Chicken Pot Pie and The Riviera @chkinpotpie - Tumblr Blog

I feel things in a big way and have for as long as I can remember.

One of my earliest memories is seeing the world behind the protection of my mom's long and sturdy legs. She was larger than life and shielded me from the loud world coming at me. She was a fireball. She walked into a room and owned it. She could talk to anyone as if she had known them their whole life. I remember watching from behind her legs -seeing her interact with people and being in awe of her ability to connect with people from all walks of life. She was magnetic. People who got pulled into her field were changed forever. She saw no color, no dollar signs, no religion, no gender, no sexual preference, no judgment. She was pure goodness. I cannot say enough good things about her. She chose me, and I am so lucky she did.

About six months before she passed away, we rented a cabin at Rough River. Just the two of us. A "girl's weekend." We packed a cooler with filets and lobster tails. We brought a couple of bottles of wine, a deck of cards, and our swimsuits. We planned on indulging in all the good stuff—food, alcohol, gambling, and gossiping. On our way to our cabin, we stopped to get a few last-minute supplies at the local gas station in the middle of nowhere, Kentucky. My mom was pumping the gas as I returned with the provisions. A man a few pumps over said, "Elaine?!" That was my mom's name. We both turned, and she said, "Earl?!" running to the man as if he was her long-lost cousin. I stood, stuffing Hot Tamales in my mouth, watching the scene unfold.

My mom knew Earl from our local Bingo hall, where she volunteered once a week for the temple fundraiser. After working all day, she would walk back and forth for four hours at Bingo, selling pull tabs. She knew everyone, and everyone knew her. She didn't just know people, though—she KNEW them. The names of their kids, where they grew up, what TV show they were currently into, what beauty salon they went to, etc. So while I was surprised she knew some random guy named Earl out in the middle of BFE, Kentucky, hours from home and on our first visit to this area, I was not really shocked.

I needed someone so fierce to protect me from the world. It was too loud and scary when I was a child. She gave me the time I needed to understand it all, or at least think I did. She gave me the time I needed to build up my own protection. She certainly continues to provide me strength to this day. I know she is watching over me, and I draw on her strength more and more as we enter these challenging times.

I do not feel as deeply as I used to, but I still feel very deeply. I feel other people's energy, as if their souls are speaking to me in a language that has no words—just vibrations and feelings. Lately, I have felt a heaviness like I have never experienced. So many people are feeling scared, uncertain, angry, and confused. I feel it on my chest, like someone's foot is there, pushing their heel into my rib cage. It's tough to not feel this way when every time you turn on the news or check social media, there is an astonishing development that feels otherworldly. Like, seriously, how did we get here? I suspect we have always been on this path—greed, the quest for power, lust for control. I think we have been here for a long time, but as time goes on, the path is no longer a dirt road. It is a moving sidewalk with LED displays and state-of-the-art sound systems. It is information flooding our brains at ridiculous rates every day. It is accelerating in its growth. It is gaining power and momentum.

Fear is what it eats for dinner. Hate is a piece of warm apple pie for dessert. Division is a cup of espresso in the morning. Lack of compassion is a piece of wood-oven-baked pizza, and lack of empathy is a cold beer on the side. Making sure we do not remember our worth is guacamole, and arguing with random strangers on the internet is the chips and salsa. Forgetting that most of us want the same things is a pickle on the side of a corned beef sandwich.

Do not feed the fear. Our energy, our emotions, our thoughts are what create our world. Our inner voice narrates our life and shapes our reality. Realize you have a choice in who and what you let in. If you let someone or something in and it makes you feel scared and hopeless, and you don't want to feel those emotions, then do not let them in. Your energy is your own. It is precious. You are precious. Remember your worth. Remember a time when you knew how special you were. There was no question. Do things that remind you how incredible you are. Lean into your self-care, into moments that light your soul on fire.

Do not fall into the biggest trap fear has set for us all. Just because we are on the "good" side does not mean we should speak poorly about the "bad" side. We certainly CAN speak poorly about the "bad" side. It is hard not to in these crazy times we are living in. We are charged with emotion, and it needs to be released somewhere. Bad-mouthing the bad, however, only makes the bad grow. It feeds off the negative energy, even if the negative energy is being expressed for good reason. Do not feed the fear.

Instead, I invite you to join me and draw on my Mom's strength. You can hide behind her legs, build up your protective shield and strength until you are ready. Then you can lean into the feeling my mom and I had on our girl's weekend. Not a care in the world, as we sipped our Cabernet and dined on our grilled surf-n-turf. The next day, we floated in the lake for hours, playing "I Never" and talking about everything under the sun. That night, we went to the local church Bingo. Earl had told my mom about it and said he might be there. We pulled up to the quintessential little white country church. There were about 12 cars in the parking lot. We walked in, and the music stopped, and everyone looked up at us. Everyone, being about 25 people, including the caller. We got our cards and started playing, giggling to each other about the wild situations we get ourselves into. The top prize of the night was a $250 jackpot, the last game, and a coverall. Well, we won the damn jackpot. The locals, who had probably been attending this Bingo game for 50 years, were not happy. We quickly got paid and left a trail of dust as we screeched away and headed back to our cabin, counting our cash and dancing and just loving each other.

#Love is always the answer

#itsgoingtobeokay

#createyourreality

#writer #love #mom #bingo

How Hip Hop Saved Me

I stood at my locker, trying to find my algebra book. My constant nervousness was causing my long legs to shake. It was my first day at Meyzeek Middle. A white Jewish girl bussed to an inner city school. For once in my life, I was the minority.

A boy approached the locker next to mine. His name was Jermel Van Moon. He looked at me and smiled. My nerves calmed slightly. Jermel and I saw each other every day after that, rushing to our lockers to get our books for our next class. We would say hello to each other but that was about it. One day, he handed me a cassette tape, in an unmarked white case.

“Take this”, he said quietly, “It will change your life”. I quickly put the tape in my backpack. I felt, special. “Thanks”, I said to Jermel.

I couldn’t wait to get home that day. When I did, I ran straight up to my room. I locked my door, pulled out my jam box, popped in the tape and hit “play”. The words and music flowed out of the jam box, and into my head.

Yo EMD Yeah, what’s up man? There goes that girl they call Roxanne. She’s all stuck up Why you say that?

Cause she wouldn’t give a guy like me no rap.

She was walking down the street so I said “Hello I’m Kangol from UTFO. "And she said "So?”

I played it over and over and over again. The whole tape. Songs like “Bite It” and “Fairytale Lover” filled my ears. Made me want to dance.

That is how my love for hip hop began. I listened to songs by LL Cool J, Run DMC, Newcleus, The Fat Boys, Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, NWA, Luke Skywalker and the 2 Live Crew, but Roxanne, Roxanne was my favorite. I even convinced my two best friends to learn the words as well. We spent hours playing the song, writing down the lyrics, play, rewind, what did he say? We finally got it. We practiced all the time, until we had it down perfectly. Most people looked at us like we were nuts, but we didn’t care.

As I got older, I continued listening to hip hop. It became more popular and more mainstream. It was more than just ear candy to me though. Hip hop represented strength. It represented struggle. It was raw, real and had a beat that touched my soul. I do not know why it touched me so deeply. It just did. That is the funny thing about music. It is a living, breathing entity. Just like people. You will like some, you will hate some, and some will take hold of your heart and never let go. That was me, falling in love with a new genre of music that I connected with on a deep level.

I had just turned 40 years old. My two best friends threw me a killer surprise party, complete with tequila shots, dancing til our feet went numb, lots of laughter and shenanigans. A night to remember, for sure.

After a few days of recuperating and resting, I decided to workout and lift some weights. As I lifted my arms above my shoulders, pushing the weights into the air, I felt a strange lump in my left breast. I decided to finish my workout and check it later.

When I got home, I peeled off my sweaty shirt and did a self breast examination. Yes, definitely a lump. It was about the size of a golf ball. Probably another cyst, I thought. I had been to the doctor at least 5 times worried about a lump in that same breast, and every time it had been a cyst. Apparently I was prone to them. I hopped in the shower and quickly forgot about the cyst. I didn’t have time to worry about it. I had too many other things on my plate.

Several months went by and the cyst seemed to grow. I still ignored it, convinced that it was nothing to worry about. One day, however, I was standing naked in front of the mirror and noticed that my left nipple was sunken in. So strange. It was concave. I immediately grabbed my laptop and googled “sunken nipple”. Two words I never thought I would be googling. Many sites popped up and all of them advised to see your doctor immediately. Shit. I was terrified.

I sat in Dr. Runk’s office, after a mammogram and ultrasound, waiting for her to come in and give me the results. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. My heart was pounding, I was fidgety, I could barely breathe. I knew before she even came in that it was bad. I just knew. I think I knew the first time I felt the cyst in my breast. I was just too scared to do anything about it.

The door opened. Dr. Runk entered the room with a blank, but serious look on her face. In that moment, time slowed down. The distance from the door to me was only about 12 feet, but it seemed to grow to about 50. Her mouth began to move. “You have breast cancer”, she said.

Long pause. I was unsure if my heart was even beating at that point, it was so fast. I felt the need to be very calm, like it was no big deal. Like being told I had cancer was an everyday occurrence for me. “Okay”, I said. She put her hand on my leg to comfort me. I guess I wasn’t doing a very good job of appearing calm. “How bad is it?”, I asked, my voice trembling. “I want to do a biopsy to confirm, but in my years of experience I already know it is a cancerous tumor. There are more than one, actually. The largest is the size of a grapefruit. I also see some activity in your lymph nodes. That puts you at a stage 3”, she replied. Stage 3?! That was bad. I know because I had a dear friend pass away from stomach cancer a few years back. He was a stage 3. Holy shit. From that moment on, I was operating on auto pilot. I was a robot. A robot with cancer. In that moment, everything changed.

The biopsy confirmed that I did indeed have stage 3 ductal lobular ER PR positive HER2 positive invasive grade 2 breast cancer with lymph node involvement and a splash of lime. My therapy regimen was to include immediate chemotherapy, in hopes of shrinking the tumors, a single mastectomy, to remove the cancerous breast and lymph nodes, radiation, and by my choice, another mastectomy as a preventative measure. I decided early on, actually, three days after my diagnosis, that I was going to kick cancer’s ass. I allowed myself three days to scream, cry, pray, scream some more, and then I went into action mode. I am the mother of a beautiful 9 year old daughter, and I do not have the luxury of being sick or dying. That was not and is not an option for me.

My first course of treatment was 6 rounds of intense chemotherapy. It is kind of like having the flu times 10. You are so weak you can barely move, and sometimes are not sure if you are even alive. But I made myself get out of bed everyday, even working through treatment. I think I missed a few days when I had a few really bad spells. But overall I was able to push through the pain and find strength I never imagined I had. I came out bald and tired, with a new appreciation for my wonderful life, family and friends. I had to do a less intense form of chemo for another 18 months. That cycle was like being in a fog, having just run a race and getting hit by a truck. I got used to be exhausted and still functioning. I look back on that time and cannot believe I made it through.

People I hadn’t heard from in years were reaching out to show me their support. It was quite incredible. I honestly could not have gotten through my treatment without the love and concern of others. There were days when I just wanted to lay in bed forever. It was my friends who would give me a reason to push myself, my family and most of all, my daughter.

One day, a week or so before my mastectomy, I got a phone call from an old college friend. He had heard about my diagnosis, and wanted to chat. He had recently put some pictures on Facebook of him and Doug E. Fresh, one of my favorite hip hop artists. I asked him what was up with that. He said that he was doing some work on the side in promotions. We talked old school hip hop for awhile. He was a fan just as much as I was. He said he was going to have someone call me the night before my surgery, someone special.

My surgery date crept up fast. The night before I was packing, trying to figure out what one needs when they are about to get their boob chopped off. I was nervous. Normal nervous. Okay, terrified. But I wasn’t letting anyone know. I wasn’t scared of the surgery. I was scared of not waking up from the surgery. I know that doesn’t happen very often but I was convinced that was going to happen to me. After everything I had been through, I would just die on the surgical table. Okay, not much I can do about it except distract myself. The phone rang. Good, I thought, perfect distraction. The conversation went like this.

“Hello?”, the deep voice on the other end of the line exclaimed in a questioning tone.

“Yes”, I replied.

“Is this Michele?”, deep voice asked. I was beginning to wonder if this was like a cancer gram or something.

“Yes, this is she”, I said.

“Oh, good. Hi Michele. This is Kangol Kid. Your friend David gave me your phone number. He told me that you were having surgery tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind, I wanted to call and see how you were doing”, the deep voice said.

I couldn’t breathe. Heart pounding. Is this a joke? I wondered. No, i don’t think it is. What? Kangol Kid is calling ME! THE Kangol Kid who sang Roxanne, Roxanne, my all time favorite jam that I have been listening to since I was 12 and know every word. Shut the front door!

I am not sure what I said after that. I think a few screams and then I regained my composure.

“Wow”, I said, “Thank you so much for taking the time to call me. I cannot believe this is you. Can I tell you something? I have been listening to your music since I was 12 years old. I know EVERY word to Roxanne, Roxanne. Oh my gosh, I love you!!!!”, I shouted excitedly like a teenager.

Kangol laughed. Then he said, “Well if you know EVERY word to Roxanne, Roxanne, let me bust out a line and then you give me the next line”.

“Bring it”, I said, confidently. “Cause I can sing, rap, dance in just one show”, he rapped.

I proceeded to sing the rest of the song, word for word. Kangol was impressed. I was on cloud nine. We talked for awhile. He was (and is) a very nice, smart and sweet guy. I discovered that he was co-founder of an organization called The Mama Luke Foundation, which raises funds for breast cancer research. Amazing. Kangol said he would call me in a week to check up on me. I hung up the phone and started running around the house screaming. My Dad, who was spending the night to take me to the hospital at 5 a.m., ran up the stairs with a concerned look on his face.

“WHAT WHAAT?”, he yelled, “Are you okay???”.

I ran up and hugged him, rapping “Kangol Kid just called me, Kangol Kid just called me, holy fuckin shit, Kangol Kid just called me” to the tune of Roxanne, Roxanne.

My Dad took a breath of relief and said “Who the hell is Kangol Kid?”.

I forgot about my surgery. I forgot, for the first time in a LONG time, that I had cancer. I called all my friends and told them about the phone call. I couldn’t sleep. I was back in my room, 12 years old, playing that tape, not a care in the world.

My surgery was picture perfect. They got out all the cancer and I had clean margins. I got through radiation and my second surgery like a champ. Throughout the whole process, Kangol and I talked often.

Somewhere in the middle of my treatment, I met Kangol at a breast cancer walk in Cleveland. We spent 3 days together, along with legends of hip hop Rahiem from Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five and Paul Anthony and Bow-Legged Lou of Full Force. I went with them to radio station interviews, book signings and performances. It was pure bliss. I recall one moment, watching Kangol singing “Roxanne, Roxanne” on a stage in a bar in Cleveland. I was standing in the crowd. I was bald, dark circles under my eyes from the exhaustion of my cancer treatment, overweight from the hormone therapy I was taking, never looked worse in my life. Kangol smiled at me. I was dancing. To my favorite jam. Sung by my FRIEND. I never felt more beautiful and more alive in my life.

Kangol and I stayed friends for many years after that. He called me on my birthday every year and sang me Happy Birthday. He called my daughter his “niece”. We were lucky to spend more time together over the years. He was always a bright light in my life, a source of love, strength and comfort. A reminder that life is magical, the unexpected can and does happen, and angels walk amongst us. My sweet friend got colon cancer in 2021 and lost his battle on December 18, 2021. He left behind 3 sons and a daughter. They will carry the torch and ensure his legacy of love, light and music never dies. I will always remember him and the impact he had on my life. Rest in power Kang. Love always.

#hiphop kangolkid fcancer

Doo nut

I believe I was subconsciously overeating so I would get fat so men would leave me alone. Then I forgot I was doing that and wondered why I seemed to be invisible to men all of a sudden. Then I remembered and decided I like it here, so I am staying for awhile.

Ten Years of NED

Ten years ago today I heard the news “you have stage 3 breast cancer”. In an instant, everything changed. I was 40 years old, had just gotten divorced. I thought the worst thing that could ever happen to me had already happened when my Mom suddenly passed away. I had just gotten a good job at Unifund a month prior (my insurance kicked in just in time). I was starting a new chapter in my life and then BAM. I had stage 3 cancer. I knew early on I had to make a choice-to fight or to roll over and die. Of course I chose to fight, just like so many other cancer champions do. We fight a battle we know nothing about, but quickly learn the rules of the game.

Stay strong when you are at your weakest. Be healthy when you are at your sickest. Smile when you want to scream. Rely on your family and friends when you don’t want to be a burden. The battle is harder than you could ever imagine. It changes you. It pushes you to your limits. It shows you the best in people. It allows you to feel so much love. It teaches you what is and is not important. It makes you appreciate everything, especially good health. It gives you nowhere to hide and shows you what you are really made of.

I am so grateful every precious day for my journey, my health and the lessons I learned. If I could go back I would NOT do it all over again for the effect it had on my family and friends, mainly on my sweet Syd. But I don’t really look back. I have days now where I forget that even happened to me. Wild!! I will never forget the lessons I learned, however.

Mainly, we are all connected. We are all special. Love is always the answer. Never take your health for granted. Attitude determines outcome. Falling in love with yourself is the key to happiness. And people will save you and in that saving - you get to witness the purest love and it is so breathtakingly beautiful.

Straight A’s

My daughter got straight A’s. I am totally bragging, but not because of the reasons you may think. My daughter is 15 and has Attention Deficit Disorder and Anxiety Disorder. I know, doesn’t everyone? She really does though – and they most definitely have her. For the past year I watched her fight with every ounce of her being to navigate in a world that is not conducive to the manner in which her brain operates while dealing with her ever changing hormones and teenage angst. Her brain takes in every detail of the world around her, every feeling that people she is near are feeling, every sound, smell, and object, analyzes it, feels it, and stores it. Her brain makes her heart beat really hard when her hair is messy. Her brain tells her that she is not good enough. Her brain makes her feel like she is going to faint at random times for no good reason. Her brain is impulsive. Her brain has trouble shutting down and falling asleep. Her brain tells her she is going to die. Her brain makes her blood pressure rise when someone looks at her. Her brain screams so loud she thinks it is going to explode when she has to stand up in front of the class. Her brain makes her whole body ache when she does something embarrassing. Her brain does not really function well in the mornings, and is at peak performance at night. Her brain can pay attention to 1000 things at the same time or focus so hard on one thing its as if nothing else exists. Her brain does not do well with processes that involve lots of steps. Her brain has trouble finishing tasks. Her brain works really well under pressure, but not good if it is bored. Her brain gets scrambled during a test. Her brain is always worried and always tired. I have watched her deal with her brain, talked to her for hours about these issues, and wrapped her in my arms as she sobbed. I have also watched her stand up on a stage in front of a crowd of people as part of her school’s all girl Bella Voce choir and sing and dance. I have watched her sing a solo in front of a classroom of strangers. I have watched her wake up every day when she was exhausted and anxious, go to school, come home and study for hours, and go to bed over and over again. I have watched her learn a completely new skill in Color Guard and perform at countless football games and competitions and learn how to drive a car. I have watched her be a kind soul. I have watched her stay on the straight and narrow path. And I have watched her get straight A’s during her Sophomore year in high school. It’s really not about her grades at all. I really could care less about an A. It’s about the fact I know how hard and brutal life can be. I won’t always be here to guide and protect her. I know she is figuring out how to control her brain and I see she is developing the skills she will need to overcome the pain that will be thrown her way.

#proudmom #kidsaregonnabealright

We Should All Be Pro-Choice

Whether we agree that abortion is right or wrong, let me say this again because it is extremely important. WE SHOULD ALL BE PRO-CHOICE.

Here’s why.

We live in a society where women have unplanned pregnancies – whether it is because they made a poor choice, didn’t think about the consequences of their actions, or were raped - this is where we are now. Happy to address how we got here in a separate post.

Hypothetical scenario that occurs approximately 2 million times a year in the United States. A woman wasn’t planning on getting pregnant but did. She thinks long and hard about what to do as she does not feel like she is capable of raising a child. She makes the most gut wrenching, difficult decision on earth to terminate her pregnancy. But wait, she lives in Alabama or Georgia, and cannot have an abortion. She has to continue the pregnancy and have the baby. The baby that she does not want.

Parenting is the absolute hardest job in the world even when you have great family support, resources, and make decent money. Can you imagine how hard it is to raise a child when you are struggling financially, have no family support, and did not want to have a child to begin with? What type of environment is that child going to grow up in? What future will they have? Will they be an upstanding citizen and contribute positively to society, or will they succumb to the pressures of the difficult situation they are in? What about the mother – what will her quality of life be like?

Here is what this child of an unplanned pregnancy has stacked against them:

Less likely to graduate from high school or college

Less maternal warmth which translates to lower self esteem

More susceptible to neglect

More likely to engage in delinquent behavior

More health issues

More likely to become teen parents

Social and emotional developmental delays

Lower performance in school

Higher poverty rates

Obviously, not all children of an unplanned pregnancy experience these issues. I am certain some of them grow up in a “normal”, loving environment and grow up to be responsible and happy adults. But the odds are stacked against them.

Is this what we want for the future of our country? More people who start out their life at a disadvantage? What is the benefit? Not only will the child have huge obstacles to overcome, but so will the mother. Are we punishing her for making a poor choice? Who are we to judge and inflict punishment on another human being?

If we continue down this path we are on, income inequality in our country will continue to grow. The division will grow deeper. Statistics show an increase in unplanned pregnancies will cause the following:

increases in crime

increase in public health issues

lower incomes

political instability

a decline in economic growth

less educated population

Is this the kind of world you want to live in?

FINAL THOUGHT

WHY IS ANYONE MAKING CHOICES THAT WILL AFFECT THE REST OF OUR LIVES AND THE LIVES OF OUR CHILDREN? NO ONE HAS A RIGHT TO TELL US WHETHER OR NOT WE SHOULD GROW A HUMAN BEING INSIDE OUR BODIES AND SPEND THE REST OF OUR LIVES RAISING THAT HUMAN BEING.

https://www.brookings.edu/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/12_impact_unintended_childbearing_future_sawhill.pdf

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3775543/

https://news.umich.edu/study-when-a-child-s-birth-is-unplanned/

#righttochoose abortion whatisgoingon freedom

Us and Them

A couple of days ago I posted an article about Congresswoman Ilhan Omar, the US representative for Minnesota’s 5th district, and stated my support for her willingness to question policies and ask difficult questions. I had read a few articles about Congresswoman Omar before making this statement. Due to the discussion that ensued, I realized I needed to read more. I spent several hours reading about Congresswoman Omar and this issue over the weekend. I feel comfortable saying that I stand behind my original statement. Here’s why, and please understand I recognize what a hot button topic this is. I respect everyone’s views on this topic, and welcome hearing them in a respectful, mature manner. This is my opinion based on my life experiences.

Wow. This is a tough issue that deals with emotion, politics, and deeply rooted beliefs about religion, race and anti-Semitism. It is not a black and white issue at all. Wading through it is difficult, but I honestly feel it is necessary to have these tough discussions if we are to do the single most important thing we need to be doing as Americans right now – bridge the divide that occurs between us and come to a place where we can connect in some way.

Is it possible that Congresswoman Omar is anti-Semitic? Absolutely. I acknowledge that several of her statements hint at such. If that is the case, I do not support her and would never support any behavior that is hateful or discriminatory. The desire in me to reach across the table and connect with people to bridge the divide has motivated me to dig deeper, however, and try to understand people’s motivations and intentions. In that space, I find myself wondering the following, also possibilities.

Is Congresswoman Omar trying to make a name for herself in her new position of power?

Is Congresswoman Omar out of touch with the power that her words now hold?

Is Congresswoman Omar extremely intelligent, and knows how to walk the line between anti-Semitism and anti-bigotry perfectly and manipulate her words as such?

Is Congresswoman Omar an antagonist, as she states in this article

https://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2019/03/08/ilhan-omar-dean-phillips-minnesota-democratic-party-225696

“As much as other people are uncomfortable, I’m excited about the change in tone that has taken place that is extremely positive. The insightful conversations that we’re having about money and its influence in Washington. And my ability, I think, to agitate our foreign policy discussions in a way that many of my colleagues who have been anti-intervention, anti-war have been unable to do in the past,” she says. “So, I’m OK with taking the blows if it means it will ignite conversations that no one was willing to have before.” – Ilhan Omar

All of these scenarios are possibilities. It is also possible and very likely that we will never know the absolute truth, and possible that Congresswoman Omar does not even understand her own truth. She is a 37 year old Muslim woman born in Mogadishu on the Somali coast. Her mother died when she was 2 years old and she was raised by her father and grandfather. She spent 4 years in a refugee camp in Kenya after war broke out in Somali in 1991. She moved to the US in 1995. Her father worked as a taxi driver and post office worker. She became a US citizen at age 17. She went to school in Virginia and was bullied for wearing a hijab. Ilhan graduated from North Dakota State University with a degree in political science and international studies in 2011. She is married with 3 children and lives in Minneapolis. She is a person, with thousands of life experiences that have shaped her thought process and beliefs.

Reading about this issue has made my head spin. I cannot imagine being Congresswoman Ilhan Omar, and being in the center of it. It must be extremely stressful, and test her values, faith, career objectives, family life, and strength on a daily basis. Yes, she chose this path. Yes, we all have problems and tragedy in our lives. Yes, adversity and stress do not give us a free pass to say things that offend people based on their religion and race. But maybe, just maybe, her intentions are good. Maybe she does not hold any negative beliefs against Jews, and did not realize what she was saying had anti-Semitic tones. Maybe she is so fed up with the ways of this horrific world we live in, that she is willing to ask questions that need to be answered in order to incite change. Whatever her motivation, we need to build a bridge between “us” and “them”. Only then can we remember that we are really the same. We are all “us”.

Planet Startover

I wish we could rename Uranus “Planet Startover” and start over. Just one lady, standing on a blank slate. She would create flowers first, the good smelling kind. Then she would create carbs that are good for you, and sunshine that is healthy. She would dance around in the flowers, shoving bagels in her mouth and soaking up the warm sun. With a wave of her imaginary wand, the lady would make puppies appear. Puppies trained to go to 1 and 2 in the toilet. Puppies big enough to ride on, like horses, with the softest fur imaginable. The puppies would carry little kegs of the most delicious wine, but it would not give you a hangover no matter how much you drank and it actually made you grow more brain cells with each sip. The lady would ride her puppy into a big warm pool of clean, clear water where she would float while little fish would perform synchronized swimming acts all around her, and chocolate strawberries would fall out of the sky. Another lady would appear, and they would decide they would only always wear sweatpants and hoodies til the end of time. They would laugh and tell stories about the old days on Earth when carbs were bad and puppies had accidents. Then they would create the most comfortable bed the size of Rhode Island, and they would fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the feathery pillows, and they would dream about how things used to be, and how they were now.

#startover #planets #orbitsohoney #winedoggie #bagel

Reality Bites

In my many years on this earth, I have learned that each person has a different reality specific to his or her experiences, their views, their moods, their genetic makeup, and many other millions of factors. It is human nature to relate to each other based on shared experiences. Those are the threads through which we bond together. Oh, you like pineapple pizza? Me too! UK or UL? UL! Me too!

As you go through life, the people with whom you form bonds help create your reality. You all create reality together. You naturally gravitate towards people with similar views as your own, reactions to situations similar to your own, and shared interests. Your world truly is the people you spend time with, their experiences, and your experiences together.

There are infinite numbers of realities coexisting. We often do not think about the people we do not bond together with. The people who we are not drawn to. The ones whose realities, views, and interests are very different from our own. They live their lives, and we live ours.

Some people assume that certain aspects of reality are obvious and shared amongst all. For example, if you are someone who was raised to hold the door open for other people behind you as you enter a building and you do that for someone who was not, and had never seen anyone do that before, that person might possibly think – why is he opening the door for me? Does he think I cannot do it myself? I do not even know that guy. What is his problem? To the person opening the door, he may assume that everyone either opens doors for other people, or at least has seen it done before and feel it is common courtesy. The two people are having a shared experience, but with vastly different realities.

The divide in this country is growing, and is debilitating. It is creating hostility, hate, and fear. It is separating us farther away from the things that bond us together. It is creating a new reality – one where we have forgotten that we are more alike than we are different. Now more than ever we need to seek out ways to form bonds with people whose realities are different from ours. We need to take the time to understand each other, listen, and empathize. We need to lead more with our hearts instead of our heads.

Whether we like it or not, our realities are intertwined. We can decide if they will create a shared experience of love or hate.

#love #chooselove #lovewins #heartnothead #reality #realitybites #connect

Happy Birthday Bubba

“We do not see the truth, we only see our truth.” – Karen Berg

A dear friend shared this quote with me last week. It is one of the most important things I have read in a long time. We see the world through our own eyes, our own filter, and our own experiences. We all exist physically in the same space, yet we really may as well each be on our own planet.

Think of it this way – America is the location for one huge continuous birthday party for a guy named Bubba. Some people that come to the party are best friends with Bubba. They are excited to see him, laugh and celebrate his special day. Other people are related to Bubba in some way. Their parents are forcing them to go to the party. They are frustrated and angry. Some people do not even know Bubba. They just happened to be walking by and decided to join the fun. They are curious and excited. All of these people are attending the same party yet having completely separate experiences and feel very different emotions. If you asked Bubba’s best friends about the party they might say it was amazing and so much fun. If you asked Bubba’s relatives about the party, their response could be that it was boring and a waste of their time. Their responses are based on their truth, seen through their eyes and their filter.

It is immaterial whether or not I agree with Colin Kapernick for expressing his truth by refusing to stand for the National Anthem because, in his own words “"I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color. To me, this is bigger than football and it would be selfish on my part to look the other way. There are bodies in the street and people getting paid leave and getting away with murder."

It is immaterial whether or not I agree with Trina Hart, the mother of a fallen soldier named Lieutenant Corporal Ty Hart who died defending this country, when she says in a letter to Nike “You owe the American people an apology. You really do… To use the word SACRIFICE in the way you just did is in poor taste. It offends so many.”

What is pertinent is the fact that Colin Kapernick, Trina Hart, and any American have the Constitutional right to freedom of speech – to speak their reality and their truth. Each experience and perspective is equally important, equally true, and equally real, simply by existing. You do not have to agree with it, you do not have to like it – it will exist despite your reaction to it. You could ignore it, you could fight against it, or you could try to understand it. Bubba’s birthday party will rage on either way. The candles will be blown out and the presents will be opened. You can be the wallflower who ignores every one, you can be the center of attention dancing like a madman – your choice. If you want a party, however, with only red balloons or no dancing allowed – you will have to go check out another party. Here in America we like pinatas, a big stuffed leprechaun, and Italian cheesecake.

#freedomofspeech #america #cheesecake

Walmart or Escada

At some point in my life I was pushed into a race that I did not intend to run. I suspect many of us were. As a child, the things that made me happy were doing anything creative, laughing, being with people I loved and who loved me, and playing outside. That was all I needed. Very slowly little moments started to change the feelings I got when I did the things that made me happy. If I was doodling in my notebook in class, my teacher would yell at me to pay attention to the math she was teaching. If I was laughing loudly in the hallway, I would feel the stare and judgment of another student. I did not understand why my laughter annoyed them, but I did not want them to be annoyed, so I would stop laughing. Playing outside gave way to watching tv. The pretend world was inviting and drew me in. Being with the people I loved remained a source of happiness, a direct connection to love.

These moments compounded over the years, and the more I felt negative energy about the things I loved to do, the less I wanted to do them. In an effort to find that feeling of happiness again, I relied on the love and acceptance of other people. Walking through school as a nerdy, awkward child, I felt like I was walking through a deep forest filled with all kinds of creatures. Some were kind, others were mean. Some were willing to help, others were too preoccupied with their own existence. I would pay attention to the slightest indication in their body language to determine what type of creature they were. If one of them gave me a quick smile, or a nod, I thought in my mind they love me! They will be my best friend. If they gave me a smirk, or a dirty look, I would avoid them until I could figure out how to make them like me. It was truly like that Jane lady observing gorillas in their native habitat. I was that Jane lady, creeping through the jungle, observing the local wildlife, slowly gathering possible candidates for my tribe.

I recall observing that the popular kids all wore the same “uniform”. In the 80’s in Louisville, Kentucky it was an Esprit or Benetton shirt, Jordache jeans and bright white Tretorn sneakers. That was the most glaring thing I could see they had in common besides perfect hair and perfect bodies. So I begged my parents to buy me those brands. We were in a middle class family, closer to upper middle class for part of my childhood, and middle to lower class for the remainder. We certainly could not afford to buy an entire wardrobe of designer clothes. My Mom bought me a few Esprit shirts, one pair of Jordache jeans, and fake Tretorns. This is it, I recall thinking. I will finally be accepted into the tribe. I will finally have a group of friends to love and laugh with.

I went to school with a new attitude, ready to hang out with my new people, led by my ombre pastel Esprit shirt and fancy jeans. I was excited, and a little nervous. At the time, I did not realize that the beliefs I held were created by me. I was responsible for feeling and believing that I was only worthy of talking to the popular crowd because I had a designer outfit on. They did not make me feel that way at all. I made myself feel that way. That reality I created was so real, however, that I was certain it was an absolute truth. It was only disproven when over and over again I tried to be accepted by them, and discovered that my designer costume was not working. I convinced myself it must be because I did not wear designer clothes every day, or because my hair was not perfect, or I had too many pimples, etc. I lived in this concentric circle of hell for most of my life.

Even as an adult, I would get caught up in the false belief that clothes and fashion determine your value in society. I noticed when I wore fancy clothes, I did get more attention from other people, especially rich people. It felt good, and fed the behavior. It was not real attention though. It was an accolade for playing the game. It was someone saying, oh yes, work it girl. We are in this fake production called Life together and your costume is fierce. They shine their light on me but it was an artificial light and it was blindingly bright and went off and on, off and on.

I remember shopping on Worth Avenue in Florida in my early 30’s. The stores were more like clubs. You walked in and they hand you a glass of wine, and have a plate of cheese and crackers out for you to enjoy. You sit on a velvet sofa and tell them the occasion that you are shopping for. They pick out clothes for you, and take you into a fitting room that is the size of a regular room. There is a pedestal in the middle of the room. They tell you to stand on the pedestal and get undressed. They stare at your naked body as if it were a canvas. They dress it in pretty purples and lacy blues and tell you that you look fabulous. They do not talk about prices, because of course you can afford to pay $1,000 for a shirt. But you cannot afford it and you do not want it and it all seems so scary and unreal.

Let me be very clear, I do not have the right or power to judge anyone. If buying designer clothes makes you happy, makes you feel beautiful, and you can afford to do it – then by all means go do it. I want all people on this planet to be happy. I am commenting on my experience only. My reality. The things that make me happy, and the fact that I was not strong enough to stay connected to my true self and do the things that made me happy. The power in the realization that it does not matter what we are wearing.

I honor anyone who can stay true to their true self – whether they shop on Worth Avenue or at Walmart. All that matters is how you feel. I was seeking acceptance and love in all the wrong places. I was looking for love everywhere except where I could find the most pure love of all – inside myself. What a wild ride it has been. I loved all of the costumes I have worn, but my most favorite of all is the one I am wearing right now – truth.

My life’s purpose.

Chicken pot pie & the Riviera has taken on a whole new meaning in my life. It all makes sense now – and it truly alludes to my life purpose. The way it showed up in my life initially was in moments where I was living extravagantly, aka Riviera, and then the very next day was living what some would consider “redneck” or lower income, aka Chicken pot pie. Here is an example.

In my late 20’s, I found myself on my way to Benson Street in Cincinnati to look for my wedding dress. I was marrying someone whose family is very affluent, and enamored with fashion and couture. I only mention this because it is pertinent to the story. It is the “Riviera’.

My Mom had come up from Louisville to go shopping with me. As we went into the first bridal shop, we started picking out a few dresses. A sales woman came up to us, in a very Pretty Woman type of way, and inquired if we had a reservation. I legitimately thought she was joking, and laughed. I quickly realized she was not joking. These stores were so popular that you had to reserve a fitting room. The shop was booked for the day. My Mom and I looked at each other, and simultaneously said “FLEA MARKET”.

The flea market was one of our favorite past times. There is one in Cincinnati that we had been wanting to go to called Trader’s World. So we decided to scrap the wedding dress shopping and have some fun. We were in our element, and felt so much more comfortable amidst the camouflage t-shirts, knitted potholders, and Elvis cassettes. We shopped, laughed, talked, and then turned a corner and saw a wedding dress “shop”. Most of the people selling their wares at the flea market had booths or tables set up. This was an actual shop with glass walls and a door.

My Mom and I looked at each other and laughed. Of course we had to go in. There were racks and racks of beautiful lace wedding dresses. My Mom began picking some off the rack and holding them up, asking for my approval. Yes, I said, to the first one, no to the next. The attendant asked if we wanted to try some on. Do we need a reservation, I joked.

I tried on the first dress and fell in love with it. It felt right. It was exactly what I wanted without really knowing what I had wanted. I tried on a few other dresses, but went right back to the first one. That was it. That was my dress. I am someone who makes decisions very quickly. I went with my gut, and my gut told me this was the one. I think it cost $300.

We left the flea market and I called my fiancé. He asked if I found a dress. I told him I did. I then called my soon to be mother-in-law. I was a little excited about the fact that I got my dress at a flea market. Looking back, I realize this was my way of taking a stand. My way of saying, it doesn’t matter where you get your wedding dress from – a fancy boutique on Benson Street or a flea market. What matters is how it makes you feel.

I shared the news with her. I found a dress. She asked me what boutique I bought it at. I told her I got it at Trader’s World. She said she hadn’t heard of that boutique. I told her it is not a boutique -it’s a flea market. There was a long pause on the other end. She said, well, we will just tell people you got it in Paris. I recall thinking, sure, Paris. Paris, Kentucky.

Let me be very clear. I am not in any way bashing my former mother-in-law or ex-husband. I am sharing this story in hopes that it creates a bridge between two fake worlds. I am sharing it to spread love and light. My former mother-in-law and ex-husband are love and light, and my life is better because they are both a part of it.

Chicken pot pie and the Riviera. Two opposite sides of the spectrum. One that I was certainly taught to believe was better than the other. One that some are born into, some achieve, and many strive for. I bought into the notion that if I had a Polo shirt, I would be worthy. If I had expensive shoes, the other kids would accept me and be my friend. If I was rich, I would be happy. But I did not have a Polo shirt or expensive shoes. Therefore I believed that I was not worthy. That I was less than. This was my truth. It existed and was shoved down my throat through tv, movies, other kids, the news, commercials, and society as a whole. Deep down I always knew this was not the case, but I didn’t live in my “deep down”. I lived in the largest stage production called “Life” with people playing their roles perfectly.

Just because something is a certain way, does not mean it is the right way. Our society, the show called “Life”, is so disconnected from reality that we accept it as reality. It is not the way we were meant to exist. Surviving middle school has become a part of life, but it should not be the case. When did surviving abuse become acceptable? Judging others for what they wear, or how they look, goes against what we are truly all here to do – love and accept each other unconditionally. I was bullied as a child, and I know the pain and loneliness associated with being judged for something over which you have no control – like the clothes you can afford. It is the most awful feeling. That is why people develop other traits – like humor, or athleticism – so that they can feel accepted by their peers. We forget, however, that we used to all be accepted. The divisive and judgmental behavior is not our default nature. It is a learned behavior fed by companies and a culture that profits from it.

The experiences I have had with being bullied, made to feel less than others, and everything in between, have been my greatest teachers. I am so grateful for them, and despite the pain and torment they caused, I would experience them again and again for the depths of compassion and empathy they have carved out in my soul. This is my life purpose – Chicken pot pie & the Riviera. To remind people that it does not matter what you wear, how fat or skinny you are, how big or small your breasts are, how fancy or beat up your car is. What matters is how you treat people, starting with yourself. Treat yourself with pure love and light, and a knowing that you are just as worthy as any other person on this planet, simply because you exist. If anyone is telling you otherwise, or making you feel otherwise, they do not have your best interest at heart. Listen to how people and experiences make you feel. Honor yourself enough to walk away from anyone who treats you less than incredible. Let your light shine whether it is from a body that is wearing a pair of designer jeans or a burlap sack. It is irrelevant. Love is the only thing that matters.

Help

How do you make paragraphs in Tumblr posts? Asking for a friend.

#colonelsandersismyhomeboy #chickenpotpie&theriviera #checkmate

Hello. Is this on? It’s been a while. I’ve been trying to think of something to say. Here’s what I came up with. My sweet daughter went to sleep away camp, again, this summer. Yes, some people have kids only to ship them off for the summer and let someone else take care of them. It’s called being Jewish, and it’s a thing. It doesn’t mean I love my child any less. I actually fought the whole sleep away camp thing for many years. I finally said yes, and I am so glad I did. Camp is a magical place where my daughter learns how the world SHOULD be. This is a short story about my daughter, camp and a magic blanket. The story is called... Colonel Sanders is My Homeboy My daughter, Sydney, decided to pack her stuff for sleep away camp this year all by herself. While I appreciated her willingness to take on such a task, I was also nervous about her packing abilities. She goes to sleep away camp for a month. If she doesn’t pack a toothbrush, she’s screwed. Her teeth will probably rot and fall out. If she forgets to bring enough underwear, well, ewwww. If she doesn’t pack a flashlight, she could fall in a hole while walking to the bathroom at night. So after she finished packing, I had to inspect her work. She actually did a fantastic job - I was quite impressed. The only thing I noticed that might pose a problem was her choice of bedding. She had a pillow, with a pillowcase already on it, a fitted sheet, and a square “throw” to use as a blanket. I commented that the “throw” probably was not sufficient to keep her warm at night, as she is 5′7″ and the “throw” was approximately 4′ x 4′. She gave me a look that said “Bitch, please. I know you are probably right but I am certainly not going to admit you are right, even if it means I freeze every night for the next month”. I said to myself “Challenge accepted oh young being of my loins”. This wasn’t my first rodeo. So she heads off to camp, “throw” in tow. I head back home, to dive deep into work and try not to think about how much I miss her. Except for my fat Chihuahua constantly staring at me like she is plotting my demise, my house is very quiet. Quiet means my brain has an opportunity to explore the long, dusty hallways it never frequents. During one saunter down said hallways, I pondered the notion of my dear daughter freezing at camp, struggling to stretch her “throw” to cover her long, dangly legs, teeth chattering, unable to sleep, she would most certainly fall down a large hole or possibly sewage drain due to lack of sleep. I had to send her a blanket. Mostly to send her an item that will keep her warm and cozy and cure her obvious hypothermia, but also to prove a point. My sweet angel of a daughter is 14. The age when she believes my role is to drive her places, cook her meals and then disappear. The age when all reason, knowledge and logic has been magically sucked out of my brain and put into hers. The age when I have no choice but to play the game and win. The same game I played with my incredible Mom when I was 14. The same game my incredible Mom kicked my ass in over and over again, til I finally gave up playing and just succumbed to the notion that Mommy truly does know best. But my sweet angel daughter is wicked smart. Way smarter than me. She doesn’t quite know this yet, so I do have that going for me. I had to come up with a way to send her a blanket that is not so obvious. If I just sent her a blanket, she would not even open it from it’s plastic packaging. She would carry it home from camp, unused, to prove that she never needed it in the first place. Pawn to e6. My brain walked through another dark hallway, with a tiny red door at the end. My curiosity peaked, and I went towards the door. A memory, of a story my brilliant daughter told me recently. A story about the first time she tried Kentucky Fried Chicken. Even though I am from Kentucky, and love me some fried chicken, I have never been a huge fan of KFC. Maybe it’s the many times I’ve seen on the news a customer found a mouse in their KFC bucket, or a dirty sock. I don’t know. I don’t judge though. If KFC is your thing, enjoy. So when my incredibly awesome daughter came home and told me she tried KFC for the first time at a friend’s birthday sleepover, and not only did she love it, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it. To the point where it was “calling to her” in the middle of the night. So she woke up and went to the fridge and grabbed a drumstick. Her friend heard her, and rubbed her eyes, trying to wipe the sleep away. My daughter backed into the darkness of a corner, drumstick in her mouth. Her friend, asked, “Sydney, what are you doing?”. My daughter didn’t bother to answer, as she was devouring the drumstick. She just stepped into the light. The memory of my daughter telling this story and the mental image in my mind was behind that red door. I knew then what I had to do. I ordered a blanket for my intelligent and kind daughter, and had a picture of Colonel Sanders imprinted onto the blanket. As I hit “submit order” a smile came across my face. Fast forward to last week. My darling daughter was picked up at camp by her Dad. I called her, having not heard her voice for a month. Missing her so, my first question was, Did you get the Colonel Sanders blanket? “Yes”, she said, “but at first I didn’t know who it was. When we get packages at camp, we open them all together in this big room, with other campers and counselors. I opened the box and took out the blanket. I was like, who is this old man and who sent me this blanket? My counselor came over and asked the same question. I told her it was a blanket with a picture of some random old guy. She seemed concerned. Like maybe it was from a pedophile or something. Then I thought, it has to be from my friend Leea. I told the counselor, as I didn’t want her to freak out and take the blanket away, because I was cold at night, and it looked kind of cool. Yes, it’s probably my friend Leea’s grandpa. That Leea, she’s always doing crazy things like this. The counselor seemed to accept that idea. So I headed back to my cabin, still unsure of what the heck was going on. I put the blanket on my bed and went to talk to my bunk mate a few beds over. All of a sudden I heard another one of my bunkmates say Sydney, why do you have a blanket with Colonel Sanders on it? I was like, oh, that’s who that is. Still unsure of who sent it to me, my counselor came in and handed me the packing slip. I had left it in the other room. It said your name on it Mom. So I knew the blanket was from you. I still can’t figure out why you decided to put Colonel Sanders on it though. But I loved it. It was so warm and soft. And my bunk mates loved it too. They asked if we could hang it on the wall as decoration in our cabin. I said no way! I need this blanket. I am freezing at night”. Checkmate.

Country road in Tennessee

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