Type A Mom, Yup, That's Me

I've never really considered myself Type A. Sure, I'm anal, organized, ambitious, and driven. I thrive on structure and often fumble in the face of flexibility. However, I also lack motivation at times, hitting a writer's block plateau more often than not these days. I am not aggressive and I shy away from competition (unless it involves board games, don't mess with me when it comes to Taboo and Scattergories.). I do share the traits of impatience and need for control with the Type A folks out there but I don't characterize myself as excessively aggressive or obsessive.

Perhaps Mac Daddy would beg to differ.

When it comes to parenting, I surely don't consider myself Type A. In fact, most of the time I feel like Type F, as in Failure. We moms are hard on ourselves, feeling like we could always do more, better, faster, tastier, tidier. We rarely look upon our accomplishments and savor the little miracles of everyday. "Relish" in our book is nothing more than a condiment.

That stops today.

I'd like to pay homage to some of the amazing women I met at the Type A Mom Conference. Women who were my imaginary friends, as Mac Daddy says. Women who are real friends now. Women who I admire. Women who make me laugh, think, cringe, question, applaud, act, discover, cheer, revel, celebrate. If being a Type A Mom means being counted among the likes of the following utterly amazing women, then count me in (in no particular order):

Morningsidemom - My blog love affair and sister, separated at birth. Seriously, how have we gone 40 years (give, in my case, take, in hers) without knowing each other IRL?
Down to Earth Mama - A gloriously funny, self proclaimed geek. I am amazed at her writing and photography that captures spirit beautifully.
Pundit Mom - Really, need I say more? I was on her like beans on a stalk. Smart. Smart. Smart. I beam just to be able to say that she's my friend.
Deb on the Rocks - I stalked her from afar at BlogHer and was all over her awesomeness at Type A Mom. She's gonna have her own sitcom one day. I might be duking it out with MorningsideMom to see who's her biggest fan.
Modern Mami - Beat It is our theme song, and she's a rock star.
Egg Marketing - Susan thought I was a rap star. I hope I didn't disappoint. She sure didn't.
Cecilyk - A woman who proclaims she is more liberal than drag queens is alright by me.
Canape - Founder of Triangle Mamas and most impressive Wii Rock Band drummer. Real life musician who is every bit as cool as you'd imagine.
Abbyjess - Fellow Triangle Mama, Wii Rock Band vocalist extraordinaire. Her snark is hidden by her adorable awesomeness.
Upsideup - Always a joy to run into my friend. Kirtsy founder, designer, all around smart chick. Counting down to seeing her again next month at the Social Media Business Forum.
Sugar Jones & Angela England - I'm lumping these two brilliant women together because their graciousness taught me an invaluable lesson: Heart matters. Regardless of our political views and religious affiliations and histories, we can all get along in earnest. We share mutual respect for our outlooks, experiences, crafts, and talents.
TypeAMom - Oh, words escape me. My fellow foodie, francophile friend. I aspire to be half as awesome as she is. Kudos for planning and pulling off one helluva conference! I bow to her.
Mamikaze - Seriously, her name alone is worthy of our love, right? Kudos for making it a fantastic conference. A good time and a helping hand who can rock the hell out of an organic T-shirt made from recycled plastic bottles.
High Impact Mom - Always a joy. A kind soul who's always game for a good laugh and would never make a girl drink alone.
Vdog - I almost climbed into her lap at BlogHer because I was so excited to meet her. Now I am left speechless or ramble about nothingness when in her presence.
Writing Roads - I dream about being an ounce of the writer she is. Funny and liberal to boot. I think I love her.
Shash - She wins for coolest shoes. And you know how I am moved by a pair of awesome peep toes.
Mommy Niri - My fellow Indian blogger who doesn't write about techie stuff and isn't a geek! Words of wisdom flow from her ever-so-candid conversations.

I hung out with many other awesome bloggers at the Type A Mom Conference. We rocked out. We toasted one too many local brews. We indulged. We squealed. We cried. We snortled. We embraced. We cavorted.

We all found each other online, whether on Twitter or other such vehicle, have read each other's writing, commented on touching posts, offered condolences and congratulations, formed a friendship. What is astounding and refreshing is that the people I imagined to be cool turned out to be even more so. We shared a connection through our writing. A certain intimacy becomes apparent after you realize that peering into someone's soul through her words can truly move you. Such is the power and beauty and mystery of writing.

Our words connected us online and have brought us together in person.

Cheers to the Type A Moms out there. Mwah!

Joy to the World

The best thing I can do for my children is raise them in a home bursting with joy. Unabashed, no-excuses-for-laughing-obnoxiously-loud, snorting-and-squirting-milk-out-your-nose, pee-in-your-pants, jokester joy. Joy, unlike happiness that is often misconstrued as a destination, is happenstance, free, serendipitous. It prances on us unsuspectingly, melting us into giggles and grins.

Joy is a team sport.

For much of my life I thought I grew up in house that was devoid of love. I realize now that I was indeed loved, albeit shown in ways different than how Mac Daddy and I raise our children. For starters, we have marital love, which is a far cry from my house growing up. I never doubted that I was loved but I did doubt that I was adored in the same way I treat Bird and Deal. I was cared for, fed, warm, clean, educated, and given all the opportunities in the world. But no one ever tickled my funny bone. No one nurtured and caressed the orb of innocence and delight that lollygags around in all of us, especially in children. That orb shrivels if it is not stimulated. Oh no, it was not love that my home lacked. It was joy.

I have one photo of my parents laughing. I don't even know where it came from. I recognize the clothes they are wearing so I am figuring that picture is from about 1980 or so. They are looking in different directions, but it is clear that the same thing struck their funny bones. It is a beautiful candid moment that looks like the kind of picture that comes with the frame. I have never seen my dad laugh like that in person; all I have is that photo.

My home was shrouded in a veil of stress, anger, discomfort, trepidation. Those walls rarely heard laughter. We were not a family of pranksters or joke tellers. Mine was a serious house. I never learned the philosophy of work hard play hard until I went to college. We didn't play much. At least not as a family. No one played tag in the yard, built obstacle courses out of bean bag chairs and hula hoops, or trashed the kitchen decorating Christmas cookies.

We had our share of issues, as all families do. But no one was violent or drunk or enraged. We were safe. In fact, we were guarded. We lacked spontaneity, a sense of fun, and the freedom to laugh until our bellies ached and cheeks stiffened. It was not all unhappy times. But there was no joy.

The best thing I can do for, and with, my sons is chisel my face with laughlines so that they know joy and can pass it on to their own children one day. Memories of joy is what will bring them home.

Paying it Forward

So the movie Pay it Forward actually kinda sucked. Am I wrong here? I mean Helen Hunt rocked it in her Mad About You days, and Haley Joel Osment was still cute then, but overall this movie blew chunks.

But the concept of paying it forward has really stuck with me. Call it karma. Call it divine justice. Call it what you will.

Case in point:

A tow headed young boy of four asks Santa for a train set for Christmas. The real deal. With lights, pretend steam blowing from the engine, tiny faux trees and conductors, a track that doesn't break if someone creaks on the floor next to it. A Lionel. Unparalled in the world of trainmanship. Yes, I realize that's not a word. Work with me and don't act as if you don't know what I mean. This little boy just wants a train set. A perfect train set. And so his grandmother goes on a hunt. A hunt for a steal. More than a bargain. She's become a highway robber.

Goodwill is about to answer this tow headed boy's dreams. Grandma finds a complete train set in fine working condition. For 90 bucks. Oh, excessive for a four-year old, but answering his dreams on Christmas morning is priceless. Thanks for ruining that term, by the way, MasterCard. Grandma collects the various cars, tracks, and accoutrements. She lugs it all to the counter and starts counting out her cash in fives and tens. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty...Eighty. Sounds of rifling through change, receipts, business cards, expired McDonald's coupons, to-do lists fill the air that seems to stand still. A lousy ten dollars short. No train for her fair haired grandson. Shoulders slumped, face forlorn, she gathers the pieces to return them to their spot on the shelf in back.

In sashays an old friend. "Why the long face?" she asks.

Grandma can barely summon an answer. She manages to faintly gesture to the train and mutters something about her four-year old grandson asking Santa for a train set. She's defeated and lacks the energy to catch up on niceties with this old chum.

"Ten bucks?! Why here's ten dollars! Merry Christmas to you and your grandson!"

And so the universe winked in its wily way, reminding her who's in charge.

You see, a few weeks ago this grandmother met a man at Goodwill. This very same shop. A man clean from months of treatment and job training. A man about to graduate to a new, sober life. He wanted to dress the part of success. He had borrowed a tie and had gently used pants in hand. Now if only he could find a collared shirt in which the collar buttoned snugly without choking his Adam's apple when he gulped. He relayed his story in casual yet ripely emotional conversation as they both pecked through the racks of discarded Joseph A. Banks oxford shirts. He hadn't enough money for a proper shirt and he dragged his feet as he somberly walked away, feeling spent, tired, sad,defeated once again.

Grandma slipped him a ten spot.

And the universe paid her back. Sobering indeed.

Bra Makers Take Note

My new bloggy friend San Diego Momma inspires me every Tuesday. 10 minutes. 250 words or fewer. One letter of complaint.

Dear Bra Manufacturers,

Must these contraptions be so f-ing uncomfortable? Seriously, wires that dig into my belly shelf, bands that squash my squishy parts, straps that slip off when the wind blows, and cups that crinkle in the wash do not a decent bra make. And don't get me started on the sizing. I worked at Victoria's Secret one summer after college. I know what shenanigans you people are up to.

A bra's intent is to support and shape breasts. Breasts of all women, regardless of age, size, or state of motherhood. Why is it that the only bras that seem to fit are the cute little microfiber ones made for the AAs out there? I'm a solid B, and nothing fits. Nothing. I've been to the German matriarch of the lingerie department to be professionaly felt up (er, fitted) at Nordstrom. I half expected her to whip me with the seamstress tape hanging around her neck. She steered me to the Wacoal section. You know, the $60 bras. Was that Boob Frau on commission?

I'm just asking for a bra that is actually as comfortable as my microfiber Calvin Klein seamless undies. Must looks, comfort, and functionality be mutually exclusive? Let's consider technology today for a moment. We can collect dirt samples from Mars and help a man give birth to a baby girl.

Why are we so rotten to our breasts? Surely we owe them more than you offer.

Uncomfortably yours,

Momma Dirt & Noise






If you want to read a real letter of complaint I wrote a while ago, take a look here. Warning: it's long.

September 29, 2006

Gerard J. Arpey
American Airlines
333 Amon Carter Boulevard
Fort Worth, TX 76155

Re: Customer Feedback

Dear Mr. Arpey,

Is American Airlines so successful that the company is ready to bid farewell to an entire segment of customers? Does the customer matter at all? If you’re trying to discourage families with children from flying on American Airlines, you’ve accomplished your goal. Just note that you might want to rethink your “Customer Service Plan.”

Customer Service Plan
American Airlines and American Eagle are in business to provide safe, dependable, and friendly air transportation to our customers, along with numerous related services. We are dedicated to making every flight you take with us something special. Your safety, comfort, and convenience are our most important concerns.

I was flying with my two sons, ages 3 and 15 months, from Chicago’s O’Hare to Raleigh/Durham on Tuesday, September 19 at 12:35 PM. Since my husband had to stay on in Chicago for business, we chose a direct flight for the sake of everyone’s sanity and comfort. It was our first time flying as a threesome, though we have traveled across the country extensively as a family. My boys are already seasoned travelers and like many children, they are fascinated with planes and pilots. They were excited, not wary, of the trip. I, on the other hand, was wary. I prayed for timeliness, good behavior, cooperation, and the kindness of strangers.

As an über-prepared mom, I packed all the essentials and tricks to keep the boys safe, fed, clean, and occupied. Now imagine this, I am a five foot tall, 100 pound woman carting a lot of gear for the flight – stroller, backpack that was stretched to the max, and a child’s backpack full of toys and books, not to mention two small kids in tow. The boys were both well dressed and well behaved – model citizens to make a mom proud.

We normally fly on Delta, where the service and help have been impeccable. Someone is there to help us get situated, fold the stroller, chat with the kids, and even hold the baby if necessary. Even from my days as a frequent business traveler, Delta was my carrier of choice. Call me spoiled, but I had grown accustomed to such stellar customer care. And yes, I choose my words wisely; I mean care.

My experience on American Airlines was quite the opposite. There was no chitchat with the kids or offers of help. Sure, not everyone likes children, I didn’t either until I had my own, but I expected some grain of care and assistance when a mother is traveling alone with two small boys who are helpless on their own. And keep in mind that my children were cooperative and well behaved.

Here’s how my American Airlines experience played out:

1) I managed to get through security with two children in tow who, like I, had to take off their shoes and be cajoled through the metal detector. As you can imagine, it was chaotic trying to get everyone’s shoes back on, setting up the stroller, repacking the laptop and bag that were opened up for screening, and reloading everything. The security personnel was incredibly patient, helpful, and friendly. They helped me set up the stroller and engaged the boys in laughter while I got things settled. Since security was my first stop on this journey, it was encouraging to get through with so much help. I commend O’Hare’s security team for being both thorough and friendly.

2) When the flight was boarding, my three year old said he had to go to the bathroom. Zone 3 was boarding, but we were in Zone 5. I asked the gate agent if we could board early so I could take my son to the bathroom on board the plane. Her curt answer was “You have 15 minutes before the gate closes.” Not quite understanding her point, I asked again if we could board. Keep in mind, time is of the essence when a recently potty trained three-year-old says he has to pee! The gate agent again, more curtly this time, said, “I told you. You have 15 minutes.” I was dumbfounded! This lady was not going to let me board early with two small children, one of whom had to use the bathroom! Luckily we rushed to the bathroom and made the flight in time. Even strangers were gasping at the gate agent’s reaction.

3) Once on board, I was offered no assistance getting my kids situated and buckled in. Note that the flight was not full, and I was the only one traveling with children. And by the way, I purchased three seats for our family to allow the most comfort for fellow passengers and us. For the wellbeing of my children and all passengers on board, I planned to travel during my baby’s nap time. He was sleeping soundly over my shoulder just before take off. I was holding him securely with both arms wrapped tightly around his back and waist. Note that a rear-facing infant is the safest position for car travel so I figured the same must hold true on a flight.

The flight attendant woke up my child and made me turn him around for take off. Needless to say, he was cranky (who wouldn’t be if you were suddenly jarred from a much need slumber?!) and could not get back to sleep. This left me with a cranky baby on my hands, and the plane got an earful of whimpering for two hours. Of course I want to honor safety first. I take no issue with doing whatever the rules dictate to follow safety guidelines. If indeed facing forward is the safest, I should have been the one to awake my son and try to reposition him. Instead, he was startled awake by a complete stranger in his face.

4) When the flight attendants brought out refreshments, I asked for a small bottle of water for the three of us to share. She gesticulated pointing to the whole plane and rudely said, “I only have a large bottle of water for the whole plane.” Every other flight I have taken provides small individual bottles of water so I didn’t think I was asking for anything special. Then I asked for one small cup with no ice. Then the flight attendant accusingly asked, “So you didn’t bring your own cups?” What ?! I did bring cups of milk for my children but was unable to load up on anything but essentials for this trip. Like I said, I’ve always had small bottles of water on every other flight. So, in the end we got one cup of water with ice.

The cart was gone before I could ask for a cup with no ice as I originally requested. Now imagine balancing this ice and water filled cup with a squirmy baby on my lap. I was trying to give my children a drink without spilling. Most importantly, I was trying to keep my laptop dry, which is the one thing that kept my three-year-old entertained, quiet, and well behaved for the duration of the flight.

5) After we deplaned, I was waiting for our stroller. And by the way, my three-year-old thanked the flight attendants and pilots without being prompted by me – another model citizen moment to make a mom proud. We were still waiting when the last people left the plane. The flight attendant asked me why I was just standing on the jet way so I explained we were waiting for the stroller. She shrugged and did nothing. The guy who brought out the jet way ended up going downstairs to get my stroller. He opened it up for me and apologized profusely.

Not one flight attendant or crew member was helpful from the gate at O’Hare to the jet way at RDU. In fact, I sensed hostility towards us from the beginning. My children were well behaved except for some fussiness from the baby. There were no meltdowns, screaming fits, whining, or uncontrollable crying. There was admittedly non-stop chatter from my three-year-old until we could turn on a DVD, but that is to be understood by anyone who has experienced the curiosity and wonder of a child. Fellow passengers were courteous, understanding, and even helpful. The kindness of strangers was underscored, while the rudeness of paid professionals was disappointing.

Is this the brand experience your big marketing dollars support? Are utterly poor service and rude behavior the hallmarks of American’s brand promise? Do you see no equity in your brand after all these years? Is it really just about dollars and cents; are people (customers!) out of the equation? So much for lifetime customer value (remember, my children are already frequent flyers, and their mom is a marketer).

I won’t choose or recommend American Airlines again, even if that means I forego a cheaper fare. The bulk of customer compromises just aren’t worth it. I’m going to stick with Delta, who never fails to deliver at every customer touch point. And believe me, everyone I know will hear an earful about this travel experience. Hopefully you can make amends to welcome other families traveling. “Something special in the air” takes on a whole new meaning now.


Regards,
Ilina
Mother, Seasoned Traveler, Influencer, Marketer


PS
I’ve sent this letter to Delta too so they know they’re doing something right.



cc:
Isabella D. Goren
Daniel P. Garton
Ralph L. Richardi


Jerry Grinstein
Lee Mackenczak

The Outcome:
American Airlines sent a form letter (postcard, actually). Several months later I got a $100 voucher with no letter or instructions for use. Turns out I had to redeem the damn certificate at the airport. A customer compromise even when it's an apology (lame as it was)!

Delta's president Fed Exed a handwritten note and two remote control airplanes and T-shirts to Bird and Deal. I love that the shirts were printed in retro airplane graphics instead of Delta branded merchandise. Still have those planes in the toy box. Still love Delta.

Dancing with the Universe

My dear friend Cathy, a good Minnesota girl who's in tune with all things worldy, sent this link to me. She is the mother of two girls who is raising them with a wonderful perspective of the world, and earth, around them.

There is something really engaging about this video. When I watched it I felt like I do every year during the Olympics opening ceremony. I see all those countries' flags and all this emotion bubbles up in me like some sort of power of the universe speaking to me. I am in utter awe of the different countries from A to Z. Places I cannot pronounce or find on a map fascinate me. Incidentally, my brother carried the flag for Palestine when they had a team of three in the Olympics in Atlanta. He was blown away. That brother of mine is always the one doing cool stuff.

I realize that the world is oh so much bigger than the five mile radius that I live in. Don't we all sweat the small stuff and glorify the even smaller? It's time we snap out of it. When I see those flags or watch this video, I remember that people all over the world love their children the way that I love mine. Mothers and fathers in every country on this vast planet of ours have dreams for their children. They cry when they are ill, struggle when they are naughty, laugh when they are goofy, and sometimes weep at the sheer beauty and miracle of life's chain at night when the house is peaceful and quiet and they watch their children's bellies move up and down with each slumbering breath.

People, not regimes, comprise a nation. We all pray for rain or sun or warmth or shade from the same sky. We are such a speck of something greater. Larger. Yet connected. Inextricably connected. Did Dr. Seuss indeed have it right?

Here's a translation of the lyrics from the video. And by the way, what a freaking awesome voice that young woman has! All that vocal power from a 17-year old kid from Bangladesh. The words are taken from a Tagore poem. Tagore is a Nobel prize winning revered Bengali poet whose writing transcends time and culture. He was a fierce protester of the British rule in India and wrote short stories, poems, essays, and plays about political topics, focusing largely on India's independence from the Raj. See, I'm Bengali too so this political writing and ranting is in my blood. I grew knowing about Tagore but did not come to appreciate his works until adulthood. My mom sang his songs, though in a language I didn't understand. My father gifted us books as subtle clue to our culture and heritage. I've had many of his books lining my shelves for years. It's only now that I crack them open.

These lyrics are particularly poignant.

Stream of Life by Rabindranath Tagore

The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day
runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.

It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth
in numberless blades of grass
and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.

It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth
and of death, in ebb and in flow.

I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life.
And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.

Ella's Miracle

Tonight at dinner Bird asked me if he started as the size of a sprinkle in my belly. Where do kids come up with this stuff? I think a sprinkle is a fabulous visual for the tiny little baby that grew inside of me, kung fu kicking, swimming laps, applauding live music, and nudging me time to time just to let me know he was anxious to meet me. Just a note, the kung fu kicks and applauding live music have not stopped.

I was lucky to have an uneventful pregnancy, gloriously easy delivery, healthy, delightful baby, and now a smart, silly, loving, comic preschooler. Twice I've been so lucky. Bird and Deal fight the usual suspects of ailments with a few kickers thrown in just to make us crazy and pray like hell for a remedy: RSV, dehydration requiring two trips to the ER, rotavirus, pertussis. Both boys have beaten every bacteria and virus that have come their way, no worse for the wear.

In the short term Mac Daddy and I were utterly grateful, squeezing them just a tish tighter every night. Then the routine of pick up your toys, stop kicking your brother, eat your squash, talk nicely, share, make your bed, stop pushing, wait your turn, use your table manners, napkin on your lap, get off the dresser, wash your hands, be gentle with the cat, use your fork, wipe your mouth, put on your pajamas, drink your milk, get in the car, stay out of your brother's face, shut the door, turn off the lights, shut the door gently, stay in the yard, put on your helmet, shoes off, brush your teeth, no whining, talk in an inside voice, and so on set in. Back to the life of Sisyphus, which meant mundane routines and that whole being grateful thing tossed out with the ham sandwich crusts and uneaten apple skins. Many hours of the day spent frustrated, exhausted, resentful at times, lonely, spent, defeated. Such is the existence of a mom, right? The good, the bad, the ugly.

I suppose the world of the ordinary is a happy place, like a day with no bills in the mailbox. Ordinary means nothing especially great. It also means nothing especially bad. Even keel. Uneventful. Coasting.

There are times that even when coasting, we slam on the brakes.

And so it goes for the Newmiller family. Their lovely daughter Ella, just a few months older than my Bird, was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor smack in the middle of her brain stem. INOPERABLE. The fine doctors at the Envita Clinic are mapping our her treatment options. I don't know Ella, but my friend Molly was her preschool teacher. A lovely child by all accounts. No rhyme or reason behind such tragedy. I don't know where to begin looking for answers to questions that go unraised. Indeed this story is a tragedy on so many levels that I cannot bring myself to face them.

I wrote about my years as a pediatric bone marrow transplant volunteer. Not work I can wrap my heart around now that I am a mother. It's simply too difficult to face. I shudder to think about the heartache this family faces. This mother and father, cherishing their little girl as I cherish my boys, not knowing what one speck of their future holds.

And so I implore you, regardless your faith and ways of worship, even the non-believers out there, to pray for little Ella. Pray for her recovery, her health, her happiness, her right to a childhood and an adulthood. Pray for her parents and big brother too. You better believe I will be.

For those readers in the Triangle area, check out Ella's Miracle fundraiser this Thursday. And please, pass this on. Take a moment to be thankful for the ordinary and go kiss your children.

And yes, I did squeeze my boys a little tighter tonight.

Mouthing Off

Obviously the best, and most important, part of parenting is seeing the values we try to imbue into our children come to life. To watch your children sharing, hugging, and truly loving on each other is one of life's greatest gifts. To see empathy creep into your child's emotional vernacular is inspiring. Daily I am in awe of what kids pick up from us. Just when I think our children are headed to a military academy for total and utter defiance, they surprise me. Like today, both Bird and Deal exhibited such textbook perfect manners at the craft store that a worker and two people in line behind us commented on their charm. I looked around at first because I thought, "Surely, these people are not talkin' to me." Like I said, something clicked for those kids today. I know better than to expect the same thing tomorrow. Those prechool buggers like to keep us guessing.

If I didn't hate those country decor wooden signs so much I would have them peppered throughout my house with words like "Believe," "Inspire," and "Imagine" hand painted on spliter-laden rectangles of wood. Instead we at Chez Dirt & Noise try to live those values instead of just wax poetic about Bono and Angelina Jolie. Blah. Blah. Blah. My friend Scott recently shared a true story of belief, inspiration, and imagination. I'd add a big heaping dose of perserverance, optimism, gratitude, and love to the story too. Scott shared Jared Dunten's story.

Jared is an accomplished painter. He has a Matisse-esque quality to his work. Jared paints in color, black and white, and everything in between. He paints still lifes, portraits, and abstracts. His paintings have a dreamy, whimiscal quality that forces the viewer to imagine and dream. I'm no artist or collector, just someone who appreciates art. I like to surround myself with things that are aesthically pleasing and conjure up something emotional. I don't go shopping for art. It finds me. It speaks to me, cliche as that is. I like for each piece to have a history or an anecdote behind it. Art with a story is unparalleled. Back to Jared's story... The painter of such flowing, interesting lines and exquisite use of color is paralyzed. Jared paints solely with brush in mouth.

When Jared was 25-years old he dove into the Rio Grande for a quick scrub while on a camping trip. By freak accident, he hit a rock and broke his neck. Jared's friend administered CPR and kept him afloat until help arrived...two hours later. Jared woke up to find himself paralyzed from the neck down. Not to be beaten down or discouraged, Jared demonstrated the ultimate perserverance. He broke free of the ventilator when no one said he would again breathe on his own. He battled pnemonia in his frail state and won. He spoke when the doctors prepared his parents to never hear their son's voice again. He married his one true love. And with the encouragement of his parents, he took brush to mouth and painted. And painted. And painted.

Check out his portfolio and his story at http://jdunten.com/. Jared's work will be gracing the wall of Chez Dirt & Noise very soon. I'm thrilled to own some art with a story and to have a real life tale of courage and victory to tell my sons.