What We Take With Us

My mother used to say that every time she saw chickens she thought of me. As an afterthought, she would add how much she hated chickens. This didn't happen once. It happened repeatedly. "Every time I see chickens, it just makes me think of you. Ug, I hate chickens!" It made me laugh every single time. One time I repeated it to her verbatim. A horrified look crossed her face as the she heard those two ideas side-by-side for the first time. "I suck. I am so sorry!" I laughed and explained that I understood. I loved my chickens. She saw chickens and thought of my love for chickens, then the thought of how much she hated chickens. A perfectly logical thought progression.

Recently, I've been thinking of my mom every time I see oleander. I loathe oleander. It's pokey and huge and poisonous. Terrible to try to eradicate. But my mom loved it because her mom loved it. It thrives in drought, a bright spot the drab brown of our Northern Californian summers. But man, I hate that stuff.

At the beginning of August, my yvil sister and I buried my mother's ashes. Y had collected a batch of little trinkets to bury with her, the dogs' name tags, little charms with all of our birthstones, a rainbow girls thing-a-ma-bobber, and a Starbucks latte, prepared just the way my mom liked. I brought nothing.

She placed the plastic box of ashes in the hole and scattered her meaningful trinkets over and around the box, and wedged the latte in there. I went to the edge of the cemetery, picked some oleander blossoms, and placed them on top of the other things. They were lovely: poisonous, pokey and lovely.

They reminded me of my mom, of my relationship with my mom. Are there two different ways of looking at something? We'd take opposite stances. Sometimes that could get a little impassioned, hating something the other person loved. But always we loved each other, even when we were so angry (or hurt) we could hardly speak to each other.

When we had only days left, did we talk oleander or chickens? No. At the beginning of the end, when her capacity for speech was really winding down, she had one thing to tell me—I love you. When she was signing Christmas cards, she could hardly write her name, but she wrote IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou all joined together. She loved me. She hated chickens, homeschooling, attachment parenting, home birth, and the Mormon church, but she loved me. In the end, that love was all that mattered.

Wonder What Brought That To Mind

Elaine and I were walking tonight, chatting away, when she mentioned that she didn't like the creepy aspects of Dr. Who. Perfectly normal things suddenly were creeping her out. Things like statues. And shadows. We both glanced back at the driveway we had just passed. And saw. . .

No sign of the Doctor though.

When Delusions Collide

Saturday, my mom started hospice, the in-home kind. So yeah, we're getting there. The chemotherapy is not helping and is, in fact, sapping all joy and comfort out of her remaining days, so she stopped. The doctor said that of course we don't know precisely how much longer she's got, but given her symptoms (weight loss, appetite loss, difficulty breathing, blood clots, recurrent infections, routine dehydration, weakness) and the x-ray confirmation that tumors are getting more profuse and bigger, not smaller, we are looking at a couple months.

The first hospice meeting was an enrollment meeting with some kind of administrator/nurse, Linda, a nice lady. She explained the program to us. Explained the stringent requirements. (Did you know you can get kicked out of hospice if you plateau too long? [I wish!] Must be journeying toward death to qualify.) She answered our diverse questions, and exhibited incredible patience.

My mom asked a few reasonable questions and did a whole lot of listening. My aunt sat in one corner, saying things like "She's getting better, not worse; she doesn't need this." My sister sat in another corner, shaking and weeping softly. My mom's friend gave a spirited account of her volunteer service in Hurricane Katrina. My 18-year-old, Elaine, who's the one actually living with her, said nothing. We all recoiled in horror when we realized they wouldn't give her IV fluids at home (which she does twice a week), that at some point she'd be too weak to go and they still wouldn't do it.

Honestly, it's all a bit of a surreal blur. Elaine says I behaved well. (Good to know as there was a great deal of "OH, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, PULL IT TOGETHER, YOU WEIRDOS!" going on in my head.) Honestly, I can't remember much except my family's bizarre behavior and going through all mom's meds with Linda, the RN.

Some real perks to hospice: We no longer pay for OTC or co-pays on prescriptions. One call gets us medical advice day or night. One nurse contacts all of the doctors for my mom. Some of this uncontrolled pain will be eased. Someone else is going to change her sheets twice a week. (My shoulder sort of hates me.) A social worker will help our family work through some of the issues surrounding mom's illness and death.

And boy, are there some issues. One of the drawbacks of moving to hospice care is that it's really bringing out our different points of view. Very uncomfortable.

My aunt believes that the doctors don't know what they are talking about and my mom is not going to die from this and if we would all just send our positive thoughts into the universe she would be recovering from all these nasty complications from the meds much faster.

My sister believes that she will not survive my mother's death and there will never be happiness again. Ever. About anything.

I believe that as the chemo works it's way out of my mom's system, she will feel better for a while. Then the cancer will attempt a take-over and my mom will ultimately die. (At which point, the cancer loses forever. This thought is grimly satisfying. Cancer never wins. Never.) Then my mom's spirit will join her family and friends who have gone before her in the spirit world and she will await the resurrection. Then she gets a perfect pain-free body, as does everyone else she loves. I like my worldview best.

Still the suffering right now is hard. I spend a lot of time pondering the purpose of all this. Started reading The Book Thief, which by all accounts is fabulous, and had to set it aside. Anything narrated by Death is going to have to wait. For a long while, I'm guessing.

I've decided that it's OK that my husband under-reacts to emotional trauma. (see http://www.supermisc.blogspot.com/2010/11/his-and-hers.html) He's calm. He and God are kinda holding the world together for me.

The Snack Time Minefield

Nine years ago when Nat was a Kindergartner, we had some issues with class snack. We were montessori-ing it at that point, and snack time and civility was a big deal—bring your own placemat. So the plan was that every twenty days we'd bring snack for twenty kids. Simple enough, no? No.

First came vegan mom's horror, Oreos. ("What kind of person would feed their five-year-old Oreos?!? At 10 in the morning!?!" [I plead the fifth.])

Then came nut allergy mom. ("Actually, if any of the kids eat peanut butter before they come to school, would you mind bathing them thoroughly before they leave for school? In fact, could you just stop eating peanut butter in your homes? Thanks!")

Then the dairy allergy raised it's ugly head. ("Not everything. Just milk, yogurt, cheese, butter, sour cream, those sorts of things. Bread is OK.")

"Please no wheat allergy. Please no "dried fruit causes cavities" dentist's kids, please!" became my prayer. I distinctly remember the day I went to make ants on a log and bought cream cheese to use instead of pb, but then realized that cream cheese was dairy. OK, ants next to a log.

Such a stress. It took months before the teacher came to the conclusion that everyone should bring their own snack for civility time. In the meantime, I just brought in boxes of back-up snacks and tried to stay out of the line of fire.

It's hard to find something that works for twenty different mom/kid combos. One person's yum is another person's yuck. Hummus, a favorite of vegan mom, gagged my daughter. People's definition of healthy varied widely. Although most of us recognized Oreos as a nutrition fail, fruit snacks, yogurt, and muffins also raised a ruckus among some parents.

Fast forward to Caroline's class which started last week, it took precisely two days and a glance over everyone's health forms to reveal that some of our cuties have nut allergies (almonds, walnuts, pecans—no peanuts, amazingly enough) and dairy sensitivities. By that night an email went out explaining the issue and explaining the new snack procedure. It was pretty complicated: bring something your child can and will eat in a container marked with her name. Works for me.

But here's where my brain stalls out. You can run into kids with conflicting needs. My best friend's son had food issues. He ate nothing but Jif smooth peanut butter and honey bear honey on Home Pride butter-top white bread (PBH). What happens when that PBH boy is in the same school as death by peanut fumes girl?

When Nat was in fourth grade she couldn't bring PB in her lunch, because there was a girl in her class that had a preschool sibling at home who had a deadly allergy. There's an entire school in our district that is peanut-free. And I get it. You can't just say, "Suck it up and carry an epi-pen! Gotta enter the real world sometime, kid." But can you say, "OK, we'll go to tube feeding for you, PBH kid"?

I'm guessing most people would vote for PBH boy to just be hungry until he gets home and say that if you just feed a picky child a variety of healthy foods and don't give them their food of choice when they fail to eat the options before them, they'll get hungry enough to eat something other than PBH. Eventually. I bear my testimony that there are children in the world who will not eat rather than eat undesired food. I've met them. I've seen heroic efforts put forth by admirable parents. I've seen the kids begin to waste away. Not pretty in a land of plenty.

So what to do when picky runs into food allergy? No clue. And I'm glad I don't have to decide it. Just glad our Kindergarten teacher decisively took care of snack so quickly.

His and Hers

My husband and I don't actually have a lot in common, but the things we do are pretty big. For instance, my mother-in-law also has stage IV cancer. She was given a year to live a few years back. So he's has been dealing with this for a while. And I haven't understood him at all. I tried to restrain myself from nagging. (Don't you want to go spend time with your mom? Maybe you should send flowers? Do you want to send a card?) Because my husband's response has been that since she's not feeling well, she'd like a little peace and quiet, and he's going to give it to her.

My mom's been in the hospital all week, and I've gone as often as I could to be with her, to just sit there and watch her breathe, to get her a cup of peppermint tea, to do nothing at all. I've been keeping my mom's friends posted on her progress. And he doesn't get it. He thinks I'm being borderline cruel. Discussing her stuff. Staring at her while she's less than composed.

I'm sure there are times my MIL wishes he would step up the sympathy and attention and mine wishes I'd back off a bit. For the most part though, my mother-in-law appreciates his brand of support and my mom appreciates mine.

Makes me wonder: nature or nurture? I'd totally say it's a family culture thing, but my kids have been thoroughly trained in over-the-top sympathy responses and still I've got two who are give-em-their-space types. Maybe it's a gender thing. Maybe it doesn't matter. Too tired to tease out the tangles in this one.

Time Management Induced Panic Attacks

You all have seen this one, right?

Start with an empty glass.

Now fill it with rocks.

Is it full?

(Uh yes. Just said to fill it with rocks.)

Can you fit any more in?

Oh yeah.

Next comes the gravel,

pour a bunch in and shake it down.

How about now?

Completely full yet?

No way.

Fill that baby with sand.

Shake her down.

Now we've got something like this:

Is it full now?

(Can we stop yet?)

Nope.

Time for:

WATER!

Fill 'er up!

Now the potential of the glass has been reached.

This demonstration is supposed to show that

you should put first things first.

(A la Stephen Covey)

Because if you try putting the sand in first

you cannot fit in the rocks

which represent the important things in life.

If you try something silly

like putting the sand in first,

you'd get something more like this:

And that's a little

OVERWHELMING!

The thing any rational person should be asking themselves is:

WHY ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH

ARE WE TRYING TO GET

THAT MUCH CRAP IN OUR GLASS?

I feel the same way about appointment calendars with 15-minute increments.

No offense to my organized friends. Love you.

Pollyanna on Migraines

c Disney

Let's play the glad game!

Migraines are a natural appetite suppressant, and if I'm lucky enough to get to the puking stage, I don't have to count the calories of the last four or five things I ate!

Having a migraine gives me Super Powers, Super Senses, if you prefer. Everything smells so much more intense. My vision gets all fun; I really get to see things in a whole new light. And my hearing. . .oh the sensitivity! I can hear things that normally would be completely ignored. Lucky me.

With a migraine, all those pesky little have-tos just go away. I get to clear my calender of everything. How often does that happen? If I was functional, I'd have to do the dishes or laundry. I'd need to drive the kids around. Stand up. Talk to people. Open my eyes. Instead I get to lounge around all day.

Talk about things to be thankful for!

No Exaggeration Required

From my husband's company's weekly newsletter:

INAPPROPRIATE TOUCHING

[Our company] has a zero tolerance for sexual harassment. Touching another person while a[t] work is NOT acceptable except when providing emergency medical attention (first aid or CPR) or giving a formal handshake. No other forms of touching are permitted. Other forms of touching are considered sexual harassment and will not be tolerated. You are subjecting yourself to the possibility of immediate termination if you engage in inappropriate touching. If you have been hugging, kissing, massaging, shaking hands with a double grasp, patting on the back or any other forms of inappropriate touching STOP IMMEDIATELY!

Not kidding.

A Short One

Last month as I was sitting in my car outside of the dollar store, I witnessed an accident. One car backed into another. The driver at fault was an older woman. The other driver was a woman in her twenties.

I cringed as I watched them get out of their cars: Cat fight a-comin'. They looked at each other, examined the minimal damage, and then spoke for a few more moments. My window was down and I could hear their conversation.

"Are you OK? "

"Are you? Is your car hurt?"

"Is yours? I am so sorry, dear."

"It's fine. I'm just glad everyone's OK. Are you OK to drive?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine. Thank you, dear."

Then instead of exchanging insurance information, they hugged, got in their cars, and drove away.

My House is a Disaster, but My Yard is Looking Nice.

Behold, my glorious California poppies:



This is the lovely and oh so fragrant Rosa rugosa "Roseraie de l’Hay" She's supposed to be a huge thorny 6 foot living fence between my family and the cold cruel world.



Maybe in another few years.



In the meantime, isn't she gorgeous? And what a heavenly perfume!


Here's my cute little my broccoli which I hope will grow bigger without going to seed. I've got about eight others that are trying to decide if they are going to bring forth plentifully or not.



Happy Spring!

Happy 200th, Mr. Lincoln

Abraham Lincoln:

A great man.

An ugly man.

Gifted speaker.

Unelectable today.

Complex.

Melancholy.

Witty.

Tragic.

Wise.

Brave.

Resolute.

Brilliant.

Faithful.

A loving father.

Difficult marriage.

Recovering racist.

Emancipator.

Misunderstood.

Detested.

Beloved.

Savior of the United States.

God alone understands

the complexity of his mind, the difficulty of his task,

and the enormity of his accomplishments.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Lincoln.

And thank you.

Above: a young Abraham Lincoln, tussled as usual.

Above: a young Mary Todd Lincoln

Above: Robert Lincoln, the Lincolns' firstborn, was 22 years old

at the time of his father's assassination.

Above: Eddy Lincoln, their second son, died at age 4 of tuberculosis.

Above: Willie Lincoln, third born, died shortly after his 11th birthday.

Above: Tad Lincoln, fourth son, aged 12 at the time of his father's death, died at aged 18.

Above: President Lincoln and his son Tad

Above: Lincoln with Allan Pinkerton and Major General John Alexander McClernand at Antietam.

Above: The Ford Theater

Left: Abraham Lincoln in his stovepipe hat.

Right: Mary Todd Lincoln

Peace and Wisdom in 313 Words

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass.

Take kindly to the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

(Max Ehrmann c.1920)

Input Requested

(Apologies to my non-LDS readers.)

I'm speaking on Sunday. Subject: Testimony as a Process.

I would love to hear any-and-everyone's thoughts on the subject. How did you receive a testimony? What does testimony mean to you? What has challenged your testimony? Do you think there is a universal testimony acquisition process? If your response is too personal to share on the world wide web, please feel free to email me with your thoughts.

I'll post my talk on Sunday. (Although, knowing me, the talk I give will only bear the slightest resemblance to the talk I write.) Thank you, thank you, thank you for your help!

This Time I'm Really Going to Do It

Wednesday night I had a dream. OK, this one doesn't require a degree in psychology, but here it is: I dreamed it was New Year's Day and I was at a party. I was gorging on cookies, apologizing to one and all, lamenting my enormous size, and declaring that soon, very, very soon I'd be going on a diet.

Upon awakening, I realized the day had come. Time to bite the bullet and stop chewing the fat. Time for the diet to end all diets.

Day 1.

7 AM--Large glass of water.

{I am never going to eat again. Nothing but water!}
[You can't do that. You'll die. Your body needs protein or it will consume muscle for its needs. The heart is a muscle.]

7:05 AM--Mix unsweetened protein goo, gag it back fast. 100 calories. 20 grams of protein.

[OK, NOW nothing but water until lunch!]
{Man, look at all this zucchini. J-Teen says there's nothing to eat? I'll make him some yummy zucchini. Italian seasoning. Zucchini. Butter. Mm! WHAT!?! It does not taste gross! It's delish! EAT IT!}

7:45 AM--1 cup of sautéed zucchini

[OK, vegetables are good. But no fruit or sugar. Or starches. You can still put yourself in ketosis with a small quantity of veggies.]

8:00 AM--Grocery shopping.
8:40 AM--20 oz. Diet Coke

[Do not eat the bagels. Do not eat the bagels. Do not...OK, you can eat the apple. An apple is OK. Only 80 calories. Lots of fiber.]

8:45 AM--1 small apple

[A bagel wouldn't be that bad. They're pretty low in fats.]
{And cream cheese: a source of calcium. Not a lot of calcium. Better put it on pretty thick.}

9:15--1 bagel, 3 T cream cheese, large glass of water
10:15 am--1 bagel, 3 T cream cheese

[Oh E-Teen is giving you half a buttered bagel. How sweet! Don't offend her. She's going through a sensitive stage.]

10:45--1/2 a buttered bagel
11:00 am--a big glass of water.
12:00 am--1 bagel, 3T cream cheese

[Who are you kidding? Cream cheese is a lousy source of calcium.]

12:15 am--2 cups 100% natural, full fat cream on top maple syrup sweetened yogurt.

[Probiotics are good. You've not had any for quite a while.]

12:20 am--1/2 cup maple yogurt
2:00 pm--1 full-sized bag of Trader Joe's kettle corn

[What?! The kettle corn. That was supposed to be for...]
{Shut up! It's fiber.}
[Well, drink some water. At least you're hydrated. And the caffeine hasn't been too bad.]

2:30 pm Huge glass of water

{Man, I am stinkin' tired. I'm never going to be able to make it.}
[Whu-? Don't you dare!]
{Mind your own business.}

3:30 pm Triple-sized Pomegranate RockStar

{Antioxidants. Do not mess with me. I'll take you down.}
[Fine. Wallow in it, babe. I'm done.]
{Fine.}
[Fine.]
{Whatever.}

4:00 pm 1 1/2 cups pretend cookie dough
{peanut butter = protein; flour = grain; oats = whole grain}
5:00 pm 1 bagel, 3 T cream cheese, 1 large glass skim milk

{How many bagels is this? Eh, whatever.}
{Hm...I'm kind of full.}
{Geesh. My stomach hurts.}

8:00 pm 1 box of black licorice

{Real licorice is so soothing for owie stomachs. I am so glad I know about herbal heath options.}

10:00 pm 1 large glass Hot Chocolate

The thing is...I had the same dream Thursday night, only this time I was taking the cookies out of people's hands and stuffing them in my mouth. Weird, huh? Do you think it could have been the hot chocolate so close to bedtime?

Technology Bridges the Gap Between the Haves and the Have-Nots

Here is the question for our times: Crazy cat lady or bluetooth user? At WalMart, a woman walks by me yelling personal insults at her grocery cart. Shortly thereafter, another woman begins laughing hysterically at the apple display. A third woman throws her hands in the air and grunts in derision. They all look the same and yet...two of these ladies have their sanity and a hands-free device for their mobile phones. The third has neither.

Again, the question: This?Or this?
You decide.

Here Mom! I made you this!

A Year Later, Looking Back at My Issues

During the October 2007 General Conference, Sister Beck's talk "Mothers Who Know" blindsided me. Sweet Sister Beck. I love her. I felt like a good friend had walked into my home and told me that everything I'd ever done was worthless. I flipped out. Flipped out.

That afternoon I went to a cub scout planning meeting and mentioned how upset I felt. My sweet beautiful friends looked at me as if I'd just spoken in Russian. They wanted to be there for me, but they couldn't. They didn't understand what I found so heartbreaking. They'd loved the talk. A lot.

So a year ago, the Monday after conference, I went searching online for women who understood. I found Kristine Haglund's very comforting post at By Common Consent. I found the Bloggernacle where smart and faithful LDS people discuss ideas that range from the petty to the profound.

Here is my first (extremely long) blog comment:

Thanks for a couple of laughs on the subject. I needed them. It sure beat the two cries I’d had on the subject. Although "Our Refined Heavenly Home" wins the most uninspiring depressing talk of the decade, this one came close.

This is a hard subject for me. Six kids, small house, homeschooling. We’re all here, all the time. And I’m trying. I really am. But if a clean house and neat children are required for exaltation, I’m out. Even trying my hardest, it’s a disaster around here.

IF I could fulfill the ideal she taught, my family and I would be happier. I like clean. I like organized. I like neat, reverent children. I like peace. I dream of these things. I despair of these things.

So Sunday, I’d stayed home, listening to conference, hoping to hear “the pleasing word of God, yea the word which healeth the wounded soul.”

Sabbath-breaker that I am, I needed to clean the “playroom.” So housework was exactly what I was doing when Sister Beck was talking. I stopped cleaning. I couldn't
decide if I wanted to send in my motherhood resignation, burn the house down, or ask to have my name removed from the records of the church. Love, civil duty and a testimony prevented me from following any of those knee-jerk reactions. Instead I just cried because one more fellow mom was judging her fellow moms one more time. I don’t know–maybe that’s the in the job description for GRS Presidents.

The points that stabbed most deeply:

(My memory of) Her definition of nurture. By “nurture” we mean housework, the physical upkeep of the family. (My dictionary says “Nurturing: 1. To nourish, feed. 2. To educate, train 3. To help grow or develop; cultivate.”)

And did she really say that it didn’t really matter how much education you have if you can’t keep your home properly? I must have misheard.

I’ve pondered “the wicked taketh the truth to be hard." Am I wicked? ‘Cause that seemed pretty hard.

Well, enough killing time. I need to go clean something, cook something and cancel some of my children’s outside activities.

I live to serve. Jami

Bitter? Me? OK, maybe a little. I'm better now. This year has been one of the most difficult of my life, spiritually and intellectually. Exciting. Invigorating. But hard. A good portion of my angst has come from my exploration of LDS issues, profound and petty, from participating in the Bloggernacle.

In spite of these growing pains, I celebrate this anniversary and my freedom to think and to write about those things which interest and concern me. I celebrate my pain because it has led to increased knowledge, to increased faith and to healing. Thank you, Kristine, for the post that started it all. As it turns out, I mostly like Sister Beck's talk too. That, however, is a subject for a different post.

Two Toblerone Chocolate Bars Need Homes

First, a reminder about the Toblerone Giveaway. Enter to win chocolate by correctly guessing the name of this politically neutral country which I attempted to use as a joking symbol of my staying out of Californian politics this year. Of course, I've recently declared my definitive stance as a flip-flopper, but I'm still giving away the amazingly yummy Swiss chocolate bar. I know it's hard, but go ahead, take a guess. You know you want to win this exquisite chocolate crafted in Switzerland.

I shall be holding a drawing from all the correct answers on November 4th as the polls close here in California.

Second, Alison (whose blog is well worth a read) voiced a fondness for limericks, SO in her honor I announce the

Win a Toblerone Limerick Contest!

Yes, that's right! A second Toblerone will be awarded to the writer of the best limerick!

(Just to give you courage, I'll go first.)

There once was a blogger named Jami
whose contest was silly and lame-y!
November 4th it ended
because it felt splendid
to be done with smeary, dumb blame-y.

P.S. Keep it clean.
PPS. Enough with the eye-rolling. Lame-y, Blame-y and Jami DO TOO ryhme.

Wednesday's Child

Overall, I love blog rolls, aggregators and the like, but if I have something very brief to say it kind of saddens me that the entire post is visible before anyone even gets to my blog. Steals my thunder a bit, if you know what I mean. So now that I have thwarted thunder-stealing forces of the universe, I shall proceed to today's little post.

So...is the glass half full or half empty? The classic question to determine one's level of optimism or pessimism is missing one little detail: what is in the glass? It seems to me that if you have a glass filled (or emptied) to the halfway mark, much would depend what is in it. For a nice yummy glass of juice, milk or soda, the optimistic response is half full. But what if it contained something vile like maggots, hemlock or brussel sprouts? Would it be more optimistic to say it was half full? I think not. The cheery souls among us would say the vile glass is half empty. Whereas the realistic dour among us would certainly write an entire post about the challenges of our half full glass of woe.