In Which I Do The Math ~ by Jay

SAVE THOUSANDS ON MORTGAGE INTEREST AND SHORTEN YOUR LOAN, says the envelope holding my mortgage statement.

Well, that would be great. We still have over 25 years to go on our 30-year mortgage, so shortening the term of the loan without actually refinancing would be a Good Thing.

The envelope directs me to a website for more information.

The website explains the every-two-week plan: they withdraw half the amount of our monthly payment from our checking account every two weeks. Since that's 26 payments a year, it means we pay an extra "month" each year, all of which goes to reducing the principal. They calculate the savings for us based on our loan status. Hmm. Why not? I'm already paying online through my own bank.

I click through to set up the process, and I'm asked to enter my bank account information - and authorize a $300.00 "set-up fee" as well as an annual "administration" charge.

Wait a second. They're going to charge me $300.00 up front and an additional unspecified amount each year for the privilege of paying off my mortgage early?

I don't think so.

I sign on to the bank website, pull up the automatic mortgage payment and increase the amount I pay each month by $100.00. I fill in the "memo" section with the words "EXTRA PAYMENT TO REDUCE CAPITAL". There. I've just shortened the term of my loan and saved myself thousands of dollars in interest, not to mention the $300.00 set-up charge.

It pays to read the fine print.

I Hadn't Looked Far Enough ~ by Jay

When I wrote about police and privilege, I linked to a Shakesville post as an example of what others had written about the incident in Cambridge. One white woman linking to another white woman. Brilliant.

I wrote that post in a hurry and didn't take the time to look for commentary from bloggers I don't regularly read, and it turns out that most of the blogs (and MSM) I usually read are awfully white. Which probably wouldn't be a surprise to any POC who happen to read this blog. Here we sit, at our separate virtual tables.

This is not how I want it to be. To be an effective ally I need to be listening to other voices, not just the white progressive voices in my own echo chamber. Even when those voices make me uncomfortable, even when I don't recognize the landscape they describe as the country I live in, I still need to listen. Really, I most need to listen when I'm uncomfortable, because that's the stuff I don't know.

It's a journey, and I'm on the path, and here's a link to Jessica Faye Carter's take on the connection between the Gates incident and the "birther" ridiculousness - a connection I didn't even see until it was pointed out to me, but which is blindingly obvious now.

On the path.

So It Turns Out... ~ by Jay

...that the #1 song on the Billboard chart the day I was born was "I'm Sorry" by Brenda Lee.

I'm trying not to read anything into that.

Privilege ~ by Jay

I forgot my coffee this morning.

Sam made a pot of coffee and probably even put a travel mug out for me, but I completely forgot about it. I was about a mile from home when I looked down and realized what I'd done, and I didn't want to go back, so instead of turning left toward work, I went straight ahead toward the Starbucks drive-through.

Unfortunately, while I was processing the absence of a coffee mug, the light at the intersection had turned. I drove through it anyway, registering the color red at the last second, too late to stop safely. Lights flashed on in my rear-view mirror.

Damn. But oh, well; I haven't had a ticket in over 10 years, the points won't do much to my license or insurance costs, and I can afford the fine. I'm not even in much of a hurry. No big deal.

Given the usual state of my car, I was relieved to find the registration and current insurance card where I looked for them. I handed them over to the police officer and acknowledged that yes, I realized I'd run a red light. Sir. He went back to his car and did whatever it is they do (I suppose confirming that the car is registered to me and I'm not an escaped felon) and then came back and told me he was giving me a warning and I should please be careful. Yes, sir, I will. And fasten your seatbelt (I'd undone it to reach over to the glove compartment). Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I buckled up and drove away, headed to get my much-needed coffee.

So no big deal, indeed; not even a fine - and then I realized the privilege underlying my calm reaction. What was the worst that could happen? I'd have to pay some money. I had no reason to worry that the police officer would try to search the car, or decide I looked threatening and they needed to run me in. Sure, I was deferential - but I'd actually done something wrong, and I knew it. I deserved the ticket he decided not to give me, and that's a piece of privilege, too. How many men - especially young men, even white men - would have been let off with a warning? That's the privilege of being a middle-aged white woman in a minivan who doesn't appear to need a lesson from the police.

I haven't written anything about the incident with Professor Gates and the Cambridge police because other people have said it better, but this morning I realized just how wide the gulf is between my life and the life of people of color - especially men of color - in this country, even when we both have degrees from big-shot universities, and even when I'm the relative nobody in my obscure little town.

That's my privilege, and I'm ready to give it up. The hard part is figuring out how.

Settling In ~ by Jay

Back from vacation and plunging into the New. We're renovating our house, enlarging our master bath from its former postage-stamp size and creating a walk-in closet and a slightly smaller bedroom. While they're at it, the contractors will repair the windows, none of which opened properly) and install recessed lighting in the bedroom. Eventually, we'll order actual furniture - we've been living with castoff pieces from our old house (and other people's houses) since we moved in 8 years ago. And we've never had an actual bed - you know, a headboard and footboard. We have a metal bedframe and our box spring and mattress, but I want a Real Bed. Maybe then I'll feel like a Real Adult.

Oh, and we're also renovating the living room - a much smaller project. They'll replace two windows with full-length glass doors, so we'll open the house to our lovely back yard and have a lot more light. We'll also get a real mantle and a window seat in our bay window. Eve can't wait for her window seat, and I have to say I'm almost as excited about it as she is.

Meanwhile, the living room stands empty, Sam and I are crammed into our guest room, and we've taken about eight boxes of books to the library for donation. We still have piles and boxes of books and our bookshelves are overcrowded, so there's more to do, but it's a start. I also did a serious clothing purge, since we have to share one smallish closet for the duration and I only had room for one of my two dressers. Amazing how much stuff I own that I don't actually wear.

One more packing/unpacking stop: my office. My new office at our inpatient hospice unit. I need to find something to hang on the walls, and I still have all those unread journals to deal with, but there are pictures of Eve on the shelf and her artwork on the bulletin board. It's a small space but I have room for my computer and my files. I'm getting settled.

I'm also getting settled into the job. I know it's early - only four days - but I love it. The people I work with are happy to have me here. I can use the kitchen whenever I want because there are no drug reps camped out there. So far the work is manageable. We've made some adjustments at home with drop-off and pick-up schedules so that's still working smoothly. Sam's major workshop starts in a week, and we'll see then how flexible I can be and how well Sam will cope my new schedule when he's more stressed.

Our organization has its own challenges, and as you may have noticed this is an interesting time to work in healthcare in the US, but all in all I can't ever remember feeling this contented, this certain that I'm in the right place.

When does Mother get in the way of Doctor? ~ by Tigermom

So my eldest cub has been away at sleep-away camp. She did it last summer. No big deal. Yes, we miss her, but she loves it. We love that she loves it.

Ten days into her 4 week stay, we got the call from the camp nurse. "Everything is fine, but she came to us to look at a splinter and then she passed out."

Spoiler: the kid is fine, but the events that followed make for interesting fodder.

The details: she was out for about a minute, they watched her for a while longer but she was fine and wanted to get back to her activities so off she went. They wanted to call me just to let me know.

Well, I was concerned. But the splinter thing, maybe she got woozy, no big deal right? But a minute passed out, that's a long time, I thought right? But who am I to say, I am not a neurologist.

So I called into her primary care doc's office to run it by the after hours nurse.

Right, of course this does not happen during normal business hours but on the weekend. And, not just any weekend, but actually on July 4th.

But turns out saying your kid had a 60 second loss of consciousness merits an immediate call back even on Independence Day. Awesome. The after hours nurse was her usual kind, knowledgeable, and attentive self. One minute is no good, cut off is 30 seconds for the practice threshold; kid needs to be seen in an ER and the on-call MD for the weekend is the one who sends most kids to the ER anyway. Turns out this nurse lives near the camp (obsessive mom steered cub towards a close to home camp in case of medical emergencies) and emphatically recommends one country ER over another. Don't bring her back to the mecca in case she needs a medical transport. (!)

Long story short, when I called back the camp nurse to give the follow up she gets mighty defensive about a variety of things and won't take the kid to the ER. That's right, won't take the kid to the ER. I do not pursue the conversation any longer and tell her I will be there in an hour to get my kid to go to the ER myself. Calls to the camp director are unreturned.

Funny thing was that I momentarily doubted my judgment over the camp nurse's and thought am I making too big a deal over this?

So was I acting like a mama bear? a doctor with mind racing about bad reasons for a kid to lose consciousness for a minute? an overbearing camp parent? an uppity doctor?

Things I Could Do Without ~ by Jay

Gmail's Funny Quote of the Day, above my inbox, courtesy (they say) of Gilda Radner:

Adopted kids are such a pain. You have to teach them how to look like you.

Conversation With the Patriarchy, 1992 ~ by Jay

Setting: ICU, Sunday afternoon. Dr. Jay, newly hired medical attending, is seated at the nurse's station, discussing a patient with one of the medical residents. Dr. XY, a surgical resident, walks up and drops his hand on Jay's shoulder. Jay is a bit surprised but says nothing.

So, what are they planning to do?

We're concerned that her blood pressure is still too low, and we're going to place a Swan-Ganz catheter to see what's going on.*

OK, then, sounds like she's still too sick to go to the OR.

I'd say so.

Great! Well, honey, why don't you call me when you're all set up for the procedure if the medical attending doesn't get here.

{smiling broadly} I'm sorry, we haven't met. I'm Dr. Jay. I'm the new member of the medical faculty.

{XY removes his hand from Dr. Jay's shoulder and his entire body from the ICU. Rapidly.}

{Nurses applaud}

____
*This reflects archaic medical practice. See date in title.

A Moment of Calm ~ by Jay

Done.

Done with the office. Done with the goodbye lunch. Done with the interminable team meeting this afternoon at the inpatient hospice (this is going to change....) Done with the potluck dinner we hosted and the Shabbat service I led, and done with the dishes.

We could have spent the rest of the evening packing and moving more stuff around for the renovation, but we didn't. Tomorrow will be time enough for that (with a break to see Tigermom and two of her cubs!) and then Sunday we leave for vacation.

So there will be limited-to-no blogging for the next week, but I'll be back.

b'shalom.

July 10, 1941 ~ by Jay

From Resist Racism

Caption: Florin, Sacramento County, California. A soldier and his mother in a strawberry field. The soldier, age 23, volunteered July 10, 1941, and is stationed at Camp Leonard Wood, Missouri. He was furloughed to help his mother and family prepare for their evacuation. He is the youngest of six children, two of them volunteers in the U.S. Army. The mother, age 53, came from Japan 37 years ago. Her husband died 31 years ago, leaving her to raise six children. She worked in a strawberry basket factory until last year when her children leased three acres of strawberries “so she wouldn’t have to work for somebody else.” The family is Buddhist. This is her youngest son. Her second son is in the army stationed at Ft. Bliss. 453 families are to be evacuated from this area.

From Impounded: Dorothea Lange and the censored images of Japanese American internment.

Mommy Always Loves You ~ by Jay

Back when Eve was in preschool, Josie came to watch her at home when the JCC was closed for Jewish holidays we don't observe (like the last two days of Pesach). One day I came home in the middle of the day and my daughter, who adored Josie and does not like having her plans changed, turned on me as soon as I walked in the door.

What are you doing here?

I live here.

I don't want you here. Go away.

We don't talk to each like that. Can you say you're sorry?

No.

Well, then you can go upstairs and sit in your room for a while and think about it.

Eve stomped up the stairs, I apologized to the babysitter and went on up to change my clothes and fold laundry. After about 20 minutes, I checked Eve's room and found her fast asleep. I explained to the sitter, made sure there was enough food in the house for lunch, and went on to my next stop.

That evening, when I came home, Eve did apologize. And she started to cry.

It's OK, sweetie. I think you were really tired, and it's hard to be polite when you're tired.

But you're upset.

No, I'm not upset. I'm fine. I'm not mad at you.

That's not what Josie said.

Oh?

Josie said when I'm mean to you, it makes you sad because you think I don't really love you. And I do love you, Mommy, I do. I really, really do.

Oh, sweetie, I know that. And I love you, too, even when I'm angry.

Note to self: I do not ever want my child to feel as if our love for each other is conditional, on either side.

Additional note to self: find a new sitter.

Blessings ~ by Jay

What a week.

Two long days in the office, made worse by the need to get all the paperwork done Right Now, since this is my last week. Every visit is sad or angry or in some way fraught. Every day is overscheduled with something in the evening, some kind of emergency, something else I'm supposed to be doing. Every little tiny irritating thing in my office is magnified, like a grain of sand in my shoe that rubs a blister before I'm done. Keeping my temper under control is a physical struggle

Home is no refuge; we're preparing for a renovation and have to pack up the living room and bedroom before we leave for vacation on Sunday. Sam is doing most of that work, but the chaos itself is seeping into my soul. Last night I woke abruptly about 30 minutes after I feel asleep, feeling as if I'd drunk a triple latte. I was up for another three hours, too tired to do anything productive and too antsy to sleep, restlessly surfing the Internet and listening to the dogs snoring.

So today, on about three hours of sleep, I had five home visits and two conference calls. One of the home visits was scheduled at the last minute, so I wasn't able to arrange them as I usually do to make a loop. I drove over a hundred miles today. And these were challenging visits. Patients who are intellectually aware of their prognosis but can't accept it emotionally, and can't make necessary plans. Patients who haven't been given all the information from their doctors and are agape when I make a comment about a CT result I thought they'd heard. Daughters who think their parents have given up too soon, and want their parents to restart medications that have no value. I didn't have my usual patience; I felt frustrated and impatient, and I'm sure that made the encounters even harder for everyone.

By 3:30, half an hour late to the fourth of five visits, I was wilted. I drove up into the country, not sure the GPS was even taking me to the right place, and followed a rutted gravel trail to a stone and clapboard house. I sat in the car for a few minutes, wondering if I should call the patient to make sure I'm at the right house, and the social worker I'm meeting came outside.

"Come over here", she said, and led me around to the back deck. I turned the corner and there was the countryside, spread out below me. Blue sky, green trees, neatly plowed fields, red barns, even a few silos here and there. I stood a moment and felt my soul start to uncrumple. Then we went into the house, where the patient and her daughter waited for us. They were as peaceful and open and welcoming as their vista had been. "I know what's coming, and I'm ready", said my patient. "My daughter is taking good care of me until then". We talked for a few minutes, and I leaned over and asked for permission to touch her. She nodded.

As I placed my stethoscope on her chest, she spoke. "Dear Lord, thank you for the blessing of Dr. Jay and the hospice nurses. I am so grateful they are here to help me. Keep them safe, and make them strong as they do their work". We all paused for a moment, and then as one, we said "Amen".

For the first time all day, I took a deep breath, paused, and felt entirely present.

Blessings.

Things I Could Do Without ~ by Jay

This paint ad.


The line at the bottom reads "You deserve a paint which will age well".

(Found at Sociological Images.)

Catching Up ~ by Jay

We're having a lovely, lazy weekend - we spent most of yesterday at the pool, and today has so far featured lunch at the Burrito Shack, a trip to the bookstore to stock up for our trip (for the Kindle-less among us) and an invitation for Eve to go shopping with friends. She's off at the mall and I'm avoiding a variety of household tasks by catching up on blogs.

A long-winded way of explaining why I just read a June 30th post at Hoyden About Town. Guest-poster Mindy, a wear-what-works sort of woman, is struggling:

I have a three year old daughter. She loves pink, she loves dresses, she loves shoes. I have no problem with this. I think she is adorable and very much her own bossy little person. I do have a problem with her only saying that she is beautiful when she is wearing a dress or a particular t-shirt with a little frill on the bottom. I do have a problem with her saying that she doesn’t want to eat from the blue “boys” bowl, she wants the pink “girls” bowl. This isn’t coming from me. It’s not coming from her Dad or her big brother. I don’t think it’s necessarily coming from daycare, at least not directly because they are pretty progressive.

More importantly how do I stop it? How do I tell her that she is beautiful whatever she is wearing, or running around in the narky-noo? How do I tell her that colours are for everyone?

Sounds like me about six years ago. I couldn't change Eve's preference for pink-and-frilly, which has morphed into a very clear personal style: sophisticated, body-conscious, fitted clothing, high heels, peep-toe sandals and makeup. I've set limits on the makeup and heels, and I've relaxed a lot about the clothes. I've realized that there's more to my daughter than her love for fashion.

Sure, Eve was annoyed when we insisted she wear sneakers to school on a day when she decided to wear a skirt - she refuses to wear sneakers with skirts - but she then changed into a pair of Bermuda shorts and headed off to Field Day, where she got dirty and grass-stained and came home proud that she ran faster than any of the boys. Yes, she badgered me until I finally broke down and bought her a bikini, but she realized that it's not the best choice if she wants to go down the slide at the pool, and she wore her one-piece suit most of last week. We looked at a sundress in Target when we bought her summer clothes, and she shrugged and said "when would I wear it? I can't wear it to camp, where I have to walk around in the woods".

When Eve was small, it seemed to me that everyone who saw her said "She's so beautiful"! No one ever said she was smart, or polite, or strong, or athletic. Sam and I tried not to offer simple praise ("you're smart"), but to comment encouragingly on her process ("you worked hard to figure that out and now you know how to do it!"). But we never said she was pretty. How do you comment on the process of how someone looks? That's one of the things* that bothers me about noticing looks - most of the time there's no way for that to be constructive or encouraging feedback. People are either conventionally attractive, or they're not, and short of plastic surgery there's not changing it. On the other hand, we didn't want Eve to think that everyone else appreciated her looks and her parents didn't.

So now we comment on how she chooses her clothes and how she does her hair, and we try to appreciate the effort she puts in to look appropriate for the occasion. She showers, dresses, and does her hair all on her own; she puts her clothes away and (usually) gives us the outgrown stuff for the giveaway box. I don't care for the sexist messages embedded in most fashion promotion, but I can enjoy the pleasure my daughter takes in her appearance and teach her about those messages at the same time (or at least I can try).
_____
* among the many other things that bother me about the way in which looks are noticed is the deep sexist divide. Listen the next time you hear an adult approach a toddler, and see if zie ever comments on a boy's looks. I can count on one hand the times I've heard that, and it's always been when the toddler is dressed in a tie or other adorable adult formal wear. And don't even start on the people *cough*my mother*cough* who have called my child "sexy" since she was about two years old.

Kindled Thoughts on Capitalism, Books and Money ~ by Jay

Dear reader, I ordered it. I agree with Virginia that it's not an either/or. I stopped buying hardback mysteries years ago, and will now probably buy fewer paperbacks, since I mostly buy them when I travel, but our ever-expanding collection of Judaica, poetry, science writing and puzzle books will continue to, well, expand.

(Sam finds this all very amusing, since he remembers my first horrified reaction to the idea of an E-book. It went along with my disdain for using computers to communicate with other people. I seem to have changed my mind about several things in the last, oh, 20 years.)

One thing about the Kindle struck me as I tossed the bag of library books into my car this morning. The Kindle's great for me - I can afford it - but our underfunded public library won't be downloading books any time soon. They've done a great job finding and maintaining computers, a boon to the inner city folks who don't have their own, but they need real books. They need real books so that people who can't buy Kindles can still read. I don't keep the paperback mysteries I buy - I donate them to the library, or pass them on to friends, and now I won't be doing that.

The library will still benefit from the hefty overdue fines I always pay, but I realize I'm contributing to the increasing stratification between the haves and the have-nots in American society.

I meant my post yesterday to be a lighthearted rationalization for giving myself a present. Rationalizations are cover stories for the real reasons we do things. In this case, the real reason is that I'm having a tough couple of weeks and I want a reward, and I happen to like gadgets. I don't feel guilty about that - and I'll enjoy my Kindle when it comes - but I need to check my privilege, too, and think about ways to support public insitutions as well as (or even more than) private corporations.

To Kindle or Not To Kindle ~ by Jay

I know I just returned from vacation, but on the 12th we leave for our official Family Summer Vacation. Eve took her first real train ride last fall, loved it, and has been clamoring for another, so we're flying to Mountain Country and taking the train from there to our destination. All told, four hours on the plane and 36 hours on the train (we have a compartment so we're to actually sleep).

I'm really looking forward to getting away and reconnecting with some old friends, but at the moment the most appealing part of the whole week is that train trip. 36 hours to sit, talk with my family, and read, without having to be squeezed into an airline seat. Scenery schmeenery - I just want to stretch my legs and not be responsible for anything.

But 36 hours is a lot of reading time, even if some of it will be spent sleeping, talking and playing Bananagrams. It's especially a lot of reading time for someone who will get through a mass-market mystery in about 3 hours. That's a lot of books to buy, carry around and then have to deal with afterwards.

Wouldn't it be easier if I had a Kindle? I could download hundreds of books and slip them into my purse. I could buy new books whenever I decide I want them. The train will use less fuel if I don't have pounds and pounds of books.

That's it. If I buy a Kindle, I'm reducing my carbon footprint. That's the ticket.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation ~ by Jay

Delaine asks where we went on vacation. I went to Dreamland, and came back to earth.

I usually plan vacations months in advance. It's my nature - I love to plan, and I'm happier when I know what's coming - and also the nature of my life, since we have to juggle call schedules and Sam's workshops and Eve's ballet classes. Last week was an unexpected break. I was supposed to teach at a CME course, but budgets have been slashed and they didn't need me, so I decided to take Eve - on short notice! arranged just a week ahead of time! - to see friends in Smalltown. Our friends moved there last winter, and they keep saying it's like living in a Norman Rockwell painting. There's a even a candy store in biking distance, and the kids can go on their own. Eve was entranced with the idea and we set off.

Norman Rockwell indeed. They live on a tree-lined street, broad and quiet; clapboard colonials and Victorian houses have real front porches, where people actually sit and chat with each other and with their neighbors walking by. The kids played in the yard and on the neighbor's trampoline (one bloody nose, which bothered me more than it did the kid in question) and didn't seem to mind the mosquitoes enough to want to come inside. Eve and her compatriot did indeed ride their bikes to the candy shop, coming home with a yard of bubble gum, bags of Tootsie Rolls, and enough violently dyed sweet stuff to keep their tongues discolored for weeks.

We found small local museums and state parks with hiking trails and quaint pavilions; we admired bunting left in place from Memorial Day until Fourth of July; we ate dinner at the seasonal drive-in, where the adults lingered over sweet-potato fries while the kids rioted around the attached playground. Eve and I had breakfast at the independent coffee shop, watching the local hippie subculture come and go, and admiring the real, live, surviving downtown: not a chain store to be seen. Our friends, who have only lived in town for six months, met people they knew everywhere we went, and I felt welcomed into their circle as completely as I was in their home.

It only took a day for me to start fantasizing about a life in Smalltown, or its equivalent. Wouldn't it be great for Eve to walk to school? To ride her bike to the library on her own? To have friends right down the street, and a teenaged babysitter next door? An early 20th century house with high ceilings and my own shaded front porch would be a lovely place to spend the summer days, wouldn't it?

But what about religious school? whispers my practical brain. What about High Holidays? Are there any Jews here? Is this the sort of Small Town that has an official Town Christmas Tree? Would one of those nice people who smiled at my daughter at the drive-in someday tell me she'd gotten a good deal because she Jewed someone down? OK, now we've moved from the practical to the paranoid, I scold myself, and it was only a fantasy. Back off.

No vacation is perfect, and on the last day it rained, so we took the kids to lunch in Resort City nearby, heading back into chain-store country and treating them to Friendly's. I drove; our van had the car seats all set up, anyway. We emerged into the drizzle, trying to keep the children from completely soaking themselves in the puddles, and walked toward our parking spot - and realized that my "Question War" magnet had been neatly ripped into three pieces and placed back on the tailgate. Maybe I'm not so paranoid after all.

Later that day, as the two of us drove to Grandma's, Eve says "Mommy, why did someone tear up our magnet? I feel scared. Why don't they like us?"

Why, indeed, Evie. Why indeed.

Why We Don't Own A Trampoline ~ by Jay

See this post.

Also why Eve is never permitted to jump on anyone else's when there are other kids on the tramp.

Hope RH+ is back on her own side of the gurney soon.