What I've Learned After Two Years in the Corporate World

In a corporate environment with open floor plans, cubicles with low divider walls, and glass-fronted meeting rooms, this symbol doesn't deter the use by able-bodied worker bees of the one* private space on the premises.

After two years of research (i.e., watching people emerge from said space as I happen to be entering or exiting the multistall loo across the hall), I've concluded that:

1) Men use it to take a dump. (Note to men: Using your iPad whilst doing your business is a risky business. Even with one of these.)

2) Women use it to cry.

*There's a private room without a crapper in it where new moms can pump (but you need a key for that one). Which is why corporate America is totally better than a small company, because they are considerate enough (a.k.a  required by law) to provide such amenities. There used to be a sweet icon on the door of a mom nursing her infant. But since the eight-week-old baby's in daycare and Mom's nursing a $400 milking machine and a resentment, they rebranded it the "wellness room," which I gather is a common term in the HR world for the lactation station. 

I'm Jessica, and I'm a Recovered Gun Enthusiast

Someone I know shot himself to death last month. He had recently referred to himself as a "gun enthusiast."

Headlines worldwide called Nancy Lanza, who reportedly owned two pistols, two hunting rifles and a semiautomatic "similar to weapons used by troops in Afghanistan," a "gun enthusiast."

Ted Nugent, whose hobbies include hunting large game in enclosed areas and issuing death threats to the President, is a "gun enthusiast."

When else is the word "enthusiast" paired with something the only purpose of which is to render something or someone (or many someones) lifeless? While guns may be used to perforate paper targets and puncture beer cans and shatter clay projectiles, their intended use, let's be frank, the reason they were invented, is to kill. Unlike Crock-Pot enthusiasts, chihuahua enthusiasts, collectible salt-and-pepper shaker enthusiasts, baseball enthusiasts, garage band enthusiasts, scented candle and troll doll and necktie enthusiasts, home-mulled wine and Western belt buckle and designer handbag and suspended-bridge enthusiasts, topiary and WWII memorabilia and Elvis LP enthusiasts, marijuana enthusiasts, Bowie knife enthusiasts, drag racing and drag dressing and gonzo porn enthusiasts, someone who puts their interest in and/or obsession with their hobby over the potential safety and lives of their family members, neighbors, pets, friends, passers-by and self -- and justifies said hobby with a line from the Bill of Rights that's been grossly misinterpreted to mean that said hobby trumps the larger safety of everyone surrounding said hobbyist, an assertion that can and should be summarily shot down (pun intended) by the little-studied ninth amendment -- is not an enthusiast. They're an "asshole."

And I say this as a recovering asshole. I've experienced the thrill of shooting and the neat-o mechanical fascination with guns. (As Dan Baum illustrates in the new Gun Guys, an AR-15 is like a lethal erector set.) I dated a "gun enthusiast" in my 20s. I wasn't thrilled to be in the regular presence of a loaded .45, but I figured that learning the workings of my sidekick's sidearm would help me be more level-headed if one was ever pointed my way.

I familiarized myself with its pieces and parts. I found myself enjoying the puzzle and precision of assembling it, as well as the single-minded (dare I say, meditative) focus and emotional gravity required of this task.

I took shooting lessons. That first day at the firing range, I guilelessly shot a few rounds into my paper target's heart and forehead. The instructor punched me in the shoulder and said something like, "You never used a gun before? Yeah, right." "I haven't," I said, startled and sort of proud. The instructor called me Annie Oakley.

That's all it took. One steady-handed day and a compliment, and I was ready to trade in my anti-gun stance for a thigh holster. Plus I read Armed and Female by Paxton Quigley, and thought, "You know, if I'm ever drugged and thrown in the trunk of a car, a concealed weapon sure would come in handy!"

So I bought a Ruger 9mm. My pistol packin' persona lasted a few months, and I never actually packed. In fact, the gun stayed in a safe at my ex's house, because I studied up on the statistics: that my gun was as or more likely to be used against me as by me; that the rates of suicide, homicide and accidental death are much higher in homes with guns. I couldn't conceive of a scenario or state of mind in which I would turn it on myself or use it in a domestic tangle. But how many "law-abiding gun owners" perceive themselves as potential suicides or murderers at the time of purchase?

Shooting was fun, and gun ownership offered me, as a 120-pound woman, the sense that I could equalize a size and strength imbalance with a bullet. But I was a realist, and a pacifist at heart if not by trigger finger. I took a full-contact self-defense class called Model Mugging, and bought a Taser. I collect vintage Pyrex and mermaid snow globes. Neither will deter a home intruder, but they won't result in the deaths of my 15- or 5-year-old children, myself, my husband, our cats or our elderly neighbors, either.  

Why I'm Not Telling My Child About Sandy Hook

All weekend I have opened my mouth to tell my five-year-old daughter, in age-appropriate terms and at just the right moment, about the shooting in Sandy Hook, CT, a town not so far from our own. The moment wasn't ever right, and tell me, what are the appropriate terms with which to relay a massacre of schoolchildren to anyone, no matter their age?

From my daughter's school administration to friends who work professionally with children to peers with kids the same age or close as mine to bloggers and psychologists,  all sorts of sources are urging parents to "frame the conversation" ourselves, to not let school, classmates, the cashier at Trader Joe's, CNN or whomever do it for us, for her.

But my husband and I don't think we should be the ones to introduce this idea that is sure to evoke anxiety. Does this mean we're putting this burden on someone else, or are too afraid of our own feelings and can't deal with her emotions, never mind our own? No. Are we shielding her from inevitable knowledge that the world is a sometimes scary, often unpredictable and, on occasion, desperately sad place? No. (She gets that, having already experienced death, natural disaster and creepy Halloween displays.)

What we're doing is opting not to clue her in to the fact that the building where she spends five days a week, with its cubbies for outdoor shoes, easels, picture books, planet Earth rug, window-box gardens, lovely, kind teachers and first friendships -- this place called "school" where she will be for the bulk of the next 13 years of her life -- is less than the second-safest place in her still-new and small (for now) world.

Are we keeping her from information she may glean tomorrow morning or next week from a source other than us, at the risk that it may be delivered in a confused or confusing manner? Yes, we are, and on purpose. Because we are her parents and she is five, and thus -- regardless of the cred her fine educators and Sesame Street and in-the-know older neighborhood kids carry -- the information we convey has the weight of authority because, let's face it, we are the authority at this point in her life. If we of whom she was born tell her, in even the most general and positively spun manner, about this tragedy, then we aren't just received as the bearers of bad news; we're the bad-news makers.

(What's that saying, "Parents don't just push your buttons; they installed them"?)

Were she a kindergarten student in the next classroom over just a few towns away, yes, we would have had this conversation Friday. But we wouldn't have "framed" it for her, under those horrible and graphic circumstances, either.

We choose not to frame it for her now, because we have the choice not to -- because unless the danger is eminent or personally relevant, at no age is it appropriate to needlessly scare or introduce a sense of being unsafe to a young child...especially where it may not be introduced otherwise. And if it is, we will listen to her concerns and her questions, correct any misinformation, attempt to make sense for her of information that is all too correct, and reassure her that we are safe, she is safe, and everyone in her world is doing all they can to keep it that way. Which feels comforting and right to hear, at any age.

One Tomato at a Time

Apparently, a key to homesteading is being home enough to do it. When I returned to work full-time a year and a half ago, I was able to maintain our gardens, chicken coop and home projects largely on weekends and with a bit of attention during the week. Michael, out of work with an injury, was home more than I, and our shift of most roles happened fairly organically. He's been working more these days, and I've had a bumper crop of freelance work lately, which have had a positive effect on all aspects of our lives except our modest homesteading efforts.

There are cucumbers in the garden bigger than my cats; withered tomato plants have collapsed under the weight of their unpicked fruit. Some tomatoes lay disemboweled on the ground nearby, as if having hurled themselves in protest of the shameful neglect. All will likely be lost to a frost tonight, unless I manage to pick it.

Worst of all, we forgot to close up the coop last night, or maybe the last three, and all that's left of Kiki Jones is enough feathers to know she flapped mightily in alarm before making her great escape, or was mightily shaken by whatever abducted her. Do raccoons eat chickens, or just steal their eggs and scare the feathers off of them? I suspect the hen harasser and a recent home invader may be one and the same.

A couple weeks back I woke up to find muddy paw prints on the kitchen floor, walls and counter that were far larger than those possibly created by any animals supposed to be inside our house. Said creature had also torn open a box of -- wait for it -- animal crackers, ripped the limbs from a decorative, desiccated sea star, and shed longish black hairs on the windowsill below the cat door, its obvious point of entry. Since the door had been set to "in only," I had to assume George or Rosemary Cooney had either 1) jimmied the closure or 2) was still in the house. I hadn't heard a racket in the night ... but I've slept through two fires and a hurricane in my life so that might not be an appropriate measure. No one else heard the rampage, either, and we're all in pretty close proximity to the kitchen.

Then a few nights ago I was up late and heard the bell of a cat collar. As we'd already undressed one of the kitties for the night and left her collar on the windowsill for tomorrow's outing, I knew it was feline #2 coming in for the night, and went to the kitchen to lock the door behind her. Instead, a raccoon had poked its head and front arms through the flap, where it was hanging out, shaking the collar with one paw like a tambourine. "HEY!" I yelled. It looked up at me casually, stared at me for a good 10 seconds while it finished its jam session, then slowly retreated, making off with the rhythm instrument.

We moved the cat door the next day to a less accessible window for those creatures not adept at vertical leaping. The kitties firmly believe they are in this category and loudly complain as they hover on the outside stairway that runs by the kitchen window.

Death, neglect, invasion, protestation...all of a tedious, low-grade variety, with comic relief courtesy of the Cooneys. Frankly, everything feels out of whack right now. Michael and I are tag-team parenting and homemaking, we haven't had a date in...I don't know how long. We're still playing catch-up, barely covering our expenses. As a family we share maybe a meal or two together each week, after years committed to converging nightly at the dining room table. The stepkid's grades are down (but at least this has spurred his dad, he and I to check in on Sunday nights about school and schedules for the week ahead). Stellina has to have oral surgery in two weeks. I can't stand the thought of my five-year-old, with her tiny impacted Chiclets, undergoing general anesthesia followed by a good deal of discomfort. But it's doable. We can do all of this.

The day is predicted to be sunny and in the high 60s before tonight's much lower temps. Michael is working all day. If I opt out of attending the stepkid's football game, my daughter and I just might be able to put the gardens to bed, and attend to the hens, and even play on the trampoline quickly filling with fallen oak leaves.

Jobs

Not all is staid and routine in the 'burbs! Recent local Craigslist job postings:

Jul 5 - GOOD LOOKING GUY STRIPPER - (HAVEN AREA) et cetera


Jul 4 - Part-Time Skateboard Teacher Wanted - (New Haven CT) general labor


Jul 4 - Pregnant Actress Needed for Local Zombie Film - (CT) tv/film/video/radio

Jul 3 - PEZ candy hiring part time retail associates - (Orange, CT) retail/wholesale

Beauty and the Abuser

 I brought Stellina to see Beauty and the Beast a few weeks back, newly released in 3D (though we opted for a glasses-free screening). It sounded like a dreamy, ideal mom-daughter date on a cold Sunday afternoon. I ignored the quite loud and incredulous inner voice that begged to differ. I reasoned that it's useless to try to fight the Disney princess influence; rather, I've matched every dress-up costume with a drawing pad, encourage puddle stomping, and have introduced her to Pippi Longstocking and the feminist anime oeuvre of Hayao Miyazaki.

And indeed, Stellina swooned at the news, then donned her "Belle" outfit (a hand-me-down from a friend, it's the tiny tulle gown that started it all a couple years back), post-haste. At the theater, she perched at the front of her seat, butterfly boots crossed at the ankles, shimmery yellow skirt fanned, popcorn bag the same dimensions of her torso on her lap. It was some unparallelled (or nonpareil, in concession-stand parlance) cuteness.

The film started out promisingly enough. Belle is a book-smart young woman who longs for a life beyond her village, respects and admires her solo parent and isn't impressed by the brawn and swagger of the town hunk, Gaston. While beastly, he isn't the Beast of the title, the cruel prince who mistreated the wrong old lady, who in turn turned him into the tormented Sasquatch he'd remain unless relieved of the spell within x number of years by experiencing, yes, True Love. Along wanders Belle's Dad, seeking refuge from a storm at the Beast's castle (as the sorceress had years earlier). Does the raging ape, having learned his lesson, offer the elderly gent a room for the night? Of course not. Worse than turning him away at the door, he imprisons the guy. Soon enough, Belle bravely sets out, a one-woman search party,  fighting off wolves and fierce weather -- so far kicking some serious (fairy) tail. When the Beast encounters her, does he think, "At long last, someone who could possibly break this spell and restore me to my former and less hirsute self, if I impress her with kindness toward her Pops and put them up in my super-swanky, not to mention enchanted, digs?" Alas, no. The Beast agrees to let the father go only when Belle offers herself up as a hostage in exchange.

What follows is basically the Disney version of the Patty Hearst story but with dancing teacups. The Beast continues to act like one (despite the admonishments of his servants-turned-animated home furnishings, who would like very much to be returned to human form, along with their boss); Belle softens to his brutish (and brutal) ways, in classic Stockholm Syndrome fashion. Oh, but he IS changing ... as demonstrated when they learn Belle's father is sick, and he allows her to leave. Releasing the prisoner to go it alone again in the hostile wilderness: gallantry at its finest. God forbid he use his cursed stature for the sake of good, for once.

And she goes back! She goes back to defend the Beast against Gaston and his mob of hunters, rather than let the two horrible suitors take each other out, as justice (and common sense) would seem to beg.

If you've never suffered through the film, you can still guess the ending, with its nick-of-time life-saving, shape-shifting kiss, and subsequent wedding.

 (Fast-forward six months past the credits: Belle's at home alone, pregnant. The prince is down in the village, getting drunk and screwing the twins who were hot for Gaston in the opening sequence. All the servants quit within weeks of the royal wedding. After regaining his handsome looks, scoring a prisoner-bride, and discovering the village tavern, their employer had become beastlier than ever. The cook-turned-teapot-turned-cook begged Belle to leave with her, but she refused. He comes home in a blackout; when she inquires as to his whereabouts, he commences to beat her to death with the candlestick formerly known as Lumiere the maître d'.)

Suffice it to say I spent 1-1/2 hours whispering an alternative/corrective narrative into my girl's ear, stuff about bravery and kindness and choices about our behavior, and not putting up with abuse from anyone, anywhere -- not even in fairy tales.

P.S. Last weekend we went back to the multiplex for the smart and gorgeously animated Secret World of Arrietty -- no running commentary needed!

Mischief Night

 I come home around 9pm and see 4 rolls of toilet paper and an egg carton near the front door. It's common for a neighbor to drop a carton or 2 by our house, since we have chickens. I absently wonder if Carol next door got such a great deal on Charmin at the grocery outlet she frequents that she was inspired to share. I say hi to the stepkid, talk on the phone for a little while, then take Alice out for a walk. I notice that the household supplies have gone away, and finally realize that it's Mischief Night.

Where/when I grew up, after the little trick or treaters had called it a night, older kids did the requisite marauding on Halloween, their pillowcases filled with eggs and spray paint cans instead of candy. Houses were egged and toilet papered; Jack-o-lanterns were smashed; mailboxes were knocked over with baseball bats and shovels; headstones were graffitied; sugar was poured into gas tanks.

Around here, teenagers make some mischief that seems pretty white-bread in comparison the night before Halloween.Which is tonight. Better yet (if you're 14), school is cancelled tomorrow because of a freak 7 to 10 inches of snow that fell yesterday, which is mostly melted but left widespread power outages.

I knock on my stepkid's door, wondering if he actually sneaked out.

Stepkid: "Yeah?"

He's playing xBox, talking with his friends online through his headset.

Me: "So...where are the toilet paper and eggs?" Teenagers have highly attuned bullshit detectors. I'm still refining my updated-for-high-school parenting technique: straightforward and respectful, and under no circumstances trying to be cool. He looks up for a moment, a near-smile.

SK: "I put them away."

Me: "Huh. What changed your mind?"

SK: "I don't know."

Me: "Sounds like a smart choice. There could be consequences you wouldn't want if you got caught." I don't mention the ethical import of leaving other people's property alone, as much as it kills me not to.

SK: "I might still go."

So, do I shut down that option? Do I in effect condone it by recalling my own high school Halloween exploits? Do I wait and see what he decides to do? I don't know so I don't say anything, just go about cleaning up in the kitchen. He comes out a little while later. I often wish we had an upstairs/downstairs floor plan, but I'm thankful tonight, as I know I will be for the duration of high school, that his bedroom is off the kitchen, a spoke of the household hub, and that he is forced by proximity to interact with the rest of us, all the while having his much-needed privacy respected.

I tell him whatever he does, I don't want him to use our eggs. The hens are laying less with the shorter days, and it's a waste of food.

SK: "Seriously? It's not a waste -- other animals will eat them. It's better than toilet paper. I mean, that's littering."

It was a long time ago, but I'm pretty positive I wasn't pondering the ramifications, ecological or otherwise, of my near-future actions as I headed out with my fellow Hallows' Eve vandals. All I could think of was sweet revenge on a mean neighbor, and later raiding my baby brother's candy stash. (I had a notion of myself as a nice girl, but there's quite a bit of evidence to the contrary.)

It's 11:30pm and he hasn't left yet, and I need to go to bed but I'm stalling. He just came out to use the bathroom. On his way back into his Man, Jr. Cave, I ask if he's going to bed. (The stepkid does have a bedtime, just to be clear. But with a 6am wake-up and 3 hours of football practice every day, it's not something we ever need to enforce.) "No, no school tomorrow." "Are you staying home?" He looks at the clock and laughs, at me. "Obviously."

Public vs. Private

I noticed this sign while taking a walk near my workplace yesterday. My phone camera doesn't convey how battered and knocked over the sign was.

This is the area to which the public has access.Wish I brought my picnic basket!

As obvious a contrast as this, I couldn't resist documenting it. This sign is within sight of the public briar patch.

Again, the camera on my BlackBerry doesn't do this a bit of justice. It's a truly sweeping view of Long Island Sound, with a mansion to the right that serves as HQ for an insurance holding company. I don't know what that means, so I asked a lovely older woman who was also taking a moment away from her work to admire the view. "I don't know what they do over there," she said, gesturing to the other part of the building. "I work on the foundation side, that's all I know. And I'm the only one who sits out here and eats my lunch in the summertime. The rest of them sit at their computers, never look up all day."





A Room of One's Own, On Wheels

Every day I think, "Today is the day I take the train to work" to my J.O.B. 30 miles away. Every day I leave the house just a little too late to both catch the train and the shuttle from the train to my workplace in order to arrive on time. Driving might or might not get me at my desk any earlier...but it might. After six months of this daily delusion, of checking for my train ticket (still there, still only 2 out of 10 punches punched) and failing to use it, I'm finally admitting that I choose, I choose to sit in some of the country's worst rush-hour traffic, idling away my time and gasoline and ozone layer, ratcheting up that scary-high odometer reading, day after everlovin' day.

All I want is to be with my child, the one from whom I'm separated now 12+ hours/day because we need the income and benefits. (I miss my stepkid, too, yet while parental presence is critically important with a teen, so is allowing them their space. Also, his Dad is on-hand, more appropriate for talking about girls and shaving tutorials.) I cry every Monday for the duration of my commute, it's so painful that I can't do what ought to be my primary job, the only job that matters, except around the edges of the day... yet driving usually extends this separation from my children. This is crazy, right?

But then I understood: My car is the only place that's all mine (most of the time). Anywhere. My office at work is a cubicle. No, that's an exaggeration: It's a right angle. I share a cubicle. My home office is the corner of the kitchen. Another whole 90-degrees all to myself. It's the farthest corner from the stove, but if the wind is right and the wooden stirring spoon is cocked just so, a pasta sauce splatter across my computer screen is not improbable.

Our house is small and all on one level. The only potential Virginia Woolf turf is the playhouse above the chicken coop, and it's hard to write in a place where the ceiling's too low for a person over 4' 5" to comfortably sit upright.

Our bathroom doors don't have locks. My kid is four.

Me: I'd like privacy, please.
Her: Okay.
Me: Um, why are you still here?
Her: For privacy company!

My car is not exactly a destination. It isn't an on-the-go entertainment center, or an all-terrain overstuffed lounge chair, like some of the vehicles with which I share the interstate. It features an old-school AM/FM radio, all the preset buttons preset to our region's plethora of public radio (WNYC on the way to work, WSHU on the way home and  WFUV the rest of the time). The CD player became mysteriously jammed a couple years back. The shock absorbers don't.  The locks and windows have to be clicked and cranked by hand. It loses hubcaps like a gradeschooler loses teeth. But the heat and A/C work. It reliably starts and stays started. It's paid for. It's fairly clean. It is comfortable enough while stationary for a nap or meditation or to use my laptop when parked in a wifi spot.

I might go sit in it right now, in the driveway, actually. As I'm typing my stepkid, whose bedroom shares a wall with the kitchen, is waging battle with zombies or an opposing football team or some other video game enemy. My husband is standing at the island behind me, eating his lunch. My daughter has interrupted me three times...for kisses. Break my heart, already. I'm taking the train on Monday, I mean it. Even if it means crying in public (transportation).

Parenthood, Planned

I've never had an abortion, but I almost was one. That second fact is responsible for the first; when I was 13, my mother told me that she and my dad had booked an appointment in Montreal to have the procedure done. It was 1970 and still illegal in the U.S. She was 21 and a student, as was my father. They were broke. They had married four months earlier, and I suspect the honeymoon was already over, that early on. But when they were asked at the border if they would be leaving anything behind in Canada, my parents changed their minds and headed back to the States.

This was a pretty impactful tale to tell a teenager who wasn't yet sexually active but was considering the possibilities. No doubt her story delayed that particular rite of passage by at least two years. I was the last of my friends to "lose it," spring of my senior year of high school, at which point I decided it was as good a time as any. But first I went to a local family planning clinic, got myself on the pill and waited the requisite amount of time for chemically induced infertility to commence. Then I visited my basketball player boyfriend while he was home alone. It was slightly uncomfortable but fairly satisfying. Then we listened to the Beastie Boys, ate barbeque potato chips and washed his twin sheets.

I never, ever once had sex without a pregnancy-prevention plan in place, not that first time nor for the next 20 years, until I was ready to be a parent myself. Well-played, Mom!

I relied on the services of Planned Parenthood for my down-there care throughout. (Except, ironically, when I wanted to get pregnant. At this point I was fortunate to have health coverage. I often hadn't over the years, and they see people--men as well as women--on a sliding-scale basis, providing free or inexpensive medication and contraception. I asked my fantastic midwife, Maggie, if I could continue on in her care. Alas, they are in the business of preventing unwanted pregnancy, and of supporting a woman's and her baby's prenatal health, but they don't deliver. She talked fondly about her own pregnancies and births, then gave me a scrip for prenatal vitamins and an ob-gyn referral.)

Aside from the security buzzer on the door and the bullet-proof window at the receptionist station, Planned Parenthood looks like any other lady-catering medical office: bright, cheery-colored walls and chairs; fashion and gossip magazines; a talk show or soap opera on the TV. The rooms have the same scales, blood-pressure cuffs, paper-covered exam tables and stirrups as any other. I never encountered a protester or saw evidence of the procedure for which Planned Parenthood is most well-known regardless that abortions are a statistically tiny part of their healthcare services.

In the thick of the recent political pressure to cut federal funding to Planned Parenthood, it was time to schedule my annual. I had other options. I have health insurance accepted by the ob-gyn practice that saw me through pregnancy, birth and postnatal care. But I opted to bring my business (and my business) back to Planned Parenthood. Call it arm-chair activism. Or exam-table activism, in this case. I didn't need to write a letter to Congress or attend a political rally; I could do it over my lunch break;  if I had to get felt up and probed and swabbed anyhow, it might as well be for a good cause.


Interestingly, for the first time I can recall, I was acutely aware of Planned Parenthood's full scope of services this time. I neglected to write down my appointment when making it, so I called a few days later to inquire. "I think I have an appointment today?" "Are you having a termination?" the receptionist asked. "Gosh, no..." I replied, caught off guard. "Then it's not today, Hon. Wednesday's termination day." She put me on hold to check the schedule. It hadn't ever occurred to me they dedicated specific days of the week to abortions; of course. She'd been so matter-of-fact. Friday's Prince spaghetti day. That's why I'd never crossed a pro-life picket. I felt naive, and grateful.


When I went in for my appointment not on a Wednesday, it was the same professional, extremely efficient place I remembered. (I was in my car and heading back to work within one hour of being buzzed in.) There were new purple upholstered office chairs in the waiting room. Maggie had retired; instead I saw a friendly nurse midwife in a starchy white jacket and high heels. We chatted about our children, and she warmed the speculum beforehand. She checked my iron levels and wrote a referral for a mammogram. She asked if I intend to have more children (no) and by what means I was preventing such (my husband's vasectomy. Amen for men who plan their parenthood!).

As I got dressed afterwards, I noticed what looked like a kitchen appliance on a rolling cart in the corner of the room. I queasily realized it was a suction machine, and not the kind used on carpets. Perhaps I'd seen it many times before, but now I am a parent. Just as I never took the topic of abortion lightly after learning my mother's--and consequently, my--story, it is all the more personal now that I've conceived, carried, birthed--and wholly adored and been ready for--a baby.

As I stared at the machine, I was glad I'd chosen to support an organization that does the distasteful work behind the saying "Every child a wanted child," through education, medical care, contraception and, sometimes--necessarily, unfortunately--termination. I was glad I never had to make the decision of women and couples who'd been in this room on Wednesdays past or since. I was glad the only thing I'd be leaving behind that day was a Pap smear, and a copay.

Welcome, Sinners!

People are scoffing the fundamentalists today since the world is, apparently, still here. Silly naysayers! End of Days isn't til October. Yesterday was slated as a sort of early-bird special time for the really, really good Christians. And, according to my sources, people may have raptured (is that a verb?) on May 21; those of us didn't simply have a holy case o' amnesia. Whatever the case, glad you're still here.

Suburban Prayer Flags

From Little Bee:

"On the other side of the glass, the day smelled like summer. My neighbor had shuffled along his washing line, three feet to the left. He'd finished pegging Y-fronts. Now he was on to socks. His washing hung like prayer flags, petitioning daytime gods: I seem to have moved to the suburbs, I'm afraid. Can anything be done?"

Pothole Atheist

I woke up to quiet -- not to an alarm or a three-year-old announcing "THE SUN IS HERE!" It was 7:17am. Michael was long gone to work; I heard the shower, so the household member most likely to oversleep, the stepkid, hadn't. I marveled at my good fortune to go under for few more minutes, found that sweet spot in the pillow...then remembered a recent story of a kid my daughter's age going for a stroll around his neighborhood one morning (in a diaper) while his parents dozed. They later stated wonderingly (and perhaps a bit proudly? Since the kid had suffered no more than chilled feet before being spotted by a neighbor, they could indulge a sense of pride at his dexterity and problem-solving skills that wouldn't likely have surfaced had the outcome been different) that he'd never opened the heavy front door on his own before, and how on earth had he reached the latch on the gate?

My kid was either still in bed, or on the roof. I vaulted to her doorway and witnessed, with relief, the source of the lack of the daily wake-up din: a passed-out pile of cuteness. Meow-Meow, the cat, was supine along the length of the kid's right leg and Wren, the dog, was curled into herself like a cinnamon roll beneath the left one. Everyone's hair was messy; someone was snoring an open-mouthed, air-gargling sound. I stood there a while staring wonderingly, proudly, at our furry foundlings and their human playmate/pack member.

We knew we hit the companion-animal lottery when Wren came to live with us 5 years ago, by way of a rescue group that moves dogs slated for death (mainly pitbulls and rottweilers) out of shelters and into foster homes. She was already a survivor, having been left caged in an empty apartment in the Bronx, all scars and ribs. Her foster mom, Jeannie, fed and loved and leash-trained her, and Jeannie's pack of rescued pooches schooled her in the domestic arts of climbing stairs, snuggling on the couch and not shitting where you sleep. Michael rallied for a Staffordshire Terrier; I wasn't sold on the notion. Although I'd only known them personally (through shelter work and a pet-sitting business) to be sweet of temper and mild of manner, people have definite preconceived ideas about pitbulls and I didn't want to deal with fear and bias, especially as new residents in a neighborhood full of children. But between the tearjerker testimonial about her horrid history and this glamor shot,  it was love at first Petfinder.com sight:

And she loved us back a hundred times over. She loved our son, and our baby, and the kitten. She especially loved my aunt and their walks. She loved to swim and play but if her people were hanging around the house she loved to just be with. She knew the difference between kid toys and dog toys that look exactly like kid toys. She didn't chase the chickens. She was our por vida pup, and then she died.

She was hit by a van. The front door was ajar and she pushed her way outside. She had never done that before. Maybe she never had pushed out the front door before because she hadn't had the chance. Maybe she had to pee, or saw a dog she likes across the street...The stepkid and his friend came home after school and didn't shut the front door well enough behind them. It has a tricky catch, and we've all accidentally left it open. But the storm door latches tightly; perhaps it was a tiny bit open, too, snagged on a lip of snow. The snow. There were 8-foot walls of snow blocking sidewalks and visibility.

No one knew the front door was open or that Wren was outside until a cop came to the (open) door and told us she'd been hit. He saw it happen, saw a van not see her and saw her unable to get out of the street because of the snow.

She was healthy. She was afraid and in pain at her death, which wasn't a quick one. Animal Control brought her to the vet hospital, where we saw our sweet Wren bleeding, spine broken, still rallying, the vet stunned at her fortitude and cautiously optimistic about her survival. We opted for surgery, but she died before it was possible. We were with her when she died. She knew we were there, which offers no consolation whatsoever.

Someone said, "Why did God take her so young?" I wanted to punch them through the phone. I thought, "No, it was a D-O-D-G-E, not G-O-D." I never felt like an atheist until that moment. (Would that be a pothole atheist, rather than a foxhole atheist?)

I don't believe that everything happens for a reason, or that God works in mysterious ways. I believe that crap happens, some of which we have control over, most of which we don't, but that we always have the choice on how to interpret and respond to said crap.

We've talked matter-of-factly about death to Stellina -- she's known 2 great-grandparents and 2 hens and random critters around the house -- squirrels and birds -- to expire before this. We told her what happened. We cried together. The next morning -- the morning after marveling at our perfectly compatible combination of kids and critters -- she asked when Wren was coming home. (Note to self: when you tell a kid the people they love will always come back, they believe you.) I explained again that she died, and said, desperately, that she was running and playing in doggie heaven. She gave me a Look and said, "She isn't RUNNING. She is DEAD." Well, then.

As for the stepkid, it was a good opportunity to talk with him about how we know it was an accident (no one leaves a door open on purpose on a 20-degree day) and that we all screw up, but part of being in a family is accepting and forgiving one another our mistakes and getting through stuff together. We don't want him to carry this. We don't blame him. We grieve as a family the loss of the first pet we had as three (then four) people figuring out how to be a family. And it's in this afterward (versus afterlife) that grace resides.

"element" of surprise

Today's LLVS moment: I looked down, did a quick tally, and realized that, as usual, my entire outfit originated from Goodwill. Well, nothing actually originated there...that's the point. I commented to Baby Daddy the other day  (Him: You look nice today. Me: I got everything I'm wearing except my intimate apparel at Goodwill. Him: I'm glad your underwear hasn't been in someone else's buttcrack. Me: It's important to have standards.) that even if we were wealthy I would buy 9/10th of what I wear second-hand. (At my most flush, my shopping destination was still Salvation Army, or Sally's Boutique as my San Francisco fashion icon Denise Laws called it.) Especially if living in a wealthy community, with its couture cast-offs -- a total LLVS bonus. There's nothing like the thrill of the find, especially when the tag color on said find matches the day's 1/2-price sale; the satisfaction of not adding something new to the waste stream; the mystery of why something nearly or brand-new was discarded by its previous owner. Sometimes the answer will never be known and can be chalked up to a change of taste or a need for closet space.

Other times the reason doesn't become apparent until  the item has already been welcomed into one's wardrobe, which certainly adds an element of adventure to the thrifting experience -- like when I scored these tall leather boots in pristine condition for $20, sidestepping (literally) my commitment to not buy leather, fur or wool*, wore them all day then took them off for the first time and my stockings and porch floor were covered with brown flaky bits of the lining. A troublesome but not insurmountable feature, boot dandruff, and worth removing them outside or in reach of a dustbroom. Or when I wore a Banana Republic skirt bought still bearing the original store tags to my new corporate job and, although it had a built-in slip, it clung and bunched up between my legs like a black crepe diaper when I walked (luckily it's a desk job). Or when I detected nothing amiss about a beautiful winter-white cashmere sweater, had it cleaned, then midway through its debut day detected someone else's body odor emitting from its -- my -- pits, which is way worse than smelling your own B.O., which at least is where it belongs: on you.

My local Goodwill is so fancy that I found this recent news item hilarious! I'm still trying to figure out the "element" to whom she's referring...I'd say the primary clientele are either middle-class savvy shoppers or designers and antique dealers who cull the discount racks, then raise the prices 400% for their own nearby shops. Does she mean the elderly male employees who graciously unload donations from the trunks of Audis while the charitable sit behind the wheel with the engine running? The young woman with Down Syndrome who orders shoppers out of the store promptly at closing time like a harried mother way past bedtime, soundly flouting the ever-cheerful stereotype associated with her condition? The mellow, pleasant clerks? Whatever her concern, I am grateful to be among the thrifting riff-raff in our tony community, and to be wearing: JCrew wool trousers that are too spiffy to be called "pants" ($10), a cozy cotton turtleneck sweater with sweet decorative buttons on the collar ($7), brand-new gold matte round-toe high heels that put a little Bob Fosse in my step ($12), and a sassy, coral color wool JCrew swing coat ($25), all of which fit perfectly and haven't revealed any weird surprises in the wearing.

*if new

One Book, One Town

I love the very notion of a community reading, somewhat simultaneously, the same book, and am impressed and proud that my somewhat-stuffy little 'burb has selected Jonathan Safran Foer's Eating Animals as its pick for what amounts to a 60,000-member book club. There's even a companion picture-book read, Our Farm, with paintings of and poems "by" the residents of Farm Sanctuary (as translated by Maya Gottfried) so the whole dang family can enter 2011 considering, discussing, and literally putting a face to the food they share. About to check my copies out...

Willful Thinking

Now that Baby Daddy and I are married, we're finally getting around to doing that other grown-up thing that grown-ups do: writing our wills. First we had the excuse that we'd just have to redo them post-nuptials and name-changes and all that stuff. Then we put it off because as awful as it is to buy life insurance (which we did after the baby was born), it's worse to imagine worst-case scenarios and one's desired outcomes, legally speaking, in said scenarios, and then to put them in writing, and with a raised seal and witnesses at that. Our material assets don't amount to much beyond some sweet vintage vinyl and a car with 125k miles; if we didn't have kids our wills would consist of a couple handwritten "pull the plug" requests. But with the joy of progeny comes the duty to not only protect and provide for them, but also to arrange for their protection and provision in the event that you...gulp...can't.

I did write a will once before, probably with a magic marker, and very likely with open circles over the i's. I was in junior high, which is nearly as painful to think about as the aforementioned topic. My parents divorced and we moved after sixth grade from a rural hippie town to the only real estate market close enough to her job that my mom could afford: a factory town that no longer had factories and was so depressed the Burger King couldn't even stay in business. I went from a progressive elementary school of 80 kids to a sprawling regional high school with low achievement-test scores and lower expectations. I was the youngest kid in my class; I turned 11 a few days before 7th grade. After a miserable transitional year during which: 1) I learned that wearing one's same (and only) pair of jeans every day will inevitably earn one the nickname "Jordass"; 2) A girl who would today be cyberbullying with the best of them cornered me in the bathroom and threatened to beat me up if I didn't date her older brother. I stopped using the bathroom. Then she started calling me at home. I stopped going to school; 3) While I was out "sick" my supposed best and only friend (Missy Williams, I'm talking to you) decided I was a social liability, what with my fashion faux pas and magnetism for mean girls, so she broke into my locker and hit the public-humiliation lottery: my diary. I don't know why I kept it at school; probably so my mother wouldn't read it and discover I was being threatened and make more trouble for me.

It contained my last will and testament. I can only surmise that the impetus for drafting this particular document  was a genuine terror of my bathroom stalker -- whose name was Melanie Perkins, while I'm naming names -- and a recognition in her presence of my mortality, for the first time in my prepubescent life. I've forgotten what it was I bequeathed to whom. My worldly goods consisted of a collection of pocket-sized Beatrix Potter books, a Morris the Cat T-shirt for which I'd diligently peeled, saved, and mailed the labels of numerous cans of cat food, and a few other childhood keepsakes; a denim-texture three-ring binder that smelled like cat pee unsuccessfully masked by Love's Baby Soft (which, come to think of it, may also have hindered my social standing); a 10-speed from Sears, and a fold-up hairdryer. Undoubtedly I left my lone possession of material or personal value -- those designer jeans I'd rallied so hard for the summer before after spotting them in a chance encounter with "television," having lived without one for several years, having not a clue what was in fashion but in hopes of fitting in -- to Missy Williams.

Once retrieving the diary (which had been reviewed and annotated by an untold number of my seventh-grade peers with an enthusiasm and creative use of language that roundly belied the school's drop-out rate. Why, with the proper materials and encouragement, these underprivileged youngsters could be the next Danielle Steeles or Dan Browns!), I destroyed it. My next journal detailed not my personal thoughts but an action plan titled "How to Get Popular," crafted over a summer spent alone in the cool, dim respite of our unfinished basement, studying Seventeen magazine and daytime dramas on our new-used TV. I don't remember what was on the list, besides a plan to select my week of outfits on Sunday night to assure no duplications. Whatever it was, I implemented it, and it pretty much worked. I was no longer bullied, at any rate, and didn't again feel the need to put a post-mortem contigency plan in writing, until now.

Show-and-Tell

The UPS man gave props to our chickens the other day. I was going from our backyard to my car, latching the gate and bidding adieu to the biddies, who stampede toward me like paparazzi at every sighting. I know better than to take their apparent adulation personally; I am merely the One Who Fills the Feeder. But I admit: I liked it when the package-delivery guy chuckled at the sight and commented how cool it was to see chickens in the 'burbs. Then I got nervous that they were so visible from the road -- they usually hang out deeper in the yard, out of sight of passers-by. I don't want anyone to harass them. Besides me, that is. I had harassed poor Betty Bock Bock into a wicker picnic basket bedded with straw and brought her to preschool just that morning.

I confess: I have been, well, chicken about holding the hens. It doesn't make sense; I've wrangled feral and stray cats; I was a "cat socializer" in a shelter with truly antisocial felines; for years I had a pet-sitting service and confidently cared for typical household critters plus rats and iguanas. I've been bitten, scratched, and dragged once on my ass along icy pavement by a zealous standard poodle puppy. But the hens' skittishness makes me skittish; I jump when they flap. Also, I feel badly about handling an animal that displays such a desperate resistance to being handled. I picked up Captain Pecker once, but she was about to die and gave as much resistance as a supermarket broiler. But I had volunteered Michael to bring a bird in for circle time at Stellina's school and he had to work, and showing up with picture books and a dozen eggs just wouldn't cut it. I gave myself a stern talking to, put on a pair of work gloves that made me feel less vulnerable (vulnerable to what, I don't know. They have no teeth; being pecked is about as painful as being poked with a pair of kid's scissors).

 (Betty, center. Notice the vicious pit bull lounging to the left.)

Betty is a minorca with beautiful blue-black feathers, and truthfully not the quickest of the flock in either acuity or agility. I scooped her up and held her tight, tucking her under my arm. I actually think she liked it -- not getting caught, but being held. She hunkered down in her portable nest and I tried not to think about how many fried-chicken meals may have been transported in that vintage, gingham-lined, ample picnic basket.

Upon our arrival, Stellina's classmates were already seated around the edge of the Earth-motif rug, and teachers Miss Karen and Miss Annie were reminding them that the Montessori ethics of grace and courtesy extend to guest with feathers. Stellina helped me unpack our props -- cartons of eggs, a photo book of unusual chicken breeds, containers of pine shavings and layer pellets, a travel-size waterer -- to which the kids gave a polite, cursory look, but all attention was on the rustling basket. I spread a towel on my lap and made poop jokes, always a guaranteed hit with the 3-to-6-year-old set. And then I acted like I'd held a chicken on my lap more than once (that one time being en route to the vet with a failing Captain Pecker) and Betty seemed calm, like she was a regular attraction on the education circuit. Or she was catatonic. I don't think so...but what do I know of the emotional life and body language of poultry?

The children were quiet and gentle -- all except Stellina, who found it challenging to share a parent and a pet at the same time. In my mind she threw a Tasmanian Devil-caliber tantrum, yet all the while the rest of the kids stroked Betty and asked questions, and her teachers gave me reassuring looks, mouthed "it's okay," and calmly redirected her. As literate as I am of the emotional life and body language of my daughter, she is so central in my consciousness, as symbolized perfectly by her stomping in frustration in the middle of the continental carpet, that I can't possibly see (or hear) her objectively. Miss Annie later assured me that Stellina was composed and cooperative within moments of Betty's and my exit. As for Betty, when I unlatched the basket back at home, she hopped out and joined her flock without incident for a session of bug-hunting among the autumn oak leaves.

Dress-Up

I never had a tutu as a child. Well, not totally true -- I vaguely remember a super-scratchy ballerina Halloween costume my mother made out of an old curtain under which I was forced to wear PANTS because it was too cold to trick-or-treat otherwise. That was about it for fantasy feminine dress-up opportunities. I was raised by well-intentioned, first-wave feminists who believed in gender-neutral clothing (overalls), playthings (blank wooden building blocks, stuffed animals) and entertainment (Free to Be You and Me).

One gander at Stellina's dress-up garb and you'd be sure to say I was imposing my inner 3-year-old girly girl upon my own, but I swear it's all her...plus some generous friends whose girls' have outgrown their tulle finery, in either size or interest. At last count she had 5 tutus, which she often wears in multiples (getting a kick out of saying "two tutus!" over and over), and 4 "princess" dresses, two of which are Disney-affiliated. There are countless tiaras, wands and jewels. There's a tiny pink boa. Somewhere near the bottom of the bin are a cowboy hat, Cub Scout cap, pirate eye patch and superhero cape, which have gotten zero play time. The pink kitty outfit is fairly popular; last year's Halloween costume, a chicken, is less so. No makeup (too JonBenet) or toddler high heels...until last weekend.

Since every hour in the day not spent at preschool is done so in princess/fairy attire (including while sleeping), it was inevitable that for her third birthday she requested a "Fancy Dress-Up Party." You know from my previous post that we had a budget of nada. But my friend Kelly, who just so happens to be a nanny and looks like Cinderella, offered to make an appearance as the "Birthday Fairy" after I begged her to do so. Same for our freebie face painter, Uncle Diane. It's so important to have talented friends who like your kid and have a hard time saying no.

The weather accommodated, with a summer encore. The Birthday Fairy was a total pro. She would make a killing on the Fairfield County pampered toddler party circuit. She wore iridescent green wings; she developed a personal biography on the fly (pun intended) under the keen interrogation of the worldlier 5-year-olds in attendance; and she brought a bounty of costumery, including a pair of hot-pink plastic peep-toe pumps. Suffice it to say, on her feet they remain to this moment. She wears them with innate ease, as if they grew there. She has worn them in bed and the bathtub and to Home Depot. (Did I mention she loves Home Depot? To drive past the orange block-lettered sign is to risk a round of pleas of the pleasepleaseplease variety.) She accompanied me one evening on an emergency run for a drain snake, and it was awfully satisfying to watch my princess clack up the aisle with the hem of her tulle skirt in one hand and a plumbing tool in the other.

And hopefully allowing her unrestricted access to a pair of training heels now will keep her off the pole one day.

Welfare Wedding: Part 1

The real reason the baby daddy and I waited so long to get married was money, or the lack thereof. We nearly headed to town hall and called it a day a while back, just to get the legal deal done, but 1) our Town Hall doesn't officiate marriages, and 2) we have kids who are old enough to both participate in and remember the occasion, which seemed particularly important for my stepson. Let me rephrase that. The only opinion he ever expressed about the wedding was the shrugging of one shoulder, over which he said, "That's cool, whatever," as he headed into his Man, Jr. cave. But the concept of him standing up for his dad and witnessing our community witnessing our commitment to each other and our family...that just felt correct, and solid, and worth a few grand. Because sometimes our family of four still feels ad hoc.

The stepkid came to live with us suddenly and via circumstances that were out of his control, and out of control, in general. He hadn't lived with his dad since he was a baby, but his dad stayed within visiting distance (often walking distance), seeing him on weekends and more if possible. "Possible" depended on the cooperation of, and answering of the telephone by, all parties involved. There's a slew of info that isn't mine to share so I'll stop there. Suffice it to say that when the opportunity -- the imperative -- arose for his son to live with him, it was an answered prayer (despite his avowed atheism).

For our first two years together, we lived around the corner from the stepkid and his mother and baby half-sister. Our relationship -- the stepkid's and mine -- was friendly if distant. I knew from my own childhood experience with steppeople neither to come on too strong nor to infringe on his time with his father. If they invited me to all do something together, great, but I never made that assumption. I certainly never minded when my boyfriend opted for time with his kid over with me. In fact, it would've been a turn-off otherwise; his commitment to his child was one of the first things I loved about him. Let's be honest: I was in the market for a future coparent, and it was assuring to know from the get-go that he was capable of both making a kid and caring about it. I'd also learned from the success of my mother's relationship with my stepmom the importance of cultivating the stepkid's mom's trust and being clear about my role -- particularly that it wasn't hers. This grew complicated when he suddenly lived with me and she was unavailable for a while, and her son was in need of some parenting the likes of which weren't my boyfriend's forte. Like establishing a bedtime and introducing the concept of a "family meal." Don't get me wrong -- this stuff didn't come naturally to me, either. He and I ate dinner, often take-out, at 9pm. We spent our nights at jazz shows and movies, not helping with homework.

The day we found out he was coming to stay, I opened the fridge, surveyed the contents (soy milk and batteries) and wondered what people with kids kept in their pantries. I probably Googled it, then went shopping and hoped for the best. (Beyond the domestic learning curve was the fact that I was vegan at the time and had literally never cooked meat in my life, while he and his dad both liked a side of meat with their meat.)

We had moved to our suburban homestead just three months earlier, a two-flat we cohabitate with my aunt. The idea of an extended-family domicile appealed to us, and afforded us more space and the chance to have a dog after our tiny rental apartment. We were also fairly freaked out by being 30 miles farther from NYC, and homeowners. But the stepkid had his own room, which proved precient when he went from spending four nights a month to moving in. Honestly, we'd picked the location largely with him in mind, whether on a part- or someday full-time basis. The neighborhood is multicultural and mixed-income; the school system is excellent; the town's a few shades more laid back than Greenwich, where he lived at the time, the only kid in his peer group to live in an apartment, a residence the square footage of his best friend's foyer. He was just becoming aware of class difference when I met him. I remember the shock on his face when he learned that most of the world does not, in fact, live in homes with indoor swimming pools. But knowing this is different than experiencing it, and I can't help but think it's more comfortable to now have a group of friends with a true array of cultural and class experiences. Or maybe it just makes me more comfortable...

So, money and marriage. We'd been hobbling along on Michael's carpentry salary plus unemployment  benefits plus some freelance income since our daughter was born (my company had closed shortly beforehand). We could barely cover the bills, never mind fund a wedding, when my mother and grandmother offered us $3,000 toward the cost. Now, I know some brides spend more than that on a gown alone. But my groom and I both agreed that the most -- really, only -- important thing about a wedding gathering was quality eats. And my one Bridezilla demand was a caterer. I'd do everything else myself on the cheap or for free, but if we tried to cook the food or have a potluck I'd either feel stressed out or like a miser. Then we set a date three months out so it would be summer and we could do it outside, before the stepkid's football season and all the back-to-school brouhaha started. Then I booked an ice cream truck. Unsure what to do next, I Googled "how to plan a wedding."

None of the legion of downloadable prenuptial to-do list offered online, however, include "Apply for Food Stamps." But my fiance would soon be out of work for the next three months (and counting) with a back injury-turned-back surgery, following two years of barely scraping by in professions (and hours and paychecks) deeply impacted by the recession.

(They don't actually look like this anymore. Recipients are assigned a discreet debit-type card, much to the ire of conservatives who think people ought to bear a big, scarlet $ sign in the grocery check-out line.)

Let's pause a moment here. Are you as uncomfortable as I am at the mention of welfare? Or of personal finances, in general? Did that $3,000 a couple paragraphs back make you squirm, or is it just me? I get as embarrassed hearing a person's financial specifics as I would the details of their sex life. Wait, that doesn't embarrass me, even a little bit! In fact, nothing feels as private a matter as the state of one's bank statements. Which is why I'm writing this, really. I feel shy discussing money, but I feel shame for being poor, especially poor and a parent. Yet, politically and intellectually, I balk at that reaction. There is nothing shameful with using "the system" as it's intended: a safety net for the welfare, the well-fare, of citizens when they need it. Funds for food have got to be some of our government's most sensibly spent dollars, when one considers illegal wars and bank bailouts and $74k teacups and what have you.

But rest assured, all you critics of the social welfare system: You would totally commend the efforts put forth by the CT Department of Social Services to discourage its use! First, no one answers the phone, ever. There are no hours or directions listed on the website. The area in which it's located would be dangerous if anyone cared enough to commit a crime, but they're too poor and tired to make the effort. Or maybe they're just lazy! Which is how my caseworker likely would have regarded me had I been someone else. But what with my ability to collect and present all relevant forms of ID and paperwork in a neat, labeled file and my Aryan good looks, combined with children to feed and negligible assets with which to do so, procuring food stamps was, all said and done, a snap. And despite opinions to the contrary, I'm thankful, for the stepkid's sake especially, that we can use a card versus Monopoly money at the check-out. He's well aware that times are tight. We've been candid, but with an emphasis on reassurance and sharing with him -- not in detail, but as evidence to that reassurance -- our plan to get outta the hole.  It's so critical to keep the fear and shame shit to our adult selves.

(to be continued...including the Vows-n-Vittles radically transparent budget.)

New Kids in the Flock

Our latest addition is three Ameraucana pullets. Introducing: The Supremes.