Why celebrate International Women's Day?

I love being a woman. I love being a wife, a mother, a sister, a daughter, a girl friend, a woman in the enterprise technology industry, a great employee, a great co-worker, a Girl Scout leader, a nurturer and a protector. I have battled misogyny, ignorance, and sexism, and I have come out on the winning end. I do not feel a need to sit out today for anyone important to me to appreciate my worth. 

However, I am celebrating International Women's Day. 

Why celebrate International Women’s Day?

Because the software industry still holds strong to a mindset that women don’t make great programmers despite the fact that Ada Lovelace is the person who created the fundamental concepts that created the industry. 

Because Hedy Lamarr, who invented a great number of things, including the technology that laid the path for cellular and WiFi technology, is primarily remember by the world, for being extraordinarily beautiful. 

Because it is not well known that Marie Skłodowska Curie was not only the first person to win two Nobel prizes in two different disciplines (and numerous other recognitions, despite best efforts to keep them from her), she also raised a daughter, Irene Joliot-Curie who won a Nobel prize in Chemistry. 

Because CJ Walker, the first female, self-made millionaire, an African American, is merely a footnote, if noted at all and not a household name.

Because we have Rosalind Franklin to thank for our understanding of DNA, yet male counterparts tried hard to bury that.

Because SE Hinton and JK Rowling and other women authors were told use their initials instead of their actual names so their incredible books would stand a chance of being read. 

Because 3 of the 4 female NASA engineers I met last month had not heard of Katherine Johnson until the movie Hidden Figures came out. Because this country didn’t know about their national treasures from NASA until the book and, really, until the movie came out.

Because, despite the incredible contributions women have made to the advancement and success of the world we know, they are relegated to being footnotes in our history and our headlines, if we get any mention at all.

Because despite the incredible opportunities and choices women in many countries, including the U.S. enjoy, there are women in other parts of the world who are forbidden formal education, who are not allowed to drive or even leave their house without a male chaperone,  who are married off before they reach puberty and who are readily put to death for being an inconvenience to their families. 

Because women make up roughly 50% of the world population, yet even in this country, are classified as a minority. 

Why International Women’s Day? 

Because we all, women and men, deserve to know more about our shared history and shared contributions. Because we all, women and men, are made better when we recognize and appreciate the intrinsic value of one another. Because there is still much progress to be made.

Truth About Santa

E, my 9 year old, told me she had something she needed to talk with me about privately.
 She told me that last year she was looking in the dresser of the guest bedroom for some craft thing or another and had found the same fabric Santa had used on her beanbag cover. And she recalled a time on Christmas eve when she'd got up to get water and came to look for me to me to snuggle with her and got a glimpse of me in the family room surrounded by Target bags. So (with a deep sigh), she wanted to know if Santa was real.
I looked her straight in the eyes and said what I believe to be true, "Yes."
 Then I asked her if she thought Santa was a man who lived in the North Pole and was surrounded by elves. And she shook her head. She asked if Santa was just someone who gave parents the presents and the parents put them under the tree. I told her not exactly, but sometimes; in her house her mommy and daddy get the things for her and her sister.
I told her Santa is a spirit, a feeling of joy of giving and fun and delight. It's what makes parents want to create fun surprises and feelings of magic and mystery. It is also the spirit that makes people want to give in a big and special way.
 We talked about the origins of St. Nicholas who gave out of the joy in his heart and willingness to share in his abundance. And how he was inspired by the great love and generosity of God.
 I told her the spirit that is Santa Claus isn't just something that mommies and daddies share but it is what makes people give so much of themselves, especially this time of year. It's what makes people, who sometimes aren't even Christian, go out and pay off the layaways (I explained what that was) for total strangers who would never know who did this generous thing, so that they could give their families a nice Christmas. It is a fun and magical thing.
 I then explained that, ultimately, behind all magic is a person or people, meaning people make magic happen. And that magic and miracles were different things. People can make magic but only God can make miracles.
"So you are the one who moves Samantha [our elf]?" she said. "Yes," I confessed.
"I thought so."
 She was actually relieved. The questions of a curious and clever child were weighing heavily on her. Her love of believing conflicted with her ability to logically make smart connections, She was actually very happy to learn the truth about Santa.
 I asked her if she enjoyed all the magic and mystery and fun. She said "Yes." So we talked about how important it is to not spoil the magic and mystery for anyone else--especially her little sister. She asked if she could still have Santa. I asked if she believed and she smiled broadly, "yes."
Then I told her now that she knew the secret she could sometimes help make the magic. She liked that very much.

I wasn't looking forward to this day, and I'm a little sad it's here, but I'm so pleased she understands the truth and can feel very confident in saying she does believe in Santa and knows Santa is real.

I see YOU.

I see you.

I was not raised color blind, rather raised to believe that superficial attributes like skin pigment, eye color, hair color, height, shape of eyes, length of nose, size of ears, how many toes one has or any other exterior characteristics said nothing about the content of one’s character.  And I was raised that everyone, regardless of those exterior features were worthy of love and respect. 

And I see you.  I see that your skin is the color of chestnut and your eyes are hazel and your thick curls are deep, shade of auburn and your cheeks are freckled.  And with those features I know that you and I share more than a few things—we both have more allergies than most of our friends and family, and possibly some weird ones.  I, with my ginger waves and gray eyes and pale, freckled skin, know that we share something beyond the superficial—down at the genetic level because all people with the genes that turn our hair red, any shade, are the result of a genetic combination that manifests externally and internally.  I know you’ve endured a special level of teasing that red hair inspires.  I know you know what it’s like to be a minority within a minority.  So I know that about you and because we share those superficial things, I already have started to have an affinity for you.

But I don’t know you.  Yet.  So I’m listening. I hear you speak of Jesus or Allah or going to Temple and I begin to understand more about you.  You mention your age, and I think to my knowledge of history and what you may or may not be familiar with having experiences different decades.  I hear your accent and I ask, because I want to know more about you, not to diminish you or point out your otherness, where you are from.  You say northern California or southern Texas, or Scotland or Eritrea and I get a better picture of experiences that might have shaped you and a perspective that I might learn from.  I ask about family and relationships, because those are often important to people and what you say adds to understanding of you and might lead to more things we might have in common.

But I don’t know you.  Yet.  So I’m listening and I’m watching.  I hear you speak at work or see you at school events with your children or see you at church or on the soccer pitch coaching my girls or on the dance floor, or at political rallies or at the airport expertly rerouting me after a cancellation.  I read the articles you share, look at the pictures you post, the artists you like and the comments you make, to glean some of your perspective and better understand what influences and motivates you.  I appreciate your skills, your efforts, your hard work, your thankless work, your brilliant work, your charm, your humor, your style, your smile, and your occasional bouts of crankiness or even fiery temper.

And while I don’t know everything about you, I am adding up the things I do know, the things I have seen and building my image of you as an individual, a uniquely and beautifully and wonderfully made person.  And that is how I see you.  And I continually work on forming that image as I learn more, by listening and watching and interacting with you, so that I can know you better.  You are who I see.

So I struggle with generalizations that everyone who has skin like this or is this gender or has that sexual preference or goes to that church or supports this candidate or dress in this way or is from this economic class or comes from this neighborhood or works that kind of job or is originally from that country is supposed to be or act or think the same. That has never been my experience with the people I have known, and I have be fortunate enough to travel broadly and live many places and meet many, many different people. 

I see you and I know you are the sum of many things, many experiences and all your own.  And I want to know you at that level, so I approach you, not always without some bias, because I’m flawed and shaped by experience too, but with a desire to find our commonalities and what we can both newly perceive or rethink through a better understanding of our sameness and our differences. 

I see you.  

Sad Anniversary

There are days when your heart is rent so badly that you are left with a hole that can never be filled. You learn to navigate the hole and eventually it gets easier to get around. But it is always there. 
This day, the anniversary of my mother's passing, even after more than 20 years, always finds me at the edges of tears all day (and, frequently, in tears). My mother was a singularly gentle, kind and loving person. Though she held my sister and me to high standards, her love and affection was given freely and without condition.
It is incredibly good fortune have had such an amazing mother and incredible example of how to be a positive part of the world.
She continues to be with me, always--in my relationships with others, my work ethic, my sense of duty and responsibility, in the personalities of my children and my understanding of the great power of love.
She is not here, though. And that feels unfair. Yet, my life is pretty wonderful--the life she would want for me. And that's more than fair.
This day, though...

It's the little things and they're all connected. And so are we.

This morning was extra on the crazy--I had a client presentation a 8:30.  In my rush to E to school and back home to do the presentation, I didn't get a chance to get an extra big, I'm going away for 3 days sort of hug.  And as soon a I returned, I went straight to my office to set up for the client meeting.  So when it was time for my husband to take B to school, all I got a chance to do was to blow her a kiss good-bye.  My husband got the same.  Not a single proper good-bye hug for or from any of them.

After my demo for the client, I was feeling rather sad.  But I had no time to dwell on it.  Another online meeting was attended and a then I still had to pack.  

As I was packing I took a long look at the pink toiletries bag I've used for probably a decade now.  It was given to me by one of my best girlfriends back when I lived in the DC area.  I realized I was wearing the sea glass earring given to me by one of my other best girlfriends from DC.  These two women were a huge part of my life from my early 20s to my mid 30s.  For some totally me reason the toiletry bag and earrings in combination filled me with nostalgia and felt strangely like a gentle hug from far away.  I made a mental note that I really needed to write these two ladies, who also have crazy busy lives balancing families and careers of their own, and remind them how much I love them and how there a little pieces of them (from the gifts they've given and pictures we've taken) all over my home and some that I keep with me much of the time.  These line of thought made me both happy and sad (I really miss these ladies).

By the time I left the house, I was feeling very blue--already missing my babies and my mister (I did get to give a proper good-bye to our dog, but she just made me feel guilty for leaving her) and missing my DC friends.  And I had a giant list of undone things running through my head.  

Getting to the airport I was utterly unexcited about my trip and a touch mopey.  When I boarded my flight I was definitely not feeling social.  I hoped the totally full flight would be very quick.

When the passenger in the seat next to me boarded, he was clearly agitated.  His body language said "GRRR."  I probably noticeably sighed when he sat down.  Though, he probably did not notice the sigh because he was wrapped up in his crankiness.  As soon as he sat down, he got on his phone and called someone to rant about how cranky he was in language that would get his conversation an "R" rating.  

When he got of his phone he looked at me and said, "I like your earrings.  What is that?  Sea-glass?"

"Yes, it is," I replied.  Cranky-man's demeanor changed slightly.  He started to tell me about his fond memories of gathering sea-glass on the beach where he lived in Hawaii.  I asked which island.  He tells me, he grew up on Kauai, pointing out the his tattoo of the island mixed in with all the other ink on his hand.  I told him I'd lived on Oahu when I was in intermediate school and a starting high school.  His previously tense posture had dramatically changed for the better.  We chat a while about our island experiences.  We're the same age, it turns out.  And it turns out our overlapping time in Hawaii was not our only thing in common, we also live in San Francisco at the same time as well.  We had a good conversation about fun times in our younger days.  We continued on to talk about all the cool things our little corner of Alabama has to offer and how we just smile when our friends from out of state question our choice.  

He said, "Isn't if funny how we have all these common threads?  I'm so glad I said something about the earrings.  I was in such a bad mood and mad at everyone when I got on the plane but now I'm feeling good with all these happy memories."  I told him I'd appreciated the compliment and the conversation, too.  It had lightened my mood as well.  

Paying a stranger a compliment is such a little thing but it can pay dividends, for the receiver and the giver.  And if we stop to notice little things like earrings or wicked cool ink or some other unique aspect of that stranger sitting/standing next us, we might find how much we really have in common, how connected we are.  And there's a lot of warm, fuzzy, mood-changing goodness to feeling connected.  It's a little thing, but it's all good.

I'm 43 and totally believe in Santa Claus.

I know why we celebrate Christmas. I teach my children that the day is a celebration of the birth of Christ, God's gift (of salvation and so much more) to the world. It's a beautiful and important holiday to me. That gift wasn't small and it's eternal. There is no gift so great or so worthy of celebration.

Still, in our house Santa is part of the broader celebration. For my kids, Santa is a jolly man, with elves and a wonderful sort of magic, who celebrates the eve of the greatest gift by giving.

For me, Santa is the magic of wonder and whimsy and fun and the joys of giving and receiving. Santa is the spirit that makes even skeptics and non-believers make contributions so that others might happily celebrate those joys and know that magic. Santa is the spirit that inspires people to anonymously pay off thousands of dollars of layaways or deliver baskets of food or sing happy songs for people in need of company and cheer. 

We cannot give the way God gives. But Santa's story is of just a person, slightly flawed but decidedly loving and spilling over with so much joy that it could not be kept within, but had to be given away for the delight of others. Santa is attainable--anyone can be Santa. So Santa can and does exist any place in which someone believes. And if I live to be 100 I will continue believe in Santa and the fun factor of Christmas.

My children have asked why Santa doesn't leave anything for me.  I've explained that's it is because I have super potty mouth and a tendency to yell that really needs to be worked on. Since I'm trying to work on these things, I don't get coal or switches, so it's cool.

The Castle Project Chapter 11: The Turkish Spa

This room was my obsession from start to finish.  It was the first room I actually purchased a good bit of the materials used, though I also used a lot of recycled stuff.  It's probably the most expensive room.  Many late nights were spent on this endeavor, and every minute was worth it.  It dethroned Jasmine's room as my favorite.
 The first part of my obsessive vision was that it had to have columns.  My mild addiction to Good and Plenty was very helpful with this.  My children's fondness for Mike and Ike's didn't hurt either.  After drawing the arch for the columns on one box, I used the cutout as a template for the rest.  I put packing peanuts into all the box cavities to provide substance and strength.
I glued all the arches to the walls and stuffed the spaces in between the boxes with packing peanutes and cut portions of toilet paper roles to form the end columns.  Then I painted a base coat of blue on the walls and floor.

I wanted a smooth and firm surface for the spaces above the columns and over the gaps so I cut up a cereal box and covered those areas.  I also put down the paper I used for the flooring.  It just looked like a ancient tile floor to me.  I laid out the paper I used for the walls.  There was a little lip as the paper went from the candy box to the primary box but I was comfortable with that from a design perspective.  The interior walls of the arches also had to be smoothed out, I used long strips from the sides of other candy boxes to provide the smooth surface.

I also fitted the toilet paper rolls I planned to use for the columns--it wasn't as simple as cutting them open, they had 

Then I finished papering the walls that would be exposed after the columns went up.

The next task was all sorts of tedious but the results were pretty gorgeous, if I do says so myself.  Each bead was put on individually.  Tacky Glue is the bomb.  I used a straight pin to help me pick up and place the beads.  The goal was to turn the beads so that the holes didn't show, once the column was completed.  I used glass beads from the craft section a walmart because they were dramatically less expensive than anywhere else.  It is not my intention to spend a fortune on this castle.  Had that been the plan, I could have bought something pre-fab and just decorated it..

Before putting the columns on I papered the inside walls of the arches with the same paper I'd used for the floor.  I started out trying to string the beads on for ceiling to make a particular pattern but it didn't go quite as easily as planned--the beads kept slipping off the string.  But in the end I got the look I was going for an organic looking patternless sort of pattern.

Then I needed to address the paper lines.  Not so pretty and I had to figure out what to do do about the open tops of the columns.  Lots of little wooden craft sticks got a bronze paint job.

Half moons of wider wood slates were cut to fit the tops of the columns, the edges were lined with beads.  The white spaces around the arches got painted with the bronze, as did a strip of wall above the door.  Little wood trim pieces were glued on and then decorative beads hid any join and added interest.

I wasn't satisfied with the space.  Turkish baths have even more to see, usually, I made little cool water fountains with foam beads cut in half and more fancy beads (from a rather inexpensive pack of plastic jewelry making sets I got at walmart and ended up using in several parts of this room as well as many others.)  I tried using hot glue for the sinks and burned my fingers pretty badly, so I ended up using tacky glue, which was the better choice.

The bath started out as a deli meat container.  I papered the outside of the tub with a paper similar to the one I used for the floor. To keep things looking neat, I cut a piece to fit the raised part of the bottom of the container and modge podged that to the inside of the bath.  Then I covered the outsid with bronze painted wooden slates.  I painted the edges of the tub with bronze paint and added fancy leaf shaped beads (from the kit mentioned above) along the top edge.  I used other beads from the kit to be faucets and the bottom was trimmed with still more beads (some holes show, but the girls don't seem to care).

I didn't like the end result of the way the bronzed wooden slats looked.  So I mixed modge podge with some very fine glitter and painted the mixture, thickly, onto the wooden slats.

I also painted the interior lip in the plastic container--I just liked the way that looked better.

The door got painted bronze as well.  A doorknob made from a broken ring finished off the door to what will one day be a shower and dressing room.

This became my favorite room for a long time.  I want to 3.5" high so I can hang out in here.  Of course, there is no running water so it wouldn't really be that cool.  My girls have been warned that it will ruin the room and the castle for them to try to fill the bath with real water.

,