I met God in a castle on a mountain……… okay, maybe it was more like a Mayan inspired brick house on a hill.  But it seemed like a castle.  It was there I  read the book, ‘Conversations with God’.  In it, ‘God’ says that he/she/it speaks to us all the time..through experiences, song lyrics, commercials, an overheard rant from a vagrant person at a stoplight..essentially, anything that catches your attention could be a message from the divine. All we have to do is pay attention.  Now before you pooh-pooh this possibility,  give it a go.  I did, and blow-my-knickers-up-with-a-whisper, it worked. ‘God’ was listening! and responding to my prayers/thoughts, angst filled rants in my journal. Amazing right? Example you ask? Many, but here’s one of my favorites:                                                               I am watching tv and a promo for a new sitcom appears. I recognize the lead as a young woman I had counseled the year prior about following her dream of acting ( when I say counsel I mean I listened and then prompted her to realize what she already knew)and here she is, the lead in a new NBC sitcom. Well. Despite feeling pleased that she had obviously done well in her pursuits, I also felt deeply morose about my own lack of accomplishment. I went on a mind-fuck bender for a bit, even managing a few tears and a ‘whoas me’ or two.  Then, a commercial catches my attention: A beautiful couple, black-tie dressed, tickets to the opera, a dark and stormy night… in the headlights of their car, stands a wet, miserable looking dog…the couple look at each other, look at their tickets, and the next shot is of the man carrying the wet dog to their car. The screen fades black, and then: IF YOU’VE DONE ONE THING….YOU’VE DONE SOMETHING.

Instantly, I am flooded with many emotions: pride, embarrassment,gratitude, but mostly, love. Because at that very moment, lying comfortably on my bed, is a dog that I had plucked off of the rainy sidewalk just the day before.                                                           I saw that dog, bloodied and obviously exhausted and scared, being avoided by everyone on that sidewalk (because he was a pit bull),and leapt into action, coaxing him with a piece of deli meat. He went immediately to the vet and cost me money I didn’t have to fix him up.  I don’t tell you this to toot my own hero horn, I know that a lot of  people would do the same as I that day. I tell you because when that commercial came on, I understood immediately that I had accomplished something, I made all the difference in the world to that dog, and ‘God’ was giving me a gentle chuck on the chin for my silliness. It was a ‘God’ moment, and it was unmistakable. Also, I was sitting in that previously mentioned castle, rent free.    That was quite something as well. I was actually  living in a historical monument.  It had a view that made me feel like a girl of privilege and possibility.   Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, built  in 1926,and called ‘The Ennis House’.     How in the hell did someone from anyone get to live in a historic monument, you ask?  Well.  Mix cute, nice girl with super old dude in need of a household caretaker, blend just the right amount of opportunity, and zing!  In-sies!     And get your noodle out of the gutter, I did no nasty bits for entry-ever.   Well, I did have to pick up dog doo, and do his laundry, but that’s icky on an entirely tolerable level for living in a castle in the sky, right?   I soaked up every moment like I was  junkie bread mopping up  heroin gravy….I spent many nights star gazing on my window ledge, marveling in this unique spot in the world.  I would  volunteer as a docent and give tours, proud when the group would troop into the room I lived in and I could tell them this was mine, taking credit for nothing more than fortunate circumstance.  I learned quite a bit about the architect, and the reverence for what he’d done in this space made me stop, sit still and listen for the first time in my life.

I’d struggled with faith, or rather, the lack of, my entire life. I grew up without proper supervision, and so ended up being quite short in some significant areas. This was handed home to me by my  then lover whom, when he broke with me, called me a dichotomy, being in love with one half and repelled by the other.  He was very successful, and I was very..not. My astonishing insensitivity to his sensitivities coupled with not having a clue what I was supposed to do with my life, led to a premature end of my first significant love.  I did nothing but sit still for some time after that, medicating with wine and weed, not even attempting to recover the sense of belief I’d had of myself, because even though God did speak to me, in that beautiful house on the hill, my ears may have well been stuffed with stones because I did not hear it. I did not believe in me and  I went on, wounded and stumbling, for years…  Although I stared and stared, there was no blueprint in the stars..your purpose is what you say it is , and I had nothing to say then. It is mine alone to bear..and yet what saddens me  most to this day is that I did not really listen, really hear what I’d heard from God that first time, in the Ennis House on the hill.  I did the thing I feared the most- I stayed in the shallow end of life.  I refused to believe that I had something to offer.                                                                It took far too long for me to figure out what it is I’m supposed to be doing with my life..how to utilize my gifts. I’d found a good job, the kind with just enough of the lies you tell yourself to avoid the real rainbow. Only now, eleven years later, am I taking my first steps toward who it is I truly am.  Prompted again by a heartache, but  this time held up and encouraged by someone who did not turn away from my flaws, ( helped, surely because I did not repeat the mistakes I made)  who loves me, really loves me. And that has made all the difference.

I’ve been a bit  careless with my body. I started smoking at 17 years old , drank wine almost everyday and indulged in a joint almost as often. Average reader will agree, there are far more deserving bodies to incubate the future, to be sure.

When 39 came around, and no special someone had introduced themselves, I figured I’d be one of those eccentric Aunties, the kind that wear  billowing caftans and chunky  turquoise jewelry. We traveled the world and brought exotic tins of jam and tribal figurines for our families at Christmas. We had lovers, but no husbands and no children. And, the truth is, motherhood never seemed like me. I could smell a baby’s head and my uterus wouldn’t feel a thing. I never even imagined my wedding day, not once. I’d said ,out loud, on more than one occasion, that kids and I would not blend. I was the person who make a mean face at a toddler if they were acting up in public. You get the picture.

Then, along comes a man who wants to be a Dad, I fall in love and perspectives change.   He asks me, “Why don’t we just stop trying not to get pregnant” ?  I say, “Okay, look. I’ve been smoking and drinking for twenty years, so maybe this happens and maybe it doesn’t.”   We have our first unprotected sex two days after Valentines 2007, and faster than you can say ‘BritneySpears’, I am pregnant. I’ll spare you the periods of dumbfounded staring.  I say I want to try a natural birth, but I never really addressed it,  I hardly even thought about it, and duh,when the time comes, I am completely, totally, ridiculously unprepared to handle the pain. Take that and add a multi-pressure-ized nurse system in the hospital and you have me cave, cower, whimper and take the epidural. That I had purchased an expensive absentee doula designed to help me get through that particular sticky bit, is another bitch in this sideways tale, but I will live to rant another day, I’m sure.  So, after a ridiculous number of hours during which I had to be given pitocin to speed up my lagging labor (that I mostly slept through) and  two and a half hours of pushing, I end up having a c-section because was son was Occiput Posterior (face turned the wrong way) and gets stuck because I can’t feel enough to push him out (OR, my doctor didn’t have the wherewithall to turn him). This becomes a story I retell myself (and others) over and over, disappointment anchoring it in my consciousness. When, two years later, an accidental pregnancy misses, I decide I really do want a sibling for our son, and we start trying to get pregnant. In March of this year, we are happily on the path to a new addition in our family. I am forty-three years old.

My ob/gyn, who, when trying to convince her I can have this baby the regular way ,shakes her head and  says second babies are bigger, plus I am old. The only way she will be my doctor is if  I schedule a c-section. This pisses me off a number of ways and I complain to anyone in the room and start to do a lot of research on VBACs. It turns out there are risks, especially if you are already old and have had a big baby prior. But someone in the room who was listening had the name of a guy they called “progressive”. I made an appointment. I am immediately taken with him.  He has not only heard of Ina May Gaskin, but he has read ‘Spiritual Midwifery’!  This man doctor is the closest thing to a midwife I have found. He thinks there is no reason I can’t try for a natural birth with the codicil that I keep my weight (and thus, the baby’s ) down. At this point, I am ,perhaps 30 weeks along, and have not passed by one almond croissant without declaring it mine and loving every bite. I have gained 37 pounds but remain nutritionally vigilant.   Baby Fetus is healthy and thriving.  So. The due date approaches and Doctor Progressive is getting a bit nervous. He wants to get this 8-9 lb guy out as soon as possible. He informed consents the beejesus out of me. He talks about the latest VBAC studies, and how shoulder dystocia is becoming a concern now that we know my baby is indeed, big. He calls me in several times just prior to my due date to do membrane sweeps, which ranks up there in experience to having pubic hair ripped off of you-from the inside. But I do as doctor asks, because he worries that the longer I don’t go into labor, the bigger this baby, the odds get better for bad things to happen. Me? Not worried. No, really, I’m not. I trust that my body can do this, giving birth is what women do, and I will have the safety net of the hospital to catch me should it go wonky. So. The night before my actual due date(Nov 22), I begin to experience regular contractions starting at around 9 p. After the false starts created by the painfully useless tissue tearing, this feels real. Like I might be having a baby coming out out of my hooha pretty soon. WHEEEEE! When Greg gets home, I tell him it might be ‘on’, but let’s try and  get some sleep. UHoohkay, he says carefully, staring at me like I just farted on his mother. The contractions feel quite mild, and I wonder how it is that my cervix has already dilated 4 centimeters and I’m not screaming. (I’d been at a 4 for a few days now, according to Dr. P) In the morning, we are expectant, excited…my labor companion and bestest friend, Lauren comes over, ready to be of assistance. We make breakfast and hang out…. breakfast turns into Titos Tacos and jacuzzi sitting and I can’t help but  notice that I seem to have misplaced my contractions. This has made me cancel my fifteenth trip to the Doctors office, and I am relieved. The day wears on and no contractions. I deflate and begin to worry for the first time. I worry that I will have to fight my doctor for a natural birth. I worry that my son will have to be surgically removed from my body. I practice my nose breathing and say quiet prayers. I send Lauren home..it is 6pm on the 23rd. As soon as I escape to my room, contractions start in earnest. And this time, they aren’t screwing around. The nose  breathing method I have been practicing turns my nostrils into tea cup saucers- contractions are coming so intensely. By the time Lauren arrives around 9ish, they are a minute and a half apart. In the car, I press her not to let me cave and ask for drugs. We arrive at the hospital and just as I manage to get my pants off, my water breaks…, Then, as I’m going “eeww”, and shaking amniotic fluid off my shoe, I feel something like a bowling ball dropping down into my hooha.  Suddenly, I have to push. I had been at the hospital approximately thirty minutes. The doctor arrives just in time. Reader, it was just like the movies. I was sweating, grunting, neck veins bulging, it was work. It took an awhile, maybe an hour and a half, and I needed both Lauren and Greg along with the doctor and nurse to help brace my legs so I could keep pushing. I have never worked harder in my life. At 1:48am on the 24th, my son was out. He weighed 10.8.8 lbs, and was 22 in long. Ten fingers, ten toes, all organs and parts accounted for.  We are very, very blessed. Thank you for reading. 

PA: ” Number One is walking….” Number one is walking”.

AD: (dramatic angry whisper) ” where’s Jon?, guys, I need Jon”

PA: “He’s walking, he’s at the grip truck”

someone else three seconds later: “Lori costumes”?

“Go head”

“What color is Lizzy’s hat for this”?

” It is a blue hat, repeat blue hat”

“copy, thanks”

Riveting. And it drains  all the words from my brain, that is , pathetically, already a swiss cheese copy of its former self due to the percolating human in my uterus….. At least that’s what I tell people.

Now, that is what I wrote…oh….four months ago….didn’t bother posting…why? Well, I could blame pregnancy and hormones, but I’ve probably always been lazy and a little bit cranky.

So. here it is, a few months later, and I have news of new life in our house, and for the three regular readers I may still have..an apology. I suck. I’m sorry. This is a belated mini post that will be followed shortly by my birth story.

First,

a pictorial tribute to this last season on Mad Men. I am proud to be a small cog in the machine, and because no-one reads this, I probably won’t get in trouble. (crossing fingers) I hope.

me want to take a nap…. Four, I mean, four! (Five if you count the ever adorable Jecca Bean)…  As some of you already know, (and some have already guessed),  Husband and I are expecting an upcoming addition to our family. We will be welcoming our new person sometime in November.  As  most of you know, I am rilly, rilly old,  so this is quite the blessing.

I have been unable to write lately, as work has started and all my brainpower has gone into saving lives with my miraculous splinter remover and aspirin vitamins.      Thank GOD for all the apartment sets around here, and their many comfortable couches, or I would be mostly dead by now.  I am not kidding, the hours have been stupid long, and I am not embarrassed to say I have been napping on the job.  And eating…jeesus, the food around here!…just have a look at one of our afternoon tables  at craft service.

On this day there were a couple of birthdays, and script supervisor brought scones, but it’s always something exactly like this, it’s like you’re at a party here-all the time, with trays of pastries, doughnuts,bagels, fruit, cereal, yogurts, juices, coffees teas,and that’s the morning table…

this is what someone dropped off on a tuesday before lunch. The other day, I ate so many jelly bellys, I felt like a ferret on a double expresso. My eyeballs were vibrating in opposite directions.  It’s a pregnant chick wet dream and a diabetics (or dieters) nightmare. I’ve been wearing maternity jeans already, and I’m only 13weeks!

I’ve been thinking quite a bit about whether or not to talk about my job, working on “best show on television” (I’m not saying that, all the meanest critics say so).   On one hand, this show is quite the critical darling, and has many devoted viewers…. in other words, people would read me, maybe lots and lots of people. On the other, this blog isn’t about MM, it’s about me and my musings on things….so I’ve come to this: My work IS a quite large chunk of my life  at the moment, so there may be a discreet anecdote or two along the way.  Of course I will never ever reveal anything I shouldn’t, I signed something saying I wouldn’t, and I wish to honor that agreement.

( I’m betting not a single one of you reading this gives one teeny shit about whether or not I write about MM) That said I will say that it’s great to be back here, greeted warmly by cast and crew, and in fun side note, paparazzi happened to catch a shot of our fearless fictional leader standing next to my hubby, not sure if that one made the People magazine shot.

P.S. It’s a boy.

Yeeeah. Turns out..not so much. Women aren’t always careful with each others feelings, and if you have any doubt, just watch one of those ‘Real Housewives’ shows. Those women smile with knives in their teeth, leaping with a wicked gleam in their eye to criticize their fellow housewives.  We judge each other. It’s an ugly truth.  Two years ago, a long time friend told me she was “sickened” when I made the comment, “I just wish he’d gotten his fathers’ nose” about my newborn son.  She told me I hadn’t learned anything, and that she didn’t want to be in my life while I gave “that poison” to my son. I had no defense, I did say that, I did think it.  I have always hated my nose, while my husbands’ has the kind people ask for at plastic surgeon.

But I will never, ever pass on to my son any impression to him other than he is perfect, because he is. No parental lip service here, he is a beautiful blend of myself and husband, and most importantly, he is healthy and happy. Because that is what really matters. I know this. Maybe I was still learning a couple of years ago when I said that to her.  I have a habit of blurting inappropriate things, like exactly what I’m thinking.  Bad Habit. This is because psychic scars caused by believing that you are ugly, leave a permanent mark on your personality.  This is something I continue to work on. Other than occasionally calling myself a blockhead, I’ve grown into myself, become comfortable with who I am. I’ve arrived at  a place where I actually like myself, thick ankles, funny nose and all. But to end a twenty-plus year friendship because of a moment of insecurity?  The great privilege of friendship, the relief and comfort of it was that one has to explain nothing. And yet…we do explain, constant vigilance against misunderstanding and hurt feelings. If it pains you to criticize your friends, you’re safe in doing so. If you take the slightest pleasure, this is when you hold your tongue. I don’t mean to say that she took any pleasure in our last exchange, when she told me she couldn’t be around to watch me “pass on poison” to my son… but, it never occurred to me that she would dump me. I thought she was my friend, one of the sacred I called family. The kind that pisses you off sometimes, but you talk through it. You certainly don’t leave a friendship without discussing it with them first, or at least a warning. To put a sting on top, she responded to our wedding invitation ‘yes’, but failed to show. And I haven’t heard from her since. And yes, I am asking for an explanation-even though I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t like what I hear. She judged me, sentenced me and left me to rot in the wide field of her absence. And I admit, I’ve been hurt by this. I miss our friendship. It’s an awful moment when you realize that your character doesn’t match up to someone you loved and admired for so long.  We are supposed to love people, not for their perfection, but, despite of or because of their imperfections. And so she will miss out on all my future imperfections. I am deeply sorry for the loss.   I’m blessed with other friends- good ones, actually, and I am  SO grateful for those women. One of them told me today that she will only have the people in her life that reflect her in her highest conciousness, because those people are a reflection back on her. And this makes sense. But it’s a lot to live up to.                I am not always my own highest consciousness-who among us is? I’ve had shockingly bad moments as a mother. The kind that imbed themselves in the shame file of your brain, never failing to pop up at a moment when you are feeling masterful in your universe; ‘HEY!, remember that time you lost your shit on your toddler who wouldn’t swallow a bite of rice??’.      Parenting can be a brutal mirror,  so we need our friends to be kind  to us when we are less than our best selves.  Friends that we can confess to when we have that bad moment, friends who will tell us  walk away, breath through your nose for a few minutes, no, you are not a horrible mother.  Support gives us confidence to go forward, even if that day?  you couldn’t see your highest consciousness with a ladder and Deepak Chopra whispering inspirational sound bites in your ear. So I lost someone who couldn’t forgive me for being less than her idea of my highest self..so I discovered under the years and layers of the friendship, that nothing of substance lay beneath.Ouch. But. I forgave myself for worse things than wishing my husbands features on my son, she probably wouldn’t . So I’m better off without her. We all have moments we wish we could take back, or re-do, in my history, that incident wasn’t one of them. I am kinder to myself, and all of my friends, as a result of this lesson. I would never leave them for a re-do moment, especially when they already kicked themselves over it..I will tell them to take a break, breathe through your nose for a few minutes, be your own best friend and be kind to yourself. Then go back and kiss that irritating toddler. That’s what friends are for.

My husband says it’s tacky and what it really says to these saleskids is that I can’t say “NO”, and they will knock anyway. We even argued over it.  A few days ago(during dinner), one knocked, selling magazines-after reading the sign. I was furious. How dare she? There’s a SIGN!  Husband politely declined, indicating the sign. She insisted that her ‘company’ was different. He pointed out that she had the same receipts as the others. She didn’t have an answer for that. Those kids are scam artists, and I thought my sign would save me from having to look them in the eye and say ‘No’ to the  con artist from the Hood. So, I can say ‘No’ to a friend, but not to a stranger that accosts me outside the supermarket, or my front door? What do you think? Should I take down the sign that doesn’t work anyway, grow a pair and look the con artist in the eye when I say “Piss Off”?

And so there is a few precious weeks left before work begins, and I’m happy to spend the days squeezing/hugging/licking my son and ridiculously adorable little dog. The very good news about working on “The Best Show On Television” again this year,(besides actually working on the best show on television) is that I will be free of the angry co-worker (in my department) that did his best to get me fired last season. It was nothing personal, I believe, he was just mad at his demotion, and blamed me for his own issues. He went so far as to file complaints with my union, (all baseless and bullshit), and the vice-president came to the set and investigated. In the end, they told him he was lucky not to be brought up on charges of ‘bearing false witness’ and ‘harassment’.  For me? This means that bad guys don’t always get away with it.

And so faithful few, I confess, if you didn’t already guess-I’m not very good at this….internet diary….I guess because I read all the other really good bloggers, and fear gets in the way. Makes my fingers hover over the keyboard…like that last sentence and this one? Ten minutes.

Whew. I’m exhausted. I need a cracker. Oh, hey, I get to have lunch with Agi tomorrow! Someone is going to cook for me!

In modern structural linguistics, words have no inherent sense, for they can be reduced, every single one of them, to basic mathematical units. The fantasy of a basic number of irreducible elements out of which all speech can be constituted is a dissecting technique of the analytical mind which applies logical atomism to Logos itself-a suicide of the word.

Okay. I do  get the first couple of those lines. I have read a bit about DNA, the stuff that makes for all  things living, and it breaks down to a four- letter language of genetic material: A, C,G,and T.  And a twenty-six letter  protein ‘code’, repeated over and over, billions and billions of different combinations..And the entire world of musical notes can be reduced to eight letters. I get that part. But at the end there?, and that sound you  heard?, were the two peas rolling around in my tin can head, plink! plink!  If Psychology were a  multi-leveled house?, I’d be  someplace under the the basement..if psychology were a human, I wouldn’t even be Homo Sapien Sapien, I’d just be the Homo,  the hairy-knuckle dragging, low forehead pre-human kind.

And now, I am thinking that this book isn’t quite my level just yet, and  now what do I say to the very smart, educated man who loaned it to me? Thanks, but I’m operating with a Deepak brain? Or, try and memorize some interesting bit and regurgitate it with him, act like I’m smarter than I am? Oh Dear. I might try reading it again…..someday… because it can’t be all like that, right? But do you know what I actually did, when I first read those sentences? I put ‘ Re-visioning Psychology’  book gently down, and RE-read the last two Harry Potter books, back to back. That’s what I did. No cookie for Mama. Or quesadilla, or hmmgrapes, is anybody hungry?

Our Jecca Bean was named for an English schoolgirl that briefly dated Prince William, and she constantly reminds me to have fun, and clown about a bit, and I just wanted to tell you, Internet, that besides my son, she is the greatest thing ever.