All There Is To It

Tip of the Hat to Progress, And I'm Still Fueled by the Past

From the Department of Mundane Profundities:
Today, President Obama extended the Ryan White HIV/AIDS Act and also removed the ban on travel and immigration by people with HIV.

This isn't very exciting news and, fortunately, it's completely non-applicable to most people's lives. The reason I notice this news is because my life was strongly impacted by Ryan White and his mother, Jeanne White-Ginder, by way of the funding that the Act made available to States for meeting the needs of the under-served.

Back in the day, everyone with HIV was under-served.

I used to run in a different world from the one I'm in today. It's all around us, yet many don't know it's there. Many suspect this alternate realm's presence, and they take steps to avoid confirming their suspicions. When I and my colleagues were turned loose on the streets in 1991 with the mission of permeating that other world and rendering help when possible, our salaries, reimbursements, and resources were paid for by the Ryan White Act.

The highly publicized travails of Ryan and his mom probably did more for educating the average person about HIV than any impassioned team of educators and social workers.

Still, stigma has lingered in the form of institutionalized standards. Most of us don't even know that all this time, our country has functioned under legislation that passively and ignorantly treats people with this virus like pariah.

More than 20 years ago, when much was still unknown about HIV/AIDS, the U.S. instituted a ban on travelers with HIV from entering the country. No more of that silliness after January 1, 2010.

I run in tidier communities now, where much attention is paid to controlling ambiance, if not experience. My days no longer revolve around maintaining alert vigilance and trying to be unseen, continually scheming to assure clients' anonymity, searching for words to boost the morale of the ill while saying goodbye to the dying. But I will forever feel compelled to continue opening eyes to that other world.

Listen to President Obama talk about Ryan, his mom, our country's previously backward stance on addressing a deadly virus, and our final move forward toward demonstrating our beliefs with action.

Read more about Ryan's incredible story on the US Dept of Health & Human Services site.

Crumbling Toward Twitter Oblivion

Maybe it's me. My age? My innate and recurring mode of disorganization? My laissez faire attitude (and yes, Typepad, I spelled that correctly!)? My hormone fluctuations?

I can't keep up with the whole Facebooking-Twittering-Whatever-Else-Kinda-Communication-Is-Next-On-The-Horizon'ing. And damn, I'm trying hard.

Okay, enough whining. (but I'm so good at it...) I'm going to start assuming that all those Blogorific Mommies who are Out There & In Touch 24/7 have all the same support systems as me, no more, no less. There comes a time when a woman's got to stop waiting for things to be 'just such and though' and just start.

Here's the deal: I'm going to be adding to my time burden -- I mean -- starting a new Internet adventure in the next few weeks. That's why you may have noticed a new widget in my blog's right-hand pile o'stuff. A recipe contest, it is, and one that's dependent on the 140 characters allowed by Twitter. 

If you want to see my related recipe tweet, well... you'll just have to look for me on Twitter, now won't you? (And the contest hashtag is #frenchs)

I have succumbed, to what, I'm not entirely sure. But... Go!

Santa Is Dead. Viva Reality.

Not long ago, I tweeted about the inevitable question from my 10 year old: "Mom, are you and Dad really Santa Claus?"

My first response: "Have you talked to your father?"

The Boy: "No," as he headed for the telephone.

My expert deflective maneuvering skills were good enough to put the conversation in dad's court only until he punted back to me.

"What do you want for dinner?" I hurriedly asked my son while rushing to the kitchen.

Fast forward a few weeks to one of our many mundane car trips to class. "I know that Santa is just you and Dad."

"How do you know?"

"Because I talked to Dad and I recognized his handwriting one time."

Sigh. After confirming by phone with his father that, indeed, they'd had "The Talk" and my son wasn't just trying to pull a good one on his rattle-brained old lady, I flashed him a crooked smile.

"Yeah. That was us."

"I knew it."

"So, what do you think about that? Does it make you sad?"

"Me? No! I mean, c'mon... A fat man in a red suit comes down the chimney and eats your cookies?! The guy should've been sued by now!"

For a bit there, amid our raucous laughter, The Boy felt victorious over The Old People. I felt relieved at how letting go of this part of his childhood was easier than I anticipated. I told him about how playing Santa was one of the most exhilarating tasks of parenthood for me: buying and hiding googahs that only Santa would bring, stumbling around in the late night Christmas Eve dark, trying to keep quiet while assembling complicated playscapes, sometimes dragging myself back out of bed before dawn to make sure I'd taken a few bites of those apparently-valuable cookies...

My Almost-Teenager agreed that he would, as his father had earlier made him sworn to do, vigilantly keep the secret held among Former Believers.

Then I introduced the new version of Christmas sans Santa: fewer gifts, fewer surprises, hand-in-hand with a new appreciation for the phrase "No, we can't afford that right now..."

But oh, my clever boy... "I know. I can give you guys a list of the things I want and then you pick some and don't tell me which ones. I can still be surprised!"

This is my absolute favorite age, hands-down.