The Epic Struggle

Ah baby weight. The bane of every mother's existence. Well, most mothers. Apparently my friend Payge is actually 8 pounds (at last count) under her pre-baby weight and it took her about the blink of an eye to do it. We'll talk about her behind her back another time. Those last five... no eight... no five... pounds just will not come off. Now, let's be honest here. I have no one to blame but myself. I like Coca Cola and Nutty Bars and home-made desserts and pizza and baked ziti and nachos and ...well, you get my point. Conversely, I don't like (and this is an understatement) broccoli and exercise. That which is good for me I hate and that which I need to turn my back on I love. I used to be somewhat quietly judgmental of obese people that I saw in public and now I just think "There but for the grace of God go I."

My dilemma is that I want to want to lose weight for the right reason. I want to want to lose weight so I can be healthy and live a good long life of purpose and have tons of energy to keep up with my kids and my husband and so on and so forth. The truth, however, is that I want to lose about 30 pounds so I can look smokin' hot in a pair of jeans. I want to watch my husband's tongue fall out when I walk in the room. I want us to go out and have other men think what a lucky bastard he is that he's with me. I want to wear clothes and have them fit right like they did in college. I want to lose weight so that I can like what I see when I look in the mirror. Unfortunately, right now I like what I see when I look in the fridge.

It's Not Fair!

Anybody who has ever been anywhere near another human being has probably heard "It's not fair!" and probably in a really annoying whiny voice. If you're anything like my mom you probably respond with something like, "Get over it. Life isn't fair." or "Newsflash! Earth to Dianne! Life is just not fair." We all know this is true but what would it look like if life really was fair? What does "fair" even mean?

First, let's just get this out of the way: We all know that fairness in this world just isn't possible. Why? Because fair looks like something different to you than it does to me. For example: There are people who think that it isn't fair that Mark Cuban has oodles of money when there are lots of families out there who can barely make it and are losing their homes. So, how do we make it fair? Do we employ a Robin Hood mentality and take most of Mark's money and spread it around? Would that make the world more fair? I doubt that Mark Cuban would think so. He would say that his money was made through hard work, ingenuity and savvy handling of his money. Why should the products of his endeavor be given to someone else who didn't work for them? So you see our dilemma. If we make it "fair" for one person, we usually make it "unfair" to someone else.

So let's take a deeper look into "it's not fair." What are we really saying? We are really saying that the scales are not tilting our way right now. Our human existence is not supposed to be uncomfortable, right? God forbid anything bad ever happen to me because I don't like it. When my mom told me to "get over it" she was really saying that trials and tribulations are a part of life. Sometimes the scales are just not going to tilt your way and no amount of whining is going to change that no matter how justified you might feel at the time.

Let's be clear, however. Fairness and justice are two very different things. For instance, according to a Yale University study in 2007, black defendants are 3 times more likely to get the death penalty than white defendants when the victim was white. That's not unfair. That's unjust. Taking all of Mark Cuban's money and spreading it around so that everyone has an equal amount might seem fair but it would definitely be unjust (i.e. theft.) Unfortunately, injustice is also a fact of life. I'm not too worried about the world being unfair but it does bother me a lot when it's unjust.

I guess this is the part where I come up with a solution. I don't have one. We need to pick our battles. Let's not get our panties in a twist when life isn't fair. Our whining accomplishes nothing except causing the powers-that-be to tune us out. Let's save our voices for injustice and make them heard when they really count. I'm cynical enough to think it probably won't work but at least I will not die knowing that I encountered injustice and did nothing.

Is 7:45 Early?

It's funny how kids give you a lot of insight into how your life has been going lately. My son got up to find me already awake at the computer. He shuffled into the room to blink at me confusedly and say, "What are you doing up already? You couldn't sleep?" It's seven forty stinkin' five! It's not like he got up at three AM to find me madly knitting little sweaters for the dog we don't have. Apparently I've been sleeping pretty late as of late.

The other day he saw me mopping the floor and said, "Who's coming over?" oops. It's not like I was polishing the silver or making a meal big enough to feed Cox's Army here. The fact that our floor is actually getting mopped should not necessarily be a positive indicator that company is imminent. Maybe my housekeeping has been less than stellar lately.

I'm waiting with bated breath for him to make some comment about me needing to go on a diet.

I'm convinced that children are God's favorite flame in his refiner's fire. They so eloquently point out our foibles and force us to face (and laugh at) our most unattractive qualities. Thank you, Lord, that you love me enough to give me a smart &** child.

A Little Sarcastic Clarity

How clearly do we actually see ourselves? I know I don't see myself clearly but then I deceive myself into thinking that I see clearly because I know I don't see clearly, you know?

I asked my husband tonight if he felt like he couldn't talk to me about things even though I already knew that I'm the easiest person in the world to talk to because I'm so down-to-earth and level-headed. I found out something that he hadn't told me and I was hurt about it. It really wasn't anything big like cheating or anything but it hurt that I was the last to know and I felt that, as his wife, I should have been the first. He responded to my query with "Well, about things like this, yeah because I knew you'd be all mad and stuff." (He teaches high school so he tends to talk like a teenager, sometimes.)

I don't understand this approach. This was something I was bound to find out about eventually and was really no big deal so why would you just postpone the inevitable and make it worse in the long run? Now instead of being merely irritated, I'm mad and hurt to boot. And, while we're on the subject of me being mad, my husband is one of the most forceful personalities I know so since when does he care about me being mad? Me at my maddest is like a walk in the park compared to his temper. He would disagree but he doesn't see himself as clearly as I do.

It turns out that he doesn't see me in quite the same level-headed light that I see myself. I'm not one of those people who holds a grudge and makes you suffer for a week or twelve when you make me mad. I'm kind of a lazy person and most of the time I find by the end of about two hours that holding a grudge just takes too much energy. Could my husband really be that intimidated by my marginal irritation? Is it just possible my irritation would have jumped the ditch from marginal to pissed off? Probably.

So here's the dilemma: How do I make myself more approachable because I don't want to ever again be in a situation where half of Dallas County (slight exaggeration here) knows about some decision my husband has made before I do? Still, if he makes a decision that I disagree with or that I feel is not in the best interests of our family, I'm not just going to be a doormat and not express an opinion on the subject. If I'm hurt by something, those feelings are real and denying that they exist would be swinging the pendulum too far the other way and counterproductive.

I'm convinced it's all in the approach. I just don't know for sure what that approach is yet.

My Montana

It's not my Montana -- with the dry martini crisp air that hurts lungs that have grown accustomed to city smog and Texas humidity. It's not the clear lakes that are so transparent you wonder for a split second if they are truly there or just a fairy tale. It's not the thrilling snow-capped dental crags that seem to desperately stretch for some unknown goal in the endless expanse of blue. It's not the camera flash of snow that leaves you half-blind in a sun-drenched instant in late January. It's not the ski hills crawling with wealthy adventuresome ants slipping downhill in search of excitement only to ride up to find it again. It's not untamed and serene wildlife calmly staring out of forest shadows shaming humans who live purposeless busy lives. It's not pristine forests of green varying in shades from emerald to jade to gold.

My Montana was the ever-present and pervading odor of cow poop that invades nostril hairs and permeates dreams. It's the stunning crystal lakes full of giardia and other possibly deadly and definitely uncomfortable and embarrassing bacteria just waiting to strike the unwary hiker. It's exhausting 14-mile hikes to the tops of those snow-capped mountains so we could have "family time." It's the sparkle of pristine snow from which you have to dig out the half-ton pickup that somehow managed to get stuck despite having four-wheel drive. It's the exhilarating and award-winning ski hill that injured my knee so badly in the seventh grade that it still aches when it rains. It's the fathomless depths of the doe's eyes staring unseeingly at me from the back of a pickup during hunting season of my brother's twelfth year. That was my Montana.

Now, it's the unreachable dream. It's the promise of livable summers that don't include scorching heat and unbearable humidity. It's the mountain views that still take my breath away without even trying. It's the unbearable beauty of cool shadows and sun-dappled fields that reminds me of why it's called God's country. It's the thrill of sinking into a river flowing with glacial water that was snow eight hours before. It is my past and my children's legacy. I wish it was my Montana again.

Violin: A memory

The tiny arm moves clumsily
Over the noisy strings
Yet no squeaks or screeches
Are remembered

Sound is shrunk down
To a chest full of chuckles
A grandfather's pride in
His favorite

How secure to know
To feel you are the beloved
The pride and joy
The favored

Love shared through playing of
A treasured instrument
That no other can touch
The Violin

What pride was mine
To tread that sacred ground
To enter the secret club
A musician

To be like Grandpapa
the highest calling there is
The reader, the poet, the pilot
The musician

He is naught but dust
His soul has been returned
Sound and feeling all recalled
Remembrance alone

the violin still lives
In the corner of my bedroom
Beside a forgotten guitar
A reminder

Heroes are often introduced
When we are young and small
They are often abandoned
And forgotten

But some bring lasting pressure
And through our lives hold sway
He is not forgotten
or abandoned

I am now a reader
A teacher and a poet
He would be proud of me
The musician

The Blond Polka Dot

I have a green card. I don't know why they call it that. It isn't green. It's an invaluable card issued by the federal government of the United States of America that says I get to live here without being hassled and I get to keep my job. I am an immigrant.

We all have perceptions and ideas about what an immigrant looks like. I picture the lines of youthful Europeans entering Ellis island in the late 1800's, their faces line with work and worry but shining with the hope of a new beginning on a young continent. Those of us in Texas also think of Mexicans, desperate to come to America to escape unimaginable poverty. I also imagine the Asian parents of my students who cam to this country to give their children a better life and stringently remind their children of this sacrifice whenever a "C" comes home on the report card. The one thing that does not come to mind is a blond three-year-old from a middle class family who is fluent in English and didn't need to come to American for a better life. Yet, here I am.

Green cards must now be renewed very ten years. This means that once a decade I get to be reminded how weird I am. (I'm sure my children will start reminding me more often when they get a little older.) I dutifully place myself at the end of the four-hour line outside of the United States Citizenship and Immigration office at 8101 North Stemmons Freeway in Dallas. I don't notice at first how out of place I am until I become aware of the strange looks from my fellow line-mates. After a quick glance to my left and a momentary peek over my shoulder, I come to the realization that I am one of four white people in the entire line that has grown to three football fields in length. (They cleverly bend and twist the line to hide the true wait time in the Texas heat.) I am a blond polka dot on the brunette dress that clothes the outside of 8101 North Stemmons Freeway.

I admit that I don't tend to think of modern immigrants as white people. I forget that I myself am an immigrant until I'm reminded by the need to produce a green card in order to get a new job or cross the Canadian border. I know I am not the only person with these preconceived notions. A friend recently asked me why I was talking about being an immigrant. When I reminded her that I was a Canadian, they were startled for a moment before admitting that they don't think of Canadians as immigrants.

So, I am forced to ask: Is this because the majority of Canadians are white or because Canadian and American cultures are not outrageously different? I once had a friend describe Canada as "America Lite." I confess that I was fairly offended by this statement. You don't hear Canadians calling the US "South Canada," after all. However, both labels do make strange sense. Both America Lite and South Canada stemmed from incredibly similar roots a relatively short time ago. These countries have an unprecedented amount of trust between them as a result of these comparable cultures and values. They share the longest demilitarized border in the world.

Society's perceptions of an immigrant are no longer valid in this ever-shrinking world. Immigration has more to do with lines on a map than with culture, race, and hair color. So, I'll keep carrying my green card and I'll be one of the blond polka dots outside of the immigration office on North Stemmons every ten years but I don't feel like an immigrant. I did not come to the US on a crowded steam ship to Ellis Island and I don't think my parents had any thoughts of a significantly better life when they moved from Saskatchewan to Montana. I am an immigrant because I happened to be born on one side of a border and now I happen to live on the other. No more. No less.