{Plastic Pants}

People have been asking me why I haven't been writing regularly for awhile.  Between my 4 kids and the pages of essays that I write every week, I've basically used up all of my words.... and my time... and my words.  However... here is a short op.ed. that I did for one of my required writing classes.  We had to pick a topic that we think is relevant and of political importance and write a letter (no more than 250 words) to the local newspaper about it.  (That's shorter than 2 tweets people.)  I thought about it for like two weeks, and then it came to me. Plastic grocery bags.  That's right people... our state legislature is trying to outlaw plastic grocery bags.

So here is my letter, that I'm sure will never be published except by myself...

Dear Oregon Legislature,

I am a 36-year-old, suburban mother of four.  I carry my baby in one of those “I’m a hip Portland hippy mom” baby wraps.  I recycle my aluminum cans (wait, no more aluminum cans –“organic, local, in season”).  I even did some urban chicken farming (until we were forced to move during “The Crash” and couldn’t find a house whose rent was ten dozen pretty blue eggs payable the first of each month).  I breastfeed, I compost, I deny my California upbringing.

I love that Oregon likes to stick it to The Man as much as the next girl, but you vote to take away my plastic grocery bags, and I will go third party on you.   Collapsible, reusable, little shopping bags are good in theory.  They feel responsible. People living in the Pearl District love them, but they aren’t what you’d call “family friendly”.

Some shoppers are fans of paper bags.  I am not.  I can’t hang 15 paper bags off each arm to minimize stair climbing. I can’t use paper bags to seal off dirty diapers and nasty soccer shoes.  I can’t make them into homemade parachutes for those little green army men my sons love.

There’s a recession on (still).  Oregon isn’t exactly known for its job security, and you haven’t even picked on a single public employee union yet.  Oregon’s families have lost enough.  For the love of all that is green, leave our plastic bags alone.

Sincerely,

e.

It's my only little counter-revolution.  I'm thinking about a grocery store sit in... in the cookie aisle.  Who wants to bring the milk?

Stay Calm and Keep Your Pants On

Here's a little history-ish lesson: during World War II, Winston Churchill commissioned a poster which, though relatively famous now, was not widely used or well known in his time.  Winston wanted to get the word out that in the face of some very undesirable things, all you've got to do is "keep calm and carry on".  Well thanks a lot Mr.Churchill for those words of advice... we couldn't agree more.


As many of you know, my nieces Arden (age 9) and her sister Naya (age 8 months) have cystic fibrosis- a disease that effects their lungs and pancreases (which is the plural of pancreas... I Googled it).

As of today the life expectancy for a person with CF is 37 years.  I am 36.  I am not ready to die, and I'm guessing that when they are my age, they won't be either.   Luckily the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation is supporting all kinds of amazing research that is bringing treatments to market to help my nieces outlive their mother.  But they need money... and that means we need you.

So,... because I believe that the best way to say "thank you" is with something special, we are offering these super-rad necklaces to everyone who gives to the cause.  If you'd like one of these little cuties, all you have to do is click here to go to Arden and Naya's family Great Strides page and donate $10 (or more - whatever) to their fundraising effort.  Seriously people, it's not that hard...the donation is tax deductible... and your neck will thank you.

Keep calm, breathe on, and help us cure CF.


And now...the low down on the pretty-

• Each charm is handmade and comes with a little silver chain (as pictured) or one of those silver ring things that allows you to turn it into a key chain  (C'mon boys... real men love themselves a pink keychain.
• Please leave an email address in the comment section of the donation page (or email me via my blog) so that I can contact you for shipping info.  Also, please specify which color combo you'd like... otherwise you get what you get and you don't throw a fit...( and I can tell you right now you will either get the really dark brown one, or the really light pink one because those are my favorites.) 
• The back of each charm is randomly finished in polka dots or little flowers.
• Each charm is handmade to order.  This means that there may be slight variation from piece to piece.
• Please remember - these charms are made from glass tiles and resin so they are water resistant, but are not something you should wear in the shower unless you want a plain 1" glass tile on a string.

All charms are in combinations of brown and pink.
 When you donate please leave an email address where you can be reached and specify
the dark, medium, or light variation of your preferred background color in the donation message area.

Those pants are way full.

I just finished my first week of full time school...

On the up side-  I am in school.  I am not totally stupid.  There are lots of chapters on genetics (thank you strangely shallow gene pool.  Who says X-linked and other strange recessive traits can't help you out?)

On the down side- I am in school with 4 kids, volunteer work and a job in the church youth group.  I am sort of stupid.  Mac-n-Cheese or Fruit Loops for dinner?  Where are the clean underwear?  Why has the vacuum been sitting by the Christmas tree for 7 days?  Wait, why do we still have a Christmas tree?

I can do anything for 10 weeks.

The Return of the Prodigal Pants

I don't know if there is such thing as a writer's coma, but I think that I have been in one for several months.  It's not so much that I can't think of anything to write about... I frequently write blog entries in my head.  Mostly ones that highlight my borderline functional parenting moments or those that deal with the follies of my 4 children.  I had a whopper all worked out, but the child who starred in the tale will k-i-l-l me if  I actually publish it on the internet, so too bad for you... and now since I'm up a creek with no funny story,  here's an update on what's been going on the last few... um... months.

• I have officially started back at school and am moving slowly along my path toward becoming a midwife.  I got 100% in my first class - intercultural communications.  (Which was not that difficult since, based on their answers, most of the class thought that the homework questions were actually a Facebook survey.)    I thought about sending my resume into the UN after my perfect performance, but my husband doesn't believe in the UN, so... peace at home before peace in the world I guess. 

I have several sciencey kinds of classes that I'm starting and  have to do a statistics course that I am procrastinating as long as possible.  I 'm good with the words, but the numbers- not so much.  Also, I'm pretty sure statistics is just something that big fat liars made up to try to convince everyone else that they're not big fat liars.  (PS - I had to take a math placement test.  Mediocre is over-exaggerating my performance. I swear the only thing that saved me is that my daughter broke her arm in two places at the beginning of the school year which meant that I got to act as 5th grade scribe/tutor for 5 weeks... also, I Googled "college math placement test" about 2 hours before I had to show up.  Say what you will about Google.  As far as I'm concerned they can map my house all they want as long as they help me test out of basic college algebra.)  

•  I have lived to celebrate another birthday, ushering in my late-mid -30s... and that's all I have to say about that... except- my mom got me the best birthday present ever... 2 days with a bunch of hippy birth junkies whose idea of a fun Friday night is a women's energy/sharing/dance circle and swapping stories about placenta encapsulation.  I am out of my mind excited.  By the way Eugene Oregon... if you smell something strange, it's just my deodorant.

(...one more thing about the birthday. Every year on December 10th I reacquaint myself with the famous people who share my astrological sign.  Sagittarius.  Basically we break down like this... writers (Mark Twain, Emily Dickenson, Jane Austen), musicians (Beethoven, Hendrix, Donny Osmond, and Billy Idol), actors (Don Johnson) and politicians (Winston Churchill) including a couple of despotic tyrants.  I was feeling like I had really found my people until it occurred to me that the horoscope folks probably don't include normal and boring lives in these lists and so it is very likely that every other astrological sign has a similar roll call of awesomeness... except for Donny Osmond.

• The baby has cavities all over his mouth.  You don't know judgement until your dentist peeks into  your baby's mouth and the look on her face says "clearly he's been sucking down Dr.Pepper and Pixie Stix for 14 months".  The first dentist (yep, more than one dentist) actually showed me how to put the toothpaste on the tooth brush and then made little circles with it in the air to demonstrate proper brushing technique.  I'm not kidding.  Just for the record... I have never had a cavity.  Ever.  I never had braces.  I never had a retainer and I have all of my teeth including the 4 wisdom ones.  Clearly, this is totally my husband's fault.

• It's Christmas again.  I have been possessed by the Spirit of Crafters Past and have an unexplainable and obsessive urge to make stuff out of paper and felt.  Not necessarily in that order.

Merry Christmas all... and on that note, I'm off to send an email to Santa telling him that my kids are signing up for a Chilean miner"s pocketfull of coal if they don't stop their fighting.  It usually solicits good results - after the crying and screaming that I am "the worst mom ever,  seriously Mom, ever."   Aaah.  I love being the best at stuff.

{Nothing funny about those pants}

***WARNING - THIS POST CONTAINS FRANK DISCUSSION OF WHAT I CONSIDER ADULT THEMES***


My son's hemophilia does not scare me.  I am not scared by the daily questions like "Where did that bleed/bruise/bleed and bruise come from?" or "Hmmm.  Shouldn't your clotting factor be actually helping you clot?".  I am not scared of blood.  I am scared of AIDS.

Recently I heard a brief discussion on NPR about whether or not the standards for donating blood should be revised to include men who have had sexual contact with other men in the potential donor pool.  The FDA has recently upheld the current standard of declining to accept the blood of people who fall into this category.

As I listened to the guest talk, I must admit to struggling with a schizophrenic battle between the sickening panic in my stomach and the logic in my head.  The idea of any kind of lowered safety threshold makes me deeply concerned.  The consequences of contaminated blood is not theoretical for those of us in the bleeding disorders community.  It is not a debate over ideologies or value systems or religious beliefs or civil rights.  We have good reason to support strict controls on the level of risk we are willing to accept when it comes to blood born pathogens.  By the end of the 1980s 10,000 hemophiliacs in the US had contracted HIV and 15,000 were infected with hepatitis as a result of FDA-approved tainted blood product.  (To help understand the magnitude of that number you must know that there are currently around 17,000 people living with hemophilia nationwide.)  It is well documented that both the government and the pharmaceutical companies knowingly allowed tainted blood clotting product to be marketed to and used by the hemophilia community. Exacerbated by poor blood screening/treatment mechanisms and high risk donors being allowed to contribute to the blood supply, the result was, what I consider, a generational genocide...and the reason my mother was widowed with 4 children before she turned 40.

The NPR guest did a lot of talking about the right to give blood - which, first of all, I'm not so sure is actually a right.  Secondly, I do not think it is discrimination to say "Hey, you make risky choices... which may be ok with you, but not so much with us. Thanks, but no thanks."  I think it's smart.   I don't think it's smart, however, to have guidelines that make people think that they are more safe, while actually doing nothing to improve safety.

The question then becomes, does the ban on accepting blood donations from homosexual men in general improve the overall safety of the collective blood supply.  In deciding where I come down on this issue I asked myself:  "If my son needed a transfusion (like my 14 month old nephew just received) or a human-derived clotting product would I consider using the blood of a gay man who has sex exclusively with one person more risky than using the blood of a straight man who engages in sexual activity with multiple partners?  Not taking into consideration the infinitely improved screening and treating processes, I would choose the blood of the monogamous gay man over the promiscuous straight man.

When making changes to the screening mechanism, I would prefer that donors be excluded based on the number of partners with whom they've had sex over a given period of time.   Quite frankly I don't want my son exposed to the diseases that accompany risky sexual practices, whether those practices are with men or women.  It seems to me that this criteria would appropriately identify risky behaviors practiced across all potential blood donors, while allowing those who engage in more responsible sexual behaviors to contribute to the much relied upon blood supply.

In the end, no one can truly police blood donors.  It's not as though a list of questions is going to stop someone from donating blood that is considered high risk if they want to donate blood.  This is why I am grateful for improved screening, treating and monitoring protocols, as well as recombinant factor that is not derived from human blood product.  Constant vigilance is vital and I want to support policies that both actually keep our families safe and demand that those who are in a position of guardianship over that blood supply take their responsibility seriously this time... not just look like they do.


NOTE:   Bad Blood is a documentary that was released to limited markets about a week ago.  It tells the story of the devastating consequences borne by those in the bleeding disorders community when they were knowingly exposed to diseased blood product.  I have not yet seen this documentary, but when it is released on DVD in December, I intend to purchase it.  (I am in no way connected to the makers of the film, but am grateful that this chapter of our history is finally being told.  Loudly.)

Winner of the Rants In My Pants June Giveaway

Congratulations to Jenny the winner of the great vintage inspired apron from Terrace Hill.  Happy canning Jenny.

A huge thank you to Terrace Hill for sponsoring such a terrific giveaway.

Stay tuned for next month's giveaway starting July 7th.

{ Pants For Sale }

For Father's Day my husband received:

• One watercolor painting of a tree frog from our oldest son.
• One watercolor painting of a sword fish from ... our oldest son.
• One card expressing gratitude to my husband for his abilities to finish levels on the Lego Batman game, heretofore unattained by our 2nd son.  (The card was written by our oldest son.)
• One bar of Lever soap taken by my daughter from the hall closet, wrapped in homemade wrapping paper and tied up with a ribbon.  She thought this was very funny and quite frankly... so did I.
• One breakfast in bed.
• One Father's Day dinner.

I made braised short ribs, and I'm not gonna lie about this, they were good.  I consider ribs "man food" which basically means food that either requires no utensils and therefore a lot of finger licking (example: ribs), is totally disgusting (example: a hamburger with a fried egg on it), or both (example: a hamburger with a fried egg and a slab of ribs on it.  Don't think you can't order this somewhere people - this is America).  I also made Man Food's best friend - mashed potatoes, and rounded out the whole thing with some green beans, pineapple and corn on the cob.

Corn on the cob is one of those things that reminds me strongly of my own childhood and my own father.  (If you are picturing me sitting on the porch shucking huge ripe ears with my dad ...  not so much.)

When I was a kid, our church would earn funds for our budget every year by raising and selling corn.  (Who knew there was such good money in small scale farming.)  Each family in our congregation was responsible for tending a certain number of rows... and don't think my dad let a little thing like him being in a wheelchair get us out of weeding the weediest and most boring rows of corn in the history of corn.  We kids did the hands and knees thing, and  I'm pretty sure I remember him using some kind of homemade weed digger contraption assembled from various pieces of broken garden tools that were held in place with black electrical tape.  He was constantly taping stuff to long handles to make his tools handi-friendly since he and bending over were not good friends.  (Where the heck was Billy Mays then I ask you?  Seriously, if there's a market for Life Alert, there's a market for Shoe-Horn-On-A-Stick...although we might need to work on the name.) 

Once the "raising of the corn" was complete, it was time for phase two of the Great Mormon Corn Expansion Project.  Also known as "the selling of the corn".  Apparently, my family was like the Little Red Hen of Billings Montana, because we did  it all while many of the other congregants ( "able bodied men" mostly) played the dog, the pig and the cat... or in other words, were too "busy" to help with anything.

I hated the weeding, but I loved the selling.  My father, three younger sisters, and I would tow our trailer full of golden corny goodness to a spot where we would get lots of foot traffic (the parking lot of the Maverick truck stop and gas station), place our signage (a piece of cardboard with the words "Fresh Corn" written in spray paint) and wait for the cash to start flowing in (12 ears for $1 - I'm a little murky on this detail, but I'm pretty sure I'm right.  I distinctly remember putting 12 ears of corn into old paper grocery bags, hoping that they didn't rip when I handed them out).  I don't know how many hours we spent selling corn, but I do know that we sold a lot of corn.  I think that we basically sold out of whatever corn we were selling.  We sold more corn than anyone else in the church.

As a child, I thought that our  fundraising success was due to our superior corn selling abilities.  As an adult I realized that it was likely for a different reason entirely.  Frankly speaking, who is not going to buy corn from a man in a wheel chair, parked at a truck stop in the middle of August, sitting next to a trailer full of one mountain of corn which is being scaled by four barefoot little girls in varying degrees of late summer shabbyness? (In my parents' defense - we had a bath every night and started the day with combed and braided and curled hair... but childhood is a messy thing.  Especially when there's corn to sell).
Seriously, we could've inspired our own Dickens novel.

Clearly, my dad was a genius and this remains, in my opinion, the most genius marketing strategy in the history of church corn sales.  I still smile everytime I think of what people must have thought as they drove by us, turned around, pulled into the truck stop and forked over their dollar bills. (This happened a lot.) I'm guessing we were the topic of more than one car ride discussion on the importance of family planning.

Maybe this year we'll get all of our corn u-pick style - for old time's sake (and because I love to listen to my kids complain - it's my favorite).  Just don't think you're going to find me selling it wholesale out of the back of my minivan.