Heh...

You're probably wondering why I invited you here...

How about... because I didn't want to have all the fun?
(My POV, blank looks)
Um, yeah, I didn't think that excuse would wash with you.

Okay, so how about I'm writing this blog... and it's mostly about my family -- you know who you are. Bits and pieces here and there. (Keep in mind I know where most of the bodies are buried, heh!) And while I could keep these pearls of family reflection all to myself. It seems only neighborly and a bit of fair play that I invite you to horn in on... er, I mean join in on the fun of a family blog.

I believe that your invitation grants you author privileges right here on my own blog. And anyone who knows anything about a writer knows the very last thing she wants to do is to hand over the talking stick. So enjoy it!

Post as often or seldom as you wish. Enjoy, reflect.

Just no name-calling or hair-pulling... no flame wars. But you may run with scissors. I LOVE running with scissors.

An explanation about the title: Is It Just Me?

This is part of my personal challenge to compose each blog in such a way that the closing sentence is always my tag line: Is It Just Me (or some clever variation of that.) But you don't have to write under that constraint... just write.

Oh, yeah and I think if you go through your personal settings you can ask to be notified via email when a new post appears here. Convenient no?

Anyone else looking forward to this... or, Is It Just Me?

Big Fish

I'm like the Albert Finney character in Big Fish... if I don't get to water soon I think I might die.

Not literally, but in my soul.

Growing up I spent nearly every summer in the White Mountains of Northern Arizona and even though I didn't appreciate it at the time, it was heaven. There I learned to be a kid. I learned to camp and fish. And even though I haven't done it in years. I have the memory of the smell of pine trees in my blood. And it calls to me.

My husband agrees with me. We're so over Southern California with the traffic and the smog and the city attitudes. We like Oregon a lot. Heavy on scenery, light on snow. Progressive
politically. And enough green that I can make my temperature drop just by thinking of it.

I'm at the point where I would rather live in a smaller house with a view of majestic scenery than live in a majestic house with a view of another majestic house.

Sunday Morning Pillow Talk

We're like everyone else in the free world. We leap out of bed every morning and hit the floor running. Then, we perform the Twelve Labors of Hercules... in eight hours or less. Late at the end of the day, we meet back here for a little TV and just a hair less shut-eye than we really need to leap out of bed, hit the floor running and do it all over again tomorrow.

We have jobs... a teenager... a pet. So even when we don't really want to do this, like everyone else we have to.

But on special Sundays we allow time for pillow talk. We lay in bed in the quiet morning, our heads together on one pillow, serenaded by the ceiling fan and we just talk. We've never carved them in marble but there are rules to pillow talk. It's never about our to-do list. It's never competitive. It's lazy and reflective. It's our idea exchange.

Yesterday's pillow talk was about the movie was saw on Saturday which was Babel. While we both enjoyed the movie (I think I enjoyed it a little more) there was a lot to discuss. On the surface, Babel is about communication... go deeper and you find it's maybe about the isolation that occurs when that communication breaks down.

We get it that are lives are too frantic to let the communication break down... and this time, it's not just me.

Poli-tiques

I’m starting a new political party… the Appalled Political Party because that’s exactly what I am… appalled. And I hardly call the last six years a party for either side. It’s been more like a spectacle.

I figured out a long time ago that my vote is supposed to count for me. It needs to be what I want. What is important to me. You have yours… I have mine. I’m not in this world to vote up to your expectations and you’re not here to vote up to mine. May the best candidate or initiative win.

I’m a complex person and I vote all over the map.

That being said, when it comes to discussing politics, I have no problem voicing where I stand, what I believe in and why. But know this, my arguments are personal. They are about me, who I am and what I want out of life. I rarely argue principal or theory…my political discussions only extend to the point where I want you to know why I feel the way I do. It’s never about making you feel that way, too.

I am, however, interested in how you feel and particularly how the issue became personal for you. Your story has a chance to make it personal for me, too. Your facts and figures can count, but if you’re just parroting the opinion of some larger pressure group, or political party well, I’m willing to listen, but you probably won’t make much of an impression on me.

I don’t want to hear some canned argument designed to make me ashamed of my vote. If I wanted to feel bad all I have to do is listen to the political commercials on TV.

Case in point: It wasn’t on my ballot, but ‘Making English the Official Language’ was on the ballot in Arizona. To me this is not a trick question. English is our official language what’s wrong with making it officially official?

I was told this is Karl Rove propaganda… I was chided that passage of this amendment will foment fear on the part of immigrants who don’t speak English. I was even presented with incorrect data, such as that 90 percent of Hispanic immigrants are both legal and speak English. (See actual 2002 Census stat at end of Washington Times article.)

Well, (for argument's sake) if it's true that 90% of Hispanic immigrants are both legal AND speak English… then is this amendment still a big problem? Or... (wait for it) is it just me?

It's not the destination... It's the journey...

This is possibly my favorite quote and it's become my mantra lately.

This is partially because I'm really happy these days. I'm writing in a new genre, which is hard and frustrating and exhilarating. Picture me, blazing a new trail hacking my way through doubt and writer's block while cursing the freakin' journey. And there's a lot of blood, sweat and tears, too and I'm not talking about the group.

Life is good at home. Husband is wonderful. Teenager is maintaining. We have a roof over our head, food on our table and a iPod in every pocket. Okay, life is better than just good. It's truly great and I do make it a point to pull off life's highway now and then and take in how really great it is!

But the journey that's prodding me to blog here today is my journey as a parent. When I signed up for this (and since my son is adopted signing actually took place) I did not sign on for the ala carte pick your plate version of parenting. No. If life is a banquet, I signed on for the uber buffet. The whole enchilada... with coffee, dessert... mint... three types of spoons, two water glasses. You get the idea.

I mostly thought I would only get to do this once and I wanted to not only make it count. I wanted to remember it. I wanted to savor it. I wanted it to mean something to me. And let me tell you, it does.

Like most parents it has been a labor of love and a journey of immense proportions. Highs, lows all at once... colliding and spilling over. It's been high and dry, down and dirty, sweet, messy and wonderful all at the same time but all along this journey I always knew whose hand was on the rudder... until yesterday.

You see now that he has his permit and insurance he needs to drive -- ulp, with me! So, with four driving lessons under his belt, I handed him the keys and strapped myself into the passenger seat for the roughly 30 minute drive home on the Old Road, at speeds of up to 55 mph. Weeeeee...

And you know what, he did fine. No major incidents. Me? I did okay, too, though I downed two beers when I got home. (The journey allows for alcohol in moderatation!)

I could take the chicken way out and delegate this job to my husband, he's anxious to take the kid out. (Guys and cars and road trips, personally I don't get it.) The destination would be reached. But the point is that's not what I signed up for. The teenager is nearly 18. What I see coming toward me is certainly not the end of my journey, but a time when there will be two rudders in the water -- each on their own journey.

I'm his mom. His parent. But in this regard I feel like his wingman. His honor guard. It's my duty to set him on his own journey and even though it pretty much scares the pee out of me. I intend to see it and savor it all the way through.

The good news is that to the point of only getting to do this parenting thing once. I have the great fortune to have not one son, but two. The other one, #1 Son, came as a package deal with my husband... which was more than fine by me. And even though he was mostly raised, just out of high school and driving like a bat out of hell when we got together, I have had the supreme honor to be a wingman at his wedding... and the birth of his son. (My peanut!)

It's exciting to see #1 Son on this journey now becaue I know what lies ahead for him. I can see it on his face when he holds that baby that he's signed on for the uber buffet, too.

And you know what that means... bonus journey for me, too.