so they wouldn't have to use alone. I could easily pay for gravedigging for the parents who've rented their child's ass out to anyone interested for enough money for the next fix.
I could feed the fucking world with the nickels I'd have from every parent who told me that they don't understand how their child "could have done such a thing."
Here's a tip, Mom: he did it because he could. Because you allowed it. Yes, here's the complaint form. Have a nice day.
I could probably catch up on the funds I've lost from failing to charge those nickels we've discussed by selling guesses at when the family of the austistic boy will file a lawsuit against Hollywood Video, but I'm not enough of an ogre to do it. When it happens, I honestly don't know if I'll laugh or cry.
Apparently the young man was notorious for DVD-snatching: this store (where I also rent and buy movies) keeps previously viewed DVDs outside in boxes and sells them 4 for $20. Unless you happen to be 12, autisitc, and out after dark with no parental supervision. Then they're free.
Until the unthinkable happens, of course. Can anyone count the cost of those DVDs now?
It's heartbreaking, as it would be to hear of any child critically injured in an accident. More so in this case because this is a child who obviously needed - and obviously lacked - responsible parenting. I do a lot of work with Autism NOW and AutismSpeaks, and have the honor of knowing families who have approached the awesome responsibility of parenting this unique population with creativity and passion; I know parents who have found ways to ensure that their children's needs are met that wouldn't even cross the minds of most people. Families with autistic children take parental responsibility to the pinnacle. Usually.
Because autistic children can not be unsupervised. Not at age 2, not at age 12, in some cases not in adulthood.
But what really sticks in my craw is the fact that this situation is indicative of a greater circumstance that breaks my heart every day: sometime during the last 30 years, parenting became an option, rather than an obligation. And it seems to me that fewer and fewer people are choosing to exercise that option. I could posit a plethora of theories to explain why this has happened, but why bother? The damage has already been done.
And I will never have to worry about job security because of it... though I'd be happy to work at Wal-Mart if it meant that people had started taking responsibility for their children and put me out of a job.
I'd be retired already if I had a nickel for every time I've heard a mother say, "He's bigger than me!! What am I supposed to do?" I'd have my own island if I had a nickel for every time I've heard a parent state that they don't discipline their children corporally because they fear their child will "report" them to Child Protective Services. I could build a private correctional facility with the money I'd have if I charged a nickel every time a parent told me that he or she (or both) can't supervise their children because they "have to work." I could pay an army of tutors with the nickels I'd have from each parent who has failed to send an older child to school in favor of having them stay home to babysit the younger children.
I could build a 100-bed residential rehabilitation center with the nickels I'd gather from parents who've provided drugs and alcohol to their children so they wouldn't have to use alone. I could easily pay for gravedigging for the parents who've rented their child's ass out to anyone interested for enough money for the next fix.
I could feed the fucking world with the nickels I'd have from every parent who told me that they don't understand how their child "could have done such a thing."
Here's a tip, Mom: he did it because he could. Because you allowed it. Yes, here's the complaint form. Have a nice day.
I could probably catch up on the funds I've lost from failing to charge those nickels we've discussed by selling guesses at when the family of the austistic boy will file a lawsuit against Hollywood Video, but I'm not enough of an ogre to do it. When it happens, I honestly don't know if I'll laugh or cry.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Sanity Returns
My male spousal unit apologized for being a butthead (well, he didn't actually apologize - he left a card for me indicating that he knows he was an asshole, but just couldn't help it at the time. Same thing, yes??)
And...
He's letting me keep the gallery and swears he won't interfere.
So...
Sanity returns. Until next time, of course. But it'll probably take me a couple of years to come up with something to top this caper!
And...
He's letting me keep the gallery and swears he won't interfere.
So...
Sanity returns. Until next time, of course. But it'll probably take me a couple of years to come up with something to top this caper!
Right or Wrong, I'm for America
To the Democratic majority in their attempt to push through this "Non-binding Inititative" and for the local political and community leaders who are organizing "investigations into police brutality" and "Peace Now" sit-ins, I have only one statement to make:
Divided, we MUST fall.
Divided, we MUST fall.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Oppression (again)
My male spousal unit found my DeviantArt site before I was able to introduce him to it as I planned. My daughter was perusing and was concentrating so hard that she didn't notice him looking over her shoulder.
The rest did not go well. And I'll admit that I went into the conversation with an expectation - which, by the way, was right - regarding what he would be feeling and would say... and I'll also admit that I may not have been as receptive to his pain as I might have been if this exact same conversation hadn't happened a million times before... and I'll also admit that I didn't react well to the things he did say, more so because of the way he said them then because of their actual content or meaning. He so often speaks to me as if I were an unruly and unkempt child suddently shipped to boarding school. He speaks to me in a lecturing tone that says, "You just don't know any better and you'll come around to the right way once I tell you what it is."
Fuck you, cowboy. And that cayuse you rode in on.
All that aside, it boils down to this: he feels that I should have discussed the prospect of posting prior to actually doing it. He feels that some - not all - of the images are of proprietary stock - things that belong to him. His feelings are hurt because I was "indifferent" to how he might feel. Which, of course, is patently untrue, because I knew exactly how he'd react and that's why I completed a gallery first. I knew when he saw the work, he'd be proud. Which he did admit to being.
And though I'm pissed to be having this same discussion - this discussion that we've had many, many times before regarding many, many different types of artistic endeavors (not the least of which brought over $80,000.00 per year of extra income into our home for several years), I am regretful that his feelings are hurt. Of course that wasn't my intention.
But this is hurtful to me, as well. After all this time, he still expects me to ask HIS permission to act with MY body. And though I understand - if not agree with - his possessiveness, the consistent act of forcing it on me is not only unfair, but sick in a dark and sinister way that smacks of misogyny.
Of course, that's not his fault either. It's the way he was raised.
And that, I realized, is the source of most of our marital troubles. Our upbringings are so very different - our lifeviews are so very different - that we are unable to understand each other on the most fundamental levels, and that foundational discord colors everything else we do. He may love me, and feel passion for me, and want me to be "his" (eeeeeeewwwww, there's that propriety thing again), but he doesn't understand me - or how I view my self, my spirit, or my life. Which, in and of itself, is okay. I don't really understand him either, which explains my current consternation and many other consternations of the past and present. But I want to. I want so badly for him to live in my world for even a brief moment, for him to understand how bright, and free, and sweet my life really is. And I want to live in his, however briefly I might be able to stand it, so I can learn to relate to the turmoils he must be feeling and learn how to ease his mind and his pain.
The sad part is this: all this time, he hasn't wanted to try.
The rest did not go well. And I'll admit that I went into the conversation with an expectation - which, by the way, was right - regarding what he would be feeling and would say... and I'll also admit that I may not have been as receptive to his pain as I might have been if this exact same conversation hadn't happened a million times before... and I'll also admit that I didn't react well to the things he did say, more so because of the way he said them then because of their actual content or meaning. He so often speaks to me as if I were an unruly and unkempt child suddently shipped to boarding school. He speaks to me in a lecturing tone that says, "You just don't know any better and you'll come around to the right way once I tell you what it is."
Fuck you, cowboy. And that cayuse you rode in on.
All that aside, it boils down to this: he feels that I should have discussed the prospect of posting prior to actually doing it. He feels that some - not all - of the images are of proprietary stock - things that belong to him. His feelings are hurt because I was "indifferent" to how he might feel. Which, of course, is patently untrue, because I knew exactly how he'd react and that's why I completed a gallery first. I knew when he saw the work, he'd be proud. Which he did admit to being.
And though I'm pissed to be having this same discussion - this discussion that we've had many, many times before regarding many, many different types of artistic endeavors (not the least of which brought over $80,000.00 per year of extra income into our home for several years), I am regretful that his feelings are hurt. Of course that wasn't my intention.
But this is hurtful to me, as well. After all this time, he still expects me to ask HIS permission to act with MY body. And though I understand - if not agree with - his possessiveness, the consistent act of forcing it on me is not only unfair, but sick in a dark and sinister way that smacks of misogyny.
Of course, that's not his fault either. It's the way he was raised.
And that, I realized, is the source of most of our marital troubles. Our upbringings are so very different - our lifeviews are so very different - that we are unable to understand each other on the most fundamental levels, and that foundational discord colors everything else we do. He may love me, and feel passion for me, and want me to be "his" (eeeeeeewwwww, there's that propriety thing again), but he doesn't understand me - or how I view my self, my spirit, or my life. Which, in and of itself, is okay. I don't really understand him either, which explains my current consternation and many other consternations of the past and present. But I want to. I want so badly for him to live in my world for even a brief moment, for him to understand how bright, and free, and sweet my life really is. And I want to live in his, however briefly I might be able to stand it, so I can learn to relate to the turmoils he must be feeling and learn how to ease his mind and his pain.
The sad part is this: all this time, he hasn't wanted to try.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Herald to the Romantically Accountable
It has often been commented that a few fairly common female traits were left out of my makeup at my Creation. I'm not complaining - though others have been known to (but that's another tale...). Listening to people today - on the radio, at work, in cyber-conversation - has re-convinced me that the Valentine's Day peptide was left out of my DNA.
All I can say is: awwwwwwww. Looks like I'm really missing out!!!!
My chemical composition doesn't allow me to expect extraordinary professions of love on this day or any other. If I heard one, I'd first check to make sure it was directed at me, then I'd call the ESU.
I'm physically unable to throw a crying rage because I didn't get flowers. If my Male Spousal Unit forgets Valentine's Day, I could care less. As a matter of fact, he's saved me some money by forgetting and that makes him the Daily Superstar in my book. If he forgets one of our children somewhere, then he'll see a rage.
I'm apparently raising romantically defunct daughters, too, as neither of them brought up Valentine's Day until two days ago when my youngest had to sign up for treats for the class party. This is more proof that I am the worst mother ever.
I'm auspiciously omitted from the breakroom chat about dinner reservations, huge bouquets, racy lingerie, and chocolate. People walking by my cubicle give me little shrugs of pity as they note my shelves that are oh-so-obviously bereft of roses or large cards filled with stock poetry. They then try to include me in the reverently whispered discussions of the MEN WHO FAILED.
This is the one day per year that I don't engage in XY Chromo bashing. I'm sorry, you said your husband didn't wake you up at midnight to wish you a Happy Valentine's Day and stroke your hair until you went back to sleep? You're whining because you got a full night of uninterrupted sleep?? WTF?????
Oh, yeah. You'll note that my tongue is lodged firmly in my cheek when I point out that I definitely need to take some Girl Classes to catch up on this trend.
Men, it may cheer you to hear that for years now, Valentine's Day in my family has been renamed "Gun Day." It's the day, every year, when Mommy get a new gun.
:::::::singing:::::::: Isn't it romantic........??
All I can say is: awwwwwwww. Looks like I'm really missing out!!!!
My chemical composition doesn't allow me to expect extraordinary professions of love on this day or any other. If I heard one, I'd first check to make sure it was directed at me, then I'd call the ESU.
I'm physically unable to throw a crying rage because I didn't get flowers. If my Male Spousal Unit forgets Valentine's Day, I could care less. As a matter of fact, he's saved me some money by forgetting and that makes him the Daily Superstar in my book. If he forgets one of our children somewhere, then he'll see a rage.
I'm apparently raising romantically defunct daughters, too, as neither of them brought up Valentine's Day until two days ago when my youngest had to sign up for treats for the class party. This is more proof that I am the worst mother ever.
I'm auspiciously omitted from the breakroom chat about dinner reservations, huge bouquets, racy lingerie, and chocolate. People walking by my cubicle give me little shrugs of pity as they note my shelves that are oh-so-obviously bereft of roses or large cards filled with stock poetry. They then try to include me in the reverently whispered discussions of the MEN WHO FAILED.
This is the one day per year that I don't engage in XY Chromo bashing. I'm sorry, you said your husband didn't wake you up at midnight to wish you a Happy Valentine's Day and stroke your hair until you went back to sleep? You're whining because you got a full night of uninterrupted sleep?? WTF?????
Oh, yeah. You'll note that my tongue is lodged firmly in my cheek when I point out that I definitely need to take some Girl Classes to catch up on this trend.
Men, it may cheer you to hear that for years now, Valentine's Day in my family has been renamed "Gun Day." It's the day, every year, when Mommy get a new gun.
:::::::singing:::::::: Isn't it romantic........??
Monday, February 12, 2007
Invisible
For almost four hours, no one noticed I was back from vacation.
For almost four hours, I was able to be just like everyone else.
I was just another faceless officer, slogging away at myriad and nameless administrative tasks; quietly listening to voicemail messages and returning calls regarding emergent issues, sorting through weeks of mail, and trying to make sense of tiny, scattered pieces of other people's lives.
Without interruption, I completed a due report in less than 20 minutes. Without the shrill insistence of the phone, I signed and distributed items left for my review. Without the constant and tremendously annoying sound of my name being called over the PA system, I took stock of the damage done during my absence and formed a rudimentary repair and maintenance plan. Without the seemingly eternal stream of personnel wending their way through the cubicles to ask me questions, get my "opinion," implore me to run a record, screen a case, get a recommendation, sign off a training jacket bullet, or cover their duty or their time slot at the Career Fair, I wrote three case plans, issued a warrant, talked an addict into treatment, and empowered a parent.
For four glorious hours, I was allowed to do my job. How I've missed it!!!
For almost four hours, I was able to be just like everyone else.
I was just another faceless officer, slogging away at myriad and nameless administrative tasks; quietly listening to voicemail messages and returning calls regarding emergent issues, sorting through weeks of mail, and trying to make sense of tiny, scattered pieces of other people's lives.
Without interruption, I completed a due report in less than 20 minutes. Without the shrill insistence of the phone, I signed and distributed items left for my review. Without the constant and tremendously annoying sound of my name being called over the PA system, I took stock of the damage done during my absence and formed a rudimentary repair and maintenance plan. Without the seemingly eternal stream of personnel wending their way through the cubicles to ask me questions, get my "opinion," implore me to run a record, screen a case, get a recommendation, sign off a training jacket bullet, or cover their duty or their time slot at the Career Fair, I wrote three case plans, issued a warrant, talked an addict into treatment, and empowered a parent.
For four glorious hours, I was allowed to do my job. How I've missed it!!!
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Evil Softball Wench from Hell
This is my youngest daughter's second year playing league softball. She's a very talented catcher, just like her mother and her mother before her, and just like her big brother the All-Star. She also has her big brother's uncanny knack for knocking the crap out of just about any pitch a pitcher can throw.
I love the game, so I applied as Assistant Coach again this year. I can't explain the fundamental beauty of young girls just learning the basics of the game: the strength they find in their bodies, the courage they find in their hearts, the stick-to-it-ness they find amidst defeat. Watching their unbridled joy as they learn to hit is probably one of the most fulfilling things in my life. Even after my last daughter moves on from the 8-and-under league, I will probably continue to coach here, as I can't imagine anything more glorious than this, the formative years where they learn to really love the game.
It was, however, made very clear during the first two weeks of practice that the team's Head Coach doesn't want anything to do with me. If I coach a girl to do something a certain way, the Head Coach (we'll call her P) will stop what she is doing and immediately tell that same girl to do soemthing completely different - even if it's something that will hurt her, not help her. And over the past few weeks, it's gotten worse. Now, when she speaks to me, it's with an open contempt that can only be some sort of veiled provocation. Now, she'll take note of the girls that I've coached and rip them to shreds on the field.
At first I thought that I was just over-sensitive or just needing to assimilate more of what P's vision for the kids is. Every coach has his or her own style, and P is no exception. With the wealth of experience I have with the game, I already know that I can adjust to almost any coach's style. So I made it a point to really listen to P on the field, to really try to see where it is she wants this team to go. And after I did that for awhile, I tried to make suggestions that would fit that "style" as I saw it. I tried to tailor my coaching style to P's so the girls would have consistency and coaching that made sense to them. I've played this game my entire life, on TV even. It's like breathing to me. To think that my ability as a coach is not valued is inconceivable.
You only have to glance at the title of this post to know how that turned out.
It has now gotten to the point where I dread practice. It's so very difficult for me to keep my mouth shut when I don't need to open it and to keep it civil when I do. P has given the majority of the Assistant Coaching duties to her 14-year-old daughter, who is an experienced player in this league, but certainly no coach and certainly not an experienced player like I am. And now her 14-year-old daughter (let's call her T) has taken to bossing me around, not to mention doing it in pretty much the same tone of contempt as her mother does. So I spend most of my time coaching the catchers and shagging balls. At least she pretty much leaves me alone with the catchers.
But after Wednesday's scrimmage game and today's team meeting, I'm going to do something I've never, ever done. I'm going to quit. And I feel like shit about it, even though I know it's the right thing to do for the girls.
We have three experienced catchers on this team, though only one has any real understanding of the position and its responsibilities (which is my daughter). The other two have good intentions, but still don't understand that time is of the essence and allowing balls to get by them means runs scored (at this level, the majority of base running is done on steals due to missed pitches). We have no pitching talent whatsoever, which will be the team's downfall during the regular season unless one of the three potentials starts showing some promise soon. Very few of the girls have any fielding skills - which is normal and workable at this level.
However...
During the game on Wednesday, P kept yelling at my daughter (who was catching at the time) to "throw softly" to the pitcher, who isn't a very good fielder (that means she can't catch). I was behind the plate performing my only remaining job duty (coaching the catcher) and advised the catcher (yes, who just happened to be my daughter) that her throws were fine. At one point, after a textbook throw back to the pitcher (which was not caught, of course), I praised the catcher with a resounding "Great throw, Catch!!," only to hear P yell "Hey, SOFTER!!!"
I said, loud enough for P to hear, "That throw was perfect. Keep it up."
P signalled time out and walked to my daughter to tell her to manage her throwing. I walked over to tell P to manage her pitcher, but thought better of it (it's the kids that will pay for this, you know????) and just patted the catcher on the back and said "Good job." Later, of course, I told my daughter that she is to throw just like she knows she is supposed to and as long as she is accurate, the Coach will have nothing to complain about. When P told me later that I need to "support" her on the field because she's the coach and "there's nothing you can do about it, Missy" (this came complete with a threatening stance and finger-pointing-at-the-chest), I told her that her players will not "rise to the occasion," they will sink to the level of their training which, right now, is catering to the lowest common denominator. And I absolutely will not support that kind of coaching. Ever.
I also advised her that her stance and gesturing appeared to be purposefully threatening and that she may want to rethink the way she communicates with me - or anyone else - as I'll be paying very close attention from now on.
Oh, I can't tell you how badly I wanted to put her facedown in the dirt. I hope - for both of our sakes! - there isn't a next time.
Today, we had a team meeting wherein we were assembling our team's banner. Today was slightly better, as P chose to just ignore me, even when I was speaking directly to her. Some other poor mom took on the translator's role, looking fearsome confused the entire time. It wasn't until T took it upon herself to start answering for her mother - in the most disrespectful manner possible - that I truly decided that I'd had enough. I'll take that crap from her mother - for the girls' sake! For the team!! - but that's as far as it goes.
I hate the thought of quitting, but whatever this enmity is it's not going to get better and it's not fair to the girls. I'm hoping that the moms and daughters will still call me - as some have done in the past few weeks - to clarify issues or ask for personalized coaching on the side. P may be a nasty-ass, troll-looking, loud-mouthed Evil Softball Wench from Hell, but she can't keep people from consulting with me on their own time. And she can't stop me from quitting - meaning she won't have an Assistant Coach (her daughter will nto be allowed to coach on the field during games).
Now, if P has something to say to me, she'll be saying it to ME and not to the Asst. Coach. And, as just a "regular mom," I can say anything I want from the stands. As loud as I want. As often as I want. To whomever I want.
Follow me??
Next year, I think I'll apply for a Head Coaching position.
I love the game, so I applied as Assistant Coach again this year. I can't explain the fundamental beauty of young girls just learning the basics of the game: the strength they find in their bodies, the courage they find in their hearts, the stick-to-it-ness they find amidst defeat. Watching their unbridled joy as they learn to hit is probably one of the most fulfilling things in my life. Even after my last daughter moves on from the 8-and-under league, I will probably continue to coach here, as I can't imagine anything more glorious than this, the formative years where they learn to really love the game.
It was, however, made very clear during the first two weeks of practice that the team's Head Coach doesn't want anything to do with me. If I coach a girl to do something a certain way, the Head Coach (we'll call her P) will stop what she is doing and immediately tell that same girl to do soemthing completely different - even if it's something that will hurt her, not help her. And over the past few weeks, it's gotten worse. Now, when she speaks to me, it's with an open contempt that can only be some sort of veiled provocation. Now, she'll take note of the girls that I've coached and rip them to shreds on the field.
At first I thought that I was just over-sensitive or just needing to assimilate more of what P's vision for the kids is. Every coach has his or her own style, and P is no exception. With the wealth of experience I have with the game, I already know that I can adjust to almost any coach's style. So I made it a point to really listen to P on the field, to really try to see where it is she wants this team to go. And after I did that for awhile, I tried to make suggestions that would fit that "style" as I saw it. I tried to tailor my coaching style to P's so the girls would have consistency and coaching that made sense to them. I've played this game my entire life, on TV even. It's like breathing to me. To think that my ability as a coach is not valued is inconceivable.
You only have to glance at the title of this post to know how that turned out.
It has now gotten to the point where I dread practice. It's so very difficult for me to keep my mouth shut when I don't need to open it and to keep it civil when I do. P has given the majority of the Assistant Coaching duties to her 14-year-old daughter, who is an experienced player in this league, but certainly no coach and certainly not an experienced player like I am. And now her 14-year-old daughter (let's call her T) has taken to bossing me around, not to mention doing it in pretty much the same tone of contempt as her mother does. So I spend most of my time coaching the catchers and shagging balls. At least she pretty much leaves me alone with the catchers.
But after Wednesday's scrimmage game and today's team meeting, I'm going to do something I've never, ever done. I'm going to quit. And I feel like shit about it, even though I know it's the right thing to do for the girls.
We have three experienced catchers on this team, though only one has any real understanding of the position and its responsibilities (which is my daughter). The other two have good intentions, but still don't understand that time is of the essence and allowing balls to get by them means runs scored (at this level, the majority of base running is done on steals due to missed pitches). We have no pitching talent whatsoever, which will be the team's downfall during the regular season unless one of the three potentials starts showing some promise soon. Very few of the girls have any fielding skills - which is normal and workable at this level.
However...
During the game on Wednesday, P kept yelling at my daughter (who was catching at the time) to "throw softly" to the pitcher, who isn't a very good fielder (that means she can't catch). I was behind the plate performing my only remaining job duty (coaching the catcher) and advised the catcher (yes, who just happened to be my daughter) that her throws were fine. At one point, after a textbook throw back to the pitcher (which was not caught, of course), I praised the catcher with a resounding "Great throw, Catch!!," only to hear P yell "Hey, SOFTER!!!"
I said, loud enough for P to hear, "That throw was perfect. Keep it up."
P signalled time out and walked to my daughter to tell her to manage her throwing. I walked over to tell P to manage her pitcher, but thought better of it (it's the kids that will pay for this, you know????) and just patted the catcher on the back and said "Good job." Later, of course, I told my daughter that she is to throw just like she knows she is supposed to and as long as she is accurate, the Coach will have nothing to complain about. When P told me later that I need to "support" her on the field because she's the coach and "there's nothing you can do about it, Missy" (this came complete with a threatening stance and finger-pointing-at-the-chest), I told her that her players will not "rise to the occasion," they will sink to the level of their training which, right now, is catering to the lowest common denominator. And I absolutely will not support that kind of coaching. Ever.
I also advised her that her stance and gesturing appeared to be purposefully threatening and that she may want to rethink the way she communicates with me - or anyone else - as I'll be paying very close attention from now on.
Oh, I can't tell you how badly I wanted to put her facedown in the dirt. I hope - for both of our sakes! - there isn't a next time.
Today, we had a team meeting wherein we were assembling our team's banner. Today was slightly better, as P chose to just ignore me, even when I was speaking directly to her. Some other poor mom took on the translator's role, looking fearsome confused the entire time. It wasn't until T took it upon herself to start answering for her mother - in the most disrespectful manner possible - that I truly decided that I'd had enough. I'll take that crap from her mother - for the girls' sake! For the team!! - but that's as far as it goes.
I hate the thought of quitting, but whatever this enmity is it's not going to get better and it's not fair to the girls. I'm hoping that the moms and daughters will still call me - as some have done in the past few weeks - to clarify issues or ask for personalized coaching on the side. P may be a nasty-ass, troll-looking, loud-mouthed Evil Softball Wench from Hell, but she can't keep people from consulting with me on their own time. And she can't stop me from quitting - meaning she won't have an Assistant Coach (her daughter will nto be allowed to coach on the field during games).
Now, if P has something to say to me, she'll be saying it to ME and not to the Asst. Coach. And, as just a "regular mom," I can say anything I want from the stands. As loud as I want. As often as I want. To whomever I want.
Follow me??
Next year, I think I'll apply for a Head Coaching position.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Cruel Irony
Today was the last official day of my vacation.
I got called in to work. To sign my evaluation, of all things.
Yes, I went. Timeliness of evaluations is a Quality First goal (Quality First being our bonus program), and though it was hardly my fault or problem that today was the last day (the eval was due on the 4th) for submission, I went in.
That's what makes me an "above average" employee.
Chocolate Peppermintini, anyone?
I got called in to work. To sign my evaluation, of all things.
Yes, I went. Timeliness of evaluations is a Quality First goal (Quality First being our bonus program), and though it was hardly my fault or problem that today was the last day (the eval was due on the 4th) for submission, I went in.
That's what makes me an "above average" employee.
Chocolate Peppermintini, anyone?
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Cop Light
Today is the birthday of one of my friends and sister-in-arms, so I rode to the school she is currently working as a Resource Officer in to visit and wish her the best 9th anniversary of her 30th birthday possible. I didn't mean to stay very long.
BUT... one of my probationers had been acting up all week, so I chatted with him about which type of behavior is in his best interest. Then, another probationer committed a battery on a staff member and since neither of us could transport (I'm on vacation, for Heaven's sake!!), we had to call a poor patrol guy to take the kid to the Hall. As my friend cuffed and Mirandized, another Resource Officer (from a sister school) appeared as backup. He couldn't transport either (no backseat in his fancy Unit).
The arrest did not go well and the probationer was, well, upset.
(Side note: "Upset" means violent, non-compliant, threatening, and moments away from riding the lightning, which none of us wanted because it means a trip to the hospital before the Hall and no one had time for it, especially the poor patrol guy who at this point had no idea what he was in for because he hadn't shown up yet.)
So, I stuck around to do what I do best: regulate.
And when I was done baffling the boy with bullshit, he was not only calm and compliant, he was brainstorming ways to effectively manage his behavior once he's released and asking if he could be transferred to my caseload.
After the patrol officer left with our newest convert, my friend shook her head and chuckled to herself while sorting the referrals. The other Resource Officer, an aquaintance, said
"How the fuck do you do that????? Seriously??? Are you the fucking Thug Whisperer?? You need to teach a fucking class!!!"
He wasn't really looking for an answer, because he was sitting right there the whole time. It just doesn't occur to most street law enforcement that I'm the "Thug Whisperer" because that's all I have. My current position is unarmed... since I left the Gang Unit, I do this job with nothing but sharp wits and a cell phone. There have been plenty of situations where I would have been in serious trouble if I hadn't been able to talk someone into a corner.
(By the way we call that "exploring ambivalence" in the rehabilitative world of California Corrections).
I may be "Cop Light," but I make this job look smoooooooooth.
BUT... one of my probationers had been acting up all week, so I chatted with him about which type of behavior is in his best interest. Then, another probationer committed a battery on a staff member and since neither of us could transport (I'm on vacation, for Heaven's sake!!), we had to call a poor patrol guy to take the kid to the Hall. As my friend cuffed and Mirandized, another Resource Officer (from a sister school) appeared as backup. He couldn't transport either (no backseat in his fancy Unit).
The arrest did not go well and the probationer was, well, upset.
(Side note: "Upset" means violent, non-compliant, threatening, and moments away from riding the lightning, which none of us wanted because it means a trip to the hospital before the Hall and no one had time for it, especially the poor patrol guy who at this point had no idea what he was in for because he hadn't shown up yet.)
So, I stuck around to do what I do best: regulate.
And when I was done baffling the boy with bullshit, he was not only calm and compliant, he was brainstorming ways to effectively manage his behavior once he's released and asking if he could be transferred to my caseload.
After the patrol officer left with our newest convert, my friend shook her head and chuckled to herself while sorting the referrals. The other Resource Officer, an aquaintance, said
"How the fuck do you do that????? Seriously??? Are you the fucking Thug Whisperer?? You need to teach a fucking class!!!"
He wasn't really looking for an answer, because he was sitting right there the whole time. It just doesn't occur to most street law enforcement that I'm the "Thug Whisperer" because that's all I have. My current position is unarmed... since I left the Gang Unit, I do this job with nothing but sharp wits and a cell phone. There have been plenty of situations where I would have been in serious trouble if I hadn't been able to talk someone into a corner.
(By the way we call that "exploring ambivalence" in the rehabilitative world of California Corrections).
I may be "Cop Light," but I make this job look smoooooooooth.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Baby Steps
My psychotic ex-lover called me yesterday to tell me that he is graduating from college, has already begun his Master's work, and that his mother is dying in a local hospital. I didn't take that call, I just listened to the message.
When he called back, I answered. Mistake number one.
I congratulated him for his hard work. We discussed the goings-on with his mother, and how the inoperable tumors in her brain (which actually explain a lot about her, too late, of course) are shutting down her body's systems one by one. She succumbed to a coma earlier that day and he wondered aloud if she knew that she was alone. I hypothesized that her current state must be the penultimate state - while still embodied - wherein the human feels as connected as possible. We agreed that her entire being must now be focused on breaking the bonds of the flesh.
And it was easy, oh so easy, to feel him again. To know it and want it and taste it and need it. Even knowing how the story ended does absolutely nothing to negate the beauty of how it began.
And so, when he suggested that we meet later for coffee, I agreed. Mistake number two.
Because "coffee" means sex. "Talking" means sex. "A bite to eat" means sex. As the words left my mouth, the survivalist part of my brain sadly shook it's head and turned to sharpen the blades it would need for that meeting, muttering "no, no no...."
While my body shrieked, "YES!! Yes, please!! I'll be right here! Waiting!! All night!!!"
Pathetic, I agree.
A couple of hours before it was time to go, I had second thoughts. I called and left a message indicating that something had come up and I probably wouldn't make it. He called back and left a message asking that I let him know for sure by his class break at 1915.
At 1900, I left the house and starting driving. I called and said I was on my way.
The class was on break when I pulled up, and he was waiting. My breath caught, just like always, to see him standing there: Viking warrior, predatory and dangerous, so handsome in his business attire. We chatted briefly, easy and familiar like nothing had ever happened, and he asked me to wait until he finished his final presentation. I agreed. Mistake number three.
BUT...
I didn't stay.
I didn't even call.
I took the coward's way out and left a note with a page torn out of my Thomas Guide. I filled the page with drivel (I am sorry about your mother and wish I could help... congratulations again... Happy Birthday...blah, blah, blah), but managed to convey the underlying truth that there is no going back.
And I turned off the phone.
Yes, time has healed so many wounds. And there is no doubt in my mind that I will want him, so badly that it colors everything I touch, for the rest of my life, despite the fact that his existence is toxic to mine. I'm not proud of myself for Mistakes One through Three... but I am proud for doing the right thing even after it appeared the wrong thing was inevitable, even if I did it in a chickenshit way.
At least I did it. Which means I am capable of doing it. Which I didn't know until yesterday.
My body is super pissed at me, though.
When he called back, I answered. Mistake number one.
I congratulated him for his hard work. We discussed the goings-on with his mother, and how the inoperable tumors in her brain (which actually explain a lot about her, too late, of course) are shutting down her body's systems one by one. She succumbed to a coma earlier that day and he wondered aloud if she knew that she was alone. I hypothesized that her current state must be the penultimate state - while still embodied - wherein the human feels as connected as possible. We agreed that her entire being must now be focused on breaking the bonds of the flesh.
And it was easy, oh so easy, to feel him again. To know it and want it and taste it and need it. Even knowing how the story ended does absolutely nothing to negate the beauty of how it began.
And so, when he suggested that we meet later for coffee, I agreed. Mistake number two.
Because "coffee" means sex. "Talking" means sex. "A bite to eat" means sex. As the words left my mouth, the survivalist part of my brain sadly shook it's head and turned to sharpen the blades it would need for that meeting, muttering "no, no no...."
While my body shrieked, "YES!! Yes, please!! I'll be right here! Waiting!! All night!!!"
Pathetic, I agree.
A couple of hours before it was time to go, I had second thoughts. I called and left a message indicating that something had come up and I probably wouldn't make it. He called back and left a message asking that I let him know for sure by his class break at 1915.
At 1900, I left the house and starting driving. I called and said I was on my way.
The class was on break when I pulled up, and he was waiting. My breath caught, just like always, to see him standing there: Viking warrior, predatory and dangerous, so handsome in his business attire. We chatted briefly, easy and familiar like nothing had ever happened, and he asked me to wait until he finished his final presentation. I agreed. Mistake number three.
BUT...
I didn't stay.
I didn't even call.
I took the coward's way out and left a note with a page torn out of my Thomas Guide. I filled the page with drivel (I am sorry about your mother and wish I could help... congratulations again... Happy Birthday...blah, blah, blah), but managed to convey the underlying truth that there is no going back.
And I turned off the phone.
Yes, time has healed so many wounds. And there is no doubt in my mind that I will want him, so badly that it colors everything I touch, for the rest of my life, despite the fact that his existence is toxic to mine. I'm not proud of myself for Mistakes One through Three... but I am proud for doing the right thing even after it appeared the wrong thing was inevitable, even if I did it in a chickenshit way.
At least I did it. Which means I am capable of doing it. Which I didn't know until yesterday.
My body is super pissed at me, though.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Ow.
I checked my helmet for a target. My guess is that I'm the only one who can't see it.
Today I was hit in the head with several things that people nonchalantly tossed out of the windows of their cars while driving. The things I recognized were:
3 lit cigarettes
A fast food cup, complete with leftover ice and straw
A Kleenex/napkin, wadded up as if used
I personally saw these items leave the hands of careless drivers to impact my head only a fraction of a moment later. There were several more items, not personally witnessed, that bounced off various body parts, one of which scared the holy hell (now there's a disassociative term) out of me when it hit my safety glasses (still have no clue what it was, but I sure didn't see it until it was RIGHT THERE).
The obvious community service message about littering probably does not need to be reiterated here. I'm am positive that every single one of those people knew that throwing their personal garbage out the window at a high rate of speed is not okay. And the lit cigarettes? We've been in Red Flag status since the middle of January and the recent rain did little to ameliorate it. Apparently San Diegans have already forgotten how many of us lost our loved ones and homes in 2003.
It's about SAFETY, people!! Mine, in particular (today, anyway)... but everyone's as a general rule.
:::::sigh:::::
All of that notwithstanding, I have to say that I'm disappointed in my fellow humans today. And thankful for our helmet law!!
Today I was hit in the head with several things that people nonchalantly tossed out of the windows of their cars while driving. The things I recognized were:
3 lit cigarettes
A fast food cup, complete with leftover ice and straw
A Kleenex/napkin, wadded up as if used
I personally saw these items leave the hands of careless drivers to impact my head only a fraction of a moment later. There were several more items, not personally witnessed, that bounced off various body parts, one of which scared the holy hell (now there's a disassociative term) out of me when it hit my safety glasses (still have no clue what it was, but I sure didn't see it until it was RIGHT THERE).
The obvious community service message about littering probably does not need to be reiterated here. I'm am positive that every single one of those people knew that throwing their personal garbage out the window at a high rate of speed is not okay. And the lit cigarettes? We've been in Red Flag status since the middle of January and the recent rain did little to ameliorate it. Apparently San Diegans have already forgotten how many of us lost our loved ones and homes in 2003.
It's about SAFETY, people!! Mine, in particular (today, anyway)... but everyone's as a general rule.
:::::sigh:::::
All of that notwithstanding, I have to say that I'm disappointed in my fellow humans today. And thankful for our helmet law!!
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Reality Check
7 people almost killed me today, and not a single one of them realized it until it was already too late. I'm sure none of them meant to, but that does not negate the seriousness of the issue. Lucky for me I ride a motorcycle AND pay attention to what's going on around me and can usually get out of the way of a random lane change or sudden left turn from the right-hand lane.
Please, please, PLEASE don't try to talk on your cell phone and drive at the same time. Ditto apply makeup and ditto discipline your children. You might think you're the best driver on the face of the planet, but I'm here to tell you that when you are behind the wheel of your several-thousand-pound vehicle multitasking should NOT be your goal. Make driving your first priority and give it your full attention.
I'm begging you. My nerves are shot, folks.
Please, please, PLEASE don't try to talk on your cell phone and drive at the same time. Ditto apply makeup and ditto discipline your children. You might think you're the best driver on the face of the planet, but I'm here to tell you that when you are behind the wheel of your several-thousand-pound vehicle multitasking should NOT be your goal. Make driving your first priority and give it your full attention.
I'm begging you. My nerves are shot, folks.
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