Opportunity. A biker, a green thumb, a cracked hand, and a Queen.

Guest Post by Megan from Velveteen Mind

A random biker on a Harley-Davidson took my picture last week. What I wanted to do was take his picture, but I hesitated. Now, instead of a photo of some random biker holding an i am bossy.com bumper sticker, all I have is a lame photo of me holding the bumper sticker and the mental picture of him riding off into the sunset, never to be seen again.

Okay, it wasn’t as romantic or dramatic as that. It was nine in the morning and there was no sunset.

This is not the first time that I have hesitated to seize an opportunity. I don’t expect it will be the last. However, I hope with each lost chance for something intriguing, I will lose a shade of that hesitation for next time.

One of the last times I let an opportunity slip away was at the beginning of this summer, as I was planting my first flower garden. For some reason, I became simply obsessed with hydrangeas. It seemed like everywhere I turned, there was a beautiful hydrangea bush, bursting with full blooms. Certainly, these bushes must be a snap to grow, as even run-down houses seemed to boast the most gorgeous bushes of blue and pink hydrangea.

Snap my ass. Apparently I don’t understand much about gardening. Or acidity of the soil. Or watering needs. My hydrangea died. Quickly. As in, the next day. Impressive.

While driving home and mourning my poor dead hydrangea one day, I noticed the most impressive hydrangea bush I had ever seen. Blue hydrangea mop heads, weighing down a massive bush outside of an old shack of a house that I had driven by a million times. I was surprised that I had never noticed this bush before because there was an old man who sat outside of this house and waved at passing drivers, if you just took the time to notice him. I always took the time to notice him. But how had I never noticed his hydrangea?

That night, I read a post by Oh, The Joys! about a conversation she shared with a couple of strangers on a plane. She wrote about how she rarely took part in plane conversations, but found herself opening up to these strangers in the most unexpected ways.

“We were three strangers talking about love and loss…

It was nice.

As much as I appreciate the quiet time to read, perhaps I should reconsider my position on plane talking…”

I decided that the next time I passed the old man with the hydrangea bush, I would pull over and talk to him. Talk to him about his hydrangea and hopefully talk to him about his life.

Dangerous? Maybe. Naive? Probably. Hopeful? Absolutely.

Having grown up in a rural community in Southern Illinois, I miss the old couples sitting out on their front steps in the evening, watching traffic and waving at the drivers who take the time to nod their way. There was something about this man, sitting in his old folding chair, next to his lush blue hydrangea bush, in front of his dilapidated old home, that spoke to me. Something familiar that I recognized. Something familiar to which I wanted to be near, if only for a moment.

The next night, I drove by his house, saw him sitting out front, began to bully up the courage to stop… and then hesitated. I realized that I was not driving the car he usually waved at me in and was suddenly afraid that he wouldn’t recognize me. As I approached the intersection in front of his home, I found myself driving right on past.

I never did stop. Despite seeing him evening after evening, I never did stop. I hesitated and the moment past me by, never to return. And now I regret the missed opportunity. The unknown pesters me.

If I have learned anything, it is that opportunities surround us every day. We just have to have our eyes open to recognizing them. It also helps to have our guts fortified so we are ready to seize them when they present themselves.

Oh, what lives we can lead when we do. When we stop hesitating and just pounce.

I used to just pounce. I did some of my favorite pouncing in college. The fortification of my gut was courtesy of a camera lens. The result was memories I will remember long after those of late night college dorm parties fade.

While experimenting with contrast filters, I drove through the streets of Montgomery, Alabama, looking for a subject to capture that would allow me to make the most of my filters. A foreshadowing of my opportunity with the hydrangea man presented itself and this time I pounced.

Outside of the entrance to the local mall parking lot, you could always count on the boiled peanut man. A heavy man in his early forties, he boiled peanuts in a huge kettle on the side of the road. People would pull over, pay a couple of dollars, and he would dip out a fresh batch of boiled peanuts into a paper bag for you.

What began as an opportunity to play with filters capturing light colored peanuts against dark water turned into an afternoon learning about a life. His huge, rough, cracked hands could have spoken a thousand words as they moved in and out of the hot water, but something in the air of the moment allowed him to open up and tell me tales his hands never suggested.

I was open to the opportunity. And I did not hesitate.

Now that fortification of my gut is found, not in a camera lens, but rather in the endless appetite of my Velveteen Mind. Always hungry for another story. Always searching for a new ear to bend.

I just have to remember to never hesitate. To simply pounce.

Just a few hours ago, I noticed your lovely Queen post a Twitter calling for guest bloggers. Figuring she was looking for someone to post, say, next week or so, I threw my hat in the ring. Her readers have always struck me as my kind of people, so what better way to introduce myself and hopefully find a few new ears to bend.

Fifteen minutes later she emailed me back and said something along the lines of “Great. Write it right now and post it yesterday.”

Okay, it wasn’t as demanding or dramatic as that, either. She actually granted me an hour or two of breathing room and then threatened to sabotage my Technorati ranking through her magical Queenly blogging influence if I didn’t deliver ASAP.

No time for hesitation this time. Seize the blog, my brutha, seize the blog.

Before she saddles up her Harley and rides.

Housekeeping

I’m holed up at a hotel in pretty Palo Alto, California after a day of work. Real work. Like..for REAL. I think I need to stop saying “I’m a stay-at-home mom” when people ask me what I do.

This “work” has kept me from blogging, please forgive me. Count Waffles the Terrible is doing much better, and we’re keeping his allergies/asthma in check. He’s back home, snuggling with his Daddy and Gramps while his sister WAILS for mommy to come home. Ouch. She’s not liking this whole mommy “working” thing. But she also does not like fruit. Or going to bed. So we’ll see.

More soon.

When Air Hurts

I’m laying in bed typing next to my listless 4-year old. He’s thrown up on my pillow tonight. My towels. My hair. He’s managed to cough his way into various vomits he’s not even waking up to notice.

The test results are in and while I wish I could say my son’s allergen-induced asthma was caused by the pollen outside or the cat inside, no such luck. After all, that would be the easy way to do things, and that’s just not how we work around here.

No, our little Count Waffles the Terrible tested negative for all the usual suspects. What we were not expecting was his cough-till-you-puke flem-fest pusher to be named pollution. No really, he’s allergic to the air. The chemicals. The irritants. The exhaust. The smoke. The smog.

I had my suspicions. The doctor even talked about it long ago when he was first diagnosed with his minor, and now outgrown tree allergy. I think I just refused to really face facts.  I would mention my baby boy’s allergies were irritated by pollution, but we never really found out for sure…until now.

I like to think I’m eco-conscience. We’re not crazy green around here but Daddy does drive a Prius and I throw the newspaper and water bottles in a totally different trash can than the other stuff. We’ve always used the “free” detergents and soaps. Mostly because we’re not a perfumey-flowery smelling family.

Honestly though, with today’s discovery at the Allergy and Asthma Institute, my head is spinning. I’m angry, I’m sad. I’m confused. I’m upset in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever been upset before. You’ll notice I’m not ranting.

I gave birth to a child in a major metropolitan city notorious for its air quality. I now have a child suffering, actually cuddled in bed next to me right now, suffering because of where he lives and what the people around him do. I’m not talking suffering like he has to take an inhaler or gets a runny nose and watery eyes. I mean…he’s up all night coughing until he gags over and over and over and over again. We’re on night #4.

Tonight, during one cough-till-you-puke session, he began to cry. On all fours on my bed, hovering over a towel filled with his vomit, he cried and asked “but how am I going to play tomorrow?

It broke my heart. It hit me in that mother spot so deep inside you have no choice but to feel physical pain.

I’ve always been the activist type, happy to take up the cause and fight like hell.

For the first time ever I am worked up over an issue in a way I can honestly say I’ve never been worked up before. Again, you will notice…I’m not ranting.

I don’t have any answers yet. Odd for me because, as you know, I have all the answers. I don’t even have all the questions yet.

I know my child is suffering. I know I must do something. The rest must be around here somewhere.

I…uh…umm…yeah

:17 in. Just ignore the mess.

You KNOW You Want To

I really want to make sure you see this, in case you missed it:

Can BlogHer Feature You and Your Recipe?
Calling all cooks! BlogHer is working on a holiday guide that includes recipes. We’d like your help with one in particular: Green bean casserole. Does your family have a special twist on this dish? Please blog, leave a comment on this newsletter with a link or vlog. If we like your idea, we’ll promote your blog! Questions? Email lisa@blogher.com.

************************************************************************************

Especially the part about BlogHer “working on a holiday guide” **COUGH COUGH COUGH***

Get talking green beans people. I SWEAR you won’t regret it. You trust me, don’t you???

The Next Alex P. Keaton

I don’t know where he gets it. Count Waffles the Terrible, who is all of 4 and a half years old is a quick study. After suffering yet another sibling indignity (his sister stole a car out of his hands) he declares, “Mom, can we just have a ‘no hot wheels for Hala’ policy in the house?”

Actually, I just posted this because it’s exactly the kind of thing I’m sure would drive Bill Maher crazy. Mommy drivel. I just might talk about potty training next. Lord knows if you’re not talking about Iraq or fill-in-the-blank political scandal you can’t possibly be making a difference in the world or understand satire.

Bitter much?

Well, that and my kid is cute as hell.

Bill Maher Can Suck My Tits

Dear Bill,

I have a great rack. Seriously. You would love them. I can tell you are a man that likes a good set of tits and let me tell you, mine deliver.

I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you though. They’re just tits, and they are not there to get you hard, they are there to feed my kid.

I’m writing you tonight because you’ve got all my girlfriends in a little woman tizzy. The hens, they are circling…twitter, blogs, they are all aflutter with remarks you made tonight on your little HBO show.

Indulge me, Huffington Post blogger to Huffington Post blogger, and let’s just review your view on *gasp* public breastfeeding (now don’t freak out, we might be lactivists, but we’re no PETA…I’m not going to throw anything on you…just listen)-

“Narcisist,” “Petty” – just a few of the words you threw out there at us breeders. You went on about how breastfeeding was an intimate act, not unlike masturbation, and why we crazy women and our causes need to shut it so real issues can be addressed. You know, because real issues don’t include the health of American’s children (I guess that means you’re ok with the me feeding the kid a french fry to shut it up?) or the warped idea we Americans have about sex and body image and what is “obscene” or “acceptable.”

My gal pal in arms over at Suburban Oblivion covers it better than I could,

“I’ve always considered Bill Maher incredibly progressive, but this type of rhetoric makes me wonder if he isn’t a little more backwards than he’d like us to think.

Mr. Maher, let’s look at a fact or three shall we?

Breastfeeding can in NO way be compared to masturbation. Last I checked, masturbating is not necessary to survive, whereas feeding the infant when they are hungry IS.

How about the fact that by repeatedly asking the woman to cover herself, the Applebee’s employees were breaking the law??? In 2006 Kentucky passed a law specifically protecting the right to breastfeed in public, and specifically exempting breastfeeding from public indecency laws.(Unlike spanking your monkey.)

For someone who professes to be a huge fan of Hugh Hefner and Playboy, you certainly have one ass-backwards view of using the breast for it’s intended function. Boobs for show? Awesome! Boobs for food? Bad! Put those away! Sorry, it doesn’t lend much to your credibility.

So why do people worry themselves with something you deem so unimportant? To those of us who care about the future health of our children, this IS an important issue. Breastfeeding is proven to reduce the risk of diabetes, heart disease, obesity, and a multitude of other problems. Given the out-of-control state of these things in the US today, one would think anything we could do to help curb this trend would not only be supported, but embraced.

The declining health of the population may not be as high on your radar as global warming Mr. Maher, but to those of us entrusted to raise the next generation, it’s our number one priority. “

Let’s face it. If families stopped supporting the American Service Economy, which we’d have to do if we were never allowed to feed our children in Applebees, then disposable income would dry up. If that happened, no one would be able to afford to pay for HBO. So you’d be out of a job (…again) and if you weren’t famous, how would you ever see any woman’s boob ever again?

In short Bill, you should know better that we womenfolk don’t take up our causes lightly. Or on a whim. Or because we’re just trying to hog the spotlight. We’re actually trying to accomplish something a little bit more profound and large than can be summed up in a “new rules” segment that ends in “Hooters.”

Get your laughs. Tell your jokes. Oogle my breasts. Just use next week’s show to join our lactivist cause.

XOXOXO,

Erin Kotecki Vest

Thyroidectomy

Back in January I had a full body. All my parts were present and accounted for. The baby was over a year old and the weight was nearly gone.

Life was good.

By the end of January I was wrapped in gauze and patched together with stitches and glue. A gland I was told I could do without was gone, and recovery was underway.

My chart from UCLA says I was 148lbs and in good health. Today my doctor tells me synthetic hormone replacement isn’t working well and experts need to be consulted. I have 0 metabolism, 0 cancer, of course, 0 thryoid.

The 0 cancer part is an obvious plus. The 0 metabolism is making me wish I chanced the cancer. Terrible. I know. But going up a few pant sizes will make you a bit crazy in the head.

176lbs and counting and I’m miserable. Beyond miserable. Gym 3 days a week and 1200 calories a day. Still counting the pounds. Not down, but up.

Lab work says my meds aren’t working (no shit) and might be a long road to figure out what might work.

In the meantime I get to be tired and gain weight, with a really, super attractive scar on my neck. Its enough to make me lose it. And not just lose it…like I’m having a bad day…lose it..but REALLY LOSE IT.

I’m going to expose myself in a new project very soon, and lay all that is me out there for the world to view. Yes, VIEW. I’m expecting critics. Comes with the territory. What I’m not ready to handle is the Britney-esq remarks.

I’m not looking for a “oh but you look great” comment. Just humor me in my moment of weakness today, and when this new project rolls out in a few months, tell me you’ve got my back. It is NOT often I feel vulnerable or hold myself to the same asinine standards as what the media portrays of women. Its not often I even admit to feeling self conscience. In fact, I may deny I ever wrote this post come tomorrow.

Just tell me you’ll have my back. I’m qualified. I’m capable. I won’t be photoshopped or use fuzzy lighting. Real women. Real bodies. Real Me.