At Home in America

Someone planted a flag in the middle of Malaga Lake. I don't know how long it's been there (it was living here before I was), but I'll bet if you measured it from each side of the lake, you'd find that it was smack dab in the middle. That just seems like the thing to do. If you're going to put a flag in the lake, might as well do it right.

It's a little past the dam where the water runs down into a concrete bowl and bubbles out the other side of the bridge into a shrinking forest on route 40. I see it all every day on my way home from work.

For awhile I wondered why someone would put a flag in a lake. I suppose it's one way of being patriotic...then again, does drowning the Stars & Stripes count as patriotism? Maybe it was some fisherman's idea of declaring his Americanism to the world (or at least to Franklin Twp). Or maybe one of the homeowners that lives along the lakeshore wanted a good way to predict a flood and couldn't find a long stick ("When the water gets up to the first red stripe, it's time to evacuate, Ethel.")

I'm not really sure.

It used to bother me that it was there. I don't particularly like the American flag. I know how dreadfully un-patriotic that sounds but I actually mean it to be quite the opposite. From the time I was old enough to recognize political showmanship, I recall seeing people wave that flag like it meant the world couldn't stop them. Don't get me wrong - that sense of self-efficacy and power could be a good thing. But I suppose I've only ever really noticed the bad sides. The flag seems always to be hanging in the background when people claim democracy as the only true method of governance, or when they're pushing citizens over the border into Mexico because they have brown skin and accents. In truth, the flag is one reason I'm glad that my half-Puerto Rican husband doesn't look Hispanic - at least I can be sure he'll never have to face the discrimination the flag is often used to justify.

Yes, my feelings about Old Glory are complex.

When we moved here and I saw the flag in Malaga Lake, I wondered if this was the neighborhood for me. I'm always a bit leery of communities where the flag-waving sentiment seems especially strong. I worry that they'll come for me next, especially once they realize I was the one who took the Sawzall to the tall, white, self-constructed flagpole that used to stand in our front yard.

On the other hand, every day when I drive down route 40 and past the lake, I find myself searching for the flag. Sometimes it stands out like a giant among Lilliputians; other times it blends into the lake so well you wouldn't even notice it. One day I didn't see it at all and I found myself wondering in a semi-panicked way what happened to it. Did someone take it out and if so, why? Did it finally sink into the muddy abyss of the cedar water? The lake didn't seem unreasonably high, so it couldn't have drowned completely...

Then I saw it, hanging limp in the middle of the water, no breeze to blow it out and make it wave at the rush-hour traffic. I actually found myself breathing a sigh of relief...and then I wondered why it would have bothered me so much if the flag had permanently gone missing.

I don't have any real answer to that, other than to say I have a like-dislike relationship with the American flag (love-hate is far too strong a phrase in either direction). When I think about its storied birth at the hands of a local seamstress (still unsubstantiated by historians, of course), I'm reminded of how much I loved geography and history in elementary school, especially when we got to visit Philadelphia and march the cobblestone streets arm in arm. It seems to me that all old buildings should have a flag draped in the window or hanging over the front stoop.

But when I think about how often it's been waved as a harbinger of war and hate, I cringe. And when I see it plastered on someone's bumper, I find myself believing that whoever is driving that vehicle must be a conservative nut who approves of the U.S.A.'s short-sighted and narrow-minded foreign policies. I know my assumptions aren't always true, but still, there is this gut reaction that I can't seem to shake...

So then why did I panic when I thought the flag was gone forever from the lake? I think it's because it has grown to be a fixture in my life, a welcome sign that tells me I'm only minutes from home. It's probably also because I want very much to like the sight of the Stars and Stripes, to pledge allegiance to it as every student in America must do on a daily basis.

But in fact, I can't or won't. I resist because I don't like to be bullied into things and all too often, I think the flag has been used to bully us into action (or at least into a declaration of intended action). That is not the America I want to know or take part in, although it looks as though I have no choice.

So until I feel free of the undue pressure to conform to this "national" standard, I wonder if I will ever actually be at home in America.

A Lightning Strike

you know before she gets to you
that she is coming
fury winding itself up, her breath
the wind
pulling and pushing

she pounds her fists into your back
leaving cracks
paper-thin and skin-deep
along your spine
and you know you should turn and run
away from this storm
but instead
you pull closer into her center

you think
this is it
the hurricane, the flood
that will trap you

in the mud building castles
up around your knees
this is the moment you
don't want to live

you pull your shoulders up
hold steady
plant yourself still deeper in
and wait for the scream
that doesn't come with her

the light is blinding but
blinks out faster than it struck
and when all is said and done
you are nothing more
than air

--------------------

I haven't written creatively in such a long time, I fear I'm a little rusty. But the other day I was driving home from work and felt compelled to draw a metaphor that I'll leave to your interpretation.  I often think I'm a much better narrative / creative nonfiction writer than anything else, but I suppose it doesn't hurt to experiment. At the very least, writing poetry and flash fiction (before it WAS flash fiction) are the strongest roots of my creativity.

Do you know how I learned I was a writer? Besides all the used-up notebooks and worn-down pencils, I mean.  It was all the times that I was inspired by something mundane in such a way as to become almost completely distracted by it. As I get older, these moments are much more infrequent, but I still have them occasionally.

What I enjoy the most about writing is both the urgency and the patience in it. What I mean to say is that when inspiration strikes, it builds in my brain as language, words that kind of sway almost so that I can see them in front of me. There is this need to write them down but I know whatever is coming won't be right until I leave them be for awhile. It often starts slowly, a few lines that usually mean the start of something new; within days, the few lines build into deeper concepts that eventually take on a life of their own. By that time, I've thought so often about these words that I've memorized them in a particular order almost unconsciously created. Then, and only then, does writing come easy.

It's an amazing process.

When the cure is worse than the disease

I don't take care of myself very well, which is why I waited so long to rid myself of this sinus infection that I ended up in the E.R. on Saturday. Not a nice way to spend an afternoon, but it certainly could have been worse - we were there for a little less than two hours and I left feeling better than I did when I got there. Except now I'm taking super-strength antibiotics that are making my feet drag and my tummy slosh.

I have found that the effects of the illness are pretty much the same as the effects of the "cure". I'm cranky when I don't feel well, regardless of the cause. I feel like running over babies in strollers, but I have not yet gotten to the point where I would run over puppies. Also, there's a small chance that my decision to speak only minimally to my husband is not ACTUALLY because he's an ass - a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

So I suppose what I'm really saying is this - I am in a poor humor these days, either because I thought I was a superhero and could single-handedly destroy this sinus infection with no medical intervention, or because I detest feeling sick and am growling at the world much the same way that a rabid wolf with a tummy ache would. I'll let you decide that.

In the meantime, I'm biding my time at work, thinking about that poor unfortunate soul who has to meet with me in 1.25 hours and contemplating how close to home I can get before I make myself carsick.

Sometimes I think I've got enough material here to make a good stand-up show.

Today's life lessons

1. Some people are bound to suffer their entire lives. Thank Gautama I'm not one of them - unless you consider endless allergies and stuffed up sinuses suffering, in which case you should do a little chant for me.
2. Teaching is a learning experience. Just make sure you're not in a classroom full of mind-numbing morons.
3. Pet insurance is expensive. But not as expensive as having a reckless nutjob for a dog and an overweight cat who are UN-insured. There's a chance, however, that this life lesson will change - it depends on whether or not Obama goes for the pet healthcare proposal I sent him. DOWN WITH NON-COVERAGE OF PRE-EXISTING CONDITIONS - at this point, birth itself appears to be a pre-existing condition.
4. No matter what happens, it ALWAYS pays to stand up for yourself. Sure, it may cost you your job, but in the end you get to walk away pride intact and there's got to be SOME way to make your pride pay the bills. So, for example, if someone tells you that you lack the authority to make solo decisions and that they expect your full cooperation in the future, it's okay to defend yourself sarcastically in such a way as to force the opposing party to bend down and kiss your cheeks.
5. Yard sales are hard work. I don't know this for sure, but judging by the fact that we've been putting ours off for two weeks, I'm guessing it's true. And poster board is no longer five cents a sheet. Shocking, I know.
6. You really are as stupid as you act. You've driven in Jersey, right? Enough said.
7. It's totally possible to have an infinite amount of snot in your head. In which case it's much cheaper to stop buying tissues and just use your sleeve instead.
8. There is a direct correlation between the number of figures in a person's salary and that same person's inability to make coffee. Larger salaries seem to indicate incompetence at a variety of levels. Coffee is but one tiny (but important) example.
9. People with too much time on their hands are prone to using the E.R. as a diversion from boredom. As evidenced by my experience on Tuesday, when I'm pretty sure only two of the few dozen patients actually needed to be there.
10. Honesty is the best policy...unless it will get you in trouble. In that case, just lie. There's no sense ruining your own day, too.
11. It's possible to clean a desk off with minimal effort. Just heap everything on someone else's desk - when it needs to come back around to you, it generally will. Until then, kick back, relax, check Facebook...whatever.
12. No means no...except when it means yes. Some people have this uncanny biological ability to filter nos into yeses - I think it's in the eardrum.
13. Being a pest usually pays off. I'll do a little bragging here - after my scathing letter and emails to Sallie Mae, I finally got a response that resulted in an automatic deferment of all loans due and an apology. I'm still switching lenders, though :)

t.

Why doesn't it just rain?

Not that it hasn't already, but the way I feel today, I'm thinking it should just keep on raining until something interesting happens.

Ugh! Do you ever wish you could go back to a former life? Everyone has one...I think I might have had like 30 already. Sometimes being happy is just BORING. Of course, life always seems a little more boring once Syd goes home - she's kind of like a twister that just keeps going, sucking up everything in her path, spinning the world around and around for fun, then spitting it back, leaving it an exhausted shadow of what it once was. I meant that in a good way.


I think maybe I'm just feeling my age now and who wants to do THAT? I don't want to be mature and make good decisions - I want to be completely immature and make bad decisions, using youth and ignorance as an excuse.

I have a terrible feeling I'm going to accomplish nothing today.

The story of us: How a boy & his kid changed my life

Alex and I met on a blind date on December 1, 2006.

At the time, I lived in a small cabin in the middle of the Pine Barrens - I had been a self-proclaimed hermit on a dating hiatus for about a year and I enjoyed living alone. Thankfully, the apartment got cold in the winter and one completely serendipitous day, I called a guy about delivering some wood for my teeny-tiny fireplace. The morning he and his wife showed up to drop off the wood, it was pouring and dreary outside, I was hungover, and my knee was swollen to twice its size from a mystery bug bite I got the night before. I wasn't looking my best by any means and in truth, I was waiting for them to make the delivery and leave so I could take myself to the E.R.

For some reason, though, I invited them in for a drink - and to make a long story short, she asked me for my phone number because she wanted me to meet a family friend. She thought I was a nice girl. Was I crazy for giving it to her? Definitely. But I certainly never expected it to turn into anything.

Weeks later, on Thanksgiving in fact, she called me to ask if I'd like to come over for dessert and meet Alex, the family friend. I thought there was great potential for an incredibly awkward situation if we didn't hit it off, so I lied and said I was hours away at a family member's house - in truth, I was only blocks away at a family member's house. The next week, Alex called me and asked me out - I had never been on a blind date before and it made me nervous, so we arranged to meet in a public place for dinner. On December 1, we had our first date. Not taking into account the fact that my first words to him were, "I'm so sorry I have short hair!", we had a far better time than I expected - so good, in fact, that I was completely freaked out by how nice he was. (In my head, the hair was going to be an issue because I imagine that most men appreciate long, flowing hair.) I was trying to figure out why someone would divorce him and lots of potential flaws crossed my mind that night.

That line of potential flaws (none of which turned out to be real) kept me from returning his calls for the next two weeks. That and the fact that he seemed a tad too perfect for me. Finally, he left me a frustrated message that he claimed would be his last. I don't know if it was the chutzpah I heard in that message or something else I couldn't put my finger on, but that night I finally called him back and the rest is history.

It was quite awhile before I met Sydney, partly because she lives several states away and partly because we were trying to be gentle about it. The first time I saw her, Alex had just brought her home from the airport and she was standing in her bedroom unpacking. She looked at me warily, smiled, and said very quietly, "Hello." We went to a Phantoms hockey game that night and I remember very distinctly that she sat on one side of Alex and I sat on the other. I thought how very symbolic that was - that we were both now being forced to share this important guy.

It was a difficult game to sit through - everything he did with me, she did with him. When he held my hand, she grabbed his other hand; when he offered me his soda, she asked for a drink, too. I understood that it was a defense mechanism, a child's way of saying, "He's been mine longer than he's been yours." But when I stole the hat off Alex's head and reached around his back to give it to Syd for safe-keeping, the ice started cracking. That night, she got a bad nosebleed in the back of Alex's old truck and we bonded even more while I tended to her dripping nose and later when I tried to get the blood out of her white coat.

Syd and I, like Alex and I, have had our ups and downs, but to be fair it was a smooth transition compared to what it could have been. We have always included her in important decisions - we asked her permission to get married and we included her in the planning. Though she couldn't go house-hunting with us, we considered her needs in every single house we checked out, even though she only stays with us three or four times a year. Still, there is always a subtle hint of competition when it comes to Alex's love and attention - it's not easy to share.

But here's what I see now: my husband and my stepdaughter rocking out (rather badly) to Guitar Hero in our home, where we all have a defined place. Sydney, who is now almost 11 and already five feet tall, sleeps in a purple (technically "orchid corsage") bedroom that she helped paint, with posters that she tacked up and her giant suitcase in the middle of the room. The cat sleeps with her instead of me now and when she comes to visit, the dog greets her before she greets either of the people who take her out and feed her. She helps me bake cookies around the holidays, we go camping and adventuring in the summer, and she mentions to me things she doesn't tell her dad. (Some things are the same, though - she still calls me T.D., a nickname she made up two years ago that stands for "Tara Doodle". And though she hated it when I first started calling her Sydney Bean, she now expects and, dare I say, even likes it.)

She's growing up so fast. Today when we canoed in the lake at the end of our street, she and Alex paddled...and we didn't spin in circles! She was too big to play on most of the playground equipment in the park across the lake. And, of course, her vocabulary has advanced to include words like "hell" ("What, T.D.? It's a place, isn't it?") and "crap" ("Well what else am I s'posed to say when I'm aggravated, T.D.?").

When all is said and done, she'll probably be at least six or seven inches taller than me. One day, she'll be more interested in boys than in us (she already has a "boyfriend"); she'll want to stay home, where her friends are, in the summer; she'll get a job and start driving, go to college, and maybe meet the love of her life. She'll suffer losses and celebrate big wins, and maybe she'll find out all the things her dad and I have known for a long while but have tried to protect her from. She'll love us and hate us and be completely indifferent towards us and she'll do all the things that we (unfairly) did to our parents.

In the end, "step" means whatever you want it to mean - in my case, being a stepmother has been a life-changing challenge that makes me view the world in an entirely different light. My actions all have long-term impacts on Syd and her generation and my words carry weight that I will often not predict. I'm not the center of her world in the way that her parents are, but my actions matter enough that sometimes the lessons she learns here travel back home with her. Her words and actions matter enough to me that sometimes I learn things from her that no one else could teach me.

One thing's for sure - I think I'm always going to be T.D.

I had a moment...then the cat saved the day (and my husband)

So I just finished reading this ridiculously good book - seriously, I didn't know authors even wrote this good anymore!  (If you ever want a good read, look up Carlos Ruiz Zafon - read The Shadows of the Wind first and then The Angel's Game, which is the one I just finished.) The end was really bittersweet and because I spent 531 pages with the very engaging characters, I naturally had a visceral reaction. Alex came home from his hockey game and I was BAWLING - not just a few tears, but a complete, all-out bawl-fest, snot and everything. Of course at first he thought something was really wrong, so I was trying to explain but every time I started talking I started bawling again - it was just so friggin' sad!!!  So when he finally figured out what was going on, he stared at me without blinking for a few seconds, then went out to his truck to bring in his gear. If you're missing the Y chromosome like I am, then you'll understand - his reaction pissed me off. No, I'm not just a hormonal female - I am, in fact, a passionate lover of good literature and I can't help it if I become completely immersed in a book. I won't apologize for it, either. So there.

I made one more unsuccessful attempt to get across the gravity of the novel in 500 words or less...and he rolled his eyes and went to take a shower (which was a blessing because he stunk like...you guessed it, nasty hockey gear).  Agitated as I was, I yelled through the bathroom door, "Well if YOU knew anything about passionately loving someone, you would understand!" Probably unfair given that he's a very good hubby who never neglects to remind me that he loves me. But I wallowed for awhile about how no one would do for me what the novel's hero did for the love of his life (despite the fact that she married his best friend).

I grumped around for awhile and still a little weepy, I sat on the floor where my cat was beckoning for a belly rub. As I indulged him, I looked him right in the eyes and he looked intently back at me as if to say, "Don't worry mom, I understand." Which is why animals make the best soulmates in the world. In the midst of their humans' bizarre reactions to literature and other seemingly inane stimuli, they understand that we are merely experiencing primal emotional instincts. That's what I think anyway, but I'm not the cat whisperer or anything so what do I know?

t.

A better kind of letter

June 2, 2010

Cedar Brook Animal Hospital

223 Cedarbrook Rd.

Sicklerville, NJ 08081

To the very friendly staff:

I LOVE YOU GUYS! Please allow me to elaborate.

Last night, I brought my big fat cat in for an annual visit and shots – my dog has already been to see you but this was a first-time visit for Sangha, who doesn’t generally take kindly to strangers. I was kind of nervous about changing vets because I’ve always taken him to the office where I adopted him, even though they nickel-and-dimed me until my wallet screamed for mercy.

No fewer than five staff members at CBAH interacted with us and I waited almost no time at all to see the vet. Everyone was super friendly and genuinely interested in my odder-than-odd feline. When his records were faxed over from the other vet’s office, both the tech and the vet reviewed them carefully with me. Once I mentioned that Sangha was allergic to allergy shots, the doctor made (and quadruple-highlighted) a note on the top of his chart so that he’s never accidentally given that medication. Even the vet he had been seeing for over four years forgot about his allergy every year, remembering only when I pointed out to her that I couldn’t afford another kitty-E.R. visit in the middle of the night.

Additionally, you’ve saved me big-time money – not only did you point out that since he’s an indoor cat, he only really needs to get shots every three years, but your office visit was really reasonably priced. Sangha’s previous vet had me buying him special food (from her, of course), special oil for his coat, flea/tick medicine (even though he has never willingly been outside), etc. Since I’m such a sucker for that cat, I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

Sangha’s life wasn’t easy before he adopted me – he was thrown out of a moving car because his “owner” no longer wanted him and when I got him, he was skinny and a little whiny. Of course his life since then has been spent in the lap of luxury, where he can be lazy and have intelligent conversations with someone who has learned feline lingo. He’s not so much whiny now as he is content to head-butt his family members when he wants attention, smack his dog in the face to remind her who’s boss, and talk about food.

Needless to say, we’ll be back for our annual visits. Thank you again!

Sincerely,

Tara Ronda

PS: Sorry about the shedding – he’s a hairy beast. Perhaps you can use it to create a little office cat that greets the patients or something J

A letter (and yes, it really is in the mail)

June 1, 2010

Sallie Mae, Inc.
ATTN: Correspondence
P O Box 9500
Wilkes-Barre, PA 18773-9500

Dear Sallie Mae,

I hate you. Please allow me to elaborate.

I have unfortunately been a customer for just about ten years and I would like to offer some evidence of your complete incompetence as a lender and manager of student loans. I am extremely frustrated and disgusted with the way that you provide “customer support.” I have critical questions about my existing student loans and there appears to be virtually no way for me to get them answered. Case in point: 

1. I sent an email. You ignored it. Or you just never got around to it because of what I’m sure is the sheer volume of students you’re “servicing.” 
2. I called. Your genius automated system has several notable limitations and was unable to answer what I thought were some pretty basic questions. (Really, is it too much to ask that you have one or two human beings staffing the phone once in awhile?) 
3. I didn’t bother writing a letter because I don’t have the luxury of time to wait for a response via Pony Express, which now that I think of it might have actually been faster than trying to reach you via email and phone.

Let’s face it – you’ve been on a downward slope for quite awhile and my friend, you are NOT in the business of teaching snowboarding lessons. The way I see it, you’re making a pant-load of money off of my debt and I deserve to be treated with courtesy and respect, not ignored when trying to get answers about the loans that I will be repaying for the remainder of my natural life. I have spent an unforgivable amount of my workday trying not to throw my phone AND my computer out the window. The only recourse I had was to write you a disgruntled letter – sad that it’s come to this, when we’ve got so much technology, don’t you think?

It is unfortunate that you care so little for your customers. So unfortunate, in fact, that you might as well consider this a Dear John letter. You’re not the only loan company in the sea, so I intend to consolidate elsewhere and make all our lives a little easier. I have worked in higher education for years; hence, I encounter lots and lots of students whose entire future is likely tied up in unscrupulous loan companies like yours. I also love writing angry letters to the editors of my favorite publications – what’s the point of writing a sappy love letter to an editor, after all? I’ll be sure to spread the good word of our breakup.  

Sincerely yours,

Tara N. Ronda

P.S. - If you haven't yet seen the Sallie Mae's Incompetence blog, I highly suggest it - it makes for some gooooood reading: http://www.imjosh.com/salliemae/.