Lazy (and Stupid) Sunday

Okay, I'm seriously freaked out because I think I may have run out of things to write about on this here blog. Or it may be just that watching Alvin and the Chipmunks the Squeakquel sucked out any last bit of inspiration I had in me. I think the fact that the girl Chipmunks (who were way awesomer that the boy Chipmunks) were named the Chipettes—Seriously? —was partly responsible for the brain freeze. The girls did kinda rock this Katy Perry tune, so there's that.



The neighbor kid dubbed them Chickmunks which I actually much prefer.

Anyway...if JOTV comes to sudden and unexpected end you'll know why.

A Poem for Christmas Eve

God's Wheel by Shel Silverstein

GOD says to me with a kind
of smile, "Hey how would you like
to be God awhile And steer the world?"
"Okay," says I, "I'll give it a try.

Where do I set?
How much do I get?
What time is lunch?
When can I quit?"

"Gimme back that wheel," says GOD.
"I don't think you're quite ready YET."

Peace and love and joy and grace to you, my friends.

Police Blotter

My local paper occasionally runs a column called "Police Blotter." It's a train-wreck sort of compulsion that leads me to read it. Sometimes it's highly entertaining, as when a report of suspicious behavior in some one's back yard turns out to be a fox that triggered a motion light. That's a good thing for Our Finest to spend their time on.

But it also serves as a reminder of why even in These Challenging Economic Times I stick professionally and personally to what can feel like the Sisyphean marathons of youth development work, supporting and trying to improve public education, and the like. Today, for example, in addition to notes about citations for underage consumption, drug possession and missing children, there was this:

"Child neglect: Police responded to a day care on the XXXX block of XXXX Avenue when a 9-month-old child reportedly was found chewing on a ball of crack cocaine."

For real. This happened to a kid just miles from my house. And the fact that it's tucked away in a ho-um, low-key list in a minor section while a photo of Michael Jackson and a lede about his FBI file appear on the cover points to just how difficult it is to stay outraged in the face of feeling pretty helpless.

So I just keep rolling that stone up the mountain, figuring it's the least I can do.

If you want to know something you can do right this very minute, follow this link and vote for PPL, one of my favorite Youth and Family Serving organizations, in the Clorox Clean-Up grant challenge.

Merry Almost Christmas.

The Virgin Birth and Other Holiday Conversation

The GW-4, as we have been dubbed, were recently invited to our first ever eighth night of Chanuka (which shall henceforth be known as Festival of Lights on JOTV because by G-d that word is hard for non-Hebrew speakers to spell) celebration. Their's is an especially significant eighth night recognition because it falls on the anniversary our beloved friends' daughter's death.

These kinds of invitations into other people's sacred space are powerful and moving, the kind that leave me not knowing what to do with all my intense emotion. Boundaries of normal human behavior prevent full expression of my overwhelming longing to make the world right and let the people I love know just how beautiful I think they are. So I either hold back or end up being the crazy lady. Sigh.

Fortunately, the shorter GWs' enjoyment was simpler; they love burning stuff so were psyched that this particular Festival of Lights involved the kids in attendance lighting candles. Thus arose the question of why, given that Christianity is based on Judaism, Christians don't also celebrate Jewish holidays (because, man, that Menorah has way more candles than an Advent Wreath).

Isaac explained then that Christians decided the Jesus-centered holidays were more important.

The kid is seriously an old soul.

This served as a segue to me saying that while I think Jesus was awesome and a really righteous dude and his mother was even more freakin' cool, I had a super hard time believing the whole conception without fornication thing. Now to fully understand this you have to know that while I was growing up my mom was working as a sex educator. She brought home every dang film strip, View Finder slide, anatomically correct model, booklet, poster, and other piece of Safe Sex paraphernalia a horrified adolescent could imagine. I knew very well at a young age that babies don't just drop out of the sky.

So you can see my dilemma.

Turns out the rest of my family is much more skeptical about the rising from the dead business.

Now that part I can believe.

More on this required in the near future, I think.

Happy Solstice.

For the Common Good

I am thinking hard about this something today:

Is there truly such a thing as The Common Good?

And, if so:

Can a thing be considered For The Common Good if it causes suffering for even one being?

And, if so:

Is there a ratio of Benefit to Harm that legitimizes the use of the phrase For The Common Good?

And, if so:

Isn't that actually Majority Rules?

I really don't know. Talk to me, people.

Shop Guy in the News

Everything changes now about this blog. Because Shop Guy is famous. And we all know what happens when famous people's partners air their dirty laundry. So no more revealing, scandalous details about the Marriage Therapy.

If you're confused about why Shop is standing in front of the Biggest Freakin' Computer on the Planet, recall that Shop used to be known here as IT Guy.

He is, in fact, still IT Guy by day. On the bus ride home he magically transforms.

And I'm not too proud to admit that occasionally he has to put his IT Guy suit back on at home so we can have the: "Oh my God! Something is terribly wrong with my computer!!!" "Did you power cycle it?" "Huh?" "Did you turn it off and back on?" "Oh, uh..yeah...duh...of course I did...just a minute...okay it's working now." conversation.

Cuz that's how we roll.

Quotes of the Day: Things My Family Says to Me

Nora (age 9): "Wow. I can't believe you just said that."

Isaac (age 12): "Geez, Mom. That's why this house is rated PG-13 for strong language."

Little Brother (age 30-something): "Uh, Jen?...that's an overshare."

Heh. Somebody has to keep them on their toes....

All the Happiness I've Found

My dad used to sing this song to me. Especially during some hard times when I was very young and my mom was very sick and we didn't know if she was going to be okay. Sometimes he'd sing it while we walked side by side holding hands in Theodore Wirth Park. Occasionally we'd actually hear the morning bells chime.

I still feel like a little girl when I hear it.

Remind someone today that you love them more than anybody can, okay? For me?

Question of the Day: Taking Chances

A friend and I were discussing this recently as we worked on his memoir:

We regret more the chances we wish we would take and don't, than the chances we take and wish we hadn't.
True? Not? Impossible to know?

Ponder. Tell me your thoughts if you're inclined.

Love to you,

jgw

P.S. Yes, that's me with blonde hair in that photo. You decide if you think I'm glad I took that chance....

More on the History

Here's some more old stuff from Come Dance. This post is from March 2007. I'm hoping my blog writing skills have improved since then and that I have learned better the Art of Pithy, but regardless, here you go:

Once my internal med doc suggested therapy, I started looking for a provider close to home. After some disturbing setbacks (more on that in a moment) I got lucky, I thought, and found a psychologist whose office was about 1/2 mile away.

I won't go into many details, but this just wasn’t the gig I needed. We talked a lot about billing procedures, the trouble with insurance companies, how great my life sounded, and breathing exercises, including one called "Alligator Breaths." If you want to try this at home, lie down on your stomach. Place your hands together under your breastbone—elbows pointing straight out. Raise your head so you are looking forward. Then breathe.

Like magic, you apparently can't hyperventilate and pass out in this position. Handy to know, but not exactly getting at my core issues. For that, I found myself writing affirmations on little stickies and posting them all over my house and repeating them to myself, while looking in a mirror, five times in the morning and five times a night ala Stuart Smalley.

Yes way.

So things got progressively worse. One day I got it in my head that it might feel good to call all my family members and tell them I love them. I reached my mom on the tennis court...and freaked her out. She though perhaps I was suicidal and was saying my goodbyes. She's smart enough and unfortunately experienced enough with suicide to know that calling and asking me was the best thing to do. I couldn't say "no," only "I don't think so." That's when I really got scared.

My mom asked me to see a "head doctor" (as my beloved grandpa would say) recommended by a dear and trusted friend. Having a specific number gave me hope, but I'd been burned before by the mental health "system." As mentioned above, before finding the alligator breather I had made a few other unsuccessful attempts to find a therapist. For example: My internal med doc gave me the name and number of a psychologist practicing in the same major system as my "home" clinic. When the scheduler answered I asked for an appointment with so-and-so.

"Are you a physician?" she snapped.
"No; I'd like to make an appointment."
"This is the physician-referral line. How did you get this number"? Still snappy.
"My doctor gave it to me."
"Well you'll have to call the appointment line." At least she gave me the number.

So I called the new number. Guess what...THE SAME WOMAN ANSWERED. I am so totally NOT making this up. I tried to explain that I was in crisis and needed some help. The next available appointment was in three weeks, but she did offer to put me on the cancellation list.

Anyway, steeling myself, I made the call to the psychiatrist recommended to my mom. It was after hours on a Wednesday so I left a message. This was a time when every 15-minute increment felt like a lifetime; so waiting for a call back the next day was difficult to say the least. The appointment scheduler did call first thing in the morning to tell me I could get in the following week. That was a long wait, but better than any of the alternatives in front of me.

Then, the next day, Friday, something along the lines of a miracle happened. Dr. B. himself called me at 5:30 in the afternoon, after returning from an out-of-town conference. He said that he could see me the following Monday. Months later I told him that if he hadn't called that day I thought I would have ended up in the psych ward of a hospital that weekend. "I suspected that," he said, "it's why I called."

Okay, folks, that's a heck of a lot to read in a blog. I want to tell you more about Dr. B. and our work together, so stayed tuned.

Jennifer

P.S. The photos have nothing specific to do with this post, but they make me feel like dancing!

It's Automatic, It's Systematic, It's Hydromatic

Recently, someone I care about a great deal told me that for a person who lives with depression I am very optimistic.

That? Was an awesome thing to say. Because, really, who wants to be known as a downer? And I imagine it would be easy for me to come across that way to those who get to see The Dark Side.

In that vein, it seems like a good day to share with you some of the things I do manage my chronic illness. Here are several:

• Take two types of anti-depressants (after A LOT of experimentation with different kinds) and a fast-acting anti-anxiety med for when I can't sleep at all or want to sleep all the time.
  
• Stay off the sauce.
• Use a light therapy lamp every morning from the beginning to the end of daylight savings.
• Eat pretty much what I want as long as it's relatively healthy (when I started this journey I was skinny; I'm not now, but am more content).
• Walk or run outside nearly every day.
  

I'll probably have more on this eventually, but it is a Lazy Sunday so now I'm going to go take a shower and get dressed since it is 1:00 in the afternoon. On a final note, how could anyone not be at least somewhat happy in a world that gives us this on YouTube?

Aging

I bought myself some glasses. At the grocery store. That's how I roll.

Corduroy Skirts Are a Sin: A Link

I need to keep better track of what I tell you on Facebook and what I write about here.

Clearly.

Because when I entered "corduroy" into the special Search this Blog function that I conveniently added for your convenience, NOTHING appeared on my screen. Okay, not exactly nothing, but nothing related to the atrocity that is the revival of the cords.

*I should note here that my opposition to the cords is purely self-preservation. My friend Jane, for example, is perfectly darling and fashionable and has admitted to me that she recently purchased a pair. I'm sure they look totally fab on her. But the problem is they DO NOT look fab on me and they are suddenly all over the place and a: I might accidentally buy a pair thinking my thighs can somehow now accommodate them and b: they are taking the place of flattering fabrics on pages and shelves everywhere.*

But, I digress.

All you need to know is that I am opposed to the Return of the Cord and have started a movement in protest.

My friend Robert knows this. And he knows that even more than I hate wearing cords, I hate intolerance. So he sent me this article yesterday about a dude in Syracuse who totally gets it.

Check him out: Corduroy Skirts Are a Sin.