Auspicious Jots

Funeral Directors Congregate - Boston Runs Low on Whiskey

2009-11-12T09:50:00.005-05:00

My apologies to the fine people of Boston, Massachusetts. I have spent my fifth work related trip there but have failed to see the sights or have a decent meal yet again. Somebody could make a fortune directing business travelers to a real restaurant, but that is a rant for another day.

Let's talk death, my friends! I went to another Funeral Convention. This was my fourth national convention and my worst fears have come true. A person CAN get used to walking into a convention center to the sight of acres of caskets, hearses, and urns. For the first time I did not get that jolting urge to run or laugh too loudly out of nervousness upon entering the convention center. Bummer.

As I do every year, I have some great offerings for you of the latest products and innovations in the death care industry. What I choose to blog on each year is the absolute best the convention has to offer. Or the weirdest things you could possibly think of, depending upon your point of view.

First up - for those of you looking to go green but wanting something cozier than bamboo. How about a casket or urn made entirely of wool?

Yes, let that sink in there for a minute. The Brits are always my favorites at these conventions. The English will make you a wool casket while the Irish chat you up about old Father Ted episodes (more on my beloved Pat in a moment.)

The company is Hainsworth. The products are completely biodegradable wool. Yes, they are soft and sturdy. And I think this is brilliant!

I have a devoted reader originally from across the pond who has been gently nudging me to get my green cemetery going before he takes his final saunter through this life. Jim, I think you would look stunning in the brown casket. That and a couple of tens of thousands in a personal loan to me, will get you the green burial you have been looking for.

My buddies at the Irish Dirt company came back (See last year's posts from Orlando.) The economy has been hard on Irish Dirt according to Pat, my main dirt man, but that's a story as old as time. It is such a great product, though, that I have decided to sell it on my Death Club website. It should be available in January if I can get the kinks out of the website.

Just a refresher: It is dirt. From Ireland. You can be buried with it, have it sprinkled over your grave, get your ashes comingled with it and scattered together; or, for the unimaginative, you can grow shamrocks in it.

My buddy Pat, the Dirt Dude, has this fantastic accent that is often impenetrable as he mutters something that sounds like it could be laced with expletives, rue, and innuendo. Turns out when I get him to repeat it - he is not talking dirty - just talking about death and dirt. He also supports me in my love of "Father Ted" reruns. I love him.

While yukking it up with Pat at Irish Dirt Convention Headquarters one afternoon I was heckled from my buddies a few booths down who yelled out, "Look out, Pat! She'll flirt for dirt!" (Funeral Insurance guys sure are a jealous bunch.) Will someone please inscribe Flirt for Dirt on my tombstone?

It was a funeral convention. There was whiskey involved. Sadly, I missed ALL the antics. Pat and the insurance boys assured me that having missed escapades at half the Irish bars in town (and in Boston that is saying something) my life is meaningless. What a comfort.

Next installments from the funeral convention: Bad jokes about salad shooters and cremains, some beautiful urns, the hottest hearse ever.

All Ghouls' Day

2009-10-31T21:02:00.004-04:00

This is a solemn day at Auspicious Jots. We take this holiday very seriously and are appalled by all who would undermine the reason for the season with irritating jingles, crass merchandise, and blatant consumerism.

Tony Hawk (pictured below) and I wish you a very serious Halloween full of contemplation on the meaning of your life as witness to carved pumpkins, door-to-door neighbor visitations, and bright blue hair. See our disdain? We are overflowing with our self-righteous indignation aimed at those who are inappropriately mindless of the power of mayhem and empty calories in our lives.

May all the good tidings of the season be yours. And NO, you may not have the t-shirt.

Death Club in Life

2009-10-29T11:24:00.002-04:00

I have been working the extensive behind the scenes building of my death club website and had hoped to have it half up by November 1 (Day of the Dead). But deep down I am a Luddite and this has made me want to hurl my laptop into the river. There have been considerable complications in the site creation process. The Undertaker Buddy and I have even been reduced to mutual fussing which is not what either of us had hoped for. It is his fault, however. (Ha ha ha ha ha ha. He doesn't have a blog so I can just hurl lies about for my own amusement. Not his fault at ALL.)

I've also been on grief delay losing my aunt and grandmother within two months of each other and having the responsibilities for the funerals of both. It makes picking out t-shirts for Death Club feel a little too close to home.

Updates to come include my report on the 2009 National Funeral Director's Convention with pictures, the link to Death Club, Death Club's holiday calendar, and the latest Death Club video. I will also probably post a tribute to both my aunt and grandmother. All of this and Halloween just around the corner. I am feeling ike I am more than the president of Death Club - I am living Death Life.

At least they serve peanut M&M's here.

A Video from Death Club

2009-09-24T14:27:00.004-04:00

Blogspot, please accept my apologies. I have been working on a Wordpress site and it is the hardest, most infuriating thing ever!!!! I never should have disparaged this nice little blog helper.

Hi, Reader - my neck hurts, my shoulders hurt, and I am cursing like a madwoman because I have spent almost 5 hours today messing with MovieMaker, Wordpress, and trying to upload to Facebook. All with questionable performance from my computer and internet service.

And the purpose of this industrious frenzy was a one minute video noting that I have not completed any of my Death Club videos yet. (Death Club is my new website which will take as long to build as the Cologne cathedral.)

So NOW I STILL have not completed any videos, nor is my website running, but I have a video telling you that. I'm linking and hopefully adding now... (Don't let anyone ever tell you that being a Luddite is pain free.)

(Hope dashed on the adding, GRAUAGKFJGFKJVS!!!!)

Brad Tucker is Richmond's Jackson Browne

2009-09-12T14:00:00.003-04:00

While you are sitting there chewing on your nails and wondering what to microwave, there are millions of musicians vying to be the BEST Musician you have NEVER heard of. Millions of them waiting for you to do a little web surfing, sniff around eMusic.com or drag your tail to a venue to hear them and realize the folly of your lazy non-music hunting ways.

You don't even have to pluck your thumb from your belly button. Let me tell you that TODAY the best musician you have never heard of is Brad Tucker. He lives right here in River City. He is sweet and funny, friendly and non-pushy. But he also happens to be a musician before whom you should toss your favorite coat lest he dust up his moccasins.

Brad Tucker is probably best known for his role in good time band The Taters as the funny one. No, they're all funny. He's the one who smiles all the time? Again - not narrowing it down. How about the one that sings like a songbird? Well, that's multiple choice, too. Never mind. You can find him singing with the Taters among others. He's the one that waves when you yell, "Hey, Brad Tucker!"

I am ashamed to say that I took Brad's talents for granted until today. Some people make it look too easy. They can play with anyone. They're always cheerful and don't screw up. They arrive on time, if not early. And at the end of the night you feel like you've been at a great show. But Brad is not showy, so one could just come to expect greatness from him and take it for granted. That one would be me.

But today, TODAY Brad Tucker came to a castle turned museum on Monument Avenue. He arrived plenty early and looking dapper. He warmed up. (Other musicians- please take note of that one.) Then he stood up before a room of strangers and sang at the Richmond version of my aunt's memorial service.

Singing at death events is not easy. Singing at death events for someone you did not know can be awkward. Singing at a death event that is suicide related? Very bad. But not if you are Brad Tucker.

Brad sang 4 songs beautifully and played his guitar with finesse and grace. And here is the kicker: he had never performed most of them until today. Want another kick? He had 36 hours to rehearse.

There are millions of musicians who think they can do this and almost all of them are wrong. Too often, in music and other skills, we all rest on the praise of former greatness and do not push ourselves to the next level. Not Brad. He worked hard learning these songs and was then humble and apologetic because he had to use a lyric sheet. Singing like that - he could have worn a Valkyrie battle helmet with horns and long blonde braids hanging down and not had to apologize. It was awesome. It was perfect. The room, his tone, his phrasing, his lovely voice - perfect.

You need to hear Brad Tucker. That's all there is to it

And when you do, you need to pay very close attention. Because while he is playing well and being unassuming and friendly - he is also sharing an incredible gift of talent and hard work that will amaze you if you let it.

Today he made a little magic that helped start the healing of this great big hole in my heart. Thank you, Brad. Come out and see Brad with the Taters or hunt his fanny down online. You owe it to yourself.

Future Planning

2009-08-29T03:10:00.003-04:00

When we last checked in on our intrepid blogger she was napping, reading the paper, wondering about her purpose in life and doing part-time shift work with a government agency. In other words: the same daily activities of 78.3% of all bloggers. (The other 18.5% are trying to sell you something. 3.2% have nothing better to do while waiting for their court date.)

Then there was the unintentional four day cliffhanger that illuminated for me why soap operas and Charles Dickens use them. Cliffhangers are GREAT for ratings and require no work. Just ignore your audience for four days and let them speculate. My cliffhanger came not for dramatic purposes but late summer ennui, but the effect was the same.

"Will the blog continue?" (Dramatic chords via organ or timpani go here.)

And we resume with our program already in progress. The answer is...

Complicated.

We here at Auspicious Enterprises are building ourselves a website, yes indeedy. Does anyone recall this blog when it first began and I could barely post without some major technological complication? Now imagine that same mind trying to build a website. CODE. There are expectations that I fiddle around with CODE. You gotta' be kidding me.

But the money has been paid. The domains are purchased. The hosting has begun. The writing, research, photo snapping, and web-building are all underway. As with every renovation project, virtual or residential, here I am up at 0315 wondering what I was thinking. Meanwhile a small little part of me is holding onto hope with a tinny little mantra of, "T-shirts. There will be t-shirts."

Here is the part where I tell you all about the new website. I include my lofty goals and enough tidbits to ensure your belief that you will not be complete without my website in your life. I woo you with a subtle combination of wit and poetry. I act cool. I get you humming Lucero songs even though you haven't a clue who they are. But you feel so Hip!

As the final deal clincher I reveal the catchy name and a snazzy, dazzy link. It is like the lush velvet curtain rising. It is like the "A... NEW... CAR!" moment on The Price is Right. It is like the ultrasound tech saying, "Mrs. Sherman, you are going to have TWINS." It is like...

None of these things because I just tried the link and was informed quite impersonally and somehwat snidely that I have not uploaded the site correctly. So it's back to Auspicious Jots - home for the e-pathetic. I am trying not to curse around the kids but at 3AM there are no children so...

{SITE ERROR error code dfs271// Foul language was loaded improperly. Website administrator is a total moron//}

Will the Blog Continue?

2009-08-25T23:20:00.004-04:00

Mother Confessor, it has been 39 years since my last confession. I went to see a movie tonight. With my mother. At a movie theater. First Run. Without coupons. AND it WAS NOT a documentary! REPENT! REPENT!

Yes, dear reader - it is TWUE like Princess Bride love. I did a normal American event and it was great. Mama and I saw "Julie and Julia" or we might have seen "Julia and Julie" and it is possible that we saw "Who knew Stanley Tucci was such a cutie?" Whatever the name - we enjoyed it.

I enjoyed the following elements: tall women were featured; incredible beef stew was cooked three separate times; they flashed Virginia Diner peanuts - the best peanuts in the world; Stanley Tucci looked very sexy (who knew?); and they made the Auspicious Jots/Lizard Eater friendship into a plotline. My mother was also featured in the film in the role of Julie's Texas mother. My mother is sweeter. But my mother is sweeter than all Texas mothers from what I hear.

I was not aware that the film would feature blogging so prominently because I do not do normal American things like see previews of movies or read reviews. Or did not do until the career change, retirement, sabbatical, or whatever it is I am doing with my life these days. Maybe this is why I did not get the Tucci Cutie memo before now.

But it was not the blogger who had the AJ/LE relationship. It was Chef Julia herself and some gal named Azil or Alberta or another appropriate mid-20th century name. They were best of friends and did not meet for 8 years because they were pen pals. It took Lizard Eater only two years to get to me in person. But had her husband not bought the ticket, it would have taken us 8. At least.

The movie made me think of all the nice things that have come into my life thanks to blogging.

* You, of course, are the best part of it (don't tell the others that you are truly my favorite.) But I also have met other delightful people all over the country and even in some land north of us that I still believe may be myth.

* I have had the unnerving but flattering experience of meeting people in person who said, "I read your blog" with an honest to goodness smile on their faces.

* I got to know my congregation better through face to face conversations inspired by the blog.

* And a few people each year, sitting in their PJs at 3 AM got to meet their first Unitarian Universalist.

All good things. Might I even hazard these are... auspicious?

The less auspicious moments are mostly predictable.

* My mother thought it was the stupidest thing she ever heard of. She groaned and rolled her eyes every time it was mentioned for at least six months.

* I ticked off a band with my prediction that they would burn out or become wildly famous. I was sadly right about the burnout, it would seem.

* The only thing I really enjoy writing about is death and dying which is hard to build a fan base on.

* I live with chronic illness and sometimes rotten luck, so I often did not want to write honestly about those things.

With all of this in mind, I gave myself a September 1 deadline to decide if I would continue the blog in my post-ministerial state.

I have decided.

THURSDAY Evening Death Club

2009-08-25T08:53:00.003-04:00

A late summer Thursday evening in the hopping capital of the Commonwealth can only mean one thing: Death Club!!

Death Club is a group much like Fight Club of Chuck Palahniuk/Brad Pitt fame except the first rule of Death Club is: spread the news about Death Club. Oh, and unlike Fight Club where you have to fight - we don't die in death club. Not yet, anyway.

Death Club has two presidents and no members, a temporary state we hope. If we don't get members we are going to have a coup between us and that is just going to be ugly. Presidente Numero Uno is my undertaker buddy and the guy who puts the fun back into funerals: Richard. The President most likely to not meet the Pope but ask you to kiss her ring anyway is, well, that would be me.

When my undertaker buddy and I are at funeral director's conventions we say, "Death Club!"

When we are speaking on issues of death and dying at memorial societies, rotary clubs, church groups, and ethics in dying groups we shout, "Death Club!"

When we were the only people at the theater to see "Death at a Funeral" and we watched it on DVD, our only defense was, "Death Club?"

And we are calling to order another meeting of Death Club this Thursday at 6:30 PM at the Fountain Bookstore in Richmond's historic and beautiful Shockoe Slip. This time you are invited. The authors of Grave Expectations are rolling into town for a chat, schmooze, and, unbeknownst to them, Death Club meeting.

Come out and join us. Maybe we will elect you Sergeant at Arms of Death Club. Maybe we will put you on the Death Club e-news list. I'm positive we can get a cool t-shirt out of this eventually. And you will be bringing peace and harmony to Death Club thus avoiding a sham election, executive corruption, or Richard and I renting both seasons of "Dead Like Me". Again.

The meeting agenda includes talking about meaningful death rituals, examining how coming to terms with fears about death and dying can make life more enjoyable, and post Death Club cocktails somewhere in Shockoe Slip. (My stomach still hurts so I'll be throwing back ginger ale if you are looking for a non-alc buddy to hang with.)

For more on the Fountain Bookstore or Grave Expectations follow this link.

New Life

2009-08-19T20:06:00.003-04:00

I would hope that the costs of leaving a congregation based ministry would be obvious to all. The short list is: love, people, love, and thinking about really important things every single day.

There are benefits, however. (Ministers might want to stop reading here and go back to their copies of Augustine's Confessions and ironing their khakis with Gregorian chants playing in the background. If you choose to read on, don't say I didn't warn you.)

1) When you leave they throw you an amazing party and give you thoughtful gifts and make you feel like you should not leave. Oh, wait. That was going along pretty well before the end there.

2)I can truly wear whatever I want. The biggest shock to my former congregation would probably be that I was holding back on the clothing thing. Today I wore white, black, maroon, pink, silver, and purple and was happy happy. My custom made Converse they gave me are a STAPLE of my wardrobe and possibly my favorite shoes ever.

3)I am returning to my "I will listen to whatever I want and read whatever I want" self. I have read: Housekeeping vs. The Dirt by Nick Hornby, At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances by Alexander McCall Smith, The Sweet Potato Queens' Book of Love by some crazy woman, and have started not 1, not 2, but 3 others.

As for music I have recently downloaded the new Delbert McClinton, Band of Skulls, Bex Marshall, Cage the Elephant, and Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears. Almost none of it would work in a worship service. Not even one of mine.

4) If you are miserable with grief, but not ministering to a congregation, you are not required to get up before hundreds of people and talk about really deep things that only make you hurt more. And you don't feel guilty when people ask "How are you?" and you lie lie lie.

5) People say outrageous things. People hold back on the outrageous around the minister. I blushed half a dozen times today just on what I overheard because no one knew a minister was in the room. Not kidding - I blushed so much it was starting to hurt. WOW!

5b) People curse alot more than I ever imagined. And more cleverly.

6) I have had dinner with my children every night for at least two weeks.

7) My husband and I go to bed and wake up at the same time.

8) My cleavage tattoo is almost healed and is stunning.

(Hee hee. Because my mother is alive, healthy as a horse, and taller than I am I must admit that I am lying on #8 or risk never getting fed her amazing shrimp and grits again.)

Now What?

2009-08-17T20:55:00.002-04:00

What do you do after beginning what is scheduled to be a 2 year sabaatical and ending the worst 10 days of memory?

Start a scrapbook? Knit? Watch a Spongebob marathon?

I don't know what to do. My kids, parents and I spent 9 days in Florida and travelling after hearing of my aunt's suicide. I performed the funeral, technically memorial service. We are now home. I have what I used to counsel people as "alien syndrome."

Alien syndrome comes as the aftermath of any major emotional event. You return to "normal" life and nothing is normal. You cry and laugh at the wrong times. You can't get on a normal schedule. In my case, I am having a hard time digesting and breathing. Any time anyone asks about last week my stomach starts to roil and churn. If I start talking, I begin to feel like I'm having an asthma attack. Writing this is unpleasant, so I'm going to move on.

I have been talking to myself.

The Rev. Me says, "Don't rush. Don't push. Don't commit to anything on a schedule. Don't do retail therapy. But go ahead and buy more Tums."

The Niece Me says, "AHHHHHHHHHCHCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The Rev. Me says, "That is a perfectly healthy reaction."

The Niece Me says, "Shut up, you holier than thou, know-it-all, snot weed!"

The Rev. Me says, "Anger is an appropriate..."

The Niece Me interrupts, "Get me TUMS NOW!"

These have not been productive discussions.

The Rev. Me is calm that this is all going the way grief goes, particularly in the almost immeasurable grief of suicide. The Rev. Me understands that the pressure of having to do the service was immense and I was not allowed to grieve fully, nor experience healing through the service. The Rev. Me feels that blogging about grief after losing a loved one to suicide is healthy and removes some of the stigma for others.

The Niece Me just wants to be alone. No, with the kids. No, walk with the dogs. Wait. Let me try to eat. No, that did not work. Listen to the Rev. Me. No, she's an idiot. Talk to people. No! Don't talk. Take pottery lessons. No, drawing! No, go to bed.

"This is healthy, Niece!"

"Shove a sock in it, Rev."

Huge and Monumental vs Small and Fecal

2009-08-12T19:06:00.004-04:00

Don't sweat the little shit.

I think I get to say things like that now that I am not a regular fixture in a pulpit. Not that I don't know dozens of ministers, priests, and rabbis who say that sort of thing on a daily basis. Nor do I know that I really get to say it now. But that nuance is some of the little shit I decided not to sweat today.

But if I had a nice roadside sign for my backyard wedding chapel that I have yet to build, it would read in fine Roman stencilling: Don't sweat the little shit.

I had 4 days off. 4 days of the rest of my life. On day 5, I was playing in my bed with the children at a luxuriously late hour, like 10. I had some nice plans for the day before I pulled my evening shift in training at a part-time job. (I'm lying on that "plans" part. I don't know what I was planning. I think I was trying to figure out how to get pizza delivery brought to me and the kids in bed.)

My mother called. She didn't invite us to swim or ask what we were doing. She did not say hello. My mother told me that her youngest sister was dead and we did not know why. I called my cousin, her son. I found out why she was dead. She had chosen, maybe accidentally maybe not, to be dead.

Five hours later there were five of us in a car to Florida in August. At some point I thought that we were the ones who had died and that post mortem reckoning had gone unexpectedly poorly. After 6 days of this, I am still not completely sure that is not the case. But eternity in Florida is no more than the usual little shit. I may be sweating, but I ain't sweating it.

My uncle is grieving in such a way that it is painful to be with him.

Meanwhile, my aunt kept a beautiful home, but not the best organized place. How dare she? My house is neither beautiful nor organized. This is why I plan to live until I am 115 because it will take me that long to clean it up.

My large extended family, many of whom I am meeting for the first time, is grieving.

I am grieving.

But I am not sweating any of that. That all has become little shit.

Why would I say such a ludicrous thing? How can I be so dismissive? What on earth would make me consider these huge, monumental issues small and fecal?

Because I am doing the funeral. I am presiding over my aunt's funeral. After she took her own life. No one will agree to speak. No one will stand with me. My uncle doesn't want anyone else.

Excuse me while I go hyperventilate.

But I am NOT sweating the little shit.

Or Maybe Not

2009-08-05T00:24:00.005-04:00

When leaving a place of employment, subtlety and decorum are your keys to a successful transition. On your last day of work be friendly, kind, and unassuming in your presence. A successful departure from one job will lead to a fruitful beginning at the next. A graceful, quiet last day is the mark of a true professional.

The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

2009-08-04T00:04:00.003-04:00

As Nina Simone so memorably sang,

It's a new dawn.
It's a new day.
It's a new life... for me.
And I'm feeling good.

Well, I'm actually feeling pretty tired. But this is the first day of the rest of my life, so what do you expect?

I worked my last day of my job yesterday. My high profile, high stress job that was full of constant human interaction and rewards that most people can only dream of in their professions. My job that I mostly enjoyed. My job that was how I was defined by many, maybe even how I partly defined myself.(?)

Gone.

Done.

Over.

I am lucky to say in 2009 that I left my job by choice. (Lucky, stupid - I have trouble with my adjectives at times.) I am very lucky to say that I have other work lined up that will pay the bills in the short and long terms. I am working in law enforcement now. I will be working in a law office eventually. I am lucky.

But Nina Simone neglected to mention that the new dawn of the new day in a new life feels mostly quiet and foreign.

And messy. My former office held 10 boxes of books, 5 large boxes of miscellany, 2 pieces of furniture that were mine, a queen sized quilt, roughly 2 dozen pieces of art, and hundreds of files in paper and e forms. Then there was the wardrobe full of work clothes. Those are neither done, nor gone, nor over. They are sitting in my living room. And my car. And a friend's garage.

I have spent the past two months NOT posting to this blog as I decided what to do with it after I left the job that made me take up blogging in the first place. In a sense, it has been sitting in the middle of my living room getting tripped over, too.

If I end the life of this blog, it will be after the living room is clean. Since that will be awhile, and anyone in their right mind would choose cleaning a website over cleaning their real house, I did some redecorating around here. If only to prove to myself that I can still locate my right mind.

Candlelight Vigil this Thursday

2009-06-03T08:40:00.004-04:00

There will be a candlelight vigil in reponse to the murder of Dr. George Tiller of Kansas, an advocate of women's health, who was slain in his church this past Sunday.

The peaceful vigil will begin at 7 PM on Thursday June 4th in the courtyard of First Unitarian Universalist Church of Richmond. The vigil is being led by Planned Parenthood of Richmond with participation from other groups and individuals, including Rev. Miles of First UU.

This is a peaceful gathering, but security will be provided for the peace of mind of attendees.

Some Long Awaited Photos

2009-05-24T06:45:00.004-04:00

I know. I owe you some photos. I often promise photos on Auspicious Jots and don't deliver for months. Obviously I have not worked out a system of ease with my digital camera. And I'd feel worse about it if I didn't know that 80% of all digital camera users feel the same way. (Of course, I made that percentage up.)

First up - the before and after shots of Tyler the Sexton's haircut. In review: Tyler needed to be shorn and didn't want to spend the moolah. He came to the kitchen one night, which is not a clever salon name. He came to my kitchen and I cut his hair.

BEFORE: note the tangles, the disarray, and mocking glare of the small pajama clad child.

AFTER: See the carefree happiness in the sexton's eyes. See the Superman curl at his brow. See whatever you want, the haircut lasted less than 48 hours. Seems that Tyler suffers from PSLD: post-stylist let-down. This is a condition in which your hair looks great in the salon (or kitchen) and then you can't figure out how to recreate the magic. This occurs in 88% of all women (made it up - it's the year I started dating my husband). Percentages for men: unavailable. But Tyler got the ole' PSLD bad and shaved his head which is why no one saw my handiwork.

And speaking of no one seeing my handiwork...

For Easter I made matching clothes for my family. My daughter had pants. Shorts for the son. Hubbie had a snappy bowtie and I got a skirt. You can see none of these items in the one photo of the four of us and my husband's hat got smushed giving him a Yosemite Sam air that says many things, but not Easter.

In unrelated news, that purse was mistaken by a golfer in Williamsburg for being real grass. At first I thought he was a ding dong, but then I thought - ART! Or Ahhhhhht as "Cute with Chris" genius Chris Leavins likes to say. Nothing says going green like a living purse. 73% of Jots readers agree.

Finally, I had a great photo of my dad and his brothers from 1961. It relates to today's sermon. It was the reason I decided to blog at 7 AM on a Sunday when I have to preach in two hours.

I deleted it somehow while typing. Do you ever feel like the dude behind the family at the Easter parade? I do right now. And you thought I'd lost my Luddite ways...

The Lizard Eater visit

2009-05-19T21:10:00.002-04:00

Prelude: Two bloggers arrange a 5 day visit after a couple of years of e-communication. They have never met. They have never spoken. Most say they are out of their minds. They retort - "Yeah, and?"

Enter Lizard Eater: A cute as a bug Texan with impossibly long, pretty hair and the pariah of her high school reunion because she looks so young. She comes bearing gifts - LOTS of them. Toys for children, shirt for hubby, funny car hats for me, food, and something that looked like a weapon from World of Warcraft (yeah right, as if I would know) but which benignly mixed hot chocolate.

Boring Plot Twist: Of course we didn't hate each other. Didn't dislike each other. Only found more things in common. She does have this freaky fruit aversion, but even that didn't keep us apart. More fruit for me.

Divine Intervention: We had the most beautiful weather while she was here. Cool, breezy, beautiful cloud patterns with plenty of sunshine. Have you ever seen a Texan weep for joy in May? Put them in 70 degree weather and hand them a free beer.

How to win me over for life:
Blurt out that I look like UU Barbie. (God bless that sweet, blind woman!)
Be discreet in your blog posts about my napping habit. (Reclining at both outdoor music venues, fell asleep in the car, on the sofa, in the recliner, in my daughter's bed.)
Wait until the end of the visit and then with diplomacy gently pronounce, "Your bout with viral meningitis is definitely nearing completion. You make SO MUCH MORE SENSE now than you did when I arrived!" (It sounds sweet when she says it.)

The Cupcakes: She's known for her cupcakes. Big deal these cupcakes are. She doesn't brag, but she does admit that people place orders for them by the dozens. It was the lack of bravado that made me beg/cajole for her to bake cupcakes on Friday. I am not overstating it one bit when I say: those were the best cupcakes I have EVER had in my ENTIRE life. (And, yes, my NYC friends, they are better than Magnolia.) We chose chocolate with chocolate icing. Absol-flippin-magni-stupendo-licious. She claims the caramel ones are better. I'm a bit of a Puritan and not sure people are allowed to be that happy, so I am sticking with choco choco delight. This was the point in the visit when the children started calling her mama and the husband tried to steal her return ticket home.

Ordain her now: I introduced this gal to the full breadth of my "eclectic" friends, neighbors, family, and congregation. With ease she bantered with the musicians. She talked sex education with a retired priest and his wife. She entertained my children, charmed my parents, helped my husband out when I was on my latest nap. She laughed at my best friends' jokes. (Not funny ones either.)She fell in love with our minister emeritus only moments after I said, "Liz, you are going to fall in love with our minister emeritus." AND she beautifully read the poetry of Lynda Hull and Mark Doty at the evening service. She's a Texan with theatre experience, four children, and a lifelong UU. Seminary education ain't got nothin' on that.

Boring Plot Twist 2: She will tell you that I was a great hostess. She lies. I did not make a single meal while she was visiting. Luckily, several meals came in from my mother and the church care committee. And it turns out that cupcakes can be a full meal.

God's work got done, too: We are religion geeks, after all. We talked theology, religious education, polity, ethics and more; all with my feet propped up on the couch and her in the recliner. That is the only civilized way to do something that geeky. We also compared music libraries of apocryphal holy music. Her best contribution: "Jesus loves me, but he can't stand you" by the Austin Lounge Lizards (I think.) My best contribution: "Whiskey or God" by the Texan Dale Watson.

Closing Credits: We boo hooed at the airport. I cried all the way home. I then took another nap and slept ten hours. We have plans for Houston in the Fall or maybe meeting in Mississippi. There's always New York. And the children want her back where she belongs - in the guest room - as soon as possible.

Photos to follow as soon as I can find the camera. And the thing to plug into the computer. And get the internet to stay up. This could be awhile. Check out her blog "The Journey" while you wait. I've paid her good money to say nice things about me.

Yes! Magazine

2009-05-19T20:44:00.003-04:00

One habit formed out of years of ministry for me is magazine subscriptions. I have 10. I refuse to admit that this might be excessive because
a) some of them come only 6 times a year
b) two of them are gifts
c) I save, recycle or regift many of them
d) I don't wanna

One of my favorites for sermon study, general enlightenment, and enjoyment is Yes! magazine. I met the delightful crew that run Yes! in Portland, Oregon at the General Assembly of UU's that was held there a few years back. They were incredibly friendly which is my highly discerning way of deciding to subscibe to a magazine.

Check them out online and be sure to enter their cartoon caption contests. Can I put on my resume that I have placed in the "favorites" category TWICE? Surely that's relevant.

Lizard Eater and Auspicious Jots join for Blogging Super Power

2009-05-11T11:50:00.003-04:00

(Insert choice curse words here) I forgot the whole reason I turned the computer on in the first place. Lizard Eater is coming! My long lost twin is coming to visit! This is the choicest thing I have done lately as a grownup. I mean producing life twice was cool and all, but this is over the top.

Lizard Eater is my blogging buddy (see the sidebar for her link.) Her sweet, deranged husband gave her a ticket to visit me for Christmas. I say deranged because he knew that he could email me and I would agree to it, even though I don't know him from Adam.

Have Lizard Eater and I ever met? No. Have we ever talked on the phone? No. Can I remember the names of her posse of children in the right order? No, but I am working on that one.

Is my house fit for company after two weeks of my being bed ridden? Heck no. Do I want her to come anyway and has she agreed? Hell yeah! My husband has already asked if it is ok to call her Liz. The children think I am kidding that a Lizard Eater is coming to live with us.

She asked me for a packing list awhile ago. Those of you who have seen my daily fashion choices know that she should probably raid her Halloween costume stash. I told her to bring all the clothes that she doesn't feel gutsy enough for at home. And her dance shoes. Let's hope I am well enough to live up to the fashion.

This is like a pen pal coming to visit. Or for those of you who have not been mated since the dawn of time (as both Lizard Eater and I have) it is like long distance internet dating. It is also imminently bloggable. So stay tuned to hear both versions of five days of infamy and giggles.
Here's her link to the first installment. We welcome all ideas for activities and mayhem.

Melange de Malaise

2009-05-11T11:04:00.003-04:00

Ever notice how you finally call for help, the villagers come running, and as soon as they get there the wolf disappears? Or maybe that's just me and my computer tech.

Sorry to leave everyone in the amnesia lurch but it would seem that the one area in which my viral meningitis is contagious would be my relationship with my computer. This really feels inappropriate to share, but my computer had a Trojan, whatever that means. One of the many problems from this was that I was not allowed to log in to Auspicious Jots. Bummer.

Or as my husband says, "Thank God!"

But I bring it to Mr. Fixit this AM and he calls Auspicious Jots up no problemo. Durn Trojan Wolf.

Thanks for the emails, comments, etc. as I have been mending my brain. I've been comforted by the other viral meningitis sufferers who healed up fine and let me know. I probably have another week of semi-cluelessness before I resume my normal level of clueless. Ongoing headaches with a side of amnesia continue to be my chief complaints and truly, if you're going to be sick for two weeks, this is the way to do it. For those at the Center for Disease Control, YES I missed my Mississippi trip and kept my Virginia germs at home. I'd be mourning that loss more if I could remember it.

I have tried to think deep thoughts during my two week convalescence. I came up with a lot of ideas about memory loss. Most of them forgotten, naturally.

I came up with a few cogent ideas on why Anne Coulter was an inappropriate choice to comment on Sarah Palin in the Time Magazine 100 Most Influential People issue. Then I remembered that I couldn't care less.

I also had many things to say on why Elizabeth Edwards coming out about her emotional process in light of her husband's affair was not healthy in any way. It sounded like it would be healthy, but when I read it - wow. Just my opinion, but I think the betrayal of publicly sharing details as she has done is an equal betrayal to the one she received. It didn't seem like that was her goal, but that appears to be the consequence. Then again, maybe I should re-read it in a few weeks. That one can be found in Time magazine, too. (Thanks for the subscription, Dad!) I would hyperlink but I have a headache coming on, so you need to seek it out on your own.

The election for the head honcho at the Unitarian Universalist Association is driving full steam toward June. My choice is Peter Morales and I can be found on YouTube saying as much a year ago. This is the first time I have chosen to endorse someone, but I felt strongly about Peter's strengths particularly on the subject of membership attraction and retention. I'd love to say I remembered the election on my own, but they sent me an email.

Ok, here comes the headache. The lesson of the last two weeks - stop talking when the headache comes because you can't remember what you say. When I was a bartender I longed for people to follow some version of that rule.

Turns out temporary amnesia IS funny

2009-05-03T20:50:00.002-04:00

Hello.

I've been in bed for 6 days. Bed also means sofa. Bed also means guest bed.

I have viral meningitis. It started as a simple ear infection and with the loving support of a compromised immune system spread to my sinuses, bronchial tubes, and spinal fluid. My immune system is compromised because it attacks itself (rheumatoid arthritis) so I put it in timeout (by taking a drug called methotrexate which is also a chemo drug.) It responds by no longer showing up to work when infection calls.

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah. Viral meningitis is some bad juju. I am able to move around for less than three hours a day. Those three hours feel like I have a cold. The other 21 feel like a have a medium case of Alzheimer's with a side order of concussive brain injury.

But am I worried about this? NO, dear reader! Let me bring you in on a little secret: amnesia is your friend.

There are reports coming in from rather reliable sources that I have been absolutely miserable this week. Tears, pain, yelling in my sleep, not sleeping, loss of appetite, agitation. Sounds terrible, doesn't it? But here's the thing: what you don't know really WON'T hurt you!

144 hours I've lived with this and I remember maybe 12 of it. And those 12 are really iffy. What I do recall is this: people are very funny. I feel like I have laughed a ton. My family assures me that I have not. In fact they say this rather grumpily. Wonder what that is all about?

My point is... and by my point I mean what I am thinking at this very moment, not whatever was in my head when I started this, whenever that was.

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah. You are so funny. You could do stand up.

VM - what are you thinking?

2009-05-01T16:07:00.003-04:00

I had a lot of hopes for keeping a blog. Good writing practice. Connect with church members. Get discovered at long last by some blues band.

Little did I know that my blog would have a different legacy: Evidence for some future epidemiologist that I was patient 0 when the big one came.

Had a swab stuck up my nose and tickling the back of my eyeball yesterday so that I can say I do not have swine flu. Seemed like that would have been simple enough, but they kept asking questions. And more questions. And a lot of eyebrow lifting by the doc.

Then the pronouncement: Viral Meningitis.

Now, for my regular readers, here's the funny part. The telltale symptom was confusion. Guess I've had viral meningitis for at least 6 years and it seems to be caused by pregnancy, childbirth, breast feeding, and motherhood.

As usual, the blessing of knowing a lot of people means I know a lot of people who have had viral meningitis. The prognosis is great. Only half of them wear bibs in public because of it.

I did not go on the arthritis walk. Thank you to everyone who pledged. I would like to recommend to the Arthritis Foundation that those of us who raise $1,000 by selling indulgences earn the right to keep our weary, wobbly cartilage in bed on walk day. (I did do a memorial service and a wedding that day, but neither required ambulation before 9AM. Say what you will about the UUs, but we are civilized about mornings.)

My prescription is to stay in bed until Monday morning when I may or may not go down to Mississippi. We'll see. Hint to the epidemiologist of the future: people who are willing to admit in public that they have viral meningitis that they had tested for swine flu and that they will go from their sickbed to a mission trip are most likely to cause the global germ apocolypse. But please note- I took all of my antibiotics and did not show my face in public with a fever. So, nyah.

I've also been out of touch blogwise because my internet at home has been "erratic." When will customer service reps finally say the word "broken?"

Then again, maybe I am evidence for some future programmer that I was techno idiot 0 when the big one came.

My husband has just received his third "I dunno" from me in response to a question. Not my fault. He's grilling me. When did the internet start working? What time did I eat lunch? Where is our 3 year old? Geez.

He has also pointed out that the swelling around my brain should keep me from making public pronouncements via the erratic internet. Would there be any blogging in this world if we all followed that rule? There he goes with the raised eyebrow. I seem to have an illness that causes other people's eyebrows to leap.

He has also pointed out that when searching my compacted brain for the name of my diagnosis the other night, ole' tight skull came up with: Vehicular Manslaughter, Virginius Mobeley, and Vagina Monologues.

Put that eyebrow back.

Regrets

2009-04-18T13:20:00.004-04:00

You know that running list that starts ticking along when you try meditation, prayer, or sleep? Sometimes it is searching for the name of that guy that dated that girl who lived near you twenty years ago. Other times it is the list of all that you need to do as soon as you are finished this meditation that was item 14 on your to do list. (And for meditators - yes, I meant for that to be funny.)

And then there's the regrets. The medley of "I wish I had not done thats". Of all the useless lists I run in my head, that is the most useless of all. I wore the dress. It looked like crap. The photos prove it - why do I need to go through that all again?

Here is my latest list keeping me from spiritual enlightenment. Hope it helps clear out yours.

File name: What was I thinking?

Contents: Herbert Marcuse's Eros and Civilization . Death by snobbish, irrelevant drivel can happen so much more pleasantly in other ways. At least I bought it used. But why am I STILL reading it?

The Arthritis walk. 3 miles on a Saturday morning? I've been having trouble after the second block. Brainstorming graceful ways to show up, stride a bit, and spend the rest of the day on my tail. 7 days of "training" (read: napping) to go.

Not sending that Pho back. Tripe is still tripe, even when you move it to the side of the bowl.

Those fancy vitamins keep making me nauseous.

The lost, great spiritual discipline book. This explains why I am stuck with Marcuse.

Time not spent in organization, decluttering, and filing efforts. Must attack office files. Must do Spring cleaning. Must hit garden like a yard ninja. (Begin list of the 462 other things I'd rather do here.)

The pinwheel quilt requires 2,500+ pieces And I don't figure this out until after I finished piece number 314.

Missing (because it makes me feel better to run a list of close calls on regret):

Resisted that $30 Easter bonnet on Monument Ave. Probably a rare case of haberdashed wisdom on my part.

Resisted that $60 Ikea kitchen island and shouldn't have. Must have for the sewing room. Oh, drats - that means it's a regret.

You see what I am working against here on that whole enlightenment quest?

Hell, Redemption and the Arthritis Fundraiser

2009-04-16T17:18:00.002-04:00

There are times in one's life when a person is extra grateful for friends.

Like when I fell and broke my hand at my son's elementary school and a few friends suggested I lay off the 10 AM happy hours.

Or when I walk into a room and a friend says, "Now that is an outfit only you would invent."

Or the friend who called me "Crash" for years after I was rammed in a bad accident. He started with that nickname before I left the hospital.

Wait.

Those are not times when I am grateful for my friends. And admitting that I fell stone cold sober was a bit shaming.

But TODAY is a time when I am grateful for the whole motley bunch. Today I checked my arthritis website and I had raised a tidy sum of money by sweet people who said sweet things. Today I am grateful for them all.

But there is a bit of a curveball to these kind-hearted, generous types. With a few lovely exceptions who will be shown special prizes by Vanna White later, most of them responded to the following email:

Subject: I limp. Give me money.

Howdy, friends!

I've been trying to think of clever, fundraisy ways to say this. Here are a few outtakes:

*In this economy you can save your last ten dollars for some gasoline and a taco, or you can sponsor me in a charity walk!

*I have a crippling disease. Wanna' give the Arthritis Foundation some cash?

*I lost a poker game with an Arthritis Foundation fundraiser and owe her $500. Please give 10 or she will hit me in my swollen arthritic knee.

And my personal favorite:

*Even though I don't believe in hell, you will probably go there if you don't pony up at least 10 bucks for my arthritis walk. $100 and that whole drunken incident of infamy is completely forgotten by God and everyone.

So there you have it. I'm doing an arthritis walk because I have taken more than my share of benefits from the Arthritis Foundation this year with my crappy health. They expect me to both raise money in this economy and walk. For miles. In the morning.

And people say the Pope is unreasonable.

Here's my link if you are willing to save me from myself:

https://www.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=274720&lis=0&kntae274720=C99C956A66C44097B008455A1CB52A9C&supId=78816178

Catchy link, huh? Just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?

And if you would rather boogie: arthritis fundraiser at Shenanigan's on Thursday April 16 from 6PM until they throw us out.

Thanks! Hope this is one of the better appeals for money you get today.

Alane

So, that is what they got and the sweet punkins started sending money by the fistfuls. But here's the thing, several have mentioned that the clincher was the line about that whole drunken incident of infamy coming off the books. And they have followed with some confessions that would make The Lady Chablis blush.

Which is why I am extending my fundraising for this event. I'm sure there are some of you out there needing to get some guilt out of the way for some wee indiscretions of the distant past, or yesterday. Turns out that sponsoring a hobbled minister in a charity walk can get that done for you. Follow that link, help out the good people of the Arthritis Foundation, and use me as a character reference for that next job application.

Having a Party

2009-04-14T22:38:00.002-04:00

Short version - Come to an Arthritis Foundation Fundraiser on April 16th from 6PM until you are too tired to stay any longer. It is at Shenanigan's Eatery and Pub on MacArthur Ave. in Richmond's northside.

Long version - There will be a band, a bar (with non-alcoholic choices as well), and nice people like me asking you for money. Three gals who love music, love to dance are throwing this. Oh yeah, we also all live with Rheumatoid Arthritis, a crippling auto immune disease that destroys connective tissue throughout our bodies. No, this is not the achy knee from a football injury kind of arthritis. But should you have that kind of arthritis (osteoarthritis) we are raising money for research for you, too! Who loves you, baby?

Longer version - Can't come? Go to my website and sponsor me for an arthritis foundation walk in a week.

Yes, it does seem kind of cruel to make people with deteriorating joints walk for money. But we like to think of it as - hey, I'm still walking! Plus I've got my trusty canine sidekick, Chicken, assisting me with the walking part.

I'm trying to get 50 people to give $10 or more each as my goal. The idea is that through donating, 50 more people will know what RA (rheumatoid arthritis) is and may NONE of you get it. (And if you've already got it... come to the party, I'll buy you a soda since we can't drink on these @&#$ meds.)

Thanks for your help. Come out and dance with us on Thursday night!

Rocking in the Lean Times

2009-04-09T11:21:00.005-04:00

I was born for this economy: love coupons, enjoy tracking spending on a spreadsheet, capable of gardening as long as we can survive on radishes and cherry tomatoes. But most of all...

I am crafty. And I am passing it on.

The Little Man and I entered a challenge at our local quilt store in honor of our quilting buddy Phoebe's birthday. I did an Amish pattern on acid and tricked it out with hand-embroidered Rilke. He did a pattern from the latest issue of Quilter's Newsletter and tricked it out with a Gwen Stefani inspired title: "The Ship's Called Bananas!" (We are each holding the other person's quilt in the photos.)

And we won some prizes. Unlike many quilters, there has been a lot of fist pumping, high fives, and jumping naked on a bed in celebration. (That would be the Little Man.)

We both have already spent our prize gift certificates in our minds. I asked my husband to comment on our own "quilting adventure" for this blog and he said, "It isn't easy living in the shadow of two crafting giants."

(What a great guy. We need to make him a pillow out of an old favorite sweater.)

For those not on Facebook, get ready for the Easter premiere of the family fashion line. Think Von Trapp family if they lived in Charleston, South Carolina. And members of church, wait until you see our sexton's new haircut! He is morally opposed to paying for a haircut, but he was about 18 months past due for one so I chopped away in my kitchen last night. I'll try to upload the photos along with the Von Trapp tribute after Easter, but I don't want to spoil the surprise.

For my next economy trick I will replace the billions stolen by a certain Ponzi loving financier through making homemade pasta, brewing my own beer, and hosting potlucks. (If only...)