Graceful as an Ox

Today I was lucky enough to find the time during work to go for a run. Most folks think that running in the middle of the day in Hawaii is just plain foolish. They ask if it is hot. I say that it is always hot. It is a good time to run. I am not semi-comatose because it is the crack of dawn. I am not feeling bloaty and full of food because it is the end of the day and I have eaten at some point during it. Noonish. Wide awake after copious amounts of coffee and still feeling light since lunch has not occurred and breakfast is not my thing. I run around town. Up towards the mountains not down towards the ocean. Running at the ocean side park by work reminds me of when I was post-pregnancy and I could barely trot the two miles. It is a memory I don’t care to relive by running that route. Instead I run up Ward Avenue which is a long and slopey hill that has me heaving by the time I get to the top. It levels off after that and it was in that level area today where I fell quite spectacularly.

Upon seeing me limping about the office later in the day I told a co-worker that I had fallen. While running. He said, “you are telling people that?” and then asked if I had been chewing gum at the same time. Runners know the danger of falling. It can happen at any time and for no good reason. The last time I fell was a really long time ago. I know that because my son was in a stroller. He is eight today. I like to think that because I am physically active I don’t truly injure myself too badly when I fall. It is the sudden contact with the ground that does it. That brief instant when your forward motion is being stopped by the braking action of your skin scraping against the pavement. That was me today. I am certain that my fall was spectacular. I am sure because I felt for a brief moment that I was going to recover and not actually going to go down. Wishful thinking.

And there I was. On my stomach. Sprawled out on the sidewalk. Funny thing, there was not a soul around. No cars going by. No one out by their house. Just me. Who knows why I fell. I am relatively certain that I did not trip over anything. The damage was assessed as a scraped knee, arm and hand. And somehow, I managed to turn my thumb purple. I figured out that everything

Running injury – seriously

seemed to still be working. I thought about calling my significant other. I knew he would berate me and then come and get me but I figured I could make it back. Turns out, at that exact moment, when I had picked myself up and decided to keep on going, he had driven right past me. He said that he had stuck his head out of his truck window and waved. I never saw him but I must have felt him. He never honks because he is afraid he might scare me. I believe that if I had seen him I would’ve requested a lift. I suppose it was not meant to be. I’m glad I ran back. I am thankful that I was able to pick myself up and dust myself off. I am also thankful that help was right there whether I knew it or not. If I’m not too stiff, maybe I’ll be out there again tomorrow. And hopefully I’ll remain upright.

Eight is Great

I remember, a long, long time ago when a co-worker told me that whatever age my son was at the time of that conversation was an OK age but wait till eight-nine-ten. I remember she said that they are so good at that age. That they are lovey and sweet and not teen-like snarky. And this has come to fruition. My son is eight and he is quite fabulous. He is fond of telling me how much he loves me. He tells me that I am the best mom in the world and I don’t disagree. And the thing is. I feel the same way about him. He is just sweet and cute and I love being with him.

My big confession is that my son has been camped out in my bed for almost a week now and neither one of us can seem to do the big break up. It all began with sickness. He ran a fever for four days and slept in my bed the entire time. When his fever finally broke, his dad came down with the same illness. Dad ended up sleeping in our son’s bed and the eight year old remained where he was. We kept threatening to put him back in his own bed but he has developed a really effective ploy where he falls asleep in my bed during TV time. Then he looks all cute and snuggly, so much so that his dad just says, “well, let’s just leave him for one more night.” This has happened for the past three nights. And while part of me knows that I am being suckered, this other part doesn’t care. I love just watching him when he is asleep with those ridiculously long eye lashes and that crazy vein that is so visible in his right eyelid. I’m not sure how it happened that this guy has managed to turn my heart to mush. But he totally has.

Tonight however, the big move happened and he is snuggled into his own bed. I believe that it was the promise of making tunnels in his bed with his dad. Whatever it was, he is there. And while I know it is the right thing, I will miss him just being with me. And maybe that is what it is, why it’s been so hard to put him back in his own bed. Because at some point in the future, he will be further and further and for him the thought of crawling into bed next to me will be, well, gross. I know that this is the way it is and the way it should be. And this is OK because I am relatively certain he will continue to turn my heart to mush, just in different ways.

Relentless – (Apologies for Obfuscation)

I have lived in Hawaii a damn long time. I have never felt like some folks do when they move here. Like an outsider. I also wasn’t on the other end of the spectrum. I had never wanted to move here. I never dreamed about paradise. Swaying breezes. Coconuts. Hula dancers. None of it. It was the place that I was moving to. The place that was just another place. It was far from my family. But I’d been far from my family before. Problem is, the thing is, once there is more in the family. Once you’ve got the one and only grandchild. Ostensibly the only grandchild that there ever will be. How do you keep them apart? You can’t.

And then it is all so difficult. So far and so difficult. You try to find a way. A band aid. A temporary situation. But that is not working. Lethargy. Apathy. Languor. Hebetude. Like chasing your own tail.

I have never been a planner. That is not good sometimes. When I joined the Peace Corps, it was a spur of the moment thing. No consideration. Just done. Same thing when I moved to Hawaii. When I decided it was time to have a baby. Just do it. Today, someone I was talking to was describing taking an inventory prior to making major decisions. She was saying, “you know, you make list of the good things and the bad things. Like when you are considering life changes. Like marriage or divorce.” I have no lists. I’ve never had a list. Today I am feeling like I need more than one list. One hundred. One thousand. One million. See, this is what leads back to the apathy. It is a vicious cycle.

And as I twist in the wind, trying to find the way to wrap up this blog, it comes, in the form of a quote which just showed up in my Twitter feed: “Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves.” — Henry David Thoreau.

Terrorized

Right before I was about to head out to a meeting today I happened to see breaking news from the Atlantic on my Twitter feed. It said something about an explosion at the Boston Marathon. It was the beginning of the horrible news of the day. As when the attacks on NY occurred, I found myself unable to turn away. To stop looking. At one point in the morning I became the purveyor of incorrect internet news regarding what had happened. This included informing my significant other of the shutdown of the city’s cellular network and a third bombing site at the JFK Library.

As the day wore on and I sat in meetings discussing what, to me, seemed like inane topics with no real meaning, I snuck peeks at my news feed. I spent the morning wondering what the hell was wrong with everyone. Just carrying on like nothing had happened. Like bombs hadn’t exploded in the middle of an American city. Like people hadn’t died. As if the entire newscast wasn’t filled with words like shrapnel and amputations. So I spent the morning angry at everyone around me because of my perception that they just didn’t care. Or wanted to ignore it. Or, I don’t know what.

The other part of me really, really needed a hug. After the twin towers in NY, I found myself hugging a woman I did not know at all at a work meeting. I couldn’t help it. I almost did it again today. I had to drop off a contract to a woman who I only know through work. I had actually left my morning meeting at her office in my distracted state and forgot to drop the contract off to her. I got in touch with her and told her I’d circle back. I apologized when I finally hooked up with her. I admitted that the Boston incident was distracting me and that I just got out of the meeting and left the building. She took the contract and I went to wait for the elevator. She came out into the lobby as I was getting on. She asked if I had family in Boston. I said no NY and asked if she did. She said no but that she had gone to school in Boston and had lived there. And we just had a moment. I could have hugged her right then. And I actually almost did hug her when I was handing over the contract (I actually felt like I had to restrain myself from doing so). I can’t understand why everyone isn’t just hugging today. Maybe if there was more hugging, there’d be less of what happened today going on in the world. I didn’t fulfill my hugging needs till I got home to my eight year old. By that time, I felt like it was too late. And really, I should have hugged contract girl today. Hug first, ask later. Maybe I am part of the problem.

Mistakenly Mistaken

I strive to be correct. Like all the time. I think that part of it is the fact that I just like to always be right. So that I could potentially lord it over you (just ask my poor, poor significant other). That and my job, in large part, for the past ten years or so has been a trade in information; to provide information on various policies, in various public settings, for various people which truly had to be the correct information. When that is your job, the information trade, you really strive to get it right. I think that I’ve done that. For the most part. Gotten it right.

Then, last week, a very public and more personal bit of writing hit the streets with a mistake which mostly horrified me. Obviously in ten years of work, I have made mistakes. The awful realization of the error washed over me and I felt an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. The feeling that I have disappointed. That my work is subpar. That people would be angry. All of those feelings of self-doubt. I have to admit that I don’t like to feel them. And while, at my advanced age, I don’t feel them as often as in the past, they are truly unpleasant. They eat away at your confidence and wear holes in your well-being. I try to keep them at bay.

Kind of Looks Like Me

My ever loving editor offered me kind words, welcomed me to the world of writers and said that now I really was one of them. Like coming over to the dark side. After drowning my sorrow in a giant serving of nachos Friday evening and not thinking about it all weekend, I feel better. Today wonderful editor told me that she had only received two calls and they weren’t even angry calls. What have I learned from this? I am possibly not always as perfect as I think I am. That I need to be even more careful to check and recheck and recheck what I am writing about. That editors are awesome. That humble pie, although not delicious, is a necessary part of any well balanced diet.

And the mistake, well, it was here, in this article, but things can be fixed online, not so much in print. The worst part for me is that I really, really liked this piece and its message. You can compare if you’ve got the print edition, but part of me hopes you don’t.

http://www.islandscene.com/Article.aspx?id=4479

I Hate Cooking/I Love Cooking

For some months now, whenever I talk to my mom on the phone on the weekends, we usually end up talking about cooking. She actually likes to cook although she has little to no confidence in her cooking. If she invites folks over, she will preface her serving of the meal with comments saying things like the food might not be great. We always tell her she shouldn’t say that. That she should be confident with her cooking and not set up an environment of failure or lowered expectations. I think that it is hard for her since she lives in the shadow of my friend Joe’s cooking. Joe’s cooking is usually involved and sometimes fancy and always completely delicious. And don’t be fooled, he uses a lot of anchovies. And you might not think that those little fishies are totally yummy, but they are.

I have recently come to love buying ingredients which I have never used before and attempting to get my 8 year old son to eat whatever it is. Take hominy for instance. I did not even know what it was till I googled it. If you are uncertain, it is whole corn kernels soaked in something so that the outer part of it softens. The kernels turn into giant soft corn pillow goodness. I made a vegetarian posole with it. The 8 year old loves the hominy, the posole, not so much. But that is OK.

I frequently enjoy purchasing mystery vegetables to cook at home. After eating lotus root prepared in many different and delicious dishes at Yuzu restaurant, we now frequently pick up the strangely alien looking potato-like thing in Chinatown (we know where to get it) and make lotus root

Alien Lotus Root

chips. They are crunchy on the outside and chewy on the inside and are usually eaten immediately from the oven. We have purchased large flat beans from the farmer’s market which are scrumptious steamed and Japanese turnips from MA’O organic farm which are loved by my son. Baby bok choy is a regular in our house, stir fried with garlic. I love the challenge and the experimentation.

So I have these cooking conversations with my mother, she keeps saying to me, “for someone who doesn’t like to cook, you sure cook a lot.” My answer is always that if I don’t cook I don’t know what my family would eat all week. Every weekend we have this conversation. It has taken quite some time but I recently realized that I may have to admit that she could actually be right. I spent quite a few hours in the kitchen on Sunday, cutting and cooking and just really liking it. I love trying new things and new recipes and new ingredients. While not everything is delicious (let’s not even discuss the egg fruit we tried the other night) most times I like the challenge to prepare something that is foreign. These cooking escapades have mostly resulted in good outcomes, unless you count the scary bitter melon that I couldn’t bring myself to use. It is a challenge that I will face quite soon, that ugly knobbly vegetable. Who knows, maybe this weekend.

Policy Mania

I have to admit that I am a bit of a policy wonk and since I work in health care, that must make me a health care policy wonk. What this means is that I know more about the Affordable Care Act, lovingly referred to as Obamacare in some circles, than the average bear. I know all about health insurance exchanges, MLR, AVs, APTCs and CSRs. And really, you should too. Know at least some of this stuff. I say it all the time that the Obama Administration let his opponents define his signature piece of legislation. They let them take control of the conversation. It was unfortunate.

Knowing what I know, I can say that there’s a lot of good stuff in that there legislation. Do I think that it will bring down health care costs? Definitely not in the first year when the health insurance exchanges open for business. Do I think that it will decrease the number of uninsured across the nation? Absolutely. Think Massachusetts but on a nationwide scale.

So, my mix of competitiveness and policy wonkishness sometimes gets my ire up. Sometimes, when someone, somewhere, anywhere makes a statement or proclamation on health care reform requirements that I know are just dead wrong, whew. Like today when I was irritated that another organization is publishing rubbish on policy which seems exceptionally clear to me. And because I am competitive, there is nothing quite like shooting out an email detailing why their policy assumptions are incorrect and supporting my rightness with citations to various regulatory guidance. It makes me feel like I believe generals in battle feel when they are certain that victory is at hand. It is like that.

Somehow my job has transformed to mostly policy. I seem to have relatively extricated myself from most of the politics. So much easier to have a discussion on policy. Not so easy to have a discussion about policy through a veil of politics. Makes you feel as if you are being smothered. Or not heard. I prefer to just have it out. In the open. Your bring your regulations and I’ll bring mine. Let’s have a go at it. In the immortal words of Tony Horton, “bring it, bring it.”