Tenshi Mama

I found this on the Chicago Manual of Style website, and felt compelled to share it with my readers (both of you).

Q. In a software application that catalogues musical albums in a sidebar column for playback selection the main developer insists on using italics for the album titles. I advised to drop the italics mainly because on today’s low-resolution screens italic typefaces are rendered poorly. I reasoned that the CMOS advice that artwork titles should be set in italics is to be construed as a device of emphasis that sets the respective title off from the flowing text. If the context would consist of titles only (and no surrounding text) there would not be a need for emphasis, hence no italicization. Is this correct?

A. You make a good argument. The fact is, any time italics are unreadable, they are inappropriate. Although Chicago style is to put titles of albums in italics, CMOS was not written with Web design in mind. Even in Chicago books, there are separate rules for display type. For instance, book titles are often set in roman type on a title page. It’s probably best for you to ditch the italics.

It’s common for people to complain that the Chicago Manual is stuffy, or too constricting. But it’s this kind of common sense that makes me love it.

Today was fun again. I’m back!

I think not exhausting myself yesterday helped make today’s class go well. Maybe I have a new way of understanding “don’t overexert yourself.”

I’ve been noticing lately that training has been losing it’s spark for me. I haven’t been happy at the end of class. Instead, I’ve been relieved it’s over.

But today, I was fifteen minutes late, and that meant I missed most of the warm-up calisthenics. I hadn’t known it would make such a difference, but I was struck by how much more enjoyable the class was than other recent classes had been. I was able to keep going for the whole 45 minutes, and was happy, though very tired, when class was over.

Lesson: Don’t push so hard! Use the warm-up time to warm up, not wear out.

I’m famous.

I have a “lens” on squidoo.com called CFS or Fibromyalgia and Exercise? You have got to be kidding! and today I woke up to find it had some actual traffic. Some sleuthing told me that Seth Godin, the brain behind Squidoo, had mentioned it in his blog. And someone else mentioned Seth’s blog entry in his blog.
Isn’t the Intarweb amazing?

Oh, by the way. To see the Karate Snowball of Doom picture, also known as “Famous Fat Lady does Karate,” you’ll have to visit the lens. I’m sure not posting that picture twice!

It’s still fat, definitely. And it’s sore sometimes. But I have visible arm muscles! Visible leg muscles! And I can do amazing things: I can survive a karate class, walk through the grocery store, and I can pick up my beautiful baby. Oh, that is so, so wonderful.

Karate was quite hard today. I’d say “the hardest class ever” but I’ve used that too much already!

The warm-up exhausted me, really. Twenty minutes of jogging, pushups, situps, etc., plus drills on kicks from the floor. I had to take a break in the middle, and even after the break, I had to slow down a lot. That is, the class was kicking, and I went off to the side and paced. But what amazed me—after I’d felt so completely wiped out by the warmup—was that after a while I was able to come back and finish the class.

There were a few times during class when I had to work to keep from crying. But I managed, until the class was over and I was in the car. Then, about thirty seconds of stress-crying, and I was done.

I pass this sign every day, and it always makes me smile. And I finally remembered to take my camera with me!

This is Eugene, Oregon, where the cops doing a “drug raid” (on a residential neighborhood where people were growing weed) felt they needed armored vehicles and grenades. It’s funny; we’re not a violent people. We don’t accept oppression easily, but generally, it’s peaceful protests the powers have to worry about.

But is it any wonder they were scared? I mean, what they were doing is outrageous. And in Eugene, when something’s outrageous, we get outraged.

Thomas Ricks is no pacifist, and there’s nothing anti-military about his chronicle of the war in Iraq. Pentagon correspondent for the Washington Post, he has been to Iraq five times in four years. He tells us that each time, the situation has been worse than before. In an interview on amazon.com, he says this:

On my first trip, in April-May 2003, we would walk out on the streets of Baghdad at night, albeit with caution. Even on my second trip, in the summer of 2003, I would feel comfortable hopping in a car and driving 100 miles north from Baghdad to Tikrit. To do either of those things now would be suicidal.

His chronicle of the war, Fiasco: America’s Military Adventure in Iraq, gives senior military officials a voice for their frustrations, and brings us a clear view of both the heroes and the tragic mistakes of this “adventure.”

Someone remind me why I’m doing this?

Today, I was weak. And I was in pain. And I thought that maybe this is a really stupid idea.

All of these people around me were working out, and I had to sit down and stretch. Why did I ever think I could do this? Fibromyalgia is just too much. It was all I could do to keep from crying.
But I managed to remind myself that before I had to sit down, I’d done thirty push-ups (on my knees, thank you very much). And that I’d been moving, and that I got plenty of aerobic exercise.

It wasn’t fun, but I still have to admit that it’s better having fibromyalgia this way than in a wheelchair or sitting on the couch. I just hope I can remember that, because I have the feeling it’s going to hurt for a while.

July 15, 2006.

I used to be a child.

I had great parents who loved me and respected me as a person. But sometimes, it was scary. And sometimes, I remember.

So tonight, I was explaining something to my son, and I said, “Do you remember the story of that time my family was playing a game, and my sister rolled her die carelessly, and Dad backhanded her?”

M__’s mouth hung open. “Backhanded her? Hard?”

“She had a bloody lip,” I told him. “You sure I didn’t tell you about this? I thought we’d covered all that.”

“Well, we did, but… I mean, I knew you were hit, but I thought it was, like, a rare thing.”

“It was rare. That’s why I remember this particular incident.”

I wasn’t bothered by the discussion, as far as I know, but only a few hours later, when another son was upstairs and said something bold to one of his brothers, I reacted with a rush of adrenaline and fear. Whoa, where’d that come from?

I realized that I was scared. And apparently, my gut was scared that the people upstairs were going to get in a fight and scream at each other and beat on each other and break doors. And I realized why I react so strongly to my children’s inclinations to fight. I have very few non-negotiable demands, but here is one: “We do not speak to each other that way in this house.”

I thought I was done with this a long time ago. I don’t dwell on misfortune, but I acknowledge it, grieve and move on. But this year has held some surprises. This year I remember what it felt like to be that little girl. I remember arguments and physical fights my parents had. I remember not knowing if they would still be there when I came home. I remember my half-brother. (And that memory was a god-send. I finally realized why, before I met my husband, I never believed anyone loved me.)

I know that people do the best they can in their circumstances, and that despite their efforts, certain kinds of chaos can be devastating to kids. I know that adults don’t choose to live in a chaotic hell, if they can figure out a better way, so I don’t feel inclined to lay a lot of blame. And, as I said, my parents were loving, and wonderful in many ways. They encouraged me to think, and gave me strength to endure the hard times.

But I’ve been getting blindsided by memories, and feeling scared again. My body feels it.

In the dark, knees crossed
arms wrapped, I’m not here

I’m not here but I’m shaking

The sounds find me hiding

muffled voices through the floor
front door latch
woman’s grief

car door
engine’s cough

patter of tires on wet road

Daddy’s gone, and I’m rocking
(or the house is)

and I’m waiting
in the dark

and I’m waiting

I’d like to know why I can feel this now, like it’s happening, now. It’s almost like the little girl is still here. Like time doesn’t exist. I can feel it. I could never feel it before.

Funny, to this day when something’s bothering me, I will stay awake at night. I’ve called it keeping vigil, but I never connected it to that memory before. Of course, I’ve never really connected myself with that memory either.