For the bills on my desk right now.
For the bills that have already cost my friends their homes.
For the ones who didn’t make it long enough to face those bills.
For the millions of people who don’t seek treatment because they aren’t even privileged enough have an insurance company to bill.
Because, while this legislation isn’t perfect, if we DON’T it only gets worse.
And because if you don’t, I’m going to look like this…
…except I’m old enough to vote.
I looked down at my feet tonight and saw sock that weren’t my own.
Just plain white socks.
I squinched my face and tried to remember where I had snagged them from.
A drawer?
A laundry basket?
The counter by the shoes, I think?
My feet were cold. My feet are always cold. And I went for the first pair I could find.
I squinched my face again peering at these white socks realizing they weren’t mine, but they also weren’t my husband’s.
Odd, I thought.
And then…my heart fell into my stomach, my eyes grew wide, and my mind began to race.
These are my son’s socks.
I’m wearing my son’s socks.
My son has feet big enough to wear sock that would fit my feet.
My son that is six. He’s SIX. He’s not seven for two more weeks.
How can my baby boy possibly have feet that would wear socks that would even come close to fitting my feet?
I’m wearing my son’s socks. And they fit.
And I mourn. And I celebrate. And I mourn.
Just plain white socks.
My kids tend to sneak things into my suitcase when I go away on a business trip. Usually it’s one of their toys. Occasionally a picture.
This time around?
Nothing.
My son is entirely unfazed by my comings and goings, and my daughter is just downright pissed off. She’s decided my leaving is a direct insult to her tiny being and she’s crossed her arms in defiance and, this time, flat out refused to lovingly help pack my bag.
Empty.
There are no stuffed kitties or bunnies in my bag. There are no smiling stick figures drawn with care and attention. There are only my jeans and sweaters and a plastic airplane my son had placed between my toiletries and my coat the last time I left town.
We have all these discussions about women in the workforce, women in the office, women breaking the glass ceiling…but the reality is that despite wanting to dominate the world…my suitcase is empty.
I’m not sure if I can put into words what that does to me.
My suitcase is empty.
Despite having every ability and ambition, it just physically pained me to go pull out my pajama’s as I ready for bed here in this hotel room…and find no tiny puppies and zero little ponies.
My passion for what I do overwhelms me sometimes. It drives me to spend long hours writing, reporting, and organizing in the things I believe. I’m lucky that my job and my passion collide in such a wonderful way.
But my passion for a full suitcase overwhelms as well. And it tears at me as I try to concentrate on the task at hand.
Who knew such a small thing could make such a big difference.
Empty.
Given that I used to be what the kids call a *real* reporter and am now a blogger… (which I think makes me some sort of fake reporter….) I’m headed to Reno, Nevada this week to corrupt speak to Journalism students, at the Reynolds School of Journalism at the University of Nevada, Reno, about the wonders of this *new* media world.
I plan to corrupt speak to them the way I blog…in my pajama bottoms.*
Ok maybe not, but I do plan on letting them know there’s room for everyone as Journalism and reporting find their way in this crazy new world.
I’ll also be at Nevada Interactive Summit if you happen to be in the neighborhood.
The fun doesn’t stop there either…just as soon as I get home, I’ll be turning around to attend and speak at SXSWi in Austin, Texas.
I keep promising Denise I won’t start any wars as I travel around to let everyone know what BlogHer is up to…but if Texas plans on seceding….no promises. Or if Austin let’s me have too much of it’s tequila…Or if I end up outside Austin city limits and Republicans chase me with their pickup trucks and hunting rifles…or if the Texas Board of Education nutjobs show up anywhere…Texas, you annoy me. Wars will be avoided if possible.
…maybe Denise is right….
*the pj thing would make way more sense if you saw the presentation I’m giving on us upstart bloggers living in our parent’s basements….
crossposted at BlogHer.com
My husband removed the floor mat from his 2005 Toyota Prius today, because he’d rather not die. Correction: I informed my husband to immediately remove the floor mat from him 2005 Toyota Prius so it wouldn’t KILL HIM.
Toyota is recalling millions of vehicles, and despite being an owner of one of said recalled vehicles, I found out via the news. Yes I tend to panic a bit, but when you hear stories about accelerators getting stuck and families dying, I think I am allowed to panic.
From MNN.com:
Lastrella: Our accelerator is stuck. We’re on 125.
911dDispatcher: Northbound 125. What are you passing?
Lastrella: We’re going 120. Mission Gorge. We’re in trouble. We can’t … there is no brakes. End freeway half mile.
911 dispatcher: You can’t do anything like turn off your engine?
Lastrella: We’re approaching the intersection. We’re approaching the intersection. We’re approaching the intersection.
With voices inside the car shouting “hold on” and “pray,” the Lexus slammed into the rear of a Ford Explorer, hopped a curb, and burst through a fence before rolling down an embankment, becoming airborne and rolling several times before bursting into flames in the San Diego River Basin. All four people on board were killed.
So go ahead and tell me I’m just fueling panic and being over dramatic, but the fact of the matter is this recall is for real, people have died, and my husband’s car is on the list. Not only is it on the list but we have yet to be sent a letter by Toyota or the dealership telling us what we should do.
So I called Toyota Santa Monica and asked.
Why? Because this morning I woke up and heard Department of Transportation Secretary Ray LaHood telling a House committee that Toyota owners should “stop driving” their recalled cars. LaHood attempted to clarify his remarks later by saying Toyota owners concerned about their cars should take them in to the dealership. But the damage was done. Even stocks slipped on the news.
So that’s what I did. I called the dealership. And the conversation wasn’t very comforting. The very nice service department woman on the other end of the phone informed me that yes, my husband’s car was part of the recall and as a “quick fix” he could remove his floor mat. She also then informed me that it didn’t really matter though, because they don’t have the parts to fix the problem…so she couldn’t schedule an appointment or help me beyond telling me to remove the floor mat. And oh, by the way, once they DID get the parts in, she couldn’t fix our car until we got an “official” recall letter in the mail.
Encoremind got a similar but even more disturbing response from his dealership “Don’t have a letter either. Dealer says just put shift in neutral if you feel you are going to your certain death. %$&#@?!%”
I’m not the only one uncomfortable with all of this. Feather14 on Twitter tells me her 73-year old mother just bought her first car ever, a Toyota, and now she’s too scared to drive it.
She started not going on the highway, then last week she felt something with the peddle and decided not to drive it anymore.
Jacki Mieler says, “Honestly, I wasn’t too worried until the Transportation Sec’s declaration today. Now I’m freaked. I need the truck in snow tho…”
However there are those with recalled vehicles that are less than concerned. Denise at BlogHer has the same floor mat problem in her Prius. When I told her to go immediately remove her floor mat (because I’d rather she didn’t die either) she told me to “#suckit no I like my floormat.”
Toyota is attempting to reassure car owners like myself who may not be as confident as Denise. The automaker issued this statement shortly after LaHood’s remarks:
…Our message to Toyota owners is this – if you experience any issues with your accelerator pedal, please contact your dealer without delay. If you are not experiencing any issues with your pedal, we are confident that your vehicle is safe to drive.
Nothing is more important to Toyota than the safety and reliability of the vehicles our customers drive. Our entire organization of 172,000 North American employees and dealership personnel is working around the clock to fix the accelerator pedals for our customers.
So while we await word via official letter on how to handle this recall, I’ll tell you what I told my husband: Next time, listen to your Detroit-born wife, granddaughter of a Chrysler worker, supporter of all things Detroit auto industry related…and buy Detroit*.
*I’m ignoring any recall, problem, issue, lack of innovation, or otherwise that may or may not have ever happened in the history of Detroit automaking. Today, and just for today, I’m gloating.
Contributing Editor Erin Kotecki Vest drives a Chrysler Town & Country and also blogs at Queen of Spain blog.
I like to lay in bed with my children and just talk. We talk about the day, we talk about their lives…but mostly I answer questions. Millions upon millions of questions from budding brains that seem to have no end.
What was it like when you were a kid?
How old was Nana when you were a baby?
Why does that caterpillar have green spots when the book showed red spots?
Do some people live naked?
Yeah. That one made me stop and think before opening my mouth too.
Well honey, there are people who do live naked. They are called nudists.
Yes they walk naked. Yes they eat naked. Yes they sleep naked.
Well there is nothing wrong with being naked.
Well we cover our private parts because they are personal (I know…shut up)
Well I am not sure why its against the law to be naked if it’s nothing to be ashamed of
Well honey some people believe it’s ok and others don’t
Yes, just like Santa and the Space Ghost guy* and the other people who vote
Why do you think naked is silly? What so silly about your body?
And this went on and on and on until I really didn’t know what else to say.
They are asking so many questions lately that I find myself fumbling constantly for answers. CONSTANTLY. I don’t REMEMBER the answers to simple life-science stuff I should totally know off hand. Cells? Organisms? Microbes? I really keep forgetting my history too. Oh well there once was a big war in our country and people from the North and South fought…in um…lots of places.
And I certainly wasn’t prepped or ready to tackle nudists. Why I even went down that road is beyond me but once I did…the train wasn’t stopping. The kids were fascinated that people would play volleyball naked. Now, don’t ask me WHY I told them nudists played a lot of volleyball. I just did. Because I probably saw it on a bad movie once or something. I have NO IDEA it just CAME OUT OF MY MOUTH. I don’t even think my kids know what volleyball is…anyway, doesn’t matter. What matters is… I know nothing. And my children are proving to me every day I should have stayed in school longer and maybe hung around more nudists.
*my son calls God/Jesus ‘that space ghost guy’ ….yeah I know. Go ahead and yell at me.
See this? This is the sort of thing that makes me cringe and get nauseated and freak out-internally.
It’s true I’m one of those mother’s that keeps her children close. I don’t like them doing ANYTHING risky and I’d rather all their limbs remain grounded. I was not-so-secretly FINE with my kids being afraid of heights (which they outgrew, dammit) and if it were up to me they’d walk around in padding and helmets … just in case. They hold my hand across parking lots, I don’t let them play out front without an adult around. If there is a tree that needs to be climbed or the ledge of a wall walked…I prefer their father handle the task. I don’t want my kid driving in someone else’s car, so I schedule calls around field trips. If I haven’t been to your house and don’t know you well, they aren’t coming over to play.
Yes, I know. They need to experience the world and that may include getting hurt. Yes, I realize they have to be allowed to explore. Believe me…I try my best to allow reasonable play around here. But that’s exactly why, when my daughter was being tossed too many feet into the air…I kept my mouth shut. She was giggling, Dad was laughing…I was dying.
Do I speak up? Do I shut up? If I say something I’m a party pooper. If I don’t she could have a cracked head. Clearly Dad is in control, but what if an accident happens?
I struggle, much like this, almost daily. When I speak up I offend their father or ruin the fun and when I shut up I am riddled with anxiety. I have family members that discuss me as a ‘helicopter’ mom and friends that pat me on the back in agreement.
It’s a never-ending wave of decisions that ultimately show me as both the bad guy and the cautious parent…but never as fun.
I’m learning to accept my suck-ass FunKiller role, though. I am. Because frankly, I can’t take the alternative. Nor should I.
I’m self-diagnosing again. Well, because WebMD exists and that’s just what a neurotic woman does.
I’ve been feeling a bit crummy again, not a full relapse of symptoms but I’m certainly not jogging a 5k like some people in my house. I’ve had to stop one of the medications that was really making a difference in my health due to it’s side effects. Since then I’ve been nauseated and generally bleh.
But as I’ve tried to find other ways to feel better…I discovered something utterly amazing about myself.
I haven’t stopped sucking in my stomach for 20 years.
I’ve now decided this is the cause of all my gastro issues.
Think I’m crazy? Think maybe I should check with my doctor? …do me a favor. Relax your stomach RIGHT NOW. Try it. See if you are sucking it in and not even noticing. Turns out I’ve been sucking in the old gut while standing, sitting, making dinner, playing Memory with the kids…to the point where I have to consciously REMIND myself to NOT suck it in and even then it’s a physical pain to literally PUSH my gut back out.
I don’t even REALIZE I am doing it. So in my warped head, sucking in your gut for 20 years HAS to cause issues…right? No wonder my stomach muscles don’t work… they are TIRED. Tired. Tired. Tired.
And I blame the Patriarchy.
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