Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due

Last week, I had the pleasure of receiving a massage. Luckily I found a wonderful massage therapist right after I moved to New Orleans. Because of lack of funds, I have not seen her as much as I would like --- twice the first few months I lived here and a few more times in the last month.

The frequency of my visits increased, lately, because of minor problems I encountered while training for the half-marathon. I learned my right hamstring is weaker than my left one, and as a result, my right IT band has a tendency to become inflamed during long runs. I decided to attack the problem from multiple angles. I added to my workout regime of weight lifting exercises that target my right hamstring, infrequent visits to the chiropractor (luckily covered by my insurance), a weekly run performed clockwise on a track, and my beloved massages.

Without my masseuse I would not have been able to log the amount of miles I have in the last eight weeks. She's hands-down the most skilled therapist I've received treatment from, including the numerous sports massage therapists I saw as a college athlete. But more importantly, she has amazing energy and emanates warmth. During our last session she suggested I purchase a foam-roller to use both before and after my daily runs. The roller, in all seriousness, has greatly increased my ability to sustain an aggressive level of training. My IT band problem is now nonexistent. It has also decreased the frequency of my need to schedule massages. I know she suggested the purchase aware of the impact it would have on my contribution to her weekly income, which only confirms my initial perceptions of her. She and roller both rock. 

If you are a runner, and have had problems of any sort, I highly suggest shelling out the bucks for a foam roller. I purchased the one pictured below at Target for $29 because I needed the roller immediately. I wish, however, it was slightly longer because that would enable me to use it on my back with greater ease. If time isn't an issue, I suggest you order the longer and slightly more expensive Go Fit roller here.

Blind Spots

The concept of therapy is simple. The therapist is not some all-knowing, powerful, sage. Instead, he or she takes the information you offer and reflects back what is seen. In essence a good therapist serves as mirror and elucidates thoughts, defense mechanisms, or ideas that were previously out of your consciousness. I love the moments in therapy when all of a sudden I realize a statement of mine contradicts something I said seconds earlier. 

Last week, I had an out-of-therapy experience similar to those in-session moments. After a week of training that was likely too intense, I decided I should probably not push so hard to both avoid injury and possibly having to miss the half-marathon. Concurrent to my cognizant decision to ease up I evidently logged onto Amazon and ordered Run Fast by Hal Higdon. I didn't realize the disconnect between my thoughts and actions until the book arrived by expedited mail --- because, evidently, I was in a hurry to learn how to run faster --- two days later. 

I smiled when I realized the irony, stuck by my week of not pushing too hard, and then resumed, this week, my quest to run faster. 

Milk

I recently saw the movie Milk with Ariel and Aaron. Sadly, I must admit I knew little of the story of Harvey Milk prior to the screening. I was both inspired and saddened by his life as told through the movie. 

I usually prefer to allow a day or two to pass before I discuss my thoughts on a particular film. I need the time to allow my ideas on the different strands of it to marinate a bit. But last night, Ariel came over to my house for dinner. She asked me what part of the movie moved me the most and also asked what I thought about a particular line.

The line appeared early in the movie as Harvey met, for the first time, a much younger guy (Cleve Jones) whom he went on to date for a substantial period of time. As they were lying in bed together, Harvey told Cleve, "You're going to meet the most extraordinary men, the sexiest, brightest, funniest men, and you're going to fall in love with so many of them, and you won't know until the end of your life who your greatest friends were or your greatest love was." 

What are your thoughts on the line? Ariel found it inspiring and uplifting. I felt the opposite. I'd like to hear feedback in the comments. So as to not cloud your opinion, I'll hold off on my reasons until folks have had an opportunity to respond. 

Some Things Never Change

It's been eleven years since I've had hair long enough to pull back into a pony-tail. Recently, I've noticed how perturbed I become when I am unable to create a pony-tail without bumps. In other words, I want all of the hair leading up to the rubber band to be smooth.

Of course the picture above is not me, it is my niece Avery. This weekend, Avery asked my mom to put her hair into a pony-tail. After completing the job, my mom asked if she minded the obvious bumps that had been created. Avery didn't quite grasp what the hell my mother was talking about and wasn't the least concerned with a random bump or two.

Mom then informed me of how I would go mad if there was the slightest abnormality in my pony-tail when I was Avery's age. Evidently, I would insist that she redo the entire thing until my head was devoid of anything resembling a bump. Of course, like other things in my childhood, I have no recollection of this. I know she's right, however, because an errant bump in the last few months has sent me back into the shower to wash my hair on more than one occasion.

Goodbyes

Jordan's parents return today. Though Jacques's heart may be broken there is at least one living creature in my house who won't be disappointed. 

The Eighth Night

Finally a success: all eight candles correctly lit (even if I had to resort to previously lit ones) and a full belly of Indian food. It doesn't get much better than that. 

My Thoughts on the Film Doubt

I recently saw the movie Doubt with my parents. One of my favorite lines (and there were plenty) was, "Doubt can be a bond as powerful as certainty." It captures the essence of the message I took away from the film --- basically how the most powerful tool in an narcissist's arsenal is the doubt successfully planted into the minds of others.

My therapist recently suggested I read a book on Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD). She thought I would benefit from learning more about NPD not because she believes I have the disorder, but because of things she knows about my past. I took her advice and ordered, from Amazon, "The Wizard of Oz and Other Narcissists." Though I still have a couple of chapters before I complete the book, most of what I've read hit close to home and proved to be both simultaneously cathartic and sad. Sad because the source of NPD is connected to "a deep unconscious experience of self as inadequate or flawed." Most narcissists aren't what we'd term anti-social personalities, but instead, have themselves suffered from trauma and deep wounds that are usually out of the reach of their own consciousness.


As Doubt unfolded my initial thoughts focused more on the personality of Father Flynn, played by Philip Seymour Hoffman, than any other aspect of the film. Meryl Streep's role as Sister Aloysius, the stereotypical stern, unemotional, nun made the movie more complex. In a sense, you were set up to dislike Streep and to dismiss her as out-of-touch and somewhat vengeful. For some viewers, the "real" wrongdoer may have been hard to discern, but what I saw consistently was how Father Flynn's actions aligned perfectly with what the author of "The Wizard of Oz and Other Narcissists," Eleanor D. Payson, would deem an overt narcissist.

According to Payson, there are overt and covert narcissists. Overt narcissists "allow the more open expression of narcissistic needs such as admiration, power, control, etc." The overt narcissist uses his "persona to directly take the spotlight and openly demand an endless supply of public attention." In contrast, the covert narcissist "gains admiration, status, and control through more subtle an indirect means. His demeanor is typically more reserved and self-contained, at times aloof." Attention and status, for the covert narcissist, is gained "through what he is doing and what he is connected to, rather than attempt to command a truly solo role in the spotlight."

Father Flynn was undoubtedly an overt narcissist. He loved the spotlight and used many of his sermons to directly manipulate his congregants and the two characters in the movie who sought his demise, Sister James and Sister Aloysius. He employed several of the common defense mechanisms of someone battling NPD including: martyr/guilt (which caused Sister James to question her reality and belief of what had occurred when Father Flynn behaved in ways that made him appear as a helpless target), projection (of Flynn's negative qualities onto Sister Aloysius), and attempted intimidation of both Sisters.

Throughout the film Sister Aloysius appeared to have mastered the art of dealing with a narcissist. Every time Father Flynn attempted to obfuscate her demands for answers, she held firm. Yet, the true power of a narcissist is evident by the movie's ending. I, of course, will refrain from recounting the last scene for my readers who wish to see the movie themselves.

Ironically, as I looked through the books on my Facebook's visual bookshelf this morning, I read for the first time the following review of the book on NPD I mentioned above. I only copied the relevant part: "Every day headlines are filled with examples of narcissistic individuals in positions of power who are nothing more than impostors plundering and wrecking havoc on the lives of others. From the corporate moguls of Enron and WorldCom to the clergy leaders of the Catholic Church, we daily encounter narcissists and the self-serving systems that enable them." [italics added]

The portions I've read of Payson's book have yet to directly mention the clergy of the Catholic Church. But the manner in which she conveyed NPD through other examples enabled me to immediately spot the narcissistic traits in Father Flynn. It makes the book, in my opinion, a success. Thus, I highly recommend it and the movie.

Better Late Than Never Right?

When Tim and Michelle dropped off Jordan they left me with an enormous bag of dog food and a canvas bag containing the following items: two bowls, a leash, a collar, and two cans of science diet light. I was informed the two cans of wet dog food were for the pups as treats on Christmas morning. How adorable is that? 

So, the morning of December 25th came and went yet Jacques and Jordan only received their normal portions of dry dog food. Neither of them even bothered to remind me; they are such well-mannered pups right? I remembered my blunder long after I'd already fed the dogs their evening meal. I, therefore, pretended as if Christmas was on December 26th.

As instructed, I mixed Jordan's can of soft food with a reduced portion of hard food. But instead of doing the same for Jacques, I simply dumped the contents of the can into his bowl. 

Since Jacques had never received wet food he was uncertain, initially, how to eat it. As you can see from the picture below, my cats took it upon themselves to "assist" in teaching him. And, as if Jacques was truly a kid with his toy on Christmas morning, he finally hauled off with the entire log of wet food in his mouth.

I wish the picture was not so fuzzy. But you get the idea. 

To understand how shocked I was by Jacques's move you'd have to know Jacques. He is the most submissive pup in the world --- not only to other dogs and humans, but also to my cats. He'll sit patiently by while they help themselves to his dog food before approaching the bowl. I suppose he decided to draw the line somewhere. Evidently that line was wet food. 

Avery Pearl and the Aquarium

The day started at Café Dumond. Avery, my niece had never been, so we hoped to capture a picture with powdered sugar all over her face. She, however, showed no interest in the beignets. Instead, her focus was on the man outside making figures out of balloons. On the way out, of course, we stopped and had the gentlemen make Avery one.

As we headed to the Aquarium, Avery stated, "Dad, can I give my balloon to Mimi (my mom)?" My brother, of course, replied yes. My mom then said to Avery, "What am I going to do with a teddy bear?" At which point, Avery stated very matter-of-factly, "Well you are going to sleep with it Mimi."


Once we arrived at the Aquarium Avery immediately jumped onto the fish below, waited patiently for me to grab my phone in order to take her picture, and said, "Let me pose." As soon as I'd captured the moment, she dismounted the fish, ran up to me and stated, "Can I look?" 

She's a handful, but a very good one. 

An Example of What's Not Second Nature

As a Jew-by-Choice, some things "Jewishly" aren't second nature. My friend Sara and I discussed this the other day. She asked for examples. At the time, all I could offer was how though I'd heard of certain words like schtick, schmuck, schmooze, and shlep, they weren't a part of my everyday vernacular.

Enter Chanukah and the lighting of the menorah. After two years of lighting candles I still haven't figured out how it all works. The picture above is the correct way to handle this custom. It took until last night - though in my defense, last night was the first night I stayed home, and thus, my first attempt to light candles on my own - for me to finally get it, well sort of.

As you can see from the picture below, I had it all wrong last year. First I put all of the candles in the menorah on day one. I also started the first night by lighting the candle all the way to the left rather than the one all the way to the right.

This year has not been much better. Again, if you refer to the picture below, you'll see I grasped that it was improper to place all of the candles into the menorah at once, but still had the direction of their placement wrong.

I finally searched the internet for articles that included pictures. Only then did I discover the correct way to position the candles. I went to sleep last night thinking I finally had this figured out. But when I exported the pics to post on my blog, I realized yet another error, I skipped over the fifth holder and placed the candle in the one for night number six.



Bottom line: I'm thankful there are eight nights of Chanukah. Though I have a party to attend tomorrow and plan to rely on the lighting of candles at services tonight to fulfill this mitzvah, I'll have Sunday night at home to finally feel like a competent Jew.

The Boys

I think they, Jordan and Jacques, may be kindred spirits. Jordan is an extremely sweet and low-maintenance pup. I told a friend yesterday that I may attempt to return Jacques in Jordan's place when Tim and Michelle return. Unfortunately, I think their difference in hair color may present a problem. 

  

A Different Kind of Christmas

Unlike past celebrations of Christmas I'm not traveling home to Ville Platte today. Instead, my folks plan to arrive in New Orleans this evening and stay throughout the weekend. My brother and his daughter will join us later in the week. Once they arrive, we plan to take my niece to the Insectarium, the Aquarium, and the Zoo. It should be an action packed weekend and hopefully filled with lots of good meals too. 

I suppose tonight my Jewish influence on the family will send us to a yet to be determined Chinese restaurant and movie prior to the lighting of the fifth Chanukah candle. The other option would be to prepare a meal at home and have my folks over for dinner. Either way, I'm looking forward to it and the next few days. 

Right now I'm headed to the Bridge House, a substance abuse center for the poor in New Orleans, to assist in handing out Christmas meals to the homeless. In my opinion, that's the spirit of Christmas and it is certainly the spirit of being a Jew. 

Last Year's Christmas

Now that I'm Jewish the lens through which I view Christmas has, of course, changed. I remember my trip home last year. It was prior to my conversion, but I nonetheless already felt and acted Jewishly. Prior to the trip home, I had a conversation with a friend wherein I described the anxiety I felt when I thought about my entire family gathered in one place. I stated, "It's like traveling to a different planet. We don't speak the same language, and I'm never quite sure if there will be enough oxygen to go around."

Sure enough, the moment I walked through the door, my sister blurted out, "So Trisha, are you still converting to Islam?" I replied, "No Kristin, I'm converting to Judaism," while simultaneously shooting her a glance to convey that this wasn't the appropriate time or place - it was Christmas after all and my parents were still uncomfortable with my decision. Yet she persisted, "I really don't know much about the Jews." I told her I'd be happy to share more about it later. Still not taking the hint, she continued, "I mean, they accept the Lord Jesus Christ as their personal savior right?" I smiled and simply stated no. My response finally ended the conversation.

Slumdog Millionaire

In line with my Mumbai fascination lately, I went to see an afternoon showing of Slumdog Millionaire. Definitely worth it. The reviews were right on. 

Two scenes come to mind that reminded me of the toilet scene in Trainspotting. So, I wasn't surprised to learn Danny Boyle directed both films. 

Gearing Up

After I finished the 10K race a couple of weeks ago, my dad (from his deer blind no less) and I talked about the race. He and my mom loved to watch me compete as an athlete when I was younger. In college, they only missed one game. They didn't attend that particular game because it was in Gainesville, Florida (Go Gators!) in the middle of the week. All of this, I must point out, occurred while my father was on dialysis awaiting a kidney transplant. Pretty impressive.

The upcoming race has the competitive spirit riled up in all of us again. By the end of our conversation, my dad, or poppa as I call him, offered to purchase another set of shoes to prepare for the race. My pseudo-coach and boss, Steve, informed me I should have two pairs of shoes. One pair to complete my shorter runs and the other to wear for my long runs. The idea is to use the ones with the less mileage on race day. Thanks to my folks, the fancy pair of Mizuno shoes arrived yesterday, along with a new pair of running pants, Jackie Knicker Capris.

After my run this morning I'm able to report the pants are great. As for the shoes, my plans are to break them in tomorrow.

Latkes, latkes, latkes

I've consumed lots of latkes in the last several days. It all started with Touro's TnT (twenties and thirties) gathering and latke contest on Friday. Sunday I attended the community lighting of the menorah/channukiah, where of course, latkes were served. Then last night, a friend of mine invited guests over to celebrate both his Hebrew birthday and the second night of Chanukah. 

I wasn't sure anything could beat the mango chutney topping served with last night's latkes. But as the evening wore on, it became clear the people and the energy they created would be the most memorable parts of the evening. When I woke up this morning and reflected upon what a great time I had last night, this fun little song by Debbie Friedman popped into my head. I hadn't listened to The Latke Song in quite some time. It, and the goofy video someone assembled, made me smile even more. I hope you enjoy it. 

Other Things Jewish

To finish up my Hanukkah shopping, I visited one of my favorite sites for all things Jewish today, Modern Tribe. As I searched the sight for gifts I stumbled upon this tee-shirt that reminded me of one of my favorite Jewish hymns, Eschet Chayil (A Woman of Valor). In Jewish custom, men recite this hymn to their wives at the end of the week. It's a beautiful tradition.


I wouldn't have purchased this shirt on my own for two reasons. First, it's pink, and unlike most girls, the color is one of my least favorites. Second, I am able to appreciate the hymn from afar. Of course, right now, there's no one in my life to sing the song to me at the end of the week. But, luckily, I'm not in need of it; I'm reminded more and more of my strengths each day through my own current journeys. So the wait to have someone surprise me with the tee-shirt above or some other rendition of Eshet Chayil is not problematic. I suppose, at that time, I'll decide if the pink is an obstacle I am able to overcome.

Happy Hanukkah everyone.

Bina Liat

Over Thanksgiving, my family and I discussed a cousin of mine who is in the process of becoming a nun. She's taken on a new name. Sadly, I don't remember it off-hand. During the conversation, however, I mentioned how the process of converting to Judaism involved choosing a Hebrew name. My mother was interested in learning more about mine, so I promised to explain it fully some other time. Since we'd discussed how she (and sometimes my father) read my blog (hi guys), this is a good opportunity to honor my promise.

Much thought and hours of effort went into choosing my Hebrew name. Eventually, in typical Trisha fashion, I decided one wasn't enough and opted to adopt two names. My official Hebrew name is Bina Liat. Liat was the easiest of the two to choose. It means "you are mine." I viewed it as a personal expression of you, the Jewish people, are now mine, and I too, am yours. Bina was more difficult. I wanted to choose a name that encapsulated all of the wonderful qualities of an individual in my life who has impacted me in tremendous ways. My goal, as an adult Jewish woman, is to foster and emulate the characteristics she embodies. Thus, I finally settled on Bina, which means "wisdom, understanding, and intelligence." It truly captures her essence, and in time, hopefully mine.

A New Addition

Don't worry, I'm still sane; I haven't decided to add another four-legged creature to my household (I'm actually in the process of heading in the opposite direction. But, that's another story for another time). I did, however, agree to pet-sit for a co-worker of mine, Michelle. She and her husband Tim left yesterday to spend a week with his parents in Ohio. Jordan, the pup, needed a place to crash. Since Jacques loves other dogs I figured why not. 

Thus far things have gone smoothly. Jacques is thrilled about the company, Jordan seems to have adjusted fine, and as for my cats ---- I'll let you draw your own conclusions. 

Other Necessary Changes

Notice: old food container on the left and newer version on the right.

Shortly after I moved to New Orleans, Jezebel, my escape-artist cat, snuck out of the house one evening. Prior to the five weeks she spent exploring the great outdoors, Jezebel had become rather plump. Multiple veterinarians told me she needed to lose weight because heavy-set female cats were particularly susceptible to developing Fatty Liver Disease as they aged. I changed her food to Science Diet Light and reduced the portions. Jezebel's weight, however, continued to go in the opposite direction.

All was good until I found Jezebel after her five-week escapade. Initially, she seemed perfectly fine. But, for precautionary purposes, I took her to the vet the next day to make sure everything was okay. Bloodwork revealed liver abnormalities. Evidently, the shortage of food while outdoors had indeed caused Jezebel to develop Fatty Liver Disease.

Because the disease is reversible, I spent more money than I make in a month to restore her health. For six weeks she was forced to consume meals via a tube. Finally, her condition improved and she returned home, roughly eight pounds lighter than when she escaped.

Once again, the vet gave me stern instructions: watch her weight. For the first few months, Jezebel continued to look rather unhealthy (see image below). She was lethargic and ate on her own, but not too much.

In the last few months Jezebel finally turned the corner, and once again I had a sweet and sassy cat on my hands. But when she started to gain all of her weight back, of course, this over-protective mother began to worry. I reduced her food portions and tried all of the tactics that failed in the past. Yet, Jezebel continued to return to her old form.

Finally, one day, the mystery was solved. I observed her not only eating from Jacques's bowl, but also cleverly opening the food container to help herself to a free buffet of Science Diet Light. To open my old food container one simply lifted the handle. Jezebel and Jackson both figured out how to undo the latch with their respective noses and then used their heads to lift and hold the container open in order to chomp away.

Last week, while at Petsmart, I purchased two new food containers. The latch on the new containers must be pulled down, rather than up, to access the food. I'm sure in time either Jackson or Jezebel will figure out a way outsmart me again. But, thus far, the only image I've been able to capture is Jackson sitting next to the pile of unaccessible food, looking perplexed.

My Favorites

Because I've borrowed or drawn ideas from Tania Rochelle's blog lately, I figured the best way to end the week was to share a few of my favorites from her book Karaoke Funeral, available for purchase here.


THE REPLACEMENT

For months I've imagined brass
and polish, sharp edges--
a food critic, maybe,
or a stripper-someone
agnostic enough to tolerate
an indifferent lover, reluctant
father, petulant payer of bills;
and all that time, she's just
got to get to class.
Ten years younger, she shakes
her long brown hair
from her clueless face,
asks if I want my husband back.
She tells me she wouldn't compete,
as if it were a gift,
more lead crystal
to leach slow poison
into my daily cocktail.
So fresh I could bite her,
this girl, twenty-one, still
smelling of grass and Kool-Aid,
is asking permission.
But I'm not her mother--
to care if she runs
with a pencil in one hand,
a fork in the other.
Let her keep her prize:
his glass-green eyes,
a gold-plated tongue
that ferrets out soft spots
where promises grow
wild as ivy, as fire
through parchment.
Searching her flat baby-blues
for ripples, the slight wave
that might suggest she stands a chance,
I see only a plain beauty,
hands in her pockets.

THE NEW LOVER

I’m sitting on him in my living room chair,
his lap like a table where my bills pile up,
his lap a glossy table I dance across,
and from it rises his big carpenter's hand,
then down and into my shirt, he’s asking
if I’d have his child. Fat fucking chance,
I’m thinking. "I know all I need to know,"
he soothes as we’re watching PBS on the widespread
use of antidepressants; I’d rather pay a shrink
the hundred-plus dollars to whine about
my father’s floating penis, about that straw
perched on the lip of that tall drink, that olive
trembling in the bottom of a glass, and zombie dreams
starring my dead sister, grave-tight until twilight
when she appears, post-autopsy, offering up
odd pieces of herself. Here’s what Big Guy Lover
doesn’t know: Alcoholics take hostages.
He pulls my face up to his, his eyes deep
as disco, says, "Sweetie, I know you could never
be depressed, you smile too much." I just grin
and shimmy over the hardwood, an unransomed
history aimed at his head.

SADIE

She doesn’t want to go to her father’s,
so she plants herself
like a Lenten rose in my flower bed,
braced against the cold.
Her sturdy body, like a household appliance,
is the only sign
she’s nine years old, and the tears
she’d cry into a lake
he couldn’t walk across
are not a child’s, but like my own,
and she knows I know.

I pretend it’s just a brat’s tantrum,
that she needs me to make this decision for her
because I’m her mother.
The truth is, both of us,
because I am older and tall as an adult,
have played these roles.
She trapped like a veal calf in her childhood,
and me, like a tulip
forced in winter and put out in the yard.

Somewhere in the part of her
that’s plugged into the stars,
she knows what really happened,
the way she knows Eve’s fall wasn’t about any apple,
and the lady with the black eye
didn’t run into a door,
the way she’s always known too much:
that I’m a coward,
childish, selfish, ever drawn
toward heat and my own appointments,
and I want her to go.

RAKING

Anna Bell and Lane, eighty,
make small leaf piles in the heat,
each pile a great joint effort,
like fifty years of marriage,
sharing chores a rusty dance.
In my own yard, the stacks
are big as children, who scatter them,
dodge and limbo the poke
of my rake. We’re lucky,
young and straight-boned.
And I feel sorry for the couple,
bent like parentheses
around their brittle little lawn.
I like feeling sorry for them,
the tenderness of it, but only
for a moment: John glides in
like a paper airplane, takes
the children for the weekend,
and I remember,
they’re the lucky ones—
shriveled Anna Bell, loving
her crooked Lane.

FEEDING THE WORMS
For Greg

You think this is going to be a poem about death,
but it's really about being hungry all the time.
It's about craving sweets, even though I don't eat sugar
because of my past history of killing off
pound-bags of candy corn and wedding cookies
so I could puke them up like childhood shame
before my daily descent into a bottle.
It's about having kids when I knew better--three,
with a man who vanished into his creole spices,
polished silver, jazz ringing the glassware,
and the slick smiles of young women ready to serve.
It's about a chafing cat-lick of a marriage
that eventually rubbed me raw, and the divorce,
a bad disease that started as a rash,
and later, a man who kisses me like I'm clean,
like there is nowhere else he wants to go.
It's about telling this man he needs to take Vermox
because at least one of my kids has pinworms,
and how, these days, I hang my head in the toilet
searching shit for signs of parasites
as if they were the threads of my life unraveling
and I could stitch them back together again.
The whole family has to be treated, and I can't
figure out a way to tell him this
without implying he's part of the family.
And that might scare him away, the very thought
of being part of a family with worms,
with an eight-year-old who plays Boxcar Children
barefoot in the dirt, baking cakes
of grass and sticks, who pretends her father's dead,
that she could bear to lose her mother too.
Or part of a woman who's spent so much of her life
in the bathroom, on her knees. See,
this is not a poem about death, not yet,
but a love poem, my first.

Tending to the Nest

As I mentioned in my last post, addiction has been on my mind. I've thought of the wars I waged with substance abuse from roughly ages 19-21. Sadly, of the folks I considered my "friends" at that time, I'm the only one who truly made it out. My thoughts recently, however, focused more on how I was able to prevail. 

I remember, initially, there was a period of time I sought to control all things. My life had gotten so out of control that I resorted to extreme measures to restore order. I became somewhat neurotic about my living space. Many things set me off: a dirty glass left in the sink, the bags of an overnight guest not placed in a spot out of my sight, the failure to wipe the sink and surrounding counter in the bathroom to guard against potential water spots, the failure to rub your feet together multiple times to ensure you didn't track any unnecessary debris into my bed, and last, but certainly not least, a wet bath-mat made me batty. I mean really, bath-mats weren't made to get wet right? One should always make sure they are bone-dry before stepping out of the shower. 

Needless to say, my issues had the collateral effects of disrupting the lives of the individuals around me. I've since apologized, and thankfully, been forgiven for my actions. 

One of the most important things I learned during my twenties was the necessity of moderation. Though I enjoy a clean household and maintain one to this day, I've learned to let some things go and no longer freak out over the occasional, uncontrollable, accident (enter animal vomit).

But lately, as in my early twenties, most of my efforts have been directed towards re-centering myself. I've tackled a lot in the last year --- graduating, moving, and starting a job to name a few. And, I've found myself gravitating to certain behaviors, in moderation of course, that allow me to feel more comfortable. One of these behaviors, believe it or not, has been to simply make my bed each day. Now you must understand, I was never one to leave the comforter rolled up or pillows askew. But a few years ago, I quit obsessing about whether the sheets had the rights creases or the throw pillows were perfectly aligned. 

As you are able to tell from the picture above, I wouldn't win any awards at West Point for the current condition of my bed. In fact, I'd probably pick up a demerit or two. But the slight modification of tending to my nest each morning in way that puts sometimes-sloppy creases in my sheets and the throw pillows in clumsy positions has made all the difference in the world. It's helped, among other things, to restore order in my life --- healthy, non-neurotic, and well-balanced order. For that, I'm thankful. And for that, I'll continue to take the two minutes each morning required to make a bed. 

Addiction

Because of work (many of my clients are drug addicts) and recent happenings in my life (no, not my own problems), I've spent a lot of time thinking about addiction. I plan to write more about it later; right now I must address the pile of papers on my desk that eagerly awaited my arrival. But, as I read through older posts from The Stone's Colossal Dream last night, I came across this one, which included a poem entitled "Addiction" by Sheryl St. Germain.

Addiction
In memory of my brother, Jay St. Germain, 1958-1981

The truth is I loved it,
the whole ritual of it,
the way he would fist up his arm, then
hold it out so trusting and bare,
the vein pushed up all blue and throbbing
and wanting to be pierced,
his opposite hand gripped tight as death
around the upper arm,

the way I would try to enter the vein,
almost parallel to the arm,
push lightly but firmly, not
too deep,
you don't want to go through
the vein, just in,
then pull back until you see
blood, then

hold the needle very still, slowly
shoot him with it.
Like that I would enter him,
slowly, slowly, very still,
don't move,
then he would let the fist out,
loosen his grip on the upper arm--

and oh, the movement of his lips
when he asked that I open my arms.
How careful,
how good he was, sliding
the needle silver and slender
so easily into me, as though
my skin and veins were made for it,
and when he had finished, pulled
it out, I would be coming
in my fingers, hands, my ear lobes
were coming, heart, thighs,
tongue, eyes and brain were coming,
thick and brilliant as the last thin match
against a homeless bitter cold.

I even loved the pin-sized bruises,
I would finger them alone in my room
like marks of passion;
by the time they turned yellow,
my dreams were full of needles.

We both took lovers who loved
this entering and being entered,
but when he brought over the
pale-faced girl so full of needle holes
he had to lay her on her back
like a corpse and stick the needle
over and over in her ankle veins
to find one that wasn't weary
of all that joy, I became sick
with it, but

you know, it still stalks my dreams,
and deaths make no difference:
there is only the body's huge wanting.

When I think of my brother
all spilled out on the floor
I say nothing to anyone.
I know what it's like to want joy
at any cost.

Sheryl St. Germain

For the Love of the World

I came across the poem "For the Love of the World" a couple of days ago. I jotted down the author's name to look it up at a later date. But what made me decide to post it today was another very different kind of poem (more textured and layered) I stumbled upon when I visited one of my favorite blogs, The Stone's Colossal Dream.

Both struck me in very different ways. I hope you enjoy them.


For Love of the World
by Charlotte Tall Mountain

For the love of a tree,
she went out on a limb.

For the love of the sea,
she rocked the boat.

For the love of the earth,
she dug deeper.

For the love of community,
she mended fences.

For the love of the stars,
she let her light shine.

For the love of spirit,
she nurtured her soul.

For the love of a good time,
she sowed seeds of happiness.

For the love of the Goddess,
she drew down the moon.

For the love of nature,
she made compost.

For the love of a good meal,
she gave thanks.

For the love of family,
she reconciled differences.

For the love of creativity,
she entertained new possibilities.

For the love of her enemies,
she suspended judgment.

For the love of herself,
she acknowledged her worth.

And the world was richer for her.

Yet Another Reason to Love Gardenias

There are plenty of reasons to love Gardenias. Last week, however, I discovered yet another. Only after I shlepped the Gardenia and a few other potted plants from outside into my bedroom in order to ward-off both death by frost and destruction from my cats (who are not allowed into my bedroom), did I realize the cute little sign that explained the sturdiness of this flowered-plant species. 

I was somewhat miffed at the time because this pot, in particular, deposited a large amount of dirt in my living room as I hauled it through the house. I am able to now, after a week, appreciate the bright side: I'll have one less living thing to worry about when the next freeze bears down on us. 

))<>((

From the movie entitled, "Me and You and Everyone We Know."

I shared this clip with a co-worker not too long ago and we laughed uncontrollably for a good half-hour. He reminded me of it the other day, and I just couldn't resist posting it here.

Sadly this clip is the shortest one I could find that truly captures the particular strain of the movie's essence I wanted to share. On the whole, the film was strange and weird, but hilarious at the same time.

Believe it or not, the tee-shirts are available for purchase here. 

Brutal Battles

"Running has given me the courage to start, the determination to keep trying, and the childlike spirit to have fun along the way. Run often and run long, but never outrun your joy of running."
---Julie Isphording, Marathon winner

Somedays you hit the pavement and running is fun and easy. Everything in the universe, it seems, lines up correctly. You feel great, empowered, and energized. Yesterday was, unfortunately, not one of the those days. Courage and determination were certainly present, but I'll have to work in order to add the "fun" Julie Isphording mentioned into the equation.

I set out to run yesterday's 10K, a distance of 6.2 miles, between 50-55 minutes. I finished within my goal. My "official" time, according to the New Orleans Track Club website, was 54:55. My real time, however, was 54:35. In spite of the use of chips --- a means to accurately measure when participants finish the race --- the chip failed to properly record the correct time I crossed the start line, 20 seconds after the official clock began to tick. But no sweat, I know my true time and that's all that matters.

Yesterday's run, all things considered, was a success. It served to help me become familiar with how races operate. I'd never heard of a chip prior to yesterday. I also have a better idea of how early I should arrive at the Mardi Gras marathon in order to prepare in a way that will allow me to feel comfortable. And because I started to have breathing problems (enter my friend asthma) only a couple of miles into the race, I should probably schedule another appointment to more aggressively treat my asthma in the upcoming weeks.

Due to my lack of oxygen issue at mile two, the remaining 4.2 miles were truly a test of my mental tenacity. That's what I've come to appreciate and love about running. In years past, my commitment to running was sporadic at best. When I ran, vanity motivated most of the miles I logged each week. But during the course of the last year, and particularly in the past two months, the mental challenges have me hooked.

I read that once running gets into your blood it's there for life. The difference from my first race in October, the Race for the Cure, and the Larry Fuselier Race yesterday was the type of individuals who signed up to compete. Most of yesterday's participants were life-long runners --- it was clear from their respective physiques. And it was nice to see a lot of couples who've shared, among other things, a life-long passion for running.

My favorite part of the race occurred around mile 2.5, right in the midst of my asthma flare up. I truly battled with the idea of walking for a couple of minutes. As my brain was fighting with my body, a man --- who by a generous estimate was in his late sixties, but more likely his early seventies --- passed me. As he edged by, he uttered these wonderful words of encouragement, "You can do this. You are doing terrific." His two sentences kept me going. It was clear this man had the "courage" to start running years ago, the "determination" to stick with it, and most of all still knew how to capture the "child-like spirit" to keep it "fun" along the way.

I hope my newfound passion for running continues to seep into my blood. I also hope, in forty years, I'm able to run by a thirty year old woman and utter similar words that instill confidence in her abilities and enable her to finish the race both strong and proud.

"Official" Results

While not truly official, the results to the Larry Fuselier Race may be found here. I'm too tired to blog about it tonight, but due to issues with the chips used to track time, my actual time was 20 seconds faster. 

I'll explain further tomorrow. Right now I'm headed to sleep. Though the race was somewhat brutal, I am able to rest my head on my pillow with a feeling of overall success. I'm pretty sure that's what this is all about, so I hope plenty of sweet dreams are in store. 

A Day of Rest

Today is a day of rest. No, I'm not referring to the one mandated by Halakha (Jewish law) that I spoke of in the post below. But rather, a day off from the normal running schedule I've followed to prepare for the Mardi Gras Marathon. 

Saturdays have been set aside for "pace runs" --- by that I mean I run a pre-determined number of miles at the pace I plan to maintain in the half-marathon. Because my target pace is rather aggressive for someone who's never run a half-marathon before, these runs usually don't exceed four miles. I've used Sundays, thus far, to complete my long runs, which are a vital part of the training process. But, because I opted to sign up for tomorrow's Larry Fuselier 10K race, there will be no running for me today. Only rest and lots of stretching.  

Gut Shabbos!

It wasn't until several months after I started to attend services when I realized the individuals I encountered were saying Gut Shabbos --- as it is pronounced in Yiddish --- instead of Good Shabbos. But, the most common greeting on Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath, is Shabbat Shalom. Either way, I'm happy it's Friday and I'm happy Shabbat is near.

Honoring Shabbat was one of the first things I embraced as I began to study Judaism. The idea of Shabbat as an island of time, a day away from the material things of this world, was/is appealing. In the beginning, before I'd ever attended services, I would prepare myself a lovely meal, light candles, say the proper blessings (as best I could), and usually spend the evening reading and simply appreciating life.

Once I started to attend services, the way in which I celebrated Shabbat shifted from week to week. Since I moved to New Orleans I haven't really settled into a rhythm with Shabbat. I'm not bothered by the lack of a set routine on Friday evenings. I do, however, want to start being more cognizant of the importance of this day. I want to use it as a means to shed the stress of the past week and to reenergize my mind, body, and soul.

Last week, a friend of mine and I planned to attend services at Temple Sinai. We were both looking for an intimate spiritual experience. The new Rabbi at Touro Synagogue, Alexis Berk, was set to be officially installed, so we figured services there would be too ceremonial for our liking. At the last minute, however, we realized Temple Sinai's services were joined with Touro Synagogue's to celebrate the installation. Thus, we opted to break bread and enjoy a glass of wine to welcome the Sabbath Bride in our own special way. It was a nice evening.

I'm not certain yet what I'll do tonight. There's a good chance I'll attend services. It's been a couple of weeks, and I think it's what my soul is yearning for. I will, undoubtedly, make Shabbat special in some way.

Gut Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom everyone.

Snow in Louisiana: The Varying Perspectives of Southerners and Yankees

This is how it all started. Well, not quite with the picture above, but with a text from my folks at 5:09 A.M. stating, "It's snowing here." Then, at 5:20, I received another text with a link to pictures --- including the one above. At 5:36 came the following email, "We woke up at different times during the night to check the snow condition just like kids, finally at 4:30 we saw it. It's is beautiful! Wish you were here." 

How adorable are they? I love how in most of the shots either my mom or poppa posed in the pictures. I wish I'd been there too; Jacques would have loved to run around in the snow. I'm certain of it. 

But, back in New Orleans, there were flurries outside of my house....

Then my car when I arrived to work....

A couple of shots from my office windows.....

Shockingly, the first work email about the snow didn't arrive in my inbox until 8:11. My favorites included: 

Northerner: it's snowing (subject line only)

Native of NOLA: Impossible. This is New Orleans. 

Midwesterner: I know it's so cool! I wish it would close court. 

Native of NOLA: We do shut down when this happens. 

New Yorker #1: I nearly spit my morning tea out laughing when they announced SCHOOL CLOSINGS.

Native of NOLA: Is that snow? I knew we let too many yankees come here. Yawl done brought your weather. 

New Yorker #2: One advantage to having an office where nobody is actually from New Orleans is that we Yankees are actually well equipped to deal with this. 

Native of NOLA: New Yorker, Thank you. You can have my trial. But don't believe you will have anyone for the jury. Unless they are snow birds. 

New Yorker #2: Always turn into the skid. When you shovel, get low and lift with your knees. You can take the boy out of Albany.....

Texan: This Southerner has been trying to drive for the last fifteen minutes. Any idea how to keep the snow from clogging up the back window? My defroster is on and I still can't see. 

It certainly was a fun day to be a New Orleanian. 

Why I Love GOP

No fears: I'm certainly not talking about the Grand Old Party. Tonight I am, instead, raving about one of my favorite pasta dishes. It is not only incredibly easy to make, but also delicious. The GOP stands for garlic, olive oil, and parsley. Simple, yet tasty.

For the last two nights I entertained guests at my house. Monday was a larger party, and last night my friend Michelle came over for both dinner and for a pre-arranged puppy play date between Jacques and her dog Jordan. Michelle was initially worried about how the two pups would get along. Specifically, she worried about Jacques being territorial since Jordan, another male dog, would be entering his space. I reassured her that Jacques is, what I've termed, a puppy politician. He's never met another dog he didn't get along with. Sure enough, the two pups were thick as thieves by the end of the night. They chased balls, one another, and colluded in their efforts to befriend/corner my cats. By the end of the evening, both Jacques and Jordan were rightfully exhausted. 

I thoroughly enjoyed welcoming folks into my living space on Monday and Tuesday. But tonight, particularly with the change in weather, I wanted to curl up on my couch with a good book. Dinner, of course, had to be handled. And to save money and improve my diet for the marathon training, my goal has been to prepare nearly all of my meals at home. 

Tonight, the GOP was the perfect option. I threw in a chicken breast for protein sake and complimented the meal with my grandmother's potato salad recipe (left-overs from the gumbo).  

I'm off to do a little more reading and then plan to retire early. I have an early morning run to complete before work, so sleep within the next hour is essential. Good night. 

The Countdown

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Boys Aren't Mean But My Friends Are Great

Let me start by saying this post will be disjointed at best. I used the picture above because it will help to segue into the story I want to tell below. That story involved a cupcake rather than a cookie on a stick. But both the cookie and cupcake were pleasant surprises from wonderful people in my life.  

First, the cookie. Of course I don't think boys are mean, generally. And really, when I pause to think about it, I don't know of any specific boys who are mean either. But a friend of mine, a couple of days after my recent relationship ended, called to see if I was home from work. She said she was in my neighborhood and wanted to drop a little something off at my house. I --- as I've found myself doing more and more these days --- was unfortunately still at the office. But, when I arrived home I found the cookie in a bag with a sweet card attached. It was not meant to bash my ex, but to lift my spirits. It worked, even if only momentarily. 

Last week, when I returned from court, I found a cupcake lying near my keyboard. I was incredibly hungry, and thus, failed to pause to take a picture before I ravenously devoured it. But the story behind the cupcake, like the co-worker who left it there, is special. 

Last week my co-worker, L, lost her grandfather. L is one of the hardest working folks at our office and she has a huge heart. My view on work and on life generally is that if I can make a difference in one person's life, then I've done my part. Based on my standard alone, L had not only done her part, but exceeded it multiple times. 

The night before her grandfather's funeral, L sent out an email to our entire office. The subject wasn't about her recent loss, but instead, about an important upcoming event in one of her client's lives. For privacy sake, I'll refer to L's client as John. John is a character. He loves L and because of his nearly daily visits to her office several of the other attorneys, including myself, have come to know and also adore John. So what was the special event? John was set to celebrate the first year anniversary of his sobriety the next day. Since L was going to be out of the office attending the funeral, she asked us to congratulate John if we happened to see him around the office. 

Luckily, as I drove into work the next morning, I immediately spotted John, dressed as dapper as ever, talking with his friends in front of our office building. It was the perfect opportunity to show support for John's amazing milestone. I stopped my car, rolled down the window, and gave the biggest and loudest shout-out possible. John threw his hands into the air and started to dance around in joy, while all of his friends clapped and gave him high-fives in support. 

It was a proud moment for John, as it should have been. Combating substance abuse is not an easy task for anyone. But, most of our clients come from impoverished backgrounds and grew up in situations that cause me to wonder, if put in similar circumstances, how I would have fared. So their ability to "make it out" is, I believe, extra special. 

It was also a proud moment for me. I thought of L and all of the work she's done to help John arrive at the place he is today. But, I also thought of how amazing she is because L is very close to her family, and yet in a time of extreme loss and pain, she was still thinking of others. Rather than keeping my thoughts to myself, I picked up the phone and left her a message. The message was simple: L, you are an amazing person; your thoughtful email truly made a difference in John's life; I'm so happy to work with you; and I'm here if you need anything today. 

The very next day L left the aforementioned cupcake on my desk with a sweet note thanking me for being such a great friend in the last few months. Yet another example of how selfless she is. 

The cupcake, due to the amount of work piled up on my desk, was my lunch that day. But as a very wise person in my life stated when I relayed the story to her, "Nutritional nourishment may have been missing from your meal, but emotionally you were certainly satiated." I agree. 

I have only lived in New Orleans for eleven months. But, I've met so many amazing people that have truly become friends of mine in every sense of the word. I'm blessed and thankful.   

The Image is Everything

A friend and beloved mentor sent this image to me on November 5th, the day after the Presidential election. No words were necessary.

I, or should I say my legs, share the same sentiment today. Mondays, according to my training schedule for the half-marathon, involve "Stretch and Strengthening." After all the miles I completed last week, there will be much more stretching than strengthening at the gym today. As for my feelings on the matter, I won't attempt to reduce them to words. 

Lives Remembered

Lives Remembered: Photographs of a Small Town in Poland 1897-1939 is an exhibit currently on display at the World War II Museum in New Orleans. If you haven't been it's worth a trip. I saw the exhibit last night and attended a screening of "Inheritance," a film about the child of a high-ranking Nazi officer who struggles to come to grips with the truth about her parents, mainly her father, and her own demons that resulted from simply being born to the two individuals.


I could write several pages on my views of the film alone. It, much like a film I saw last week entitled "The Boy in the Stripped Pajamas," raised conflicting feelings within my soul. I may blog about it later, but if you'd like to read my friend Sara's take on "The Boy in the Stripped Pajamas," you may find it here.

As I drove home last night, I realized the irony in the title of the exhibition (Lives Remembered) and my recent struggles. I remembered how I wanted to see the exhibit the weekend my parents were in town to celebrate my birthday. Instead, we went to the Insectarium, partially because I believed it would be interesting and partially because I thought it would please the guy I was then dating. Due to our trip to the Insectarium and due to my failure to speak up about my true desires, a day that was supposed to include the Insectarium, Lives Remembered, and dinner turned into something different. 

I blame no one but myself for my failure to see the exhibit that night. For better or worse, my most recent relationship was one where I held close to nothing back, emotionally, but likely compromised more of me than should have felt comfortable. When it ended, I was left with far more questions than answers as to why things didn't work. What I've learned is how sometimes, no matter our desire to know, the answers will continue to elude us. I am a very analytical person, but I reached a point where the analysis was crippling. Rather than remembering "us" my focus, thus, shifted to remembering my life and all of the wonderful aspects that encompass me --- the compassionate friend, daughter, worker, and human being. 

So this weekend, I set out to do the things I enjoy, the things that make me me. On Saturday, I stocked my kitchen with groceries from, in my opinion, the best grocery store in the Greater New Orleans area, Dorignac's. Yesterday, I awoke to a clean house with a fully (and I mean fully) stocked pantry. I prepared myself a wonderful breakfast and then headed to the dog park with Jacques. After an hour or so of him romping around and acting like a fool with the other pups, we headed to the office for several hours of paper work. When I returned home, I went for a long run, the longest I've completed in over eight years. And even though, initially, I didn't know anyone who planned to attend the exhibit and film showing, I opted to attend alone (my friend Tzipa joined me later). 

The bottom line: during the last several weeks I've experienced ups and downs. Making the adjustment from having someone in your life you look forward to seeing at the end of the day to being alone is not easy. The weekends, I've found to be the toughest. But, my efforts in the last few weeks to process the lessons learned certainly had their place and paid off. The processing, however, is over. This weekend was about remembering my life and what makes me special. Luckily, I didn't have to work too hard to appreciate me.

To keep in the vein of reconnecting with my passions, I'm off to prepare a lovely pot of gumbo at this early hour. I've invited guests over tonight to share in the warmth of not only the food, but also the warmth of my home, friendship, and all of the love that's about to go into the large pot. 

I Love Steroids

It's true; I do love steroids, corticosteroids. I have asthma, but for the last four years I failed to take medicine to treat my symptoms. Last week I decided if I seriously intended to train to run long distances, the wise decision would be to pay a visit to an asthma professional. I know, I'm brilliant right? Go ahead and say it. 

Anyway, the doctor I saw was thorough and pleasant. He placed me on maintenance therapy for asthma in the form of a corticosteroid and also provided a script for a rescue inhaler. After five days of taking the maintenance medicine, I could finally breathe on my run today. You'd be surprised what a difference that makes. 

My Heart is Broken

I grabbed this box of Wheat Thins while at the supermarket the other day. I saw reduced fat, whole grain, and french onion. All seemed right in the world, so I was good to go. I was mistaken. 

One of my majors in undergrad was Kinesiology, which is technically the study of human movement, but encompasses all things fitness oriented. In addition, I was a college athlete, and was told to a mind-numbing degree how to regulate my diet. This, of course, included the practice of examining labels prior to a purchase.

I'd like to blame my failure to notice that the "new-and-improved" reduced fat Wheat Thins contained a ridiculous amount of sodium --- which I realized immediately upon opening the box and popping one into my mouth this evening --- on the fact that I was in a rush at the supermarket. But, once I examined the box and realized 16 crackers contained 290 mg of sodium, 12% of the recommended intake per day, I closed it and reached for my beloved bag of Smartfood. As I enjoyed the first handful of this delicious popcorn, I flipped the bag around to feel "smart" about my second choice. Much to my dismay, 1 & 3/4 cup of Smartfood contains 290 mg of sodium too. 

What's a girl to do? It hurt. It shook me to my core. This wound may take time to heal. I couldn't even bring myself to post a picture of my beloved snack on this blog. I guess it's celery and baby carrots from here on out. 

No Turning Back

Paid my entry fees today. 

No excuses. Forward movement only, lots of it. 

Adult Decisions

I would not go back in time. I have no desire to be 15, 21, or even 25 again. But the youthful sense of being care-free, I must admit, I sometimes miss. I'm feeling a little of that today because I decided to cancel my NY trip.

Of the list of things I set out to overcome roughly five years ago, becoming more financially responsible is all that remains. In spite of the free flight and the free place to stay, once I put my pencil to the paper the trip simply didn't make sense.

I feel good about the decision. I've derived a plan to save money for a get-away at the beginning of next year. Once I reach my goal, I'll book the flight. Then, perhaps, I'll truly have a care-free vacation, unlike the ones of my youth that put me further and further into debt. Growing up isn't so bad after all.