Rebuild

Today I'm thinking of the kids in Newtown and their first day back at school. Thankfully "Sandy Hook ... remains a crime scene, with no indication if its 600 students will ever return to the building. Preparations are being made for them to use a school building in a neighboring town in the interim." I'm assuming most parents will stay with their children today. There will be police present, counselors, perhaps some story-tellers and clowns or magicians. There will be lots of art-making.  The children, their families, and staff will feel as safe as is possible given the circumstances.

I'd like to see the Sandy Hook school leveled to the ground (after the crime scene is processed). I'd like to see the students and teachers and parents participating in its destruction. Pounding with hammers and  pulling with cranes. Destroying the place where this happened to them.

Then, after it's all down, I want to see the students set the first bricks onto the new foundation that will become their school. Again.

Photos Sharing Switch

There are several reasons that I switched from a Droid phone to an iPhone a couple of years ago - one of which was joining Instagram which, at the time, was not available on the the Android platform.

Nearly two years have passed and (finally?) this week things have begun shaking up in the phone-photo-sharing world:

1. Instagram and twitter stopped working together. Instagram photos are no longer included in the feed. To view the image you are required to click out to the Instagram website.

2. Twitter introduced filters to its photo platform. Images are, of course, included in-stream and kept as a record in your profile.

3. Flickr introduced a huge new upgrade to its iOS app which includes filters and editing along with sharing in-stream to twitter and facebook. 

As someone who cross-posts many (most?) of my photos to twitter, it is essential to me that it's easy for my followers to view them. I've always disliked having to click out to see photos (on tumblr for example) so why should I expect other to do so? Based on this feature alone I made the decision to only share via Flickr. 

for your convenience, I'll be linking photos via flickr from now on.
— Berzerkeley (Cori) (@berzerkeley) December 10, 2012

My plan had been to continue editing in Instagram and sharing to flickr and THEN sharing from flickr to twitter. But then this happened:

Wow Flickr! Great job on the new app! flic.kr/p/dAufxF
— Berzerkeley (Cori) (@berzerkeley) December 12, 2012

It's an awesome app. I love it. There is room for improvement, but it's already heads and tails better than instagram.

Check it out here (unfortunately it's not available for Android yet).
You can follow me on flickr here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/corikesler/ (Or you can just click on the flickr photostream widget on the right.)

Happy photo-sharing.

Calling Wisconsin

"Hi, may I speak with Mable?"

"This is she."

"Hi Mable, my name is Cori and I'm a volunteer for the GrassRoots Obama Campaign. How are you today?"

"Ohhh I got sick in church today and I'm just not feeling well."

"Oh no! Do you have someone with you?"

"No... my sister might come over later... but I just don't feel well."

"Mable, are you safe? Do you need me to call someone for you?"

"Thank you dear, I'm safe. I'm just going to lay down."

"Ok, should I call back another time?"

"Oh yes! Please do!"

A Binder Full Men

photo: flickr, Jinx

I saw only the tail end of the Presidential Debate last night, so I missed Romney's comment about "women in binders".  My twitter stream, however, was paying full attention and blew up with quips and comments hash tagged #womeninbinders. Within minutes there were facebook pages and groups, tumblrs, twitter handles and memes. I could write about how fun this collective conversation is, but my friend Tara Hunt has already done that beautifully on her blog post this morning.

I have a different story to tell.

Eleven years ago a friend of mine decided that she couldn't wait any longer to have a baby. She was nearly forty and financially secure. With no volunteer fathers among her friends, she made her way to a bank. A sperm bank. Once there she was presented with binders full of questionnaires completed in handwriting by potential donors. (Incidentally, I also missed Romney's stance on single parents, but I gather from what I've read that he would not approve of my friend - or me, for that matter.)

She tells of sitting in the bank's private room, browsing through the binders, reading the donors' answers, analyzing their words and the curves of the letters, the crosses on T's and the dots on i's. It was like catalog shopping, she said. Choices included men of all races and religions, tall, short, rich, poor, educated and not. She went back several times over the course of six months before finding the "match" that was right for her.

Now my friend has a beautiful, intelligent daughter in the sixth grade at a competitive private music school. She has done an amazing job raising this little girl but, with all seriousness, she credits having chosen the best man from the binder.

It's NOT Always About You

Last week two friends came to pick up some pears from my tree and they happened to cross paths.  I've known both of them for more than 20 years; one more than thirty. Naturally they've seen each other from time to time at my (ever more infrequent) gatherings and dinner parties. The two exchanged warm hellos and briefly caught each other up on main life events.

As I handed over the pears one friend had to leave, said goodbye to us both, and left out the front door. The other friend looked at me and said, "did you see this? We're dressed exactly the same!!"

I got up and turned around (there's a mirror on the wall) and we stood there, side by side, sure enough, "brown long sleeve shirts, jeans, black vests, black shoes... Look at us!" and we burst out laughing. It's funny because we are both 43 year old newly divorced moms who have been friends since Girl Scouts and somehow continually reflect each other - right down to the clothes we wear.

She stayed a while longer then had to run off to get her kids.

Fast forward three days and I receive a call from the first friend - the one who left early. "I wasn't out the door two seconds before you girls started making fun of me!!"

"Huh? What are you talking about?" - me.

"There is NOTHING WRONG WITH A BROWN SHIRT!" he yelled, "I heard what you were saying - those windows were wide open! You should be ashamed."

After I recovered from my bewilderment and figured out what he was talking about I told him he had misunderstood and reiterated the actual conversation.

He was silent for a moment, then said, "I've been feeling bad for two days thinking you were making fun of me."

.... "How are you enjoying the pears?"

New York Apartments

January 1987 - June 1987

Fashion Institute onTechnology dorms on 27th between 9th and 10th Avenue.

Because of my mid-year arrival all the dorms were taken so I, along with two other transfers, were placed in a cleaned storage room stuffed with a bunk bed, a twin and three desks. One roommate was a spikey-haired goth punk who quickly obtained a job in The Village. The other was a Catholic gal who was practically engaged to a man with whom she'd never had sex. We ate at the school cafeteria with the rest of the students. I consumed a lot of cereal and the only reason I didn't gain the freshman ten is because I took a part time job at a health club.

July 1987 - October 1987

One bedroom on the fifth floor of a 5-story walk-up on 46th Street between 9th and 10th Avenues

The punk roommate and I escaped dorm life for Hell's Kitchen. We shared a bedroom in a tiny oddly shaped apartment for which we paid $750/mth. She liked to sleep late. I'd go to the corner and eat at the diner. It's still there - the Galaxy, it's called. We were robbed the week we moved in. From my bedroom window I could watch the street and thus uncovered which prostitutes belonged to which pimps and the best way to outsmart the cops during a raid (throw your lollypop in the street, put on your coat, hang your purse on your shoulder and walk with purpose. The ones who ran always got caught.) I transferred to Baruch on 24th and continued working at the health club.

October 1987 - February 1988

Large one bedroom on the 28th floor of a Luxury Doorman Building on 36th Street and 1st Avenue

After a fallout with the punk roommate, and with the financial help of extended family, I moved across town to share a one bedroom apartment with a gal who modeled. Funny thing is, she was incredibly unattractive, though tall and thin with long hair. She had lots of pretty lingere... In retrospect I'm sure she was an escort. I kept going to school and working at the health club. Eventually the roommate went postal on me - accusing me of stealing clothes, if I remember correctly... I moved.

March 1988 - January 1989

Studio Garden Apartment on the basement floor of a seven story building on 83rd Street near 1st Avenue

Having been completely put off any sort of roommate scenario, I found a studio apartment on the Upper East Side and transferred to Hunter College. The studio had a door to a "garden" with a table to eat outside. It was my first time living alone - I sewed curtains and cushions and made the space a home. It was beautiful and I loved it there until the mouse arrived. After my landlord stuffed the hole from where it came, the mouse couldn't get back outside so took up residence behind my stove - driving me nearly crazy. 

I was 19 years old and I quit my job at the health club and transferred to UC Riverside.

I never had another opportunity to live in the city again.

Of course, life's not over.

Locks of Love (Wordless Wednesday)