I let myself simply be. Listened to my old, fat cat's deep, rattling purr. The ticks of the radiators gathering heat.

And I smiled. Party of this was because I didn't have to get up at any specific time. My phone off meant I had no idea what time it was. Mostly, though, it was me. It was a place I've started to find inside myself. A new room.

Years ago, another mom told me on the preschool playground, sometimes, you have to put yourself in time out. Go into the bathroom and shut the door. Count to ten. Take a deep breath. It's more shocking to the kids - Where is Mommy?? - and more effective overall in bringing calm to the situation. I've found that room inside myself.

This past weekend, a friend and her girlfriend came up to Ogunquit. We had a great time. We talked about big, giant issues in the world, about silly things, ate great food and sat in front of the fire playing a rousing game of scrabble. All of 36 years old, my friend said to me, you might want to try something totally out of your comfort zone. Something unfamiliar. You might then find something new- how to be the amazing adult you are instead of the kid inside searching for old wounds to be healed.

Okay, she belongs in diapers still but she's right. She also said, it's really easy to be kind to you, Sara. Remember that when someone is treating you badly.

I'm heading up to Downeast next week. Classes finish this Friday. I have the boys for the weekend. On Monday morning, I'm driving up to spend some time alone. Oh, not totally alone. Donald is there, along with others. I have words coming out, ready to be arranged, strategically placed in a narrative about a woman finding out what relationships truly are. And what they are not.

I find myself wanting to be alone not to shut people out, which is often the case, but to decorate that new room. To let myself steep in this new peace. To have it gain root. I know now that I need to have a relationship with myself first and foremost. A kind one. To find an unmistakeable ability to enjoy each moment. To cherish moments of true appreciation.

To smile.

It's time to let go of all the past hurts, pain, disappointments. Hug each one, hold them tight, then let go. They serve no purpose anymore. They have always been piecemeal armor, never truly protecting anything, only allowing me some sense of safety that was never real. Slings and arrows still made their way through and I would be shocked, surprised, thinking I was immune. I was, and am, merely weighted down. I'm ready to take it off. Not to exile to voices inside who cry out no! but to let them know it's a better place to be. Show them. Bring them along.

Wish me luck.

(Stuffed bear alone graphic via Bigstock)

Jake! You are halfway across the bridge...

What bridge?

I pause. I'm not appreciating the sassy tone. He's giving me those puppy eyes.

It's a long grassy bridge, Jake. And you're carrying a torch, and you're about to drop it. Then the bridge will go up in smoke, poof, and you'll be falling into the deep chasm below.

He stares at me, I stare at him. He smiles.

But Mom... what bridge would be grassy?

Yup, still love him.

Clearly, mid-divorce, I am not. In fact, I've been told recently I pretty much suck at it. I'm afraid it's true. I am not ready to love deeply again. The wounds are too fresh, and old voices tug at my ear, whispering their fears to me.

I do, however, love my children, and I believe I love them unconditionally. I know from the moment they were all born, my heart filled with not only the emotion of love, but the instinct, too. A parent's love can be fierce if anything comes close to endangering their kids.

I still yell at them. And it stings. The other day, Ben reminded me of a time when I made him cry. He was about five years old, and he had gone over to a cup on the table and taken a drink. It was diet coke and I yelled at him to put it down. (Indeed, I was one of those hysterical parents who never let anything non-organic pass their lips). I made him cry. Yes, I overreacted, and was wrong to do that. When he reminded me of the event, I apologized.

I'm sure in ten years, I will be reminded again. And I will apologize again.

I love him, all my kids, unconditionally. I know, regardless of what they do, or what they say, I will love them. It is without hesitation, even when they make me cry. I would, will and have done anything for them. Anything from making fried egg sandwiches to stepping in front of a bus to save them. It has never been hard, or difficult to love them. Ever.

Romantic love, however, is a totally different thing - to love without conditions. For a long time, I thought it meant loving without pain. I grew up hugging bared wire, thinking love simply hurt. Often. There was no love between my parents to witness, ever. My mother never dated, or had any kind of deep, singular personal attachment. Later in her life, she admitted that her Grandfather was the love of her life. He was the only person, she would say, that truly loved her. Long dead before I arrived, I never witnessed her filled with love for another adult.

Stepping into adulthood, I tried to be the person I imagined I should be in relationships. Honest, loyal, kind, respectful. I'd stay in relationships too long thinking, if I just did this better... it would all be okay. When I met my soon to be ex-wife? I had no idea what a healthy relationship was, let alone how to have one.

I did believe love was like a jigsaw puzzles endless possibilities but only one perfect fit. I found my perfect fit.

I loved her. There was a time when it was unconditional. At least I think it was. The perfect fit did end up creating a whole picture, with kids, friends, family. The memory is in a far away room inside me, locked up, with two guards at the door; Self-Preservation and Fear. I cannot let myself remember loving someone who is causing me so much pain. I must keep my eyes wide open for the next blast. Some day, when this whole nightmare is over, I hope to be able to go visit that place and smile.

Eventually, too many conditions piled up in the doorway. Rules, restrictions, demands, all creating a brick wall between us. There we both stood, on opposite sides of the wall, barking orders at each other. Any love left bounced off the bricks and slapped me in the face, to the hissed chorus of "I told you so" and "Don't be so stupid."

What happened to the love? Where did it go?

I can hound my children to pick up their dirty socks every single day, over and over again, and it does not draw down on the level of love I feel at all. We have arguments, hurt feelings and tears. Never, ever, does it diminish my love for them. Why did it disappear in my marriage? That core, hardwired feeling of love, and being loved; it was there once.

I know I will never be perfect in love. I am a strange collection of neediness and strength, anxiety and charm. There is no perfect in love. Unconditional does not mean without struggle. Instead, what I hold is knowing I am capable of love on deep levels. I see that every day in how I feel about my kids. There was a time when I felt that with my ex-wife. Some day, when the rage has passed, I'll be able to see why it left. Until I know the answer, the guards can't take leave. Like motherhood, there are no absolutes in relationships. I must learn how to keep walls from being built without intent, and then decorated as if they belong.

I have, without question, a great deal left to learn.

(Hand heart photo via Bigstock)

It seems the Republicans doubt the need for all those silly social programs to help people. If they were worthy of procreating, they would be able to take care of themselves. They're trying to take women's rights back to Mary Wollstonecraft's time. Why not embrace eugenics?

The concept of "the survival of the fittest" came from Herbert Spencer, not Darwin, and included the evolution of society, too. The best and the brightest would succeed and society as a whole would benefit.

That was in 1864, which ironically, was towards the end of the Civil War. Considering the number of dead on both sides of the conflict, you have to wonder who was left to procreate and make that "better" society. Toddlers and the elderly?

I'm not going to argue, though, about Spencer's interesting myopia nor the Republican's utter blindness. Instead, the article made me think about something that was said to me yesterday.

I thought there was more. More to fucking life.

My answer was, there is more. And there isn't.

When I read about social darwinism, about political and economic games played that tug on the strings we are attached to, I wonder... why? Have we really advanced as a society?

Isn't there more to life than pretty shoes and two weeks vacation? What is the purpose of life? To run on treadmills, eat low fat muffins and be promoted? If it's about family and friends, why do we spend so little time with them?

Is the goal the betterment of society? Is a better society one where everyone has an iPhone? Or have we lost perspective in the massive rush for more, losing the core of our humanity- the need for other people.

Personally, I would put love and belonging before anything else. Family, friends and intimacy. I think we've all bought into the idea that there are winners and losers in life, and that balance is necessary, if not innate. We have evolved as a species based on economic and political distributions of power and access.

Is that what we want? Humans have always looked up, whether to the alpha male, God, King, or President. We work hard to get a better life for ourselves, for our children. Maybe it's time to look around. Maybe have and have not is a concept we've allowed ourselves to believe.

Maybe it has only kept us in an endless cycle of dependency on the very few in power.

There is more to life. More to who we are as human beings than one big competition over resources. We are no longer animals in the wild. We should stop behaving as such.

And there isn't. Life really is as simple as loving and enjoying ever day we are here. Celebrating and sharing all we can be with one another.

Obama is right. The Republicans are playing yet another game of hide and go seek. A game with very real impact. It's not moving our society forward. It only continues the cycle of looking up.

She beat me. My arm was killing me (I was sleeping on it funny), and she challenged me again. I wanted to cry because I didn't understand why she wasn't being nice to me.

I realized she was. She was pushing me to fight.

What would I do if I only had a couple months to live? When I was looking at the book, a story about Caldwell's friendship with Caroline Knapp and Knapp's diagnosis of lung cancer, I was struck by the dates. Knapp was diagnosed in April. dead by June. Fast. Really fast. All my moaning about wanting to go to sleep and not wake up, I realize is just a selfish rant.

It isn't true. I raced that damn wheelchair up the hill. It hurt, and I knew I was dying and I didn't give up.

Why then, in my real life, have I given up?

Frozen with grief and fear, I've stopped growing. I've stopped everything. I've lost my home, my family, my sister, the whole world I created over twenty years. I have to start again? I'm old, fat and ugly. I can't.

I let myself think some wild thoughts about simply walking away. Get a house with some land and build a shed. Learn how to build, have Donald teach me. Walk away from all the stuff. Live simply and show my kids what I truly value. Have them see me... happy.

And write. Every day. Be a cantankerous old woman, you know, just like my mother.

Except I've done her version of life. I played the graceful philanthropist. I'm done with that. It's not who I am. It's what was expected of me. I did it. Did it very well, thank you. I know she would have been proud of me.

No more.

I remember when I was young, and would work on the Christmas tree plantation a few acres behind my house. It was dirty, hard work. I loved it. Oh, I whined about it, too. When I turned 14, I could finally be paid in money, not a handful of candy. Big excitement. I did for a little while until my mother made me stop. It wasn't the kind of work I should be doing. I wasn't to be a farm hand.

But I loved the land. I loved being on the tractor. Or the horses. I loved being outdoors. I spent most of my childhood outdoors. My friends and I would literally stay out for days at a time, at a campsite we had made. Catching fish, collecting berries, to cook over an open fire. We had a fresh water spring, bubbling out of the ground, and dug a small basin to collect it. How amazing it was to find water.

I used to ride horses. Take care of them, groom them, clean their stalls. The smell of leather and manure, the weight of the barn door that slid on cast iron rollers, the hayloft with bees half asleep hidden in the bails, teaching me that I am, in fact, allergic to their sting. I was free there.

I realize now, I don't want to become someone new. I want to be the best of who I was, before the rules crushed me. To feel the peace and safety of tall trees, to go back, far back, so I can grow again, from the place that was cut off.

I don't want to fight. I don't want to be the most beautiful person in the room (you know, the one with money). I don't want the stuff. I want to live like I'm going to die in two months. I want to stop being afraid.

I want to race uphill.

"But," people say, "is he as bad as Gingrich?"

I must admit, the mere thought of Gingrich being taken seriously, let alone actually winning any political contest ever, anywhere, is terrifying to me. I can make fun of his moon colony, or the repeated adultery, or his flat out lies about his own Washington insider life.

Please explain how someone who was the Speaker of the House can call themselves an outsider? That's like Jake telling me he didn't finish the cake with a fork in one hand and the chocolate smeared plate in the other.

In 1997, "the House ethics committee recommended last night that House Speaker Newt Gingrich (R-Ga.) face an unprecedented reprimand from his colleagues and pay $300,000 in additional sanctions after concluding that his use of tax-deductible money for political purposes and inaccurate information supplied to investigators represented "intentional or... reckless" disregard of House rules."

I must admit, Romney looks like a cupcake in comparison. Sure, he will continue the policies of George Bush that have led to our miserable economy, massive debt and free passes for the rich. But I don't see him telling North Korea to go f-themselves and drop a bomb.

That is not an endorsement. I don't want any of the Republican candidates. Only Huntsman seemed like a rational human being, and he's out of the race. People that know me well, know that deep down, I have a Republican heart. I believe in fiscal responsibility, states' rights and government having no business in people's personal lives. I believe private businesses should give back to the community because it is good business practice. Want good employees? Support schools. Want low crime? Support the police.

As Zachary would say, "Duh."

When I was growing up, that's what Republicans stood for - nothing remotely being discussed today in the GOP debates. What the hell is a social conservative? Is that a fancy way to say bigot? Misogynist? Homophobic?

Was Romney that bad? Yes. As bad as Gingrich? No.

Forget the question. Ask yourself instead, what the heck are people thinking? Stop looking at the candidates and start looking at the reasons why people are drawn to this. It's not about who is the lessor evil. It's about the appeal of either.

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Things, a gentle way to say the divorce, are moving along. It took a few months of tears shed lying in a fetal ball, to be certain. Certainty created enough energy to file papers, begin the process of tearing apart a life built over twenty years. I knew five years ago our lives had become too far apart. Ships passing in the night is an expression when held on a real deck of a real boat, you truly understand the depth of the distance.

I was tired of being alone. Lonely with someone arms length away, yet acres of ocean between us. If I was going to be alone, let me be alone.

Easy words to say for a woman who had spent 16 years completely enveloped by three kids. To this day, the silence in the house, when they are not with me, is the loudest testament to the change in my life.

That and having food in the refrigerator for more than 12 hours. Or two hours.

I grieved my sister, over and over. I grieved the loss of dreams, of future images. I didn't try to fix anything anymore. I no longer looked outside for reassurance. I stopped moving to keep from feeling.

I listened to the silence. I no longer hear what's missing. I hear what's there.

In time, as if the fortune teller's card with gold coins and sunshine was turned over, someone came along. Someone I've known for years, now in a new way. We laughed, flirted at times - nothing more, nothing less. I was able to stand toe to toe with her - not as an adversary but as an equal. I did something completely insane, according to some, and got on a plane to go see her.

It would be trite to say it was a leap of faith. It wasn't. I accepted that it could end up horribly wrong. A friend said to me, You are almost fifty. Single. You don't have the boys for the weekend. Why not? Besides, you can always leave.

Faith not required, just a credit card. I went.

I found a woman who is an equal. Someone who wears the world in similar fashion, who holds a code of justice and honor deep. And god forbid, she cooked for me. Yes, I am that easy. I've cooked for years and years, and what might seem like a simple act is full of care taking and kindness to me.

Not to mention it was delicious.

For the first time, I felt like I didn't need to carry all the weight on my shoulders. I had someone to share it with, who wasn't afraid of leading or following. Someone who wanted to do both. For the first time in years, nothing felt like a chore. I was held, she was held, it wasn't all or nothing. I felt safe and at ease. I didn't have to prove that I was good enough. I didn't have to chase. I simply needed to give back what was being given to me.

Perhaps the fortune teller was right, it took time for me to become whole again, to be able to give back without fear. Maybe it is simply about the right place and the right time. We have an amusing history of almost being in the same place at different times in our lives, not just once, but multiple times over many years.

I don't know what will happen. I know there are very real issues - like living in two far apart cities - but I also know I've been blessed with the love of a woman who can give back as much as she takes. I hope she feels that, too. I hope she feels my gratitude, my awe, and mostly, my love.

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scan to page 47 and you'll see me.

I think I should have worn red capris.

Newton Living Magazine.

I see something like that? I'm getting a baseball bat or the heaviest object near me and I'm stopping it. Then, I'm going to the police. But I do not wait and go to my boss.

If someone was murdered, would you wait to tell your boss? Or do you call 9-1-1?

What football program is more important than reporting directly to the police a crime?

My god, what is wrong with this country? Full disclosure: I am a football fan. Love watching, playing, and I've been a Penn State fan for years. My grandfather went there, left a large donation and there's some plaque by a pond on campus with his name on it. I have always respected the graduation rates of football players from Penn State.

Paterno knew for years. Years. Not a week, or a month, but long enough to have stopped the pain for many more victims. He could have stopped a predator.

But he didn't.

Students rioting over Paterno's firing can go visit a rape trauma center for children and decide if their precious football coach is more important. The football season at Penn State should be over. And over forever.

The purpose of a University is to teach and develop young minds to enhance and further our society. There was a time when football was a fun diversion, a source of pride. Now it's about big time dollars, contracts and televised glory. It has no place on any college campus anywhere in this country.

Because when the loss of a coach who broke the law causes outrage, a coach who did more than break the law, who ignored a heinous, disgusting crime, we have lost our way. Power dynamics around money in college sports have warped people's sense of morality.

But it's deeper than that. It's about the culture of football that has become larger than life. It's about a game that has become much more than a game. I can only wonder why McQuery didn't immediately call the police or stop the crime. Why? Was Sandusky that precious?

I doubt it. It was about the program.

The Trustees of Penn State did the right thing. I love football. I've been a Penn State fan for a long time. I'm not sure I can ever watch a game again without thinking of this crime.

To those protesting? Get a grip. Get a goddamn grip.

Today, I went down to Occupy Boston. This is what I've been encouraging my students to do: Stand up, be counted, be heard. It is a small city inside the city. Logistics center, medical tent, tent for donated clothes, food tent, dishwashing tent... Camp Alex.

I liked his peace sign.

You could make a sign, or pick a sign.

I liked the one about Texas. Corporations are not people.

A few cops were around, standing on the outskirts. Not hundreds of cops, maybe only a dozen, looking relaxed, if not a little bored. No dogs, no rifles, no riot gear- and I'm grateful. Ask the folks in Denver- not every city is tolerant.

There were people speaking. Some listening. Some standing in line to speak. I saw a man in a suit and tie helping himself to a free sandwich. I started to judge him and then realized, that's not the point.

Everyone keeps asking, what do they want? What specific changes? What are the demands? It's not the point, either. This is about protest. It's about people with fear and despair, no longer being willing to sit behind closed doors. Together, they have a dream of creating change.

Maybe the change is within each person, once isolated, now with the power of the group. Maybe the most important piece is creating a new community and a new sense of public commitment to others. Maybe it is everyone leaning out their windows, ala Network, screaming, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

So the guy can afford his own sandwich. Everyone is getting fed. In this small community, this tiny strip of green between high rise hotels and upscale businesses, there is enough.

I've watched my kids struggle living in Newton, a community where excess is not unusual. They want things only to be told no as a matter of values, not money. Designer sneakers, clothes, phones, computers, cars... so much stuff. They are kids surrounded by peers- I understand the pressure on them. I also know, as I did last night, sitting on the picnic bench, listening to Jake's awesome bass line, it's not simple.

The occupy movement is not simple. People are coming together in a digital age. Real faces, real voices. It's a physical presence and cannot be ignored. Tarps, signs and a guy brushing his teeth by the side of the road. It is real.

And so is my community gathered around a makeshift stage, listening to music. There is fear and despair, and yet we gather to celebrate our kids. Nothing is guaranteed anymore. People lose jobs, savings, homes in every tier of the economic world. If Patrica Kluge, can lose everything, so can everyone.

This is about taking that fear and turning it into love and hope. It's about a sandwich for the guy in a suit. It's about people taking a microphone and being heard. It's about our environment, our government, our economy. It's about our world.

Mostly? It's about hope.

Hmm. I like that idea.

I've been watching this protest for a while. Their message is not a clear, one line, snappy PR piece. It is a combination of voices, all chiming in, all asking for social and economic justice.

I really like that idea. It, however, causes problems for those who want to understand the message. In America, we have been dulled by ad campaigns for everything from dish soap to electing a President. We want to know in the length of a twitter what is going on and why.

This is not a twitter length issue. It's about banks and taxation. It's about access and loopholes. It's about greed and indifference.

Cool, he said. He was engaged. We watched the video of the Brooklyn Bridge arrests. We talked about standing up and being counted.

I kept away from words like "financial crisis," "economic downturn," all the nifty little catch words used in the New York Times and Wall Street Journal. To explain with numbers and statistics about unemployment in recent college graduates, the hopelessness that is pervasive in a generation of well-educated yet unemployed people wouldn't have impact on him.

Why? All those numbers, I realized, leave me in my head. It takes the pain of people who cannot afford rent, or medicine, or food, into a place of theory, and economic policy debate.

It leads me away from the anguish of parents who sent their kids to college knowing they would have a better life, only to have them living at home, working minimum wage jobs, unable to repay loans. The frustration of those kids, now adults, unable to move forward as they had been promised their whole lives. No longer is the world a place where everyone gets a trophy for trying.

There is a level of despair in this country that has been medicated, sanitized and turned into made for TV movies.

On the website, http://wearethe99percent.tumblr.com/, is a very real list of the pain, anguish, and frustration.

And the fear. One holding up a sign saying she is one paycheck from homelessness. Another, college educated, school loans, and no job, at 39 years old. Another, house value crashed, no retirement, at 51 years old. Yet another, 56 years old, working for minimum wage, no health insurance, no retirement.

You know the stories. You know because your friend or sibling or parent or neighbor have these stories. Now it's time to do something.

If we don't fight, if we live in fear, if we allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by the enormity of the system, nothing will change. The progressive community has all sat around pulling a Hamlet on the rock, To be or not to be, for long enough. People say protests are a thing of the past.

Tell that to the people in Egypt, Tunisia, Bahrain, Syria, Yemen and Libya.

This isn't about writing a check and getting a sticker for your car. Stand up and be counted. A few hundred people can be ignored. A few thousand, minimized by the mainstream media.

Hundreds of thousands must be heard.

If you think we are living in standards far above those countries listed above, think again. The divide grows greater every day. The reality is not what you see on television or in the newspapers. Schools don't fight about Glee club spending; they struggle to hire qualified teachers. Doctors don't wander around popping vicodin and spending countless hours on a single diagnosis; they are required to hustle through patients on insurance dictated time frames, using insurance dictated tools.

And dear God, young, fashionable vampires don't exist. Our youth aren't out sucking blood in Armani, they are trying to find jobs that don't exist.

Numbers, statistics, theories are all important. Information is essential in creating change- keep the baby with the bathwater. Be aware, it can be used to create energy and it can be used to create a sense of hopelessness.

I know it is far easier and more comfortable for me to stay in my head. I don't have to feel the guilt of having, of being comfortable. The guilt, however, is my choice. People are protesting for those who have no choice.

It's not about me. It's about us. I am part of us. My friends, my family, my coworkers, my community... us.

One could say the "Arab Spring" happened because people finally gathered in enough numbers to create hope. That hope spread. Ultimately, in crowds of tens of thousands, there was much more than hope and ideals and perseverance. There was power. Not power given, but power generated by masses gathered, shoulder to shoulder.

Go join a protest. Create hope.

Generate power.

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I do love the Rihanna song, "Cheers." I'm not going to let the bastards get me down.

In class today, I played Bubba Sparxxx, "Ms. New Booty." Thank goodness I teach at a music college- no one blinks with my somewhat questionable choices.

The assignment was to think about a song, and write about what it meant to them in third person.

My example, after I played the song...

And on.

Cheers, indeed.

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In 1969, Qaddafi took over in a "bloodless coup." I wonder about how bloodless it really was. In the years to come, Qaddafi ruled seemingly unopposed.

As far back as I can remember, Libya meant terrorism, death and an insane leader. It wasn't until I was older that I realized it also meant oil. That the 70's oil crisis I lived through, when gas could only be bought on certain days based on your license plate, was mainly due to Qaddafi.

It was a time when there were great evils: Not only Qaddafi but Idi Amin, who brutally slaughtered hundreds of thousands. Maybe it was the Saturday Night Live skits, but the two live in my mind together, although they never actually were. Libya had oil- Uganda did not.

Before Qaddafi, there was a monarchy. What now? The people have fought hard against an oppressive regime. Forty two years is a long time, with countless generations living in fear. What kind of psyche does that create? How will the people heal?

And who will control the oil?

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My question is this: What is the alternative? Hillary Clinton won't run against Obama. that deal has been cut. And I'm fairly certain the country's obsession with Bill Clinton's penis would have made her presidency riddled with questions of less-than-important issues. Whitewater would look small in comparison. (Pardon the pun.)

Start another party? The Green party is already rife with corruption. It takes decades to make one that sticks and can compete on any real level against the Dems and Repubs.

We can't change to a parliamentary system. Could you even imagine? Anyone suggesting it would be tarred and feathered just like the British governors in colonial days.

No one riots in America. Greece passes an austerity plan and people riot in the streets. But here? They'll turn the channel. It's not that no one cares - I believe people are incredibly anxious and worried about the future, for themselves, for their kids - but people have been so stripped of any feeling that they could actually create any kind of change on their own, they roll over and wait for the next kick.

The Presidency is about more than just one thing. And that's what I'm trying to hold onto. The fact that we have hate crimes, the end of DADT, the START treaty (to disarm Russia and us from cold war nuclear warheads once and for all), at least a stab at health care reform, TARP (no, not perfect but something), two successful U.S. Supreme Court nominations (Because for me? That was the biggest crisis we were facing), thousands of changes in political appointments to rid the world of Bush appointees ... the list actually goes on.

And every word of The New York Times piece is true.

My question again: What is the alternative?

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(Cross-posted at Suburban Lesbian Housewife)

Now, those of you who had my mother's fried chicken- and there are a couple who read this- you know it was the stuff of blue ribbons at the country fair. That is, if my mother would have ever been caught dead at a country fair. Perfectly browned, full crispy crust, and juicy, perfectly cooked chicken.

Even the breasts, which we all know are almost impossible to do- without a deep fryer.

Nope, she fried her chicken in a shallow pan, with bacon grease. There, I gave the family recipe away. Good luck trying to make it great. It's only taken me a quarter of a century to get it right.

My sister and I used to argue about how to do it. My sister would say, buttermilk. Gotta soak it in buttermilk.

Mom didn't do that.

Yes, she did.

No, she didn't. We never had buttermilk. Ever.

Well, my friend chicken is soaked in buttermilk, Cathy would say.

Yeah, but Mom's wasn't. I want her chicken. I want to be able to do that fried chicken. You make delicious fried chicken. But... it's not Mom's.

Too hot. Turn down the grease. You letting Ben roll those drumsticks? Has he washed his hands?

Ben was eager to help- eager to eat, too.

I could see that day in my mother's Canfield Road's kitchen, when I begged her to show me one more time.

Oh lord, she had said, I haven't done that in so long.

But she was game, as long as I was washing the dishes. She knew I could make her potato salad. I could make her cinnamon buns.

My mother was a meticulous cook. Dishes were washed as she went along- always using the measuring cup to stir an egg, and usually only a fork for stirring, cooking, testing. (Yes, I am the same way in the kitchen, although not quite as anal.) I sat on a stool, by the counter and wrote everything down.

And watched. Watched when she turned the chicken, watched when she rolled them in flour, then egg, then flour. Contrary to deep fried chicken, she cooked it low and slow.

My mother was never, ever in a hurry. It was annoying when trying to get to the airport, but delicious when it came to the results in the kitchen.

So, with my sister over one shoulder, and my mother's kitchen in my head, I proceeded with Ben Boy to make fried chicken.

It's going to be awful, I said.

No, not this time, Mom. You can do it. I mean, Grandma was from the south and she was your mother.

No pressure.

I did one thing I've never done before. Something I always do with chicken now- brine it.

Then, I followed the recipe. From my head, from my heart, from my sister's bad advice.

Halfway through, I thought, Nope. It's going to be bland and awful. I can't get the crisp right.

Oh well, at least I bought drumsticks on sale for a buck a pound.

But then, I turned the heat down, and it started to come together. I took off the first batch and put in the second.

I sliced into one of the thicker legs. I wanted to know if it were cooked through. And I took a bite.

I did it. Almost- the gorgeous blue ribbon coating didn't happen- and I know what to do to achieve it (I've done that before).

I got the taste. The slight bacon flavor, salty, juicy chicken deliciousness. I felt like I took the same bite I did when I was five years old.

I did it.

Ben tried it. He said, Mom, this is total deliciousness. I mean, it's so good. It's salty and crunchy... thank you.

I will never run a marathon. I will never sail the seven seas. I will never climb Everest.

Doesn't matter. I finally made my mother's fried chicken.

(Imgs personal photos)

Are we in a recession?

Do tax cuts create jobs?

Who wanted to cut 1 trillion plus dollars from Social Security?

I ask these questions because it's important to think about the frame - the overall frame the American public have about our economy and economic situation. People are quick to blame Obama for the mess we are in, and I find it so wrong, I can barely sit in my seat.

It's like staring at a penny and thinking you met Lincoln.

We are not in a recession. I know it feels like it, smells like it, our newspapers constantly hammer on it, but we are not. The GDP is growing and that means, no recession. It's not about feelings, people. It's about numbers.

Republicans wanted to cut over a trillion dollars off Social Security. Hey, Grandma, how's that Alpo? I wonder if they even remember why it was created. In 1935, FDR signed the act to act as insurance to our elderly, to widows, for fatherless children. It was saying, Hey, we're all in this together. Because in 1935, we were. It was about lifetimes of work being rewarded with a safety net at a time when there were no safety nets at all.

People were starving. Money wasn't tight, it was gone. Imagine going to the ATM and having it say, oops. Sorry. You put it in but, it's not there anymore.

Think it couldn't happen again? Think again.

Oh, we have new economic models! I hear people saying. Really? Like that nifty one that said invest everything in stocks that don't give out dividends, with price ratios that were beyond the imagination, but everything is new and different? That was the internet bubble of the late 90's. Guess what? Didn't work out. What happened? Oh, that crazy thing called history repeated itself.

Obama has been in office for two years. He inherited the Bush tax cuts. When I first heard of the Bush tax cuts, when Bush was first proposing them, it was from an economist who said, This is an attempt to defund the federal government. To extinguish it, minus the military, forever.

That is Obama's fault?

Two wars, outrageous tax cuts (mostly for the wealthy), interests rates so low why would anyone think of saving, mad spending, real estate bubble, bad mortgage after bad mortgage (what? have no money? of course you can get a 500k house!), and we were on the brink of collapse.

You think those Republicans voted for TARP because they liked it? No, because if they didn't, they'd never see office again.

Was it perfect? No. But unemployment benefits were extended, social security saved, along with medicare, medicaid, and military veterans were no longer being tossed from their foreclosed homes while serving the country.

We are no longer in a recession. When you think that? I want you to go to the mirror, look yourself in the eye and ask, How much did welfare cost the government?

Or, what is the biggest export from the rainforest?

Your answers will surprise you. And the truth? Make you realize you've been brainwashed.

We need revenues, people. We need money to pay off debt, to invest in our people, our infrastructure, to create jobs. Bridge building creates jobs. Having money to hire teachers in schools, creates jobs.

Imagine a program that built public buildings and roads, that operated large drama, arts, media, and literacy projects. That fed children, redistributed food, clothing and housing. That created jobs and a flow of money to those in need of both.

Hmmmm. Oh, that would be the WPA- Works Progress Administration.

That requires revenue.

And a belief that the American people mean something. All Americans.

The only "T" word we should ever use again is Transgender. The other one is gone. Don't even whisper it at night in your dreams.

Obama took Social Security, Medicaid and Medicare off the chopping block. We are in debt so far over our heads, it makes your own personal credit cards look simple. The time for more revenue is here.

Obama came into office and immediately solved a crisis. It was a bandaid. He then did more for LGBT civil rights than any President ever in the history of our country. Can we have his back? Please?

We are not in a recession. Tax cuts do not create jobs. Republicans are happy to send Grandma out for Alpo.

Watch carefully, listen carefully. You think Obama has let you down? Go re-read all that's been done. Then re-read the Bush years.

You are being played by carefully orchestrated frames of reference.

Welfare cost less than 2% of any budget. Not 50, not 30, not 10. Rubber is the largest export- not wood for paper or construction.

Sometimes what we believe to be true, isn't true at all.

While Zachary and Jake were away on a road trip, I sent them pictures on their phones. Any time I saw a "punch buggy" I sent it to Jake and said, Punch yourself.

He would promptly punch Zachary.

I had found Zachary's "Baby" in the Ogunquit house. It was a gift from a good friend of mine and Zachary did love Baby. That is, when he was a baby. Poor Baby ended up on top of the refrigerator, long forgotten. Until I got Baby, dusted her off and took her on adventures.

Meet Baby.

If you mess with Baby, she will give you the finger.

Baby likes cake.

Baby says, Nom, nom, chocolate cake. All mine.

Baby says, Where's my pina colada???

Baby says, This game sucks. Now I have sand in my butt.

Oh, Baby has had many more adventures. I'm trying to figure out how to create a facebook page for baby. Oddly, they won't let me use the name "Baby."

Baby doesn't like that very much.

And you don't get Baby mad.

Stay tuned for more adventures. Hey, it's summer, it's hot and I have way too much free time on my hands.