o frabjous day

No one else here at the House o’ Fraught has come down with the barfy bug, at least not yet. I’ve still got what the medical folks call a “productive cough,” the MPM has a cough and sinus congestion, Kira has the drippy nose and Megs is on her first-ever antibiotic. But in comparison with the last weeks we are practically — dare I say it — fraught with health.

So yesterday, while hardly the extravagant bike outing I might have hoped for, did at least see me in the saddle. I had my annual GYN appointment in the afternoon, and I decided that anyone as intimately familiar with my nether regions as the man who saw me through two pregnancies shouldn’t blink about me showing up with funny lines on my ass from the seams in my bike shorts.

So I togged up, fetched Kira, rode her home in the Burley, handed off to the MPM, and cycled on to my appointment. Checked in and got myself checked out, while marveling at the inanity of conversation the man seems to feel obligated to engage in. With where you’ve got your hands jammed right now, mister, you don’t really need to be chatting me up. In fact, I prefer pretending I’m somewhere else entirely, and when you talk to me, truth is it just fucks up that little fantasy for me.

De-glopped, re-attired, and short on time as I rolled out past the phalanx of smokers massed at the door, the mountain beckoned. It’s not much of a mountain, despite its name — Mill Mountain — but it’s a reasonable climb. I got to the top and thought, well, huh. Maybe this is what healthy lungs feel like after all. Damn, I feel GOOD. So I continued out to the Parkway and turned up, past the “road closed” sign, to tackle the 4-mile loop that takes you up to an old hang-gliding takeoff.

Reached the top and assessed: Yep, my legs hurt. Yep, parts of my lungs that have forgotten what air feels like are complaining. But really? I feel… good. Hallelujah fall-on-my-knees good. Big-grin-on-my-face good.

Took the corkscrew descent slowly, mindful of foot-deep leaves, branches, and the yellow-marked (thank you, anonymous cyclist) huge divots/gashes in the pavement. Got to the bottom and gave serious thought to turning right back around for another loop.

Looked at the light, and then at my watch, and headed for home, flying on the flats and sprinting the hills.

Oh, blessed health. Stay with me a while.

another day in illville

For a few weeks now I’ve had one girl who can’t seem to hear much of anything I say to her, and one girl who can hear fine but ignores my pleas to her to quit the dance and go potty before either a) I lose my mind, or b) she loses control all over the rug. “I don’t hafta go,” she says. Right up until. You know this game; it’s such a FUN one!

Moving along to this morning, I had one near-inconsolable girl with earache (DOH!), sick-visit appointment still 5 hours distant, seated on my lap, as upright as I could make her, ear against the heating pad on my chest. And one halfway down the stairs, commencing the non-verbal pips and squeaks that instantly launch Mom Code Red.

I levitate off the couch, trying to gently-yet-immediately set Megan down still propped upright/heated, and am up the stairs in a single bound by the time the siren starts: “IGOTTAPOOP!! IGOTTAPOOP!!”

And into the bathroom, onto the potty, but no, of course not in time. Of course not. No, it’s everywhere: panties, pants, socks, toilet, floor, and of course Kira’s entire backside. She, Princess Privacy, is screeching “Go WAY!! SHUT THE DOOR!! GO WAY!!” And Megan is screeching from the living room, lamenting my absence and attending to anything but her and her discomfort. I’m wiping with all possible haste, but it’s the pasty sort of undertaking that nothing but full-on ablution will fix.

Completely out of character, I trash the panties. Wipe, wipe, wipe. Scrub, scrub, scrub. The phone rings. I have to answer it, because I know it is the nurse calling back to find out where I want the topical pain scrip called in, and this is virtually the only thing with any chance at all of improving my life in the immediate future. The cacophony of screeching and ringing continues while I attempt to press a button and hold the phone to my ear without actually touching it in any way with my hands.

Phone answered, Kira/bathroom swabbed, Megan re-snuggled, I call the cavalry, in the form of wonderful friend B, who is home and willing to pick up said prescription. She does, it’s administered, and I breathe a sigh of relief as it takes hold.

And the rest of the story should be: We go to the doctor, we get our drugs, we go home, Megan and Kira watch a video together as a Big-Sissy’s-home-sick-from-school treat, and I make a scrumptious dinner to commemorate the return of my sense of smell and taste, and plan an extravagant biking outing for the morrow. BECAUSE I DESERVE IT.

It should NOT be: Megan, completely out of character, snoozes on the way home from the doctor, sleeps more after we arrive home, and then commemorates the return of my sense of smell by throwing up. Well into the evening hours. Because this would be the sort of ending to the story that would feel contrived, unduly melodramatic, and sympathy-seeking, perhaps even reaching the level of pathos. It would stretch the confines of believability. BECAUSE I DO NOT DESERVE THIS.

And just a heads-up, dear readers, that if I get that throw-up bug myself? This blog may be permanently unmanned. Because I’m not sure I’ll have internet access on the locked ward.

the NIN (subject to copyright)

When I moved to Virginia in 1990, I was completely bamfoozled by a handful of things. Like the name of the January bank holiday, being Lee-Jackson-King Day — collectively honoring two Confederate generals and a slain civil rights leader, did I get that right?? — and the fact that my driver’s license number was actually… my Social Security Number. Do WHAT??? I am no radical right-wing extremist, but isn’t that number is supposed to be between me and the IRS?

My arrival perhaps having raised the aggregate awareness of civil liberties, not to mention arrant irony, neither of those things is any longer so. I am proud of my commonwealth for these strides.

However. The last 20 or so years have also seen the give-over of my Social Security Number to the general public database. (I believe this is true not just here but everywhere in the U.S., although if it’s different where you are by all means let me know. And let me know how the housing market looks too.)

I recall being frankly stunned when, in 1992, proud owner of my first home, I called the City to get my water turned on and was asked for, yes, my Social Security Number in order to set up the account. When I demurred, I was told that it was a requirement. When I suggested, perhaps politely and perhaps not, that it couldn’t possibly be a REQUIREMENT and there must surely be another manner in which I could obtain an account, a supervisor was located who said sure, I could come down, in person, and provide a security deposit in the amount of $yougottabekiddingme.

Fuming, I provided the number.

In the 17 years since then, with increasing regularity I have been asked to divulge it to minions in every division of service and commerce.

I don’t like this. It raises my hackles, and the pitch of my voice. I rail, feebly, uselessly, against it. When asked for my “So-shul,” if in the privacy of my own home I pull my hair and make gaggy faces while looking for something sharp to stab into an appendage or my ear. In public, I grit my teeth and smile thinly.

“My what?”
“Your SO-SHULL.”
“Oh. My social WHAT?”
“Your soshullscuritynummer.”
“My Social Security Number? The one for my taxes? You want that?”

These people hate me. This is not lost on me, but I can’t help myself. I hate them. No, I don’t; I hate the system. I hate the fact that they are so entrenched that they are clueless and don’t understand that I am gigging them, let alone why. And I hate that even if I escape without furnishing the number on some occasion, it is still inextricably linked to every single facet of my existence and my identity. It is, in many instances, my only identity, and thus easily pilfered or assumed entirely, which is a topic for another post.

I have a solution: Let’s just be done with the facade. Call it a National Identification Number, which is what it is. Ask me for my NIN, and I will provide it to you readily.

Or simply roll up my left sleeve and show it to you, tattooed there on my forearm.

in sickness and health

I slept with my husband last night for the first time in almost a week. It was just gone 10 when we climbed between the flannel sheets and he snuggled up to me. “Oh, you’re hot,” he said, caressing my neck.

It’s wonderful to have a husband who will not only say but genuinely believe something like that when I’m winsomely attired in an ancient T-shirt (it says 1995 Main Street Cup Regatta right on it, so no escaping the vintage) and haven’t shaved my legs in who only knows how long, at least in part because I’m afraid the sinus pressure created from bending over to do so would make me pass out and crack my head open on the edge of the tub.

However.

Me: “Oh, love, I don’t think tonight is…”

Him, interrupting: “No, honey, you’re HOT. Your SKIN is hot.”

Ah. Yes. That would be the 101.8 temperature I finally got around to measuring this afternoon. I’d been wondering why I felt so lethargic and generally crap-like and was toying with the notion that I’d just fallen into the habit — they say it takes about a month to create a new habit, right, and honestly I think it’s been about that long since I’ve seen perky health — of sitting, lying, or, in fits of energy, perhaps puttering around the house or pegging out a load of laundry.

Then I got out the thermometer and was actually relieved, for a moment, to see I hadn’t undergone subtle transmogrification into a couch potato. Then depressed, almost to tears, to contemplate that after this many days in the ring with the botts I’m still spiking a fever. What is WRONG with me??

But, digression aside, I actually slept in the marital bed, as opposed to in the sick guest room, and, fever or no, was reminded of how much I cherish curling up with my husband. Although I do run shuffle downstairs to hide in our guest room when I have the worst of the sniffling-sneezing-nighttime-coughing going on, preferring to to hack and honk and snuffle and sneeze in solitude, I love that part of marriage, the nightly slumber-party-with-best-friend part. Even Kira played along, sleeping the whole night through.

All that to the good, I will say that it’s been a frustrating month, given that every time I think I’m turning the corner, seems there’s a brick wall there instead for me to run my clogged-up head into. Sorry if it seems I’ve ridden this post pony half to death, but as goes my life, so goes my blog.

Inshallah, I’ll be on to new material soon.

red sauce blues

Normally chopping onions doesn’t make me cry.  I’m extremely nearsighted, and I wear gas permeable contacts for the majority of my day.  The barrier that they provide means I can chop and dice for hours, impervious to the eye-irritating fumes.

Today, however, it’s going on 11 and I still have my glasses on because I haven’t yet made it back upstairs to put my contacts in, because I’ve been in the kitchen doing my best to concoct a red sauce, because I picked up a ginormous bag of mixed mushrooms yesterday at the co-op and there used to be a restaurant in town that served a pasta dish called Three-Mushroom Marinara and now I am so craving pasta with red sauce.   And so, without thinking I began to chop, and the tears started.

And now I’m done chopping the damn onions.  But now the tears are for real, for the fact that I can’t call my Aunt Diane and ask her for the recipe for the amazing sauce that would sit simmering on the stove all day.  And for the sad knowing that I can’t ever call her again.  And that I’ll never make a sauce that good.

She’s never far from me in the kitchen, but some days I need her more.

regretfully

So here’s my post on regret, which is part of a blog “carnival” being staged by Kate at One More Thing. Fact is I would probably jump off a bloggy bridge if Kate asked me to, because I’m that much in awe of her writing and of, well, her. But all she asked me to do was play along on this themed post on Wednesdays for a while, which sounds easy and fun. (Others are doing it as well but I can’t remember exactly how it’s supposed to work — so just go ahead and click on Kate.)

When I mentioned the topic to the MPM a few minutes ago, he kind of looked at me askance, because he doesn’t do regret. I mean really. I don’t think he’s ever had a single regret in his entire life. Oh, I expect he regrets volunteering to clean out the litter box when I was pregnant, because that stretched into about a five-year gig, and I imagine he has at least moments of regret for marrying someone whose list of little pet peeves and personal preferences would stretch to Neptune. And back. But overall, as he just reminded me, there’s no real upside to regret. And thus it has no place in his life.

Upside or no, me, I’m on intimate terms with the emotion. I regularly, verging on frequently, say things that I regret, and I still occasionally, nigh on halfway through my fifth decade, do things that I regret, though I’m getting smarter about envisioning outcomes and thereby making better choices. Though I will confess that I had a hangover last year that was clear evidence of extremely limited foresight and/or judgment.

Indeed, I wrote a whole post some while ago about roads not taken, which, while perhaps not reaching the level of regret, sketched out some of the things I sometimes wish I’d done before getting to where I am now.

But as I think on it, my biggest “regret” — defined as something I wish I had done differently, irrespective of the knowledge that where I am, happy today, is a direct result of the roads traveled to arrive here — has to do with college.

For a spectrum of reasons, my parents, with at least five degrees between them, never pushed the concept of higher education on either of their two children. In fact, my father, a Princeton grad, possessed of a doctoral degree, would regularly intone this mantra: “College is a crock.” And so I grew up believing that. And wandered pretty damn aimlessly for a number of years post high school, matriculating here and there, completing — or not — a few courses, quarters, or semesters at any number of institutions, to no real end other than a general sense of not-succeeding.

I think that what I feel I missed, and thus what I regret, is the cohesive college experience, of starting something and then finishing it, with a cohort of one’s peers.

I don’t have that core of friends that many, perhaps most, people who attended a four-year (or five- ) institution have. I didn’t — though I can’t claim complete regret here — have to buy a half-dozen bridesmaid’s dresses in my twenties. I don’t have a close group of women with whom I shared the intimacies of living space for some years, and I think that is a lack.

It’s as much about thinking my life would have been richer for swimming in an intellectual soup for four (or more) years as about wondering what it could have been had I chosen to make more of my brain by pursuing a course of study, exploring the limits of my capabilities.

These two things, I regret.

alignment, part II

To carry along the weak week-day alliteration, I could have brought you Self-Absorbed Saturday and Self-Centered Sunday, perhaps even More-About-Me Monday, but honestly I thought it best to give a pass. I was about tired of hearing myself piss and moan, let alone forcing anyone else to suffer through it.

At least anyone who hasn’t taken a public vow regarding devotion to me in sickness and health. Emphasis strongly on the former of late.

So, time for something different.

Someone slung the phrase “East-coast liberal” my way recently. While it seemed unprovoked, I could hardly take umbrage; in Curley’s classic words, I resemble that remark. Yes, although these days my accent would clearly peg me as more of a mid-Atlantic type than a true easterner, my liberal leanings aren’t much of a secret.

But in light of Reeechard’s comment on my “Alignment” post of last week I want to take a ramble through some of the nuances of that liberality. Because he raised the points for argument, and now is my opportunity for rebuttal. Because I love when someone disagrees with me and says so. And because it will be a pleasure to focus for a few minutes on something other than the fact that I have a twisted ankle and a crippling crud that’s going to keep me, yet again, from a workout today. If nothing else, perhaps I can exercise my brain.

So go ahead and click here to read his comment so you can get all fired up on one side or the other.  I’ll wait right here.

All right then.  First off, I’ll allow that my lead-in, tagging Exxon Mobil’s new record profits, was weak.  In my defense, this is a blog, not journalism, and my mental meanderings don’t always follow a linear model.

Fact is I heard that tidbit and promptly jumped in nonlinear manner to the thought that I’m glad the MPM and I have been able to more closely align our investments with our values.  And thus the point of the post was to perhaps get some thought going about the fact that the statement in your hands provides only the information “Fidelity Growth/FDGRX,” and not the details of its holdings (which include Monsanto and Phillip Morris).  And if that doesn’t sit well with you, well, here’s one way to address it.

Okay.  Proceeding on with rebuttal and commentary:

First off, Exxon is a corporation; corporations exist for the purpose of making money and in fact — though Reeechard didn’t bring it up — owe a fiduciary duty to their stockholders to do exactly that.  I’m clear on that, indeed I am. But I’m not, as it turns out, in wholehearted agreement with the underlying principles of the premise.

“The decadent international but individualistic capitalism in the hands of which we found ourselves after the war is not a success. It is not intelligent. It is not beautiful. It is not just. It is not virtuous. And it doesn’t deliver the goods.”   I might not agree with everything that John Maynard Keynes espoused, if I were remotely smart enough to understand it all, but I sure as hell agree with that statement.

Because, you see, I value the ethical choice beyond most any other.  I don’t value profit particularly, in part because I believe that it is often antithetical to a higher ethic.  I understand that this doesn’t fit well into a capitalistic, or even any realistic, model.  But it is closely hewed to the core of my beliefs and my values.

And here’s where I make the point that to insist on the truth or the rightness of one argument or another is to ignore that all arguments are, at their core, based on value judgments.  And value judgments are, at their core, basically inarguable:  like feelings and opinions, all lay equal claim to validity.

Exxon, and its big-oil bedmates, aren’t in business to tend to the things that I feel are valuable.  And because of their size and their status as corporate citizens, they wield a tremendous amount of power as they seek to promote and participate in a model that I consider unsustainable and undesirable.  And while Exxon specifically may in fact have undertaken some environmental efforts somewhere in the long aftermath of the stupendously unforgiveable fuckup known as the Valdez, they along with all the rest are running their ship hard to weather against best efforts to seek out and support new technology.  Thus Exxon (et al.) and I are at odds.  We value different things.   I don’t dub them as evil, I simply don’t wish to support them.

Regarding other petrochemical products (those ones we “can’t live without,” as Reeechard comments), without delving into the research on the matter I’m still pretty comfortable wagering that production of such goods is not what is going to lead to the end of oil, particularly if we as a global economy were to stop consuming so much phenomenally unnecessary outrageously overpackaged plastic SHIT. No, it’s the fuel aspect that’s going to get us into trouble sooner rather than later.

Re the argument that suggests because bottled water is more expensive per gallon, gasoline prices shouldn’t be considered “gouging,” by all means hang your hat there if you wish, but let’s not ignore that if one feels the markup on that tempting bottle of designer water is too high, here in the U.S., and all  other developed nations, we do have the luxury of obtaining obscene gallons of a perfectly acceptable alternative for mere pennies.   Not so for gasoline.

And fact is, high gas prices don’t trouble me. I don’t even WANT cheap gas; my goals are likely better served by making gas prices downright exorbitant. But perhaps I think it’s fair for the price to reflect a true market, and not one that is swayed by control of flow, as Exxon and its ilk have been accused of attempting. 

But mostly — fully recognizing that it smacks hard of starry-eyed idealism — I just wish to put my money behind companies that are in some measure pursuing the sorts of things that feel sustainable and ethical to me. Big oil giants aren’t at the top of that list.

More’s the pity, because the world might be a different place if they were.

Friday family photos

Lil Bit

Not everyone can carry off sequins and feathers.

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Big Sis

She came down and announced herself: “The Valentine Fairy!”

Thursday thanks

You know, I’ve noticed that when I write about how crappy I feel, people really make a point of taking the time to say something nice, and/or offer advice. Sometimes they call, sometimes they email, sometimes they comment — but overall there’s a flow of feel-good that I never would have imagined.

Of course, as nice as that is, I’d take NOT feeling crappy over all the well wishes. Just seems I haven’t had that choice lately.

It’s late enough now that I’m not going to tell the story from today about taking a bath with Kira because I had the sore-all-over thing going and a steamy hot soak just sounded so good. Suffice it to say that bathing with a two-and-a-half-year-old didn’t exactly soothe my aching bod. But it did feed my soul, and my giggle bank.

I will however tell the story about being intrigued with one reader’s suggestion to “buy and use a netti pot religiously.” I’d seen netti (also neti) pots in like some of the freebie mags that end up in my cart at the co-op, but I’ll confess I lumped them in with, I don’t know, ayurvedic medicine maybe, which, while it may well be exactly what works for you, isn’t my deal. So I’d given a big nyet on the netti pot fad.

But since I don’t have this reader pegged as the crystal-totin’ type — not that there’s anything wrong with that — I got online after reading his comment and saw that in fact there is a reasonable faction of folks out there, spread across the medical-provider spectrum, who stand behind sinus irrigation.

Well. My sinuses were clearly in need of SOMETHING. However, about the last thing I felt like doing this morning, save for perhaps scrubbing the catbox, was heading out in search of a netti pot. After viewing a couple of YouTube productions, it occurred to me that I could probably fashion one out of something around the house, optimally something with a preexisting sort of spoutish device… yes.

So I cast about in the closets and crannies for an item filling the above description, and suffice it to say that desperation is the mother of innovation, and Kira’s really past the sippy-cup phase anyway.

Sorry. But, you know, my sinuses really DO feel better. And after the second ablution, this afternoon, the gunk coming out afterward no longer bore any resemblance to split-pea soup, so I’m thinking that’s all to the good.

We’ll have to wait on the religious aspect of it, which I think means doing it regularly as opposed to, like, on random religious holidays that we might or might not celebrate here at Casa Fraught. But I’m going to give it a try, because if it can make a difference in my health going forward, that, my friends, is beyond priceless.

Heck, I might even invest in an actual netti pot.

Wednesday whine

Well, guess what?

I’ve got the crud. Again. Yes, AGAIN, for fuck’s sake. I rather wish someone had been keeping track for me, because this has got to be some kind of record. I’ve been sick, at an absolute minimum, once a month since September. I think it’s more, but it’s simply too depressing to calculate how many days of the last 6 months I have merely existed through if it were, say, not once but twice a month. So we’ll go with once. And I won’t go back and look to see if my postings indicate otherwise, if you won’t. And if you do, and it is, well, god, don’t tell me.

When we flew south in January, I realized I was fighting something off, and I promptly began a full-out campaign of Zicam and Vitamin C and Airborne and Emergen-C, which is what I do to give myself some delusion illusion of control over getting full-on sick. In fact, that particular bug never fully took hold, for which I was grateful, but it still put a bit of a damper on my experience of our Florida vacation, curtailing the length of my runs on the glorious beach steps away from our door, for example.

While we were there, Megan had her own thing going, in the form of a nasty, nasty cough, albeit with no other symptoms. A deep, chesty, productive-sounding cough, the sort that makes you wonder exactly what’s going to appear at the end of it. And it lasted the entire week we were there.

We got back to home and our routine, she eventually stopped barking, and then on along about the third week in January I developed a close personal relationship with that same cough. After two solid weeks I began joking about my closet pack-a-day habit; as it wore into the third week, the joke seemed to lose some of its luster. It’s damn difficult to run and cough up a lung simultaneously, but I really did feel okay otherwise, so I did just that on a number of occasions.

And now, as of Monday evening, still holding firm to the hack, lovely and productive, I’ve managed to piggyback a breathtaking head cold, also brought home by Megan.

I clearly have zero immunity. None. Zilch. Why, I can’t fathom: On the surface of it one would observe that I eat quite well, get mostly enough sleep, exercise, and wash my hands regularly. And then one would observe me doubled over hacking, with tears running down my face, spewing phlegm and frustration in equal measures as my sinuses threaten to squeeze my brain out my ears. And one would wonder. I sure as hell do.

Can I say, it’s been in the high 60s this week, and yet I have spent most of yesterday and today both inactive and I-N-S-I-D-E. Which makes me I-N-S-A-N-E. Yes indeed, I am completely and utterly OVER being sick.

Except I’m not, of course.

That’s my whine. Be nice to me or I’ll come spread the love your way. Every time.

Tuesday tidbit

Sunday mornings, most weeks, the MPM makes waffles.  It’s a bit of a production, but he makes a double batch and flash-freezes the leftovers, then available as a quick breakfast option through the week.

It came to pass that one Sunday one of the adults in the family, who shall remain unidentified except I don’t think it was me, acquiesced to the notion of candy sprinkles as a topper.  As I’ve said before, we consider these bits of colored hydrogenation de rigeur for ice cream, and oatmeal (though forbidden forevermore on birthday cupcakes).

But I don’t consider them an appropriate addition to waffles, less because I’m a mean mommy than because they are in no way affixed to the transport mechanism and thus end up all over the floor in a festive addition to my daily multiple sweepings.  And so I regularly deny this request.

But when Megan looked down at her plate this morning, and then up at me, and asked in the most hopeful tone imaginable,  “Any sprinkles to be had?” I almost caved out of sheer amusement. Points for style, you know.

Almost.  But not quite.  Because, after all, I’m a mean mommy.

Monday minutiae: stinky stuff

I know there are people whose lives are made miserable by extreme sensitivity to scents, with a whiff of hairspray sending them into the throes of a migraine or asthma attack. I’m extremely grateful that I don’t have that problem. But I’ve discovered over the years that along with some fairly standard odors I don’t enjoy — burnt toast, cigarette smoke, and the like — I also seem to have my own peculiar sensitivities.

For instance, there’s a popular laundry detergent fragrance that I find truly repugnant. I think it’s a Tide formulation, though it’s different than the Original Tide I recall from years gone by. It’s an incredibly strong, cloying, perfumed scent that no one else seems to react to the way I do, that is to say, as an olfactory assault that verges on waterboarding.

Sadly, my neighbor, whose daughter is at our house regularly, uses it. The poor child walks in the door and I start looking about for the nearest handy receptacle. She left a sweater here one day and I had to hang it outside before I could eat dinner.

I’m the same way with some perfumes, even a few fairly spendy ones. In school I remember suffering for months before I finally blurted out to my good friend — who always made it a point to sit next to me, as good friends should — that I really really loved her but what IS that perfume you wear every blessed day and for the luvvagod could you put it on AFTER class so no one has to witness me topple onto the floor after I pass out from oxygen deprivation brought on by shallow mouth-breathing?? Please, please, and don’t hate me? (It was White Linen.)

And there’s a fragrance that my mother-in-law wears (why is this not surprising??) that makes me frantic to bathe my children when they come home reeking of it after being hugged by her. Red Door, maybe — I haven’t worked up the nerve to ask her.

How about you? Any “normal” smells make you gag?

alignment

Listening to NPR recently as I was doing my stretching/flexibility exercise routine, I was reminded — once again — of the ire-inducing fact that Exxon Mobil — once again — broke its own profit record this past year.

Most folks I know, and plenty that I don’t, bridle at that news. While it’s true that Big Oil isn’t on many Christmas-card lists, it’s worth noting that you likely own a piece of the empire. You may bypass the blue-and-white when the gas tank heads toward E, and feel good about that gesture, but the fact is there aren’t many stock portfolios out there devoid of XOM, and if you have an official 401(k) through your company you can bet about every dollar left in it that the oil industry is sizeably represented.

Tobacco too, though Phillip Morris (PM) has been dodging around behind the skirts of Altria (MO) for some years now. And any number of other companies that, depending on your own hierarchy of beliefs and values, you would rather not see your money in the hands of.

I know all too well that latitude in one’s investment choices is a luxury few enjoy, what with the dominance of employer-sponsored retirement plans. You’d have to be pretty noble, nay, right nigh altruistic, to pull out of a matching program offered through your company’s 401(k) for a solo ride on the high horse of socially conscious investing.

We’re nowhere near that noble, of course. But a few years back, after the MPM left behind his generous corporate gig to stride once more the halls of academia, we realized that we had a window to make some changes. And after talking about it on and off for a painfully long time, we finally bit the bullet — a large one, cast from jaw-creaking reams o’ paperwork — and shifted our investments into a socially responsible portfolio.

Not merely to socially conscious funds, of which there are a growing number, but to a company formed by a guy who left his secure, stable position at Merrill Lynch because he wanted to take a different road.

Now for sure, your average financial folks, if worth their salt, are willing and able to put the monies you’ve entrusted to them into any number of socially conscious vehicles, should you instruct them to do so. And happily the opportunity to do just that, even within structured corporate retirement offerings, is becoming more widespread.

But the thing that’s different about Krull & Company is it’s the only investing they do. And because it’s all they do, they’re watching those particular vehicles with exclusive focus.

Like having your air-traffic controller, or perhaps your President, leave his or her Blackberry at home, this feels to me like a good thing.

When we first met with founder Pete Krull, he presented us with a laundry list of social and environmental issues. Our job was to let him know which of those were important to us, and which not so much. And our portfolio is tailored accordingly, factoring in of course our financial risk tolerance and goals.

Though for a variety of reasons I largely ignore the statements as they come in, I’m aware that our portfolio, along with that of everyone else, has diminished in the last six months. Watching the MPM wince and hearing him suck air through his teeth is a fair indicator of just how much.

But that our investments are now more closely aligned with our values is something I count as a check in the plus column.

And the fact that our portfolio overall beat last year’s market by a not-insignificant margin feels pretty good too.

Now for the official plug:
Krull & Company is based in Georgia but works with clients in many states. By all means contact them if you’d like to learn more.

Scarlett says

I spent the better — or rather, the worse — part of my day dealing with a Visa dispute over a shoddy dresser purchased online through The Evil Entity Cymax. Caveat, all you emptors out there.

Megan had a colossally bad day at school that it took me the better part of an hour to talk her down from after pickup. And half an hour with her teacher, who called this evening.

I managed to soundly whack Kira in the face while spinning around to catch her before she fell off the kitchen stepladder.

The girls screeched and fought in the tub.

They fought and screeched out of the tub.

Megan remembered, five minutes AFTER our scheduled upstairs departure, that she had not one but two homework sheets to complete.

Sean had a meeting and didn’t come home.

Kira had an accident while I was soloing the bedtime routine.

And I haven’t had a workout since Sunday.

Tomorrow, I hear, will be a better day. Or at least another one.

sporting events

Well. My email inbox has been a source of both feel-good flattery and tingling unease lately. First came this:

“Dear SGA Qualifier, Congratulations! You have qualified for the 2009 State Games of America by winning a gold, silver, or bronze medal in your State Games…!! As a qualifier you are invited to participate in the 2009 State Games of America, July 30 – August 2, in Colorado Springs, Colorado.”

Okay now. So I’m off to Colorado Springs to compete!!

Um, right. In that parallel universe I like to talk about.

And then, flush on that far-fetched bit of flattery, came this, from closer to home:

“Dear Amy, I’m trying to get an all-women relay together for the olympic distance race coming up in May…. I also have a former varsity swimmer and a personal trainer doing the swim and run for the relay. We need a hardcore female cyclist…. Definitely going for the category win.”

Okay then. Nothing like a little pressure, going for the win and all. Particularly since I’m in like nowhere near the bikin’ shape he’s imagining, holding as he is the vision of my fitness for our two-day trek on the Blue Ridge Parkway last summer.

But in a moment of madness, I found myself typing “I’m in!” and then hitting Send. And as I’ve said before, once I commit, especially in some sort of public venue, I’m not one for backing down.

It’s long enough away that I figure I can keep procrastinating until it warms up a bit and still manage to whip myself into some semblance of race condition. From this distance it seems like a fun bit of motivation for getting in some miles this spring.

And if I don’t perform well, well heck, I’ll only be letting down myself, two high-caliber athletes I’ve never met, AND the guy who tapped me for the slot…

As I said, a tingle of unease.