Five Things Getting My "I'm Not a Celebrity" Endorsement

1. Indy filmmakers who have their finger on the pulse of the nation.

http://www.protestnation.org/

The film.

A nation born in protest of tyranny.

A constitution carefully designed to protect the citizenry’s right to protest.

A populist revolution to secure free speech, civil rights and all the blessings of liberty.

A rich tapestry of music, community, art, activism and hope.
So what happened?

Starring: Musicians, Activists, Veterans, and other Patriots
Screenplay By: Efraim Wyeth*
Directed By: Efraim Wyeth
Produced By: Cory Lyons*, Ef Wyeth

These filmmakers began their storytelling journey during the Obama vs. McCain smack down known as the presidential election of 2008. They're in D.C. preparing to document Jon Stewart's Rally To Restore Sanity. Find them on Facebook and Myspace.

*Two of the smartest, funniest, most charming and handsome eligible bachelors I know. Therefore, I also give them my "I'm not a celebrity" endorsement. Ladies, please submit all requests for a meet and greet through me.

2. She's not a housewife. She likes profanity. She's the Stay At Home Babe.
http://www.stayathomebabe.com/
She's smart, funny and sexy as hell with her faux hawk. Read her, love her, buy her t-shirt (coming soon to an Etsy shop near you) then send me a thank you note.


3. Taylor Mali. Poet. Because his words move me. Visit his site for the full version of the poem below.
http://www.taylormali.com/

Silver Lined Heart
I’m for reckless abandon 

and spontaneous celebrations of nothing at all,
like the twin flutes I kept in the trunk of my car
in a box labeled Emergency Champagne Glasses!
Raise an unexpected glass to long, cold winters
and sweet hot summers and the beautiful confusion of the times in between...

...But as far as what soothes me, what inspires and moves me,
honesty behooves me to tell you your rage doesn’t move me.
See, like the darkest of clouds my heart has a silver lining,
which does not harken to the loudest whining,
but beats and stirs and grows ever more
when I learn of the things you’re actually for...

...That’s why I’m for best friends, long drives, and smiles,
nothing but the sound of thinking for miles...

...For therapy when you need it,
and poetry when you need it.
And the wisdom to know the difference...

...I’m for crushes not acted upon, for admiration from afar,
for the delicate and the resilient and the fragile human heart,
may it always heal stronger than it was before...

...For walks in the woods, and for the woods themselves,
by which I mean the trees. Definitely for the trees
I’m for all of these...

...I’m for evolution more than revolution
unless you’re offering some kind of solution
I’m for the courage it takes to volunteer, to say “yes,” “I believe,” and “I will.”
For the bright side, the glass half full, the silver lining,
and the optimists who consider darkness just a different kind of shining...

...So don’t waste my time and your curses on verses
about what you are against, despise, and abhor.
Tell me what inspires you, what fulfills and fires you,
put your precious pen to paper and tell me what you’re for!


4. The Black Keys.
Two guys, a guitar and a drum kit. They've got a soulful, earthy funkiness that reminds me partly of the drive across the Golden Gate Bridge to Marin and mostly of filthy, don't get outta bed, all day sex.



5. These monkeys. A quarter and a twist buys you one outside my grocery store. They're silly. They make me smile.
 

A Not So Wordless Wednesday

The above photo is a picture of my dad at work, taken probably in 1989 or 90. The patch below it was on the coat he wore in the -55 average winter (August through April) temperature. I found both things in a box  I have stored in the attic of my garage since he died. My mother packed their material lives into carboard boxes and dropped them in my driveway. This box was identified as "Dad's stuff" and was situated such that I looked at it everyday for three and a half years before asking my husband to get it down. It was day nine of BP's oil gushing by the tens of thousands of gallons into the gulf. The irony was not lost on me.

Happy Birthday to My Boobies. This is Their Story.

A couple of weeks after I was married my barely two-year-old baby Dylan saved my life. Okay, that's a wee bit dramatic. But it makes for exciting storytelling doesn't it? All kidding aside from here on out kids.  This is far too serious a subject for making light of it. So here's what happened... 

I was awakened by the most horrific pain I have ever felt. Dylan retrieved the phone and I called my parents. As my mother arrived I was in so much pain I was dry heaving. We went to the hospital and a couple of hours later I was having emergency surgery. A cyst had adhered to my ovary and was causing the thing to twist. Yeah, hurt like a bitch. Modern medicine is amazing. I ended up with a tiny little scar in my belly button where they'd entered my abdomen to remove the evil, ovary twisting cyst. (I know I said no kidding but I just had a vision of an evil superhero who's super power is twisting girl guts. He's a bastard.)

I went home the next day and addressed the forced weaning that was a by-product of being heavily medicated on morphine pre-surgery and then Vicodin post. Dylan was almost two and I'd been thinking it was high time to get him completely off the boob anyway.

If someone had told me I'd breastfeed as long as I had I would have said, "No way. Two years with a kid suctioned to my tits? Uh uh, don't think so. Never say never people. My original itty, bitty B cups swelled to an obscene size and I could have nursed a whole village full of hungry babies from them. Impressive, I know.

Dylan adapted much easier than I did as I missed the specific and exclusive bond nursing gave us. Cuddling him as he wheezed his milky from a big boy sippy cup made him age in my mind's eye well beyond what I was ready for.

A week or so later as I was soaping up in the shower I felt something unusual in my right breast. A lump. Wait, a fucking lump. I called my doctor and went right in. She was confident the fucking lump was a side effect of such a quick weaning, a clogged milk duct, and attempted a needle aspiration. Fail. Try again. Fail. Try again. Fail. Next we moved to an ultrasound. Uh, not a clogged duct, a solid mass. Hey doc, couldn't we have done the ultrasound first and avoided you digging around in my breast with a freaking NEEDLE? 

I was scheduled for surgery (again) the next morning. My breath was coming rapidly and I felt like I would vomit if I allowed my undisciplined mind go there. "What do you think it is?" I asked.

"I don't know and I cannot try to guess Danielle. We will see in the morning." My doctor replied as she peeled off her latex gloves.

I spent the rest of the day imagining the worst case scenarios and wondering how I would explain to my brown-eyed boy that even when my hair fell out from the chemo I was still going to be the same mommy. Just bald. After he went to sleep that night I wrote letters to him in my head. One for his sixteenth birthday, one about how to treat girls, one for graduation day, one for his wedding day, one for the day his first child was born.

I had cancer. I knew it. I was going to die. I knew it. I made promises to the powers that be that if I could be sparred I'd...well, that's between me and the maker. I didn't sleep much that night.

Upon waking from surgery the next morning my doctor told me she was fairly confident the tumor she removed was NOT cancer but we'd have to wait for the pathology report for confirmation. I exhaled.

"Just to be safe though I took the surrounding breast tissue as well." The doctor's thick glasses magnified her eyes to just this side of bug-like and distracted me from what she was trying to convey.

"Okay." I replied, still in a somewhat a groggy haze. Twenty four hours later as I carefully peeled away the surgical tape to reveal the incision I gasped in horror at what had become of my breast. It literally looked as though she'd lopped off the bottom half of my boob. I tried to summon up an attitude of gratitude, at least I didn't have cancer. She thinks. Then, I cried.

A few days later the phone rang with the pathology report on the other end of the line. NOT cancer. My hands shook with the revelation that I had been sparred. Thank you, thank you, thank you. The voice on the phone then became the same voice as the teacher from Charlie Brown.

"Wa-wa-wa-wa. Wa-wa-wa."

IT WAS NOT CANCER.

But... it could have been. And it could happen to any of us. Early detection is your best defense. Check your boobies girls and tell others too. Seriously cupcakes, feel 'em up, down and all around.

My second son was born three and a half years later and was nursed from the boob and a half for fifteen months.

This week me and my reconstructed boobies celebrate our second anniversary together. Happy birthday boobies. I love you both. When I am fifty you girls will only be fifteen. May we live a long and saline filled life together.

She's a Rock Star. I Like Her Rock Moves

She calls herself Pink.  

I call her bad ass and this rose by any other name would still rock my world.

I Know Your Dirty Little Secret

Ever had a Peeping Tom?

I married one. Literally. His name is Tom.

Now I have a whole slew of them. Maybe not so literally...

I don't know your name. I don't know your game. You must like what you see because you're coming back to see more. So, I leave the curtains open, blinds up and continue to put on this little show/blog. I can't see your faces but you leave your footprints outside my window and my "analytics program" tracks you down all the way to which window you peeked in last. I'm not the only one being watched, ya know.

I love the anonymity of the internet. I love the multipurposefulness (Not a word. I know. Shut up.) of the world wide web. We all have our dirty little secrets. (Midget porn) I get it. But I cannot help wondering who's out there, reading me. Uh oh, watch out Dani, curiosity killed the cat. Um hmm, know that too. Not worried. This pussycat has only lived six lives thus far and I have found that each and every incarnation brings a more evolved feline outta me. Meow. Anyone have any catnip? Purrr...

I write. You read. I know you do. Remember, I can see you. Sorta. It's like being on stage and being blinded by the spot light and unable to see my audience. Been there, done that. The difference is when the blog song ends there isn't any applause. Been there, done that too. Check it out, you don't have to clap, unless you really want to. But how about throwing a couple of dollars? I mean, how about leaving a comment? Yeah, that's what I meant.

Us writers can be a sensitive bunch and the emotional risk of putting our words out there can be likened to stripping down to pasties and panties. Actually, I think that's easier. Go figure. I suppose it's all about confidence in ability but that's another topic for another time.

Come on kids. Knick knack, paddy whack throw this kitty cat a bone. Leave a comment. I double-dog-dare you to.  

What Would My Daddy Say?

"I am a work in progress." - Dani Lamb

I want to believe I am among "the children in whom the Father (whom by any other name would smell just as sweet) is well pleased." My earthly father departed his being leaving me knowing he was.

The last day he spent in I.C.U., before hospice nurses brought him home, I spent one of the most difficult days of my life curled around him in his hospital bed. I laid my head on his chest and cried wet, silent tears as he pet my head. I can't say how long I was there.

We'd spent years knowing this day would come and trying to just live in the moment with one another. He was my daddy and I was his girl and we never said goodbye, just see ya later, that's the way it would always be, forever and ever, Amen. However, we had an acute awareness that we knew not how many grains of sand would fall through the hourglass. We'd co-signed an unspoken, yet understood, agreement to make time spent, words exchanged, stories told, moments shared, count.

I memorized how his voice sounded in my ear. I cataloged his scent and traced the webs of time lines on the backs of his hands. By the time this day came we both knew there was nothing left to say. 

I'd held his gaze and dammed my liquid love long enough to get out, "I don't want to cry dad. I'm just going to miss you so much." On this day, as I laid there listening to his heart beat I gave thanks to the powers that be that I knew, all the way through my being that he was proud of me. The daughter, sister, wife, mother and woman I had become. What blessed girl I am to know that.

It is with a painful awareness I know not all girls, who are just as deserving and many who are far more, don't know this about themselves now and many, too many, never will. The powerful by-product of this knowledge is my soulful hope that if he can see me now...that he's still proud.

Vern had a good sense of humor, a forgiving heart, a tendency to root for the underdog and a mischievous streak a mile wide (see, it's hereditary) so at worst I imagine he'd shake his head and say, "She said she was a work in progress."

Wordless Wednesday

Photo by Dani Lamb