The Wordmistress

But for the Grace of ...

It's horrible. Terrible. Devastating. I hope and pray for these people. If you haven't yet: Give money. If you haven't yet, write your congressman. Here's my letter:

Dear. Congressman Gutierrez:

I am writing to express my outrage at the way the Administration is handling the rescue operation and evacuation of the refugees in the Gulf Coast.

I am mortified at the lack of compassion a governing body has shown to its loyal constituency. When I see footage of families suffering for days on end, in the most technologically and wealthy country in the world, I am embarrassed to be an American. As a Democrat, I have long found fault with the many missteps of the past few Administrations, but continuing to ignore your citizenry is not only appalling, it undermines any future trust you put in that nation to manage its infrastructure in the face of future catastrophes.

As a mother I have a simple choice. This country has to get better, or I will leave. And I don't want to put it all on you guys, I will help. I will continue to vote and volunteer. I will continue to speak out for what I believe. And life with a balance of compassion, equality and justice.

Right now I just pray you do what's right and pressure your colleagues to divert as much money as possible to these folks and work on solutions for this people as individuals.

And there are ways of approaching problems other than running/hiding or treating people like cattle. There are a lot of smart people out there who care about solving problems. You can find them in small businesses, in online communities, in parenting groups, at schools ... what I'm trying to say is that there are a lot of networked groups of intelligence that can be utilized to create rich and productive plans for these people who have been misplaced and lost everything. It's an idea to consider, once they are bathed and fed.

Would that I could.

Robin Kurzer

I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up

When I first started blogging I was way into it. I told everyone about how I was doing and how my great little daughter was growing up and how my family was coping with the enormous tragedy of my brother's death. One day I skipped blogging and that was okay. I'd occassionally hit the computer and write an apologetic post. But then I started missing it more often. Mia kept growing up and work got more demanding and without a proper outlet, I got more bitchy. The madness must stop!!

So I'm back. Mia's getting ready for college. (No, actually she's almost 21 months, and starting, finally, to talk and still sweet as can be.) I'm full of venom (BUSH MUST GO) and humor (I am loving Ali G these days). Please stop back in.

I'll either continue to let you down or surprise you.

Copy This

I am a copywriter.

Some moments I am the queen of the county. I am the word wizard solving the problems of the universe with a simple gerund or two. I am a copywriter.

Fast forward two seconds and the scales have fallen. I am lower than dirt. I am, in fact, the entire reason any given project isn't working. I am worthless and pitiful and any monkey (or account person) could do my job better.

I am a copywriter.

Used To Was

One year ago tomorrow, my mom drove down to Chicago to babysit Mia while I was supposed to go on a couple of job interviews. They were to be my first job interviews since I lost my job in 2001. As I was preparing to leave, the phone rang and my sister-in-law told me the devastating news: my brother had fallen into a coma after suffering a severe allergic reaction. Within three days he was dead. These last couple of weeks have been very difficult. I know how to do a great many things: I can change the oil in a car; hook up a VCR; and soothe Mia's tears. But I don't know how to deal with the anniversary of my brother's death.

In the Jewish religion, you light a candle. You remember the person. But tomorrow, and Saturday, isn't any different than today or yesterday. I think about Ross everyday. I miss him everyday. How do you act differently on the day?

I was at a little party in Milwaukee over the holidays and a woman asked me, "Did you know that guy who died?" "It depends," I said. "On which guy you mean." Cause you know, my brother wasn't "that guy." He was Ross Kurzer and he was a great guy who didn't deserve to die so young. He was big and full of life and humor and happiness and he brought a lot of joy to a lot of people.

In high school, Ross was a merry prankster. He often orchestrated erroneous school closings for sport. On a teacher's challenge, he arranged for famed psychologist B.F. Skinner to speak at our high school, fooling the old codger into believing that he was talking to grad students. He starred in every musical production. He hosted his own radio show on college radio and sold a recording of Ronald Reagan's "I Will Begin the Bombing" speech to the Talking Head's Jerry Harrison for a dance mix.

In college he dabbled in university politics, worked in college radio and was pretty much a cool cool guy. That was when I was finally cool enough to see him as the amazingly brilliant and inspired man he was and felt lucky and proud that he was my brother. When he met his soulmate Margit, his demeanor changed. He felt truly blessed and was extraordinarily devoted. Though we both felt that our family had its foibles, he embraced our eccentricities and both he and his wife went out of their way to make my parents feel young and included, warm and loved.

Shock, devastation and enormous sadness have torn their way through our hearts this year, but our calloused souls have endured. And so we are treading lightly on this year's anniversary, letting it inch on by, not understanding it completely but realizing that it is about the passage of time ... a precious commodity that for some reason we are afforded. Tick tock.

At the Window

Tonight I went to put some of our discarded toys in a charity box down the block while my parents hung out at my house. These long weekends feel very long, my folks and Mia and I all squeezed into my small 2-bedroom apartment. I've lived alone most of my adult life, and like the life. Right after Ross died I felt a very strong need to be with my parents, but I'm feeling, er, smothered right now. As I was leaving, my folks said take your time and my dad said, yeah, maybe you'll get those keys made, referring to a key errand I planned for tomorrow. As I left, I thought, yes! I will get those keys made. And off to Home Depot I went.

But something got lost in the translation ...

Not 45 minutes later I returned to the insanity patrol. Mother pacing at the window. Father standing guard at the door. They couldn't reach me on my cell phone and thought I had just gone down to the corner. What could possibly have taken so long? After the hysteria died down they explained to me that given our circumstances, perhaps they were more sensitive than other parents might be. I had to say to them, as I have so many times before, that I took something different from our experience: to live life, not to fear death. I guess with Mia I feel like I don't have a choice.

This is the kind of conversation that people like us have on a Saturday night. Normal, tortured and coping.

Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night

Twenty-three years ago today I was lying in my bed in the Milwaukee suburbs. I was kind of stoned, kind of bored, kind of listening to John Lennon who was my major obsession in those days. I'd start out every day with Plastic Ono Band's Working Class Hero (popups). I was almost 18 years old and I dug its rebellious vibe. My brother walked into my room and said, in his characteristic know-it-all way, "John Lennon is shot. I think he's dead." Thing is, my brother usually did know it all.

Fuck you, I said. Our heroes, particularly at 17, are sacred. Fuck you. But Ross insisted. "I saw it on Monday Night Football." So unlikely, I thought. But I turned on the radio, FM, which had started its terminable downfall just around this time.

The truth hurts. At 17, at 25, at 40. And wracked with teenage sincerity I mourned for a man I knew only through words.

The next morning it fell to me to do the morning announcements at my high school. I asked if I could veer from the script to say something about John Lennon, but the administrators would not budge. I had not yet learned to manifest my rebellion into action and so I acquiesced. Dour-faced, I launched into the mundane daily doings of Nicolet High School. Surprisingly, I received a head nod. I was approved to say something, but had nothing prepared. I called for a moment of silence, then urged the student body to "try and have a nice day."

It was all very dramatic and very high school. But 23 years later certain things still ring true. My generation was born on the cusp of tragedy. I was six months old when John F. Kennedy was shot and the nation mourned. Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King were gunned down in short order. Riots rocked the streets. The world was in turmoil yet families such as mine planted roots in the suburbs, planted heads in the sand and kids like me, my brother and some of our friends looked for role models that showed us it was okay to be different, to explore new paradigms.

There's little I miss about high school, but I do miss those early heroes. I miss my brother. And I miss the fleeting moments of enlightenment that come more often in youth and less often as we get older.

Restlessness

Sure there are things to do, but I am not focused. I am one of those people who do so much better when I am busy and I have long lists to work through. There are things I could be doing: lots to read, certainly things to clean, always could write. But I don't wanna. Maybe I'll doodle.

Turkey with Gravity

Last Thanksgiving I weighed 70 pounds more than I do now, Mia was two days from being born and I was a raging bitch. My parents, my brother and I ate dinner at a Polish buffet and I scarfed down plate after plate of potato pancakes. Then in the car my brother and I fell into adolescence. I didn't know it'd be the last time.

Ever since we were little, Ross would accuse me of hauling out this self-satisfied smile when we were fighting. I'd flatly deny it and both the smile and the act of denying the smile would drive him crazy. Most of the time he was very calm with me, but this would enrage him. I'm still not sure if I knew I was smiling or not. But it happened whenever we fought.

When we got older, we didn't fight as much. But sometimes, especially in close family situations, we'd fall back into sibling warfare. Heavy with child, raging with hormones, I couldn't help it. Either I started it or he did (probably me), but we were back to grade school. In fact, even though I had begged Ross to come to Chicago for Thanksgiving he drove back to Milwaukee that night with my folks. I was still at least a week from my due date and, hell, we had the rest of our lives, right? Shit.

Two days later, when Ross was still in Milwaukee with my parents and my birth partner Dan (who was staying with me from Amsterdam) was in Milwaukee with his parents, I went into labor. I called my other birth partner, Fran, and she and her husband took me to the hospital. Despite a team of nurses who did not believe my claims of impending childbirth ("Do you have a low pain tolerance?"), I gave birth to Mia about nine hours later. Fran and Dan helped deliver, Fran cut the cord. Ross listened on the other side of the door was one of the very first people to see my daughter.

That was the last time I saw Ross alive. Thanksgiving weekend 2002. Mia's birthday weekend. My daughter's first birthday party is this Sunday. When I tell people about the party, they say: Mia wasn't born near Thanksgiving. Er, yes she was, I say. No, she was born in December, they say.

Yes. December 1. Thanksgiving weekend.

I'll never forget.

Heart Sandwich

Last night Mia fell. I was at a friend's house and I thought ... I don't know what I thought. I thought she was in the kitchen, playing with her friend. My friend thought she was in the living room with me as I spoke to my mom on my cell phone. And Mia was trying on stairs for the first time. The verdict? Great at climbing up. Not so at the down.

And so bruised face, bruised mommy. She's doing fine. I, on the other hand, feel terrible. I know this is another rite of passage. But it just ain't right.

Another One Bites the Dust

Chicago loses another good one today, famed columnist Irv Kupcinet has died at age 91. Growing up in Milwaukee, I spent much of my youth in and around Chicago and feel greatly influenced by the cultural patchwork of the Windy City. Personal icons such as Studs Terkel and Kup set a class meter that today's Geraldos and Jenny Jones (beware, pop-ups) have made into mincemeat.

And Kup was one classy motherf--er, excuse me, sonofabitch. He was the gossip columnists' gossip columnist, the one that A-list Golden Age stars wanted to talk to, pre-paparrazi, pre-Entertainment Tonight, pre-all the bullshit.

And he lasted a helluva long time. He filed his last column this week. What a classy guy. Adios. The party is getting pretty awesome up there.