Auspicious Jots

Whatever Mantra Gets You Through the Day

2012-01-26T11:26:00.000-05:00

Did you get a look at the bodyguard for the Australian Prime Minister today? I want to be that guy.
The Australian PM, Julia Gillard, was surrounded by an angry group of aboriginal protesters and security decided that it would be best for her to leave quickly. As a part-time protester, I can't help but wonder about the history of poor communication there, but that's a subject for another day.

So off the PM goes with the riot police and the bodyguards.
She trips because she is wearing stupid shoes. Possibly wedges. One of which she lost. Women in power should never wear stupid shoes nor lose them. I do not want to be this woman.

Video footage shows another woman, a protester, chasing after the PM's car in a flowing dress and barefoot. That's more like it, but again... another day.

One of PM Gillard's bodyguards, who looks like a former footballer turned pub owner who works out daily and eats plenty of lentils, tucks her under his arm and gets her into the vehicle to drive away.

The look on his face says, "I wonder what we'll have for supper tonight. I'd like to finish that article on Hungarian military history, too."

Cool as a cucumber.

Nothing in his face shows what a simple Google search reveals.

1) He's not THAT well paid and there are political mumblings to cut his salary more.

2) Gillard has sent the bodyguards on errands of international security much to the dismay of the other countries involved.

AND 3) the day of celebration on which all this happened is called Australia Day or Invasion Day depending on if you believe that Australia did not exist until Europeans laid eyes upon it or not.

The videos of this scramble to the car are loud with police and protesters yelling. The bodyguard is silent.

Everyone appears to be awkward, stumbling and in a frenzy. The bodyguard is calm and sure-footed.

The faces of everyone around him show fear, anger, agression, surprise. The bodyguard has the determined look of a man who has some exceptional sushi waiting for him at the end of his day if he can just get through the next ten minutes.

My days are roller coasters. Too much change. Too much uncertainty. Worrying about the kids. Fretting about the country. And what does it get me? The loss of the wedge of my emotional stability.

Today I become the Australian bodyguard. At some point today I am gonna' have me some sushi. Perhaps a nice bowl of pho or maybe even oysters.

I will walk calmly through the firebombs life throws at me. I will pick up whomever is stumbling beside me and set them back on their feet without breaking stride. With both shoes on I will put one foot in front of the other, go to the gym, and at the end of the day catch up on a little reading.

I am impervious. I look great in a suit. My shoes fit perfectly. I am an Australian bodyguard. I can taste the sushi already.

Almost 50 Ways to Be Late

2012-01-09T10:59:00.000-05:00

In an effort to look on the bright side, I have decided to view my punctuality issues as a gift.

There are many of you who are no doubt plagued with the curse of habitually being on time, or worse - early. You have been looking for a savior. I am here for you. Follow my simple tips and you will never find yourself seeing all the previews, getting the best seats, or waiting for others again.

(Caution: These steps do not work for Germans or Swedes who seem to be wired for punctuality. Even I am on time in Berlin.)

Part A - Sleeping Late
1. Have intricate nightmares all night long.
2. Be in possession of a bladder over 40 years of age.
3. Share your sleeping space with a spoiled pet.
4. Become a nocturnal worrier.
5. When you wake up 20 minutes before your alarm - turn it off and roll back over.
6. Sleep on a futon - It's like a cracker covered in sheets.
7. Put Texas Pete on your supper.
8. Fall in love with someone who has/does any of the above and share their bed.

Part B - Primping and Preening
1. Frontload all the day's work into your least energetic hour: shower, meds, meal, make-up all before 8 AM.
2. Make the morning the only time you look in the mirror all day so that the sight of your aging face at 7AM keeps you staring in shock and disbelief while the minutes tick away.
3. Make to-do lists while in the shower. This ensures that bathing is always a two-part process as you have to turn the water back on to rinse out the forgotten conditioner or shave the forgotten leg/cheek.
4. Develop a love for sterling silver jewelry but don't polish it ahead of time. Store the polishing cloth somewhere clever. Keeps your mind sharp.
5. Never consider what you will eat until the refrigerator door is open.
6. Never consider what you will wear until the closet door is open.
7. Never consider what you need to take with you for the day until you are walking out the door.
8. Wear Spanx or pantyhose or a tie-it-yourself bowtie but never a watch.

Part C - Driving
1. Make sure not to drive with a full tank of gas.
2. Always store your keys in a different spot. Keeps your mind sharp.
3. Make sure any refreshments in an auto are stain-producing.
4. Listen to great music so you can drive past your exit. Twice.
5. GPS is for cowards.
6. Do not buy a smart tag/EZ Pass. Toll takers live to see your smiling face as you grope under the floor mat for a quarter.
7. Do not improve your parallel parking skills.

Part D - Work
1. Once your day has really begun and you are finally awake, be sure to turn your full attention to Facebook, Twitter, news feeds, and YouTube.
2. Spend your productive time reconsidering all the choices you made before you got to work because those shoes really don't match anything else.
3. Start your workday off by catching up with someone you love.
4. If a task takes 90 minutes to complete, start it 60 minutes before your lunch meeting.
5. Open email.
6. Make a to-do list.
7. Put your to-do list somewhere clever. Keeps your mind sharp.
8. Get really productive. I always do my best work when I am supposed to be somewhere else and have completely forgotten about that obligation.
9. Have three different calendars.

Part E - Socializing
1. Take everything you need out of your wallet a couple of times a week and put it some place clever. Keeps your mind sharp.
2. Don't talk to your favorite people for a month at a time, then schedule a 45 minute lunch with them at a really busy restaurant.
3. Make sure you check Facebook all day long. You look like a goober when someone says, "Didn't you see that picture of an avocado that looks like the Pope? It's all over Facebook.!"
4. Be sure to go to the place where you know everyone when you have the least amount of time.
5. Schedule yourself a fun day with friends requiring three complete wardrobe changes.
6. Pick friends who are great about remembering birthdays and special events. This way you can always be scrambling at the last minute to wrap whatever piece of crap you found at the drugstore while picking up your meds that have been ready for five days.
7. Never order the special.

Part F - As Your Day Winds Down
1. Always schedule an obligation at whatever evening hour you are completely useless. For me that is 4:30 - 10:00 PM.
2. Say "Yes!" all day long but don't write down whatever you agree to. All together now, "Keeps you mind sharp!"
3. Find a favorite TV show. This guarantees that you will never make it home in time to watch it or never make it out of the house the evening it is on.
4. Eat chocolate after 5 PM. Have that post-prandial coffee. Another Diet Coke? Yes, please!
5. This is the time of day to get ready for tomorrow. Solve Sudoku instead.
6. 9:30 PM is the ideal time to notice what a mess this room is. Get to cleaning now!
7. Don't ever look at your evening plans until you are mired in some situation that will be nearly impossible to extricate yourself from. Like salsa lessons with an octopus. Or an intervention.

Part G - If All Else Fails...
1. Have children.
2. Develop a chronic illness that makes you feel like crap 75% of the time.
3. Start a blog

Days, Memories, and the Moon Rolls Round

2012-01-08T21:28:00.000-05:00

"Welcome to the worst twelve months of your life."
This was my family physician's response to news that my husband and I had separated, thus earning him the nickname of Dr. Smiley from now on.

There's only one way to take a comment like that from someone you respect greatly: be thankful that five months of it are out of the way.

Made it through Thanksgiving. And Hanukkah. Christmas and Boxing Day. My husband's birthday and what I guess was technically still our twenty-first wedding anniversary. It all sucked. I mean, let's just be honest here. It sucks.

But while we are being honest, let's keep track of a few not-one-bit-sucky items on the universal radar.

Seven of my friends just had babies. All were born healthy. All have parents who love them. Each one of them has yet to knowingly behold a peach sunset, the blush of a loved one, the sound of Jimi Hendrix, or Mozart, or the whinny of a horse. It is all ahead of them. The world is born again with each one of them. And I don't have to change any of their diapers or pay any of their college tuition.

There was a meteor shower the other night. I missed it. I mean I was there for it, just couldn't see a thing on the eighteen degrees Fahrenheit, light polluted, Northeast horizon. But I did prove that if a meteor falls in the night sky and you don't see it, it doesn't make it any less awesome.

The moon has been stunning lately. I love looking at the moon. I never tire of it and I miss it on cloud-covered or otherwise moonless nights. My daughter has developed an interest in it, too, which will no doubt grow now that she is the proud owner of a pirate-worthy spy glass.

People keep finding interesting things to do with garbage. I keep reading about them. Build a house, make lighting, create a costume, start a career, let the toddler play in it. Twist it, melt it, paint it gold, live with it, on it, under it... whatever. It's garbage and someone made it useful and that makes me feel that we all can do something sneakily better..

The Jefferson Bible is on exhibit in DC. I was supposed to take my kids today but earaches abounded this AM so we had to skip it. Yes, that was sucky. But we will go and see with our own eyes what was one of the simplest, most profound acts in the understanding of truly American faith based on reason. And I will cry. The Jefferson Bible is that important to me. Being able to see it will be close to miraculous. I can't wait.

I could go on. And on. Because I really like being nothing but a speck on the gigantic landscape of the universe. My pains hurt something awful to me, but they don't hurt the moon or the stars or Thomas Jefferson and that gives me comfort.

We also have a knack in our family of completely wiping our brains clean of horrible times. These twelve months will end up shaken like an etch-a-sketch and years from now I may remember it all differently if I remember any of it.

In 2013 I may just look back believing that I saw those meteors. I chased that moon. I studied the Jefferson Bible as much as I wanted. And every day I woke up full of vim ready for whatever the hours would bring. Sure - that's not what happened. But who's to say I would remember it how it happened anyway?

Happy New Year! Seize the joy in each day. Eat delicious food. Kiss as much as your lips can stand it. Celebrate inefficient brain cells who do what they want. Do something with that trash.

Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T11:39:00.000-05:00

First holiday away from my children. Ugh. First holiday when I get to talk to other people about their first holidays away from their children. Not half bad.

I had some sad sad days leading up to today - Thanksgiving. Denial had managed to keep me from realizing up until last Saturday that I would not be with my children today. A HEAVY funk rolled in with that realization. A week full of tears and staring out of windows followed. Luckily, I am too scatter-brained or inherently chipper to do miserable 24-7. So each day had high points that were made all the better because of my low state.

Last night was the worst. I went to bed at 7:55 PM. I got up this morning at 9:30. I cried from 2:00 - 4:00 AM. But it worked. Thanksgiving is here. My kids are not. And I can do this thing.

Should you ever find yourself in this unenviable position - here's what I did that worked for me. Maybe a thing or two can work for you.

1) No moping around the kids. They are going to have a great day with their grandparents and dad as they always have on Thanksgiving. You only get to be a kid once.

2) Exercise. I hiked. I walked. I cycled. I did some tai chi. It didn't help much at the time but I am starting this day feeling kinda svelte. That will help after I lower my fork at the end of the second celebration.

3) Prepare for a funeral. A sweet young man died by accident and has left behind people who love him and miss him terribly. My job is to celebrate him on Sunday. Perspective, people. Perspective.

4) Prepare for a wedding. A sweet couple finds true love and understanding in their 50's. Perspective!

5) Inventory my sadness. What is it that makes me so upset? What is the expected duration of these things? Will I still be upset about them when I am 80 or even next week? Are they upsetting anyone else? Once they were all named they lost some of their power.

6) Dance. I am housesitting and by myself most of this week so this was particularly fun. Thank you Florence + the Machine, Fitz and the Tantrums, Walk the Moon, Tina Turner, and DJ Stephen McCarthy.

7) No TV. TV hasn't upset me this much since I was pregnant. I am one Hallmark commercial away from a breakdown.

8) Celebrate my parents. They had holidays without me starting in the early 80's. They are all alive and kicking. Their divorce led to two weddings and a LOT more family. They probably cried themselves to sleep on plenty of occasions missing me because they are those kind of folks. I ate with my dad twice this week and I played a board game with my mama and kids and those were GREAT times. Today I will eat their food and prepare almost none of it. WOW!

9) Lean on my friends for a change. I don't do this one well. When the going gets tough in my heart I disappear. But I tried this week. And the conversations with those who have walked down this road themselves were life-saving.

10) Gratitude. It's the name of the game today. I made lists of blessings. I took pictures of beautiful Fall leaves. I savored meals. I hugged the people I love. I was appreciative of crazy cats who jump on the cat sitter's shoulders and who all seem to be named Shirley. I enjoyed the great shower at this house. I prayed.

11) Laugh. The pendulum will swing back. I'd hate to look back on these days and see a humorless lump of me.

So that's me. Gotta bake some cookies and some sweet taters. I think one of the Shirley's just spit up in the kitchen. My kids are on the road to Grandparents' house. The Walk the Moon CD just ended and REM's latest and last CD is up next.

Oh, hey. I'm thankful for you. I hope you have a good day. And if you don't - it is still only 24 hours even if it is Thanksgiving. Try these:

Florence + The Machine (Just try to stay sad when this one plays.)

Fitz and the Tantrums (And not just because at the concert he pointed at me and called me "Nice girl" but that helps.)

Walk the Moon (A bunch of kids making 80's music in 2011. Ha!)

Mementos of Occupy Richmond (4:00 AM - 1:00 AM 10/31/11)

2011-11-01T15:38:00.000-04:00

Reminder: This story is told backwards. Got that, anonymous reader known as Chris?

4:00 AM Monday morning in Richmond, VA 10/31/11 –

“They are in the trees.”

“Can I go in there?”

“Please. “ I direct the young man with the hot Krispy Kremes to the new hiding place of 7 of my homeless friends. We just finished the breakfast I rescued from camp but it was cold. A little hot grease and sugar is always welcome.

Big Daddy and his stuff have been taken to his old spot. Police cars keep driving away. The State Police plane is gone. The dump trucks continue to bawl in the night. The frost is suddenly moist which feels colder.

I look back over my shoulder as I walk toward my car. In five minutes I will be inside. Sure I am sleeping on a futon in an office for 3 hours, but it is a mighty fine place compared to where I am leaving these people. I say a prayer and exhale it into steam.

3:00 AM , The worst day in recent memory – I need to give up. I will never get all the stuff. There’s too much. The heavy equipment of the city clean-up crews sounds like a baby crying. A damn big baby. We got so much out and onto the sidewalk thanks to hard work and the police relaxing the 15 minute rule by well over an hour, but in the end the library, the storage kitchen, between 30 and 50 unmanned tents, the signs… we just couldn’t do it.

I scrape the mud or maybe dog crap off the bottom of the tarp with a plastic scimitar I found in the gutter. The red paint has mostly flaked off the scimitar but the crap sticks. I shove the tarp into my already over-stuffed car.

I take a break and sit on the cold curb. My exhaled air misting around my face would be really beautiful under different circumstances. Now I just appreciate that it blurs my view of the dump trucks, the police cars, the piles of hastily salvaged stuff all over the place.

My new best friends are a police officer and his supervisor who looks like a really friendly and gentle Stalin but that’s mostly just his hat. The officer is a homeless liaison running folks up to the overflow shelter to get them out of the cold. Most do not take him up on the offer. In fact, Last One tells me afterwards that he did not trust them enough to accept the ride. I let the supervisor know that a friend of mine with an SUV is coming to move Big Daddy to his “permanent outdoor residence.”

“That is great,” he replies. And I’ll be doggone if he isn’t serious.

“Thanks a lot. Shame you don’t have a bus.” He gives me a warm smile. Then again it might have just been a grin and the hat made it look warm.

On the cold curb I look around. I’ve lost Jesus and Lightup. The liaison tries to help me find them but I am not allowed to cross the park. The liaison tries to comfort Big Daddy. Mama disappeared before the near-riots started. Now with the raid Big Daddy fears she won’t be able to find him. He’s also afraid of going back to his old spot under a bridge.

“Y’all gonna’ take me in if I go back there?” Big Daddy asks.

“You know we don’t take you in for that. How long have we been knowing each other? Come on, man. You stay sober and you don’t get arrested, right?”

Big Daddy gives the knowing nod of the lifelong alcoholic which says, “Oh yeah, I kind of forgot that part.”

I am by myself for just long enough for the despair of the night to come in. The police raid is bad but the homeless being displaced is worse. The train hoppers were worse. The breakdown of Occupy for hours while dealing with the train hoppers was way worse. I cry for awhile. My neck and legs are killing me from lugging around stuff in the cold for hours. And my right breast hurts.

I had been dressed for bed when I started breaking down my tent. When you are a woman living in a tent, dressed for bed means taking your shoes and bra off. I’d only gotten the shoes back on. Cold. Running around. Braless. My right nipple was dangerously chafed. I started laughing to myself. Police brutality! Victimized breast! Occupy Victoria's Secret!

I get back up and pull together breakfast. I have about a dozen homeless people with me on 7th Street. There are only four to eight police within sight. The Occupiers are on 8th, in custody, or somewhere away from downtown. General Lee has headed back to his monument.

Pretty is very upset and cold even though she is so wrapped up she looks fifty pounds heavier. She stays close by me.

“Why are you the only one who is still with us?” she asks.

“I’m kinda homeless these days myself,” I respond. “Luckily I got some more guest rooms and sofas to use.”

The rest of the crew laughs.

“I’m all out of guest rooms,” Pretty says.

It gets quiet.

Then Last One says, “What the @#$% are we going to occupy now?” We all laugh loud, hard, and long.

2:00 AM, The coldest morning of Autumn, 2011 – General Robert E. Lee strolls into Kanawha plaza. Who knew he was so hot? I mean that guy is fine. He looks way better in person than he does on that monument.

It is 2:00 in the morning during a police raid in Richmond, Virginia and I have at last determined that I am indeed not going to jail tonight. The police are allowing us to help each other out and to break down what we can. There just aren’t enough of us. Over half the tents are empty.

I have gotten Big Daddy settled on a curb. The Mario Brothers got all their stuff out. Jesus and Lightup are on the other side of the park. I got her stuff out and checked in with him. We are going to meet up in an hour and I will get them back into their usual “residence.” I watched as the police took down Peachy’s tent before I could get to it. Damn.

I think the Occupiers who have chosen to be arrested are already in custody but am not sure. On this side of the park we can’t hear as much with the bulk of the confrontation action occurring in the center of the plaza. But we do have Robert E. Lee and he is mighty sexy in that mustache, suit, and carrying tents.

I got what I could from the far kitchen but it was just too much. I had to concentrate on the near kitchen. As I head back to the 7th Street side of the park, General Lee yells, “Mic check!” No one told him that the people’s mic has been out of order for hours.

“Mic check!” one male voice replies.

General Lee looks right at the police who have just kicked out an Occupier with a digital camera and proclaims, “Protecting the public includes protecting the rights of the public.”

I take a two second break to swoon. What a shame this guy was a tool of the racist patriarchy 150 years ago. He certainly sounds like an eloquent Occupier except it is real clear he has showered very recently. As have the police.

The police would be clearly non- Occupiers even if they were wearing sweatshirts and worried looks instead of matching uniforms and muscle tone. They appear calm, well-rested or caffeinated, very clean, and warm. The only thing I begrudged them all night was their coats. My homeless friends are getting increasingly wide-eyed and cold as the raid continues.

1:15 AM - 10/31/11–
“Your fifteen minutes are up.”

Or something like that. Everything is so surreal that I am numb. The magnified voice from the police does not seem real. The fact that every single pole joint in my tent malfunctioned the moment I saw the horses could not have just happened.

Suddenly I remembered a recurring nightmare I’d had while sleeping in tent city that the horses had trampled my tent while I was inside of it. I could see the shadow of their legs and hooves as they reared up before killing me. What a stupid dream. Those horses are absolutely beautiful. And a whole block away from my tent which is now in a pile at my feet. A pile that should be more transport ready than it is. Stupid pole joints.

“They’re coming in!” I yell.

I break out into a clumsy run to the sidewalk with my wet, poorly folded tent in my arms. I see the Mario Brothers out of the corner of my eye. They seem to be walking in circles. I look back.

Uh oh. Peachy. He hasn’t come back. He left a few hours ago after the train hoppers were evicted. Maybe I can get to his tent.

Oh no. Big Daddy. Big Daddy is just standing outside his tent.

“Your fifteen minutes are up.”

Shit. My middle aged, mama ass is gonna’ get arrested after all. Damnit. I gotta get Big Daddy out.

1:00 AM, End of the First Occupation – Lights go up in a surprisingly Spielbergian fashion. Lincoln, my ass. A lot more like ET. A very calm, professional, and martial voice announces the arrival of the Richmond Police Department. Statutes are cited. Demands are made. Confidence and calm exuded

I can see them on 8th Street. A line of dark uniforms, a dozen police cars, large safe-looking vehicles. I resume packing my tent. Male voices begin screaming law-enforcement-specific epithets involving sex acts and swine from inside their tents. Redundant young voices ring through the camp. “They’re here. Get up. The police have arrived.”

Well, duh. Is that a plane I hear? I guess that means my buddies from my former employer are at the party, too. Hello, State Troopers!

I check my watch and do the first shout, “15 minutes!!!!”

--------

Note for non-Richmonders: A film crew is in town shooting a movie about Lincoln. The city has been blessedly more concerned with Occupy, elections, a missing and miraculously recovered child, and weather than Steven Spielberg. But they tell me he’s in Richmond somewhere. I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup of one.

Also… I am not shitting you. A hot blonde guy in full nineteenth century costume with a sweet, huge mustache came in after the raid had started and jumped right in clearing out tents to the sidewalk. Halloween or Hollywood – who knows?

The last installment of Mementos will cover the almost six hours before the raid including the invasion of the train hoppers, the many brinks of riot, General Assembly, and the writer of Auspicious Jots cursing more than she has since... well, maybe ever. Ironically, many of the expressions used were taught to me in the radio room of the Virginia State Police.

Mementos of Occupy Richmond (10 AM - 4:45 AM 10/31/11)

2011-10-31T11:11:00.000-04:00

If you have never seen "Memento" it is a movie whose story is told backwards.

10:12 AM October 31, 2011 - I sit down to remember some of what has happened in the past day. My face and hands are chapped from the cold. My lips are so chapped they are swollen. My Occupy friend David calls to check on me. He is going to see if he can find Pretty, BBoy, Jesus, and Lightup; find them a drier spot than an entrance ramp. I have stopped crying for now.

9:00 AM October 31 - The kids make it to school just in time. I see parents driving up in their vans and SUV's. What I would have given to have seen about six of those at 2 AM. I see my lifelong friend, Patty.

"The reports of my incarceration have been greatly exaggerated!" I cry out.

"Mmm hmmm. That's what we all say," she responds.

Here comes Marie. "Girl, just move in with us tonight. We are ready for you."

Marie is an amazing cook. Once I unpack the car and find my stuff I may take her up on it. When I told the kids I was thinking about staying with Marie awhile they cheered.

I start to walk back to the kids' house. All the chaos of last night rolls in and I get really angry. My friends are checking in on me but I am too angry to respond coherently. Anger. Sadness. Exhaustion. All adds up to tears.

I post a thank you to the Richmond Police Department on Facebook. It is a weak gesture. But when I was trying to help Pretty, Bboy, Jesus, Lightup, Miguel, Jose, Mama and Big Daddy, Last One, Statue, and the Mario Brothers... the police were trying to help them, too.

Try to focus on gratitude and love, not anger at those who abandoned them.

7:45 AM Monday - I wake up in a blazing hot bail bonds office. I finally stopped shivering. The kids' daddy checking in on text woke me. Thank goodness. I would have overslept. I jump up and race out to get to the house so he can go to work and I can get the kids to school.

One of my eyes won't open all the way and I am limping. I laugh. I just went through a police raid and my eye is half swollen shut and I am limping. Police brutality? Nope. The eye is from too many tears, not enough water, and sleeping on my side. And I always limp when I wake up. Well, almost always. For some reason, I walked perfectly every morning I woke up in tent city.

I get home and the kids are happy happy. I had forgotten. It's Halloween. I break the news to the kids that the police raided tent city last night. My son is really sad.

"It's ok," I assure him. "They helped me take care of our friends who lived there before."

"But where are you gonna' live now, Mama?"

"I think I'll move in with Marie for awhile."

"WOO HOO!!!" They both yell. Marie has a huge backyard. We can play tent city out there.

Many cynical thoughts come flooding in. If we play tent city who gets to be the people who talk too damn much? Mama, can I be the self-righteous, misguided ones who let train hoppers verbally abuse the homeless with racist taunts for four hours?

No, honey. You can be the ones who were so busy singing and chanting for the cameras and cops during the raid that they didn't bother to see who needed help moving back under a bridge.

I look at their cute, oatmeal stained faces and push those thoughts aside. Bad mama! Bad protester!

The Occupation is a failure in my mind. My greatest hope was the shared community with the original settlers, also known as homeless people who lived in Kanawha Plaza before we got there. That hope was destroyed over 10 hours last night.

But for my kids, the Occupation was a wonderland. Maybe I'll let them keep telling me their version until I can get back some of the dream.

4:45 AM The End of the Occupation - I am covered in coats and blankets in a bail bonds office. It's ok. I have the key here.

The heat is cranked up hotter than 70. I am fully dressed. But I can't stop shivering. I see Pretty's face in my mind.

"Why did they leave us? They said they cared about the homeless," she says.

I close my eyes. My teeth chatter. I was outside for almost 12 hours and didn't shiver but once or twice. Now I am inside and no matter what I do I can't warm up. Except for my face and lips. They are on fire.

Faces. All I can see are their faces. Pretty, Statue, Lightup, Jesus, BBoy, Mama and Big Daddy... and the ones who got away: the Mario Brothers, Peachy, Clown-o, and all those whose names I did not know yet.

I have made it inside. Where are they?

The knocking of my teeth together drums me to sleep. It is not altogether unpleasant. Gratitude. That's the way to go. I have teeth. I have warmth. In just a few short hours I will be telling my children to stop picking on each other and eat their breakfast.

Dear Lord, please don't let my children grow up to be train hoppers. Amen.

Note: The names of the settlers have all been changed to protect their identities. The names of my friends who live in homes have not been changed because I'm too tired to think of that many pseudonyms.

Next Installment will go from when I left Kanawha and the ruins of tent city at 4:00 AM to when I saw the lights and the police cars at 1:00 AM.

Life in Occupy Richmond

2011-10-27T10:57:00.001-04:00

The lessons this Occupy Richmond stay of mine have provided are almost overwhelming. It is nearly impossible for me to get the every day work of my life with my children done off-site, live on-site and blog. It is toooo much. But the experience every day is amazing, frightening, sobering, and frequently surreal.

Let's start with the living. The nitty gritty of Occupy life for me.

I let it be known to my neighbor and best buddy in tent city "Chad" that I am likely to leave the Occupation not due to temperature, police intervention, or disillusionment but because of illness. It ain't easy being a chronically ill protester. The meetings last too long. We sit on concrete steps that are cold at this time of year. The youngsters, many of whom do not live with us full-time, are smart, articulate, passionate, and shockingly extroverted. They talk all day and all night about their concerns and hopes for our country. They are deeply patriotic in a way that is not easily put onto bumper stickers or fourth of July advertising. But, dag! They talk forever.

I have had to limit my meeting time and replace it with protest time because it is better on my bones. Yesterday my children, another parent and I held up signs at rush hour. My 6 year old held up one that said, "We love you all." Mine was "The lion sleeps no more." My son liked switching signs and dancing with them.

Our favorite protest sign needs some editing and bigger lettering. We've decided it should say, "We respect the police because they are one layoff away from joining us."

The people who honk and wave are truly eclectic. White guys in contractor trucks, elderly black women in old Fords, Hispanic men headed out for happy hour, lawyer types in shiny foreign cars, the GRTC bus drivers. We can't really hold conversations because of all the honking, waving and smiling. Two populations always honk and wave: those who ride scooters and those who drive Cooper Minis.

The food is never there when I am hungry. I have yet to eat a real meal in tent city and I have lived there a week. I have eaten a lot of peanut butter and jelly and fresh fruit. It is enough but the reports of great dining are overblown. An old high school buddy saved me from palate boredom with some chex mix and mixed nuts the other day. They have fed 7 so far.

The port-a-potties are unpleasant. People work hard to keep them clean but they are still unsavory for a Southern gal like myself. There were 81 tents, lean-tos and other fabric structures last night. Many hold multiple people sleeping in them. There are 4 or 5 port-a-potties. But unlike Oakland, they can't claim we are using the park as our bathroom. The proof is in the pots.

What about the police?

Have you ever met any Richmond police, Capitol police, or State Troopers? I can guarantee the jerk to chill dude ratio is WAY lower in these professions than in food service, retail, or telemarketing. I know so many smart, kind, thoughtful police and this experience has not changed that view one bit.

I have heard that the police were visiting on at least 3 occasions during my week's stay. Each time someone walks through and says, "The police have arrived." Each time I check to make sure my bags are together should I be evicted in the next 15 minutes. Each time negotiations appear quiet and respectful.

I read somewhere that Occupy protesters are scared of the police in the wake of events in Oakland and Atlanta. I am not scared. I am more scared of the yelling people. Speaking of which...

What about other Occupy residents?

There are some folks with whom I live for whom I have considerable concern. Poor impulse control does not even begin to cover it. I think the Occupy leadership should all get graduate level social work and public safety credits upon the end of the Occupation. I have had my share of compassionate listening sessions during my stay (and am grateful to the occupiers who have provided them for me.) But dag, man. What is up with the screaming fits in the night?!?! I am getting flashbacks to when my son had colic, but these people can articulate why they are screaming. Sort of.

Why are you there and when will you leave?

I am there out of a respect for the American ideal of a balance between communal responsibility and independence. I am there because the process gives me hope. I am there because I have felt hopeless about American politics for over a decade and I want to speak up for change. I am there because I am fascinated by the opportunity to live with anarchists, college students, wanderers, old and new hippies, the unemployed, the employed but struggling, the mentally ill, dreamers, and strangers. I am there because our city is beautiful in ways I did not understand until I lived in the streets.

I will leave when living outside threatens my health. I will leave when the police tell me to leave. I will leave if it gets violent. I will leave (and already have left) for any opportunity I have to spend the night with my kids. I will leave the next time those portable toilets all overflow AGAIN. Ugh.

What will you take with you?

I will carry my belongings and any trash out. I will take my hopes for a representative government with me. I will take my respect for a variety of opinions. I will take a concern for the well-being of those who do not have friends, family, and others to provide them shelter for the winter. I will carry a deep and abiding faith that we are doing ourselves a disservice by building more jails for non-violent offenders instead of facilities that offer a better community to everyone. I will take a newly found disdain for peanut butter and jelly.

And I will take my butt to another group who will work for a kind and just community for all built on love and mutual respect.

Yes, I talked like this before the Occupation. No, not even the discomforts of urban tent camping nor the derision of strangers and acquaintances has drummed it out of me. Yes, the support of friends, my children, and absolute strangers has been immeasurably uplifting.

Time to go. I have to make sure that my tent signs don't ooze in the rain. They say:

This home is not HOSTILE. This home is LOVE. and

My Mama Doesn't Approve
but my kids do.

Martha's Meditation

2011-10-23T09:47:00.000-04:00

Yes, I sleep in a tent in the heart of the city. Yes, my family is changing. And yes, life is still life. People are still getting married. People are still dying. Yesterday I officiated a wedding and attended a funeral. Today I have a memorial service for a friend and mentor.

Since few of my readers will be at her service, I am including the closing meditation here. Martha was a damn funny gal, smart as a whip, and could dish out a tongue lashing to prove it. Meanwhile, she was quite ill for many years and gave assistance to a huge network of women, the full extent of which remains her secret.

Here is what I will say. It is as close to Martha's voice as I could muster...

I can honestly say I have never done a meditation like the one that follows. I have prepared a meditation from a few of the lessons Martha Minock taught me. In the time of silence that follows our meditation I invite you to reflect on her influence in your life.

I invite you to put both your feet on the floor, put down anything you are carrying, relax your hands onto your lap, close your eyes if you are comfortable doing so, and breathe intentionally. Take the kind of breaths that make the tension go away. Take a few of them. Let out your breath and feel soothed. (Pause.)

Try not to worry so much. Much of the planning, fretting, and mental wheel spinning we do is completely unnecessary.

The world will bob and swerve, leap and dive.

There are constant surprises. We can’t plan for them all. We can’t plan for most of them. What we should be doing with our time is keeping our minds sharp, our hearts ready to love more, and our bodies as healthy as they can be.

You are good. You could be better.

Everything you need to be better is already inside of you. You just need to dig around and find it. Strengthen it. Let out the best you.

Do not let your voice be silenced by those who don’t believe in you. Do not let someone else take away your pride in who you are. Spend your energy not in regret, nor in grudge holding. Instead, take care of those you love. Share what you know that is helpful. Give of yourself but do not give yourself away.

And life does not give lemons. Life gives all manner of beauty and wonder. And life can give you great big heaping piles of shit. Those are your choices. No lemons.

No one wants lemonade made with shit. So get it out of the way. Scoop it out, move it aside, work around it, but don’t just sit there in it. Move along and find the beauty and wonder again.

In that spirit, in Martha's spirit, let us pause in a time of silence and reflection.

Living in Occupy Richmond

2011-10-21T10:31:00.000-04:00

I moved into tent city last night. I was met by a move-in crew who helped me set up my tent. I had borrowed a tent instead of using my own and imagine our surprise when it turned out to be a ... hexagon. Once that hurdle was overcome I was given the ultimate Welcome Wagon gifts - a brand new tarp and some insulation sheets. Both went under the tent and I slept great.

The most beautiful moment of the day was when an artist whom we'll call Chad convinced me to move. Turns out I had dropped my stuff smack dab in the anarchist village. Chad said, "They're nice kids but you may want to..."

I got nothing against anarchists but I am almost positive we do not share the same sleeping habits. "Let's go!"

Chad gave me a tour of his neighborhood. It is not right on the walkway but it does have some art, a tree, the police liaison, and some adorable gay pride kids who spent the evening working quite hard to create their Betsy Ross lean-to. I call them the gay pride kids because they are young enough for me to have birthed them and because the only civilized aspect of their dwelling is the rainbow flag door. Such cuties.

Once I had agreed to move, Chad lifted the hexagon at the tip of its roof and held it over his head. As he moved me the 40 feet to my new neighborhood he twirled the upside down tent over his head. I couldn't decide whether it looked more like a balloon juggling or a super-human blown glass sculpture floating. He twirled and twirled and we all laughed and cheered as the move-in crew and I followed him to my new spot. It was a lovely little touch of magic and it made the whole evening great.

Since I've never met a stranger I talked to "Lauren" who has been homeless off and on since the 90's. She is greatly appreciative of the Occupy Richmond movement because she never knew that there were people who shared her concerns. They also gave her a brand new tent. She'd been sleeping on park benches.

I met "Dave" with the legal team. I am not sure what it is the legal team does. I told him I had a bail bondsman and he was very impressed. "You come prepared!" Not really. I just have a bail bondsman.

I met "Jericho" who is going into the Army soon but is hanging out at Occupy Richmond to learn about the movement and the issues associated with it. He really wants to stay but doesn't have a tent. I think he is not willing to take the risk, because as the Betsy Ross boys showed - you can sleep under most any kind of shelter. Or in Lauren's case - none at all.

I shared some candy corn with Chad before bed. We talked about the usual things protesters talk about (wink wink): our kids, places we'd lived, philosophy of free will, how comfy insulation sheets under a tent are, obstacles to independence. He and I both had work today so he said goodnight, jumped up, and walked the four steps back home.

My last thoughts before sleep were that people need tents. If you can't have a house or a family, a job or a calling, a car or a plan - you at least need a tent. I remember hearing about Gulf Coast residents who lived in tents on the slabs where there homes had been. In that sense, they were able to not be "homeless" and that was deeply important to them.

I hope my gay pride cuties make some improvements on the Betsy Ross lean-to and then get the word out on the construction guidelines. And whatever it becomes - it should be twirlable.

Free Falling

2011-10-18T20:04:00.000-04:00

I was always a boom boom gal.

If it has a cool beat, I like it. If I can shake my money-maker or boogie with my babies to it, I like it. Most importantly, if one of my buddies wrote it, I like it.
But I am not solely a lyrics gal. Unlike the former Mrs. Gore, I am the person least likely to be in an exercise class and realize I am singing, "Whip me up, whip me down. Love me, Mister, til I hit the ground." (Yeah, I made those lyrics up because I just can't remember whether it was "Like a Virgin" or "Maneater" or what-the-hussie-tune that pissed the Tipp off was.) In an exercise class all I can remember are three little numbers: 9 - 1 - 1.

Here's the thing about lyrics. They are all about breakups. ALL of them, in every musical style, across the eons, across languages and even "Louie Louie".

You think "Follow the Yellow Brick Road", "Puff the Magic Dragon", and "Gin and Juice" are about drugs? Drugs taken due to a breakup, I tell ya.

"Listen to the Music", "Play that Funky Music, White Boy", and the hiiiiiiiills are alive with the "Sound of Music"? Music about breakups, that is.

"How Great Thou Art", "The Old Rugged Cross", and "Amazing Grace"? Should all be subtitled, "Thanks for sticking by me, God, while I snot down my shirt in pathetic, heartbroken self-pity."

Ladies and Gentleman, I have my sense of humor back. But I would be laughing a LOT harder if somebody could make the heartache songs 14 decibels lower than every other song played in the cars beside me, the restaurants, and that little phonograph in my mind.

Gotta go. I am surfing free wifi at a bar and the band's about to start. And I know for a fact that their opening number is not... Aw damn. Not fast enough.

"How Sweet It Is to be Loved by You". Ouch.

You say, "That is not about a breakup! That's a sweet love song." Yeah, just don't say the words "Carly Simon" or "Kathryn Walker" anywhere near Sweet Baby James while he sings it. (Yeah, I did look that second one up.)

Just this once couldn't they give me a rousing rendition of "I'm Looking for a Job and Trying to Lose Weight but I Just Want Onion Rings and Peanut M&M's"? THAT I could dance to.

Oh, sweet Mother of God. "If I Could Change the World" is rolling out now. Bye y'all.

silence

2011-10-04T13:17:00.000-04:00

As a chatty, honest, say what I am thinking blogger I find it VERY hard to blog through certain valleys of life. I have blogged through disease, grief, change of careers, gravity's relentless attack upon my body...

But there are some things which do not belong in blogs.

I happen to be consumed on a daily basis with a valley in my family's life that is best not blogged about. My husband and I are making hard decisions about our future. We have been together since I was a teenager and he was only days into his twenties. We have beautiful children whom we adore in every way. When I see the word "we" I think of the four of us.

We are blessed with support, people to talk to, time, and mutual respect. We have not forgotten to love beautiful Fall days, laugh at the absurd, and relish a delicious meal. Chins are up and days are still one at a time.

All of my thoughts these days are the most personal possible. So I can't talk with you right now. These are not the worst of times. But they are the quietest.

I look forward to reconnecting with you some time. All 14 of you. Peace be with you, my friends.

Bowling, Black Lights, Worship... It Works!!!

2011-08-18T22:10:00.000-04:00

We had the first service of the spiritual block party that is Winding River. A LOT of people came. We needed every single deck chair that was brought and luckily the bowling alley did have a couple dozen folding chairs we could borrow. The theme was "Don't Miss Your Blessing". Every child in attendance (15+ of them) asked to return next week. The musicians and the bowling alley got paid. I did not lose any money.

Now THAT is success.

Music was provided by Velpo on guitar and Roger on sax. It had a street musician kind of feel. They played all jumpy fun stuff. Sara was in charge of the ministry of bubbles. Mary was church secretary. Betye heckled me the whole time.

Jim won the good egg award. Bob earned the voodoo postcard. Laura and Gin almost got in big trouble. Deanna, Betye, and Sam won the door prizes. Mark bowled slowest. One family of four had a complicated scoring system which suggested multiple rule bendings in the interest of family cohesiveness.

Chris drank a beer. David went for soda. Marcia's legs glowed in the black light. Lois giggled. Adelaide drooled. Ian pinched my nose with his toes. Nikki smiled so much I almost cried for joy. Andrea thought I didn't recognize her.

And you. Were you there? Not to rub it in, or anything... but you should have been there. It was low-key, happy, chill, great. The punks AND the hippies called it cool. And the one thing I heard the most was that people felt that they had never had a worship experience like it.

That's pretty much what I was going for.

We have a service this week. 5 PM at Plaza Bowl in Southside Plaza at Belt Boulevard and Hull Street. $7 cover (cash please) but we do have financial aid if needed. Bring a chair. Bowling shoes, worship, music included in the cover. Beverages and snack extra. The theme is "911".

If I do say so myself... I am pretty darn stoked.

This Chickie Thinks #3

2011-08-10T08:55:00.001-04:00

Another in a series of rambling advice columns by a gal whose only credentials are being old enough to know better, and drying her tears while putting on her armor in record time. (Oh, and that seminary degree and nearly two decades of experience in ministry but no one seems to care about intentionally pursued credentials any more.)

Dear Auspicious Jots,

My ex is making my life hell. We have children. HELP?!?!

Signed,
The Almost Universal Agony

Dear Agony,

Is there any interpersonal pain more searing than a sour, burning divorce? And you created life with this person, too? How grand for you all.

This Chickie Thinks that divorce can be the number one test of maturity in an adult. Divorce is the result of a failure to love and that wound is often easier to show as anger than loss. It is seriously ugly stuff and the children's capacity to love can be compromised when divorce is done poorly.

I could write a book here, but no one would buy it because I have never been divorced. So I will make this quick.

You became divorced because you punched each others' buttons in all the wrong ways. To not go crazy you MUST CHANGE YOUR BUTTONS so your ex will not be able to push them. It is time for a long, serious look in the mirror. I hope to God that you did not re-mate up because that will really throw gum in your hair.

Here's what you do. You keep a daily journal and you are not allowed to express your rage at your ex anywhere in the journal. Instead you will write about what you love, what you hope to do with your life, your strengths and your weaknesses, your dreams... anything that will get you focused on your future possibilities to live anew and not your past. You can express your rage to others or talk to yourself about the ex, just not in the journal and PLEASE never in front of the children.

After two months of daily journal writing, you will find a therapist, let your rage explode in 50 minute increments, and you will go to them as long as it takes. The therapist will let you rage about your ex to a point but then will stab your psyche with a sword of your own making if you do not cease at that point. Because the bottom line is this: your ex can't make your life anything you don't let her/him make. You are the one choosing to allow the ex to make your life hell.

Caveat: Whenever you feel your physical safety or that of your children is being threatened - seek professional help and not an advice columnist.

This Chickie Thinks that divorce may be the hardest pain to see your own fault in because people tend to act like such turd buckets. But I guarantee if you get to know yourself better, work through your own stuff, and admit the variety of feelings you have instead of just your rage... you will let the ex do less and less to you.

Dear Auspicious Jots,

I am with the right person but the sex is not working out. Now what?

Signed,
Leave the lights on

Dear Auspicious Jots,

I am with the wrong person but the sex is amazing. Now what?

Signed,
Lights are on but no one is home

Dear Lights,

Sounds like you two have the same problem. Some people get sexual satisfaction out of the wrong partner precisely because they are wrong, while sexually rejecting the person who is best suited to them. It's a freaky human thing.

This Chickie Thinks she has a few questions: Are you able to talk frankly about sex? Is your sexual history a muddled mess? Are you addicted to pornography? Can you be very specific about what makes sex torrid and what makes it blah? Do you have unresolved feelings for someone else?

If you answer yes about having the ability to articulate your sexual interests and to know what you like - there is some hope for resolution here. If you answer yes to any of the other questions - this problem will not be resolved easily, if at all.

This Chickie Thinks (assuming the best)... Lights on - why are you getting naked and sweaty with someone who is wrong for you? That seems self-destructive unless they aren't really wrong in which case it is just mean to pretend they are to get your jollies. Time to move forward or cease because this stasis will demean you both.

No one home - if this is the right person, you had better have the extremely frank discussion about all things sex related soon. That conversation goes much better if you don't have months or years of unsatisfying encounters making you fussy. The good news is that the conversation often solves the problem because talking about it can be sexy which leads to... well, use your imagination. If talking is not a panacea, try mutually agreed upon abstention until you resolve this hurdle. Nothing like not doing it to make you really want to do it and bring you both to a new level.

And since I am in a referring kind of mood, they are called "sex therapists" for a reason.

Dear Auspicious Jots,

I am not comfortable with talking about personal things and certainly not sexual things in a religious context. Your blog is starting to creep me out. Am I a prude?

Signed,
Don't Wanna Talk About It

Dear Don't Wanna,

You are not alone in this. I have started the advice column because people who came to me for pastoral counseling asked questions like these and often felt relieved to hear a minister speak frankly to them. It is not for everyone, though. Many people were raised in cultural or religious environments that shamed any link between the spiritual and the corporeal.

This Chickie Thinks that by putting the same title on the advice entries, you can just skip these and stick with the other blog entries. Also, in my non-existent free time I hope to make my tagging system more systematic so that you can use the labels to find entries that better suit you.

And even if it turns out you are a prude, I can certainly live with that if you can.

Sincerely,
The Jotter

And I Didn't Have to Say Worm Sex!

2011-08-08T19:56:00.000-04:00

It took decades, wars in the Middle East, political unrest at home, the rise of reality television, and a Star Trek prequel but it would seem that at long last - the world needs my completely off-balance, goofy, fun-loving, seize the day and dance in it sense of humor. Thank you, sweet Lawd!!

Do you have any idea how many blank stares and lifted eyebrows have met my ideas over the years? It wasn't until this past weekend that I had the nerve to do a sermon on worm sex just cuz I was inspired to do a sermon on worm sex (and belly buttons, and dead vultures. It worked. I swear!) I finally get old enough, sad enough, strong enough, crazy enough, and tired-of-the-same-old-thing enough to do exactly what I want and I hear a roar of approval from across the country and right here at home. It's almost like "Field of Dreams" but in my case it is "If you think of it and are willing to admit it... they will come!"
Thank you ahead of time to all the people who have said, "A spiritual community in a vintage bowling alley? Cool!"

"You don't have a thin dime in your pocket and you are doing it anyway? Awesome."

"I get to wear whatever I want and bring my own chair? Sounds good to me."

"You never ever want a building with a mortgage? Me neither!"

To answer some other questions quickly: YES to the following

* Plaza Bowl is not 100% accessible but it is accessible in all the areas required for experiencing the service. I will check on the bathrooms this week.

* This is an all ages and truly multi-faith community. Got no idea what you think about spiritual and religious matters? We've got plenty of your kin, too.

* Introverts are welcome! (It was a real question and I am glad it was asked.) I have enough extrovert tendencies to cover most of the room.

* Singles, couples, the widowed, the living "in sin" and loving it, gay, lesbian, married, divorced, bi, transgender, it's complicated... all welcome. If you can't be honest about whom you love in a community like this, I believe it would not be worth it. Just my opinion but it looks like I'm in charge so there it is!

And the answers to the following are NO -

* No smoking in the building

* No furry friends other than service animals. Yes, my bowling ferret is furious and will not speak to me.

* No, you do not have to bowl. Cover charge is the same because it is for the space and the band. The owner is throwing the shoe rentals and the hour of bowling in because he is a really nice man who thinks I am crazy but intriguing.

* No this is not a formal event in any sense of the word. I'm planning to have fun and want you to, as well.

The following is what was posted on the Facebook page for this blog. If you want to get the nitty gritty all along you can "like" Auspicious Jots on Facebook.

Thank you again to you loopy, fed up, fun, wild, loving, friendly, adventure seekers who keep me juiced on this endeavor. For those of you who are supporting this from far away. Yes, there will be t-shirts, bumper stickers, and updates to keep you in the program.

From the Facebook invite which is a public event open to all:

The First Service of Winding River at Plaza Bowl

A Multi-faith, all ages, music loving, spiritual and philosophical community open to the potential zaniness that comes when the Rev. Alane Cameron Miles has the freedom to do whatever she thinks might work in a service.

Bring a deck chair in case we run out and because they will be more comfy. There will be a cover charge because the wonderful owner of Plaza Bowl is allowing me to do this without a prepaid rental fee!!! If you a...re unemployed, in financial distress, or on a limited income - your cover will be taken care of by an anonymous friend.

If you are willing to be an anonymous friend, please contribute in the helping hand bucket.

Please bring cash for the cover. $7 suggested to pay Plaza Bowl and the band. And the cover gets you: the service, the band, AND shoe rental AND an hour of duckpin bowling. We are the ONLY RELIGIOUS COMMUNITY IN RICHMOND who can offer that!

If this service has high enough attendance, it will be followed by two more at Plaza Bowl. Other venues will include outdoor venues, places that may have a double life as "bars" at other times, and anywhere that sounds fun and works for our group size. Whatever that may be.

Theological perspectives welcome include the following and any combinations thereof: Agnostic, Humanist, Uncertain, Christian, Earth Centered, Pantheist, Jewish, Atheist, Given-Up-On-Religion, Muslim, Hindu, Just Looking, Curious, Afraid-that-lightning-will-strike-if-you-enter-a-traditional-house-of-worship, General Theist, Panentheist, and The-One-That-Believes- My-Afterlife-Will-Be-Shared-With-My-Pets.

Attire - whatever makes you happy.

The Brand New Thing

2011-08-01T08:45:00.000-04:00

I imagine my audience when I write. I see both of you hunched over your computers, your faces illuminated by the screen, your jammies a wee bit askew. You, my mother, are reading this with a New Yorker in your other hand, and another window in your computer open to the Metropolitan Opera schedule.

As for the other you, you are harder to imagine.

Sometimes you are pumping your fist and shouting encouragement to me. Sometimes you are scratching your head and weighing whether this time couldn't be better spent doing a crossword puzzle. On good days you are an adorable couple I married, sharing a couch and laughing. On bad days, you are my former seminary professor banging your forehead on a Greek lexicon praying I never mention you by name.

More days than I care to admit, I forget you are there and so am shocked when we run into each other and you say, "That chocolate frosting, fake orgasm post made me giggle." I am momentarily confused and wonder, "Did my Mama tell you about that?"

But here we are, the three of us, and my Mama is nervous. She has considerable trepidation about this brand new thing I have been hinting at. She doesn't trust you not to barrel over me with what you want out of it. And after all these years she is still surprised by me on a regular basis. So I think this will all be easier for the lot of us if I just do this now.

Look, Mama! Let's save up and go to THIS for my birthday this year.

That'll keep her busy for awhile so you and I can talk.

You: Stop with the smoke and mirrors. What is this brand new thing you keep muttering about?

Me: I would like to be part of a multi-faith, inter-generational experiment in worship and community. No one has created one that I feel meets my admittedly unique needs, so I am creating one. Maybe for five months. Maybe for longer. I hope to put music, philosophy, theater and mother nature in a bag, shake vigorously, and see what comes out.

You: How many times have you told me you don't feel like you can be yourself in parish ministry?

Me: Daily. Sometimes hourly.

You: So how is this different?

Me: First of all, this is not a church. It is not a static place - we will be on the move. It is not tied to one tradition - unless it is the tradition of American free-thinking and a quest to be in a community where you can be honest about your beliefs - even if you are not certain what they are yet.

Secondly, I greatly respected the churches I served and morphed as best I could to meet their needs. This time I am creating something that fits my... ummm... rambunctious spirituality, less than subtle personality, and insatiable desire to try new things.

My partner keeps describing it as "low to the ground." (More on the secret partner later.) We experiment. We adapt. We experiment some more. My personal goal is not to begin an institution nor replace an institution. My goal is to try something new, exciting, and challenging without daily meetings.

Thirdly, no mornings, no mortgage, no set liturgy. For awhile you'll have to bring your own deck chair just in case. There will be LOTS of laughs, music, potlucks, asking big questions, meeting new people, in depth discussion, going places we've never been, learning how to be ourselves without being defensive, and commenting on the brilliance and excessive beauty of the children in our midst.

Finally, I would never allow myself to take so much risk in a church that I could unintentionally bring about its failure. As this is not a church, a fellowship, a synagogue, or any other outlet of an established religion - our shared responsibility is only to each other and Richmond. No beloved institution becomes endangered if we change early and often.

In this endeavor, a failure to thrive is not failure. I can live with this not working out. In a brand new thing the only failure to fear is the failure to risk.

You: This sounds pretty Unitarian Universalist to me.

Me: I am a Unitarian Universalist without a doubt, and this endeavor is shaped by my upbringing and daily adherence to that religion. But you know how at some point you walk your own path that is not in the opposite direction of your upbringing but is different?

You: (Blank stare.)

Me: This is imagination at work. I feel much more comfortable taking the risk of people thinking I am over the top than I am having people judge an entire faith tradition based on what comes from my mouth.

There are two excellent Unitarian Universalist congregations in the Richmond area (First and UUCC). They provide religious education for all ages, worship, pastoral care, buildings with roofs, choirs, staff, newsletters, websites, and almost countless activities practically every day of the week. They are full of great people and have been consistently serving liberal religion in this city for decades. If you are looking to join a UU church, to grow in a community with extensive history, or to go to services that are consistent in time/place/ and general content, they are where you go.

If, instead, you are a rebel, a risk taker, opinionated, creative thinker, loud laughing, march to your own drummer, lover of philosophy, unaffiliated, can't get up before 11 AM, afraid lightning will strike you if you go into a house of worship, hope lightning will strike if you are forced to go into one, or just like to watch lightning... you might want to give us a try. Or if you are none of these things but have been ticked off ever since your last birthday because you haven't tried anything new...

You: I hear your mama coming.

Me: Hi, Mama! Have you read about THIS??? (Ok, thanks. But we gotta' hurry. She looked suspicious that time.)

You: Well, I guess the most obvious next questions are: When? Where? And Who"

Me: SUNDAY, AUGUST 14th at 5 PM

I have a verbal agreement on the rental space but want to be sure before I post the fun and surprising location here. Hint: It is in Southside, in the Richmond city limits, and I was guaranteed that services of any kind are a rarity there. It is also a landmark in peril.

Our goal is to meet there the 14th, 21st, and 28th. Then we will have a better idea of who you are and what we want to try next. Maybe we become a 21st century reimagining of the French Salon. Maybe we become a babysitting collective. Or a singles group. Or a hiking club. I wasn't planning on any of those but I am making myself be in the moment on this.

On the 14th I'll be there wearing whatever the heck I feel like. I suggest you do the same. My partner will be there and will be named at that time. And NO, my partner is not a hand puppet, nor a volleyball with a face, nor a ghost. For those of you who are getting a creepy hippie vibe off of this - my partner will cure you of that. We manage to be complimentary opposites. There is a method to my madness and it is my partner.

We are currently calling this group, gathering, series of events: Winding River _________. We can't put the third word in until we meet you and decide whether we are a collective, a chance encounter, or a community. Heck, for all I know, we might end up being a band. (Now we're talking.)

To be sure that you find out everything you need to know, now would be a great time to subscribe to Auspicious Jots and "like" Jots on Facebook in the column to your right. ----------------->

If this didn't clear anything up for you, this may not be your sort of thing. Then again, maybe you should wait and meet the partner first.

As for Mama, I don't think it is her sort of thing, but she is a devoted mama so she'll be there, at least the first time. Chat her up about opera when you see her. And any assurance that you can give her that you will not be an accomplice to my arriving at my grave early would be appreciated.

Too Old to Fake It

2011-07-27T15:27:00.000-04:00

As a young woman I cared about the feelings of others to such a degree that I lied to them. At the time I thought that putting on the cheery face and telling people what they wanted to hear would make life better for us all.

Yep. I was a dumbass. I had more energy then. I haven't become wiser. I'm just too tired for that nonsense. The way I figure it now, if you want lies - watch TV. I'm just not up for the cost of faking it anymore.

Some recent examples.

1) $94 for Thai food that tasted like crap for a family of 5. When I was younger I would have concentrated on the fact that the mangoes were perfectly ripe and delicious and the service was friendly. Now I feel like I'm willing to pay for the mangoes and you nice people owe me about $80.

2) I forget a LOT of information these days. Some doesn't matter. Some matters a LOT. I just don't seem to be able to forget the inane crap and keep the significant tier things like: What was the first day of my last period and was it in the past twelve months? What did my mother and I agree on for childcare today? Have I taken any of my very significant medicine for rheumatoid arthritis... this week?

A younger me would either remember these things or pretend like she did. This pudgy, tired, gray-covered-in-copper version of me says, "How the hell should I know?" And I say it aloud.

3) Speaking of pudgy... I ate frosting last night. Straight out of the plastic container. With my finger. While I am on a diet. It wasn't even the homemade good stuff. And I did it while watching "Urban Cowboy" at 2AM.

In the past I would keep this sort of thing to myself. Today I feel like it is the most noteworthy act I performed this week. And for the record: don't eat Pillsbury choco frosting when you really want Betty Crocker rainbow chip frosting. I would have watched a nature show on the fauna of Alaska and written the next chapter of the great American novella if only I'd had the right frosting.

4) I was talking to unmarried people my age recently and one brought up the topic of faking orgasms.

YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. I don't care how old you are... you are too old to fake an orgasm.

What is the point of that? If you just want to make someone feel good about themselves, keep your clothes on and tell them how great they are. But sex? Sex is not a time for lies, pretend or embellishing the truth. Not when you are young, dumb, and spry. Not when you are old and tired. Just plain NO.

Because pregnancies, STDs, and heartbreak? They don't pretend that they are something they're not.

It doesn't take a Phi Beta Kappa key to find the right spot combinations on someone you like well enough to get naked with. After all the ethical, moral, religious, cultural, practical, and hotness decision making is done - if you are going to have sex, it should be a pleasant experience for all involved. Or is that just some crazy bias I got from the frosting?

5) I want something new out of worship. (How do you like that topic leap? Told you I wasn't about lying for your sake.)

I want something BRAND new out of worship. I want something in the Isaiah sense of, "I am doing a brand new thing" out of worship.

I have been making the rounds the past two years. I've tried Unitarian Universalist as congregant vs. leader, Reform Jewish, Liberal Presbyterian, Church of the Brethren, Society of Friends, Episcopal reflection, Buddhist social activism, suicide loss survivor support, and Black Baptist... but I am not finding what I am looking for. And unlike most spiritual seekers - I know what it is I am looking for.

When I was younger I would pull some punches here. I'm too old to fake it now. If I can't find the worship I want, I am going to make the worship I want. So, in the words of Michael Jackson, "If you wanna' be startin' somethin', you got to be startin' somethin'.'"

I've found a buddy I'm coaxing into helping me. This buddy has some super-spidey-sense skills and appears to be uncompromised by immune system problems. We've agreed that we just want to try ministry without restraint. If only for a season, if it is only the two of us on a rock in the James... it doesn't matter. We're going to try something new.

When I was younger I would say at this point, "This endeavor is for all who..." blah blah blah. Or "You'll like this if..." yadda yadda. But this is not about everyone else. This is about having to do something because I can no longer not do it.

This is ultimately not a selfish venture because I believe that there are others who would like to try a brand new thing, as well. But I am not going to lie to you. I just want to feel what it is like to be unfettered, if only briefly. To go with my gut, even if it is only short-term. To build something I believe in just because I believe in it.

And that's where I've been for the past two weeks - planning a brand new thing. I won’t lie to you.

And yes, your wrinkles make you look older and I like you better that way. Smooth faces are for kids. And as we know, you don't want to be a kid forever. You'll spend too much on Thai food and have a crummy sex life.

This Chickie Thinks #2

2011-07-17T21:33:00.000-04:00

Dear Auspicious Jots,
When you have told a gentleman that you just want to be friends... are you allowed to change your mind?
Sincerely,
Old Gal

Wow! This one is a zinger.

I was married before I left the womb so I have no personal experience in this. That means that I have a TON to say on the subject. Let's take it from both sides, shall we? And let's drop the anonymity because we all know who you are talking about.

So... I am George Clooney and I am deeply hoping to pursue a relationship with Old Gal. She is funny, attractive, confident, and not afraid to rock out some pants with whales on them. I let her know my intentions. She says she would like to just be friends. My pride is wounded. My heart is bruised. But I am George Clooney: a grown ass, healthy man. So I take it like a man on the chin and I am grateful for her honesty.

Now... I am Old Gal. Men like George Clooney are enjoyable in my life but I am at an exploratory point in my personal development. I am trying new things. I now tweet on the twitty thang. I meet strange ministers and befriend them. I tell men like George Clooney that I have doubts. These are positives in my life except...

OH S#!T! That was George Clooney! What was I thinking?!?!

This Chickie Thinks - Tell him. Say, "Honey, I don't know what I was thinking." Then pick one: "It must have been the..." a) "hot flashes", b) "greed based journalism scandals of Great Britain that are rocking their society to the core", c) "that goofy minister I've been hanging out with." Then take your pride, throw it on the floor, stomp it with your espadrille and say, "Would you like to go out with me?"

Either he will say yes or he will say no. And the measure of the man is in the answer. You will either have been right the first go round or you have yourself a date. And you will have my esteem for admitting you were wrong and risking embarrassment by being honest. You go, Old Gal!

Dear Auspicious Jots,
I have a thing for Optimus Prime. It's long term. He does not know my name but I can't help myself.
Sincerely,
Your best buddy from high school

Oh, for Pete's sake, what the hell is wrong with you? You are the most beautiful woman I know AND you are smart as a whip. Will you please spend some time with a human with a Y chromosome and make his year? Come on, woman!

Superheroes and chick flicks. Ugh. You know why they are called chick flicks? Because they reduce us to looking down at the ground for pieces of popcorn when we should be looking at the sky and coming up with something better to do with our wings than fatten them up so they'll be good with barbecue sauce.

Okay, that was the wine talking. But I will say that I hate hero flicks and chick flicks because they lie to women. They tell us that these men with dreamboat looks are going to understand us to our core, put up with our crap, read our minds, and rock our worlds. (Yes, I mean you, Dermot Mulroney, Colin Firth, and Adam Rodriguez.)

The truth is that very ordinary looking men who can't lift cars or fly have hearts of gold, will worship and adore us, may be smarter than we are, may have a crooked grin and get the hiccups when they drink beer, but will go to the moon and back for us. You don't have to be a superhero to be steady and true.

That had absolutely nothing to do with your question. But I've been wanting to get that off my chest for awhile. So, back to you.

This Chickie Thinks you need to take a nice man who makes you laugh and is fun to be around when you lay down that next ten dollars to go see Transformers AGAIN in 3D. Because I know you are going. And I also know a hundred men who would love to go with you and look into your lovely face when you admit your passion for Optimus Prime.

In other words, share your geek-love-freak-flag with the world, baby, but don't give your heart to the robot forever.

Dear Auspicious Jots,
I am plugging along at my calling but I feel like I am spinning my wheels. Should I just say screw it and drown my sorrows in a gallon of gin?
Sincerely,
Ripe Life

You already know the answer. We all do. As I said to my daughter at Skateland today who could skate no more than three feet before falling: If you can dance, you can skate. Breathe. Relax. Bend your knees. Don't look at the floor. Wherever you look there you go. You can do it. Just get up and try again. You got it, baby. You got it.

Again, that is not totally appropriate to your situation, but This Chickie Thinks it is true that where you focus you go. And I don't want you at the bottom of that gin bottle and neither do you. Watch the sunset with a few close friends, share the gin, laugh til you need to pee, get up the next day and try again. You got it, baby. You got it.

Dear Auspicious Jots,
I have not blogged in over a week. My broadband went out and I tried to be macha and fix it myself. Finally I got professional help. Lightning had struck the box so there was nothing I could have done. Now I feel like an idiot and won't blog.
Sincerely,
Auspicious Jots

Oh, shut your whining snot-nosed, self-centered yapping up. Aren't you the person who misspelled alliteration in your last blog post? Who cares? There are bigger problems out there. Just write, you goofball.

PS- Old Gal owes me a cocktail because I blogged before her deadline AND answered her question. I would like an umbrella in it, Old Gal. Even if it is a beer.

This Chickie Thinks #1

2011-07-07T21:58:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the weekly advice column of Auspicious Jots where we take concepts like "advice" and "weekly" pretty loosely. Like all advice columns I accept questions. Because I am new and foolish, I will take all kinds of questions until someone offends or stumps me, at which point I will take all kinds of questions except those.
This week's questions come from Mabel in Missouri and Blake from Birmingham, Alabama. (Not their real names, nor their real hometowns but I do love me some illiteration.)

Mabel writes, "My boyfriend and I are madly in love and are getting very serious. We only have one issue that often causes us to argue. I like to IM, text, tweet him throughout the day. He says, it is annoying. Then my feelings get hurt. Then he gives in and the cycle starts all over again. Please help."

Ah, relationship advice! Don't tempt the minister to get started. Remember, I have watched the dynamics of a couple hundred weddings first hand. I am a traumatized soul on the subject of human mating rituals, but since you ask - let's start with some questions you need to ask each other.

Mabel, why is it important for you to communicate so often? Are you anxious, self-conscious, jealous, bored at work, or do you want to let him know every time you think of him? Are you hoping to marry him for his money? Are you keeping him busy so he doesn't find out about your previous life as a (fill in the blank: accountant, Cowboys fan, man)?

Mabel's Man, how does the frequent texting, etc. come off to you? Does she seem pushy, neurotic, disruptive, disrespectful, or abundantly affectionate? Does she spell for crap? Is she disturbing your work romance? Is she reminding you of your ex (fill in the blank: lover, boss, mother)?

Another question: is money a factor here? Is this a simple data plan disparity issue?

My guess is - that it is none of these things. The most likely culprit is that Mabel is a person who has a lifestyle with some freedom to do what she wants whenever it strikes her and Mabel's Man is a man with structure, either self-imposed or career related. That's the good news.

The... ummm... other news is if you do not talk about this one now and get to the bottom of it, the core issue will just keep coming up in new ways. This chickie thinks you need to be honest with yourselves and each other about what lies at the heart of this conflict. Skip the adjectives and use big heavy nouns like: respect, commitment, boundaries, fear, emotional accessibility and I-don't-want-to-get-fired-ness.

I would like to point out a troubling dynamic that the otherwise mundane question highlights: when Mabel's feelings get hurt, Mabel's man concedes to her wishes which are not in his best interest. Instead of appreciating the compromise, Mabel barrels back into the habit (a la the Talking Heads), "same as she ever was".

Mabel's man, this chickie thinks your behavior is what we call, repeat after me - CO-DE-PEN-DENT. Not good for you. Not good for Mabel. To keep her, you need to know who you are and communicate it to her.

Mabel, this chickie thinks your behavior is what we call, repeat after me - Selfish as Hell and Then Playng the Martyr. Whoops, outside voice. Let's try that again. Mabel, you need to brush up on your compromise skills, particularly if your communications of affection are sincere. To keep him, you need to respect who he is.

A final option - you two should become doubly incensed that I would suggest such things and in your shared ire for me unite, bond, and make sweet love to prove how wrong I am. This option works all the time. No lie. In fact, I would consider this day a success if all my readers ended the reading of this column with some canoodling. Life is short, my babies. Share some physical affection.

As for Blake in Birmingham who is worried about his/her (wasn't specified) weight gain, this chickie thinks she has no room to talk about this issue thanks to her wide posterior and her chattiness with Mabel and her man who, gotta' be honest, had the better question so got more pixels.

Blake, the bottom line(sorry about the pun) is: it is time for some math. Find out your Body Mass Index and how many calories you should consume daily. Your doctor is the best source of this information and is another person keenly interested in your being a healthy weight.

Next, track how your calories are entering you through a faithfully documented and portion accurate food diary (there are plenty of online choices). Adjust meals according to the unhealthy trends you discover.

Then track how the calories are being burned through an exercise log (my favorites are phone apps). Exercise is good for you no matter what this chickie in the orthopedic boot may think.

Finally, according to my buddy Michael, who recently lost the equivalent of a second grader carrying a skateboard and a full backpack, burn through exercise more of the calories you eat.

Michael also suggests that you lose weight because you feel so good about yourself that you want to live longer and not because you want to look hot in those chaps. This chickie thinks healthy weight loss is a long, slow process so whatever inspiration you need is ok with her.

This chickie also thinks she's done for the day. Send in your questions for next week. Don't worry, Mabel and her man were a composite of every relationship I've seen in the past 17 years. When you ask your question I won't call you selfish or co-dependent.

I hope you know I am lying.

A Toast to Continuing Education

2011-07-05T11:32:00.000-04:00

The dogs need to go out. The bills need to be paid. I am in my jammies at 11. I need to go to work. And I should probably be concerned by that screeching of children followed by a loud banging.

But instead... Sounds like blogging time to me.
Time to review my month of blog improvement. The great thing about this blogging class I am taking... well, there are several great things.

1)It is all female bloggers.

In my pseudo-retirement from ministry I find I am spending more time with groups of women. My working life has often been all male or mostly male. My retirement life has been more about hanging out with women. It is so hard to find a good men's quilting, scrapbooking, or blogging club these days.

Some of the high points of my new femme life include: getting to know these diverse bloggers, the PJ scrapbooking party where one of the gals brought me a six pack of Miller High Life, and my buddies at Quilting Adventures who keep up with me virtually when I am forbidden by my bank and my conscience from entering the store.

2) Homework

I've gotten plenty of positive feedback about the recent blogging. Thank you. Thank you. Your check's in the mail - please hold it for a week or two before cashing. I have to confess - it was all homework. Semi-retirement has been bad for me because of the lack of deadlines. I am pretty amazing at juggling the impossible. I am pretty crappy at a reasonable schedule. Homework = good.

3) Moms

There are a lot of mom bloggers in the class and the blog instructor's circle. Thanks to them I feel I can tell you that my son just came upstairs concerned about the state of his sister's underpants. Thanks to them I can admit that sometimes I dream of a college that is so hard and so post-adolescence-thrilling that my children won't come home in the summer. Thanks to them I can share that I am getting leaky-eyed as we approach the 6th and 9th birthdays but that I'm pretty sure a beer (NOT Miller High Life) and a long nap could get me through it.

4) Techno-rama

Other than the way it looks, I am very pleased with the technical improvements to the blog. Twitter feed! Whoa. Now I am starting to regret the Twitty thang because I hear from actor Alec Baldwin, comedian Patton Oswalt, a very talented opera performer, and singer/songwriter Jason Isbell with such regularity that I feel they should allow me to intervene in their lives, because really - guys, it does not have to be like this. Or maybe I'll let the opera dude do it. He seems centered.

5) The courage to go unedited due to the last homework deadline...

I greatly appreciate the kudos and love I receive from readers. But I have to confess. Writing does not come easy for me. I am embarrassed by the length of time I spend sweating over the keyboard. I am never satisfied with the final product, no matter how many times I tell the children to go out and play in the uranium mine so I can finish writing.

So thanks to the class (which ends tonight) I have made myself write more, be less satisfied with the product, and just get something out there. And holy crap what a difference that makes! I have had so much more interaction with readers which has always been my blog goal. There have even been some fun suggestions that have come out of this that I am toying with.

Fun/Ludicrous Suggestions from Readers!!!

- Please have an advice column

- Please put church reviews on your blog - name names, give directions, thumbs up, thumbs down

- I never know what you mean with the theology terms. Please have a "Thumbnail Theology" corner because I think you could explain it in normal language.

- There should be an outrageous event of the week. You seem to have enough for a daily but no pressure.

- Where is the Auspicious Jots reader? I want to hold paper in my hands.

- Change the layout and be funny again. Love, Dave (Heh heh - ongoing joke there. I love you, David)

Keep those suggestions rolling in or just vote on these. Thank you to the Visual Arts Center of Richmond for the great class. Thank you to my husband who went to sleep with the light on while I typed away on more than one occasion. And thanks to my children who sound like they are playing with a jackhammer in the dining room right now. I wonder if that is underpants related?

P.S. - This post is unedited. All mistakes are the fault of my blog instructor.

Homework

2011-07-01T01:17:00.001-04:00

Even bloggers get homework. In an effort to fix some of the issues that have plagued this blog I am taking a class. This class has promised to help me be more techno savvy. Those of you who have read the blog from the start know that my original blog name was Rev. Luddite so this knowledge does not come easy.

My latest lesson is one in formatting. As we all know, I have lengthy posts. Word on the street is that some of you would like to be able to scroll through and see which ones you have already read more easily. This formatting jump break is an attempt to do just that. So far... it has not worked.

Have you ever read HTML? Yes? How can you be a fan of the vague goofiness of this blog and have the ability to read HTML? God bless ya. I've been gazing and scrolling through code from midnight until 1:30 AM. It looks like those holy tattoos in Thailand to me. I am almost positive Angelina Jolie has a tattoo in HTML.

Aw, hells bells! It worked. Look out, world! Mama's got a brand new dance. I just changed my preview feature while editing and BEHOLD! And then she said...

In future blogs look for the And then she said... when viewing the blog from the home page. You will be able to see the intros to multiple postings at a glance. Water boarding has got to be easier than this. Thank you for your patience. Excuse me while I go brush my teeth and do my victory dance in the bathroom mirror.

Postcards

2011-07-01T00:42:00.003-04:00

You know why I can’t remember numbers? It could be because I can feel and taste music and colors. Or imaybe it is because I have never recovered numerical memory since I had viral meningitis. Maybe I hold my cell phone too close to my head. I am sure one of these excuses is the culprit. All are equally true.

One of my buddies is a postcard dude. Sends me great ones. From his travels or with funny pictures. They all just have a line or two. He could have emailed, texted, or tweeted any of them. But he is a postcard dude.

Most of the nooks in our home have one of his postcards propped in them by now. They are a testament to his retro cool style and his friendship. They are constant reminders of my failure as a postcard gal.

I buy the postcards. Sometimes I put his address on them. Other times I put a stamp on them waiting for the temporary dyslexia to ebb so I can recall his street address AND zip code. That’s nine numbers! Way too many for a quantitatively challenged color nibbler like myself.

The end result is that I have a lovely postcard collection and he has a few postcards all sent from the city we live in often in multiple batches on the same day. Somewhere in my home and/or office are dozens of unsent postcards just waiting for me to become a person who can write a message, remember some numbers, and stick a stamp all within 10 minutes.

Have you ever noticed that most of us just can’t manage to transform into what we would like to be when it is completely contrary to who we are?

Every wedding season’s bridal magazines touting the “perfect day” get me to thinking about how people try to change themselves and each other in their closest relationships and then wonder why their dream shatters. When we try to change ourselves for someone else beyond our natural abilities for change, we are left either failing because we overreached or soulless with the success of pretending to be what we are not.

I don’t mean this in a gloomy, “We’re all hopelessly stuck” way. I mean it in a, “Some of our traits are who we are supposed to be” way.

It has been 17 years since I began my road to ordained ministry. 11 years since my ordination. Almost 2 years since I left parish ministry. And now that I do not have to be what hundreds of people expect or need me to be I am back to being myself.

Ordinary me has not changed no matter how much I tried to snip away at her to make that clerical robe look more at home on my free-thinking frame...

Articulate in obscenities in a way unbecoming to a woman of the cloth. Fan of hops when my medicine allows it. Quick to tears and quicker to giggles. Closet looks like I robbed the sets of four very different theatrical productions. Like my fiction, my friends, and my politics on the non-conformist side. Cluttered and disheveled in appearance even when keen and focused. Rotten at remembering numbers.

I spent the better part of two decades trying to be more suitable to a wider audience. I am sure you know what I am talking about. Everyone does it. I just do it more poorly than most.

Yes, I was the one in a pulpit with pink hair, Frankenstein’s bride hair, wearing cowboy boots, beaded heels, or barefoot. Preaching about comic books, and love songs, and pastoral care as given by a good DJ. I taught atheists about Jesus, Christians about the Tao, and introverts about getting up and dancing.

But I was holding back. Trust me. I was holding WAY back.

I know that there are those who think I have just given up being a minister. I haven’t given up on me, given in to the power of orthodoxy over innovation, or given myself over to the sloth and illusionist thinking of popular culture. I am giving myself time.

We can change our minds, our appearance, our careers, our neighborhoods. We can change many a small ingredient of ourselves but we cannot change who we are. The trick is in knowing who we are in the first place so we do not waste our time trying to perfect that which was meant to be the way it is.

Someone thinks you are done. Someone has given up on you. Someone expects you to be a way that makes you miserable to fake being. Someone thinks you should gain/lose weight. Someone thinks you should work more/less. Someone thinks you need to speak up/shut up/get up/give up. Someone is wrong/right about you.

If that person who knows what needs to change is you, then the rest will fall in place. You don’t have to be conventional to know who you are but you do need self-knowledge to successfully change yourself. And there are just some parts of you that it is time to embrace.

Last time I checked - my postcard buddy still enjoyed getting my cards, even laughing when they come in clumps after a long dry spell. He knows me. I know him. I am still striving to be better at this postcard stuff. I have time.

So do you.

Joyous Loving Frolic Dance

2011-06-26T19:41:00.001-04:00

Step one: Step ball change, Kick, Spin. Take 16 to Charlotte for the boa brigade.

It was the Unitarian Universalist Association's General Assembly. I was awarded Final Fellowship at long last. I did not want to go, did not want to participate, did not want to send in a photo. The more rambunctious of my pals and kin had other plans. So we went. In a caravan.

The back of my vehicle said: UU GAsm - Did I win a prize? Imagine this: I did not write that.

I packed gift bags, food, boas, Mardi Gras beads, clothes for the kids, meds for our boarder, videos, books, robe... and a suitcase that did not make the trip. We arrive and I have no make-up, no hair fixins, no jewelry.

When did I become a woman who needed such things? Somewhere on the drive down.

So I hobbled across a highway to a Cottage of Hair Fashions. Real name. I believe it had a sub-title along the lines of "Lady T's Blessed Aesthetic Academy." I don't make these things up.

Step 2 Twirl. Spritz. Twirl. I got black hairstyled. Yes. The stylist was really happy because of the challenge.

Me: Just some curls, please.

Her: Nobody wants curls anymore. I don't have an iron, baby.

Me: Well, what are those tuning forks for?

Her: They aren't for real hair, honey. They will burn your soft locks up.

As it was, the straightening iron she tricked into becoming a curling iron caused a puff of smoke every time it touched my hair. I couldn't smell anything burning but it is Sunday and I still don't have a single curl in my naturally curly hair.

As she gave my follicles her all we discussed genetics as far as what color your babies pop out as. Her stories were better than mine. Chocolate. Cinnamon. Speckled coffee. Tan. Brown hair, black hair, orange hair.

All I had to contribute was, Pink and Milky pink.

My hair was not particularly up for the challenge but let me just say this: I don't know what is going on with the direction of Unitarian Universalist governance these days, but their diversity initiative seems to have failed. Yeah, there were people of color, but I was the only person I could find who had black hairspray on.

Yes, it is different. Smells better, probably better for the environment. Makes white girl hair look way different.

Step 3: Shimmy, shimmy cocoa puff. My friends and family look awesome in feathers, beads, and bright colors.

If you don't include my family, I have known the people who accompanied me for this adventure for 165 combined years. Several have known me since I was short and stick thin. I know their kids, their co-workers, their relatives, as well as their questions about politics and black hairspray. I would not have done this trip without them and I would have regretted it.

Step 4: Suggestive Vamping

On the ride home the back window read, Preach Naked. Again - this was not of my doing. I think we drove through Lynchburg like that. I fell asleep as a protective mechanism.

Step 5: The Wedding March

A woman with whom I went to college asked me to do her wedding. She and I have run into each other a dozen times over the past two decades. Neither of us has changed much. Originally we met at a college dance. She was wearing orange and shiny. I was wearing blue and shiny. There was a magnetic force in all that metallic taffeta. Or maybe it was the white hairspray.

This weekend we met at the top of the aisle in her friends' backyard. She was wearing cappuccino shiny. I was wearing black and green shiny. There was a very sweet man staring at her and grinning ear to ear. I asked him if he might want to marry her. He enthusiastically agreed.

It was a great UU wedding. Their tribe of friends provided the chairs, the cakes, the toasts, the music, the heckling, the food. No one was sweating about the wrong things. We were laid back, smiled often, and talked about art, philosophy, the environment, and icing. Good UU crowd, many of them familiar because of years of ministry in the Commonwealth of my birth. Combined knowing years, probably 80-100.

Step 6: Grab your partner and do-si-do. Slip past the devil and away you go!

I preached in Williamsburg at a UU congregation with which I have a 20+ year relationship and combined knowing years of the the many old friends in the room is at least a couple of centuries. When I preach there people give me knowing smiles, and I actually know what they are smiling about. I am not a fan of preaching but I do like them. So when I Facebooked that I wasn't feeling like preaching, one of them Facebooked me back telling me to get my sweet patookus down there.

The beautiful pianist is pregnant again and we talk about the last time we were both pregnant. She flawlessly plays Bach, some of my faves. Some founding members give me hugs and ask after my husband. My favorite gentle thorn in my side reminds me that I have not yet done ANYTHING on my other website as I had promised. And then he gently reminds me again that he will help me. Another favorite reminds me he only rolls out of bed on Sundays for my preaching.

Four of my friends who have to burn some gas to go to any UU congregation, burnt some gas and came down just to see me and hear about my topic of the day: evil. We laughed all morning.

Sigh. It is like a family reunion without the awkward blurtings and the booze.

And then one who was lost walked right up to me in her Converse sneakers and unforgettable Brit accent and nonchalantly asks, "Did you get my message, dahling? Are we going to lunch together?"

No, I did not get her message. And I had not seen her dahling self in 12 YEARS! I recognized her immediately and we picked up right where we left off: talking politics, lesbian fashion, fishing, borderline personality disorder, and food. It made me so happy. A lost friend found. I forgot to tell her about black hairspray. I think it would work great on her hair.

Step 7: Do the Frog, Sugah!

One last thing... in 1997 my mentor and I started hiding a motion sensitive plastic frog under each other's desks. He loved it when I would scream and start cussing as it would ribbit from its secret hiding place. I loved it when he would not find it for days.

When my mentor moved away so did the frog. Then the frog showed up at my ordination. Later the frog showed up at his retirement ceremony in Maine. The frog showed up at the hospital when my first child was born. That child won't give the frog up.

The frog came to Charlotte, likes boas, and still thinks UUs are some of the most aggravating, independent, brilliant, and surprising people in the world. Just like that mentor.

Rolfe, I love you. Thank you for believing in me. There is no greater gift you can give me. The frog and I continue our adventures in ministry, our debt to you immeasurable. Save the frog some flies. Save me some bad jokes.

Love always, Me.

Insert CanCan kickline here.

Dancing Queen Minister Angst and Honor

2011-06-23T08:23:00.001-04:00

I can't believe I am going through with this.

I am getting ready to hit the road with 15 people I love to go to a ceremony in Charlotte. It is called Final Fellowship. It's a Unitarian Universalist minister thing. I have mixed feelings about it. That's why I invited my family and friends. If I hadn't - I would not be going right now. I'd be thinking about smoothie flavors.

Now I am doing both. Mango.... yum.

So here we go. It is an earned privilege and an honor to receive final fellowship they tell me. If I were not an office manager, boogie mama, Gulf Coast rebuilder, home brewer, full body tambourine player, occasional guest performer in local bands, bail bondsman's assistant, and ethics instructor for funeral directors... it might feel less weird.

I've got Trombone Shorty blasting on the hi fi. I have goodie bags for all my fellow travellers packed. I have more Mardi Gras beads, feather boas, and party supplies than anyone else going to this thingy. Guaranteed.

And I have the best friends, supporters, fans, nudgers, family and co-conspirators anyone with the job description listed above could hope for.

So here we go. I feel kind of sick to my stomach.

If you want to watch this thing it can be found at http://www.uua.org/ and is called the Service of the Living Tradition. Tonight some time. And they may have it online for awhile. I don't really know.

Or even better - find me at a music venue this summer. I'll be more in my element.

Gotta finish packing. Feeling wobbly and nervous. Trombone Shorty is egging me on.

Here.
I.
Go.

Poopy Diaper Attitude

2011-06-21T16:54:00.001-04:00

A negative outlook is a force matched only by the intense desire to eat buttered popcorn after 10 PM, the natural aversion to public humiliation except when intoxicated, and procrastination during the tax season.

I am Miss Fussy Pants these days and there seems to be nothing to do about it. I keep telling friends I don't want to talk about it. Then I mope. I keep trying to 'fake it til I make it' and I fail at both. So here's my time-tested tactic used in every situation with equally poor results: the blurting rant.
** On the subject of blogging:

I can't write with that giant dog pee stain staring at me from the living room carpet. It's under a thick film of baking soda but I know it is there.

I can't write because my laptop makes my thighs sweat. Sounds good but feels bad.

I can't write because one of my best friends hates the new look of the blog and says I am not funny any more. He was really nice about it all. He was not getting revenge for when I dragged him out on the dance floor this weekend in front of our former high school classmates and rested my head on top of his. I'm sure he wasn't.

I can't write on the blog because I am working on an intricate, deep sermon on evil and a brief, sweet homily for a wedding. If I blog now I might get them confused this weekend.

** On the subject of religion

The former preacher's kids have put their wee lil' feet down again and rejected another house of worship; the fifth excommunicated by them since we embarked upon our post-parish-ministry-professional-code-enforced-religious-wandering.

The kindergartner looked up at me with tired eyes and a sketchbook full of Picasso worthy scribbles during services this week and wearily asked, "Are we Christian now?"

I hastily whispered, "Sweetie, we're Unitarian Universalists. Same as we have always been. You know - 'think like a Jew, give like a Christian'. But we can go to different places and hear them talk about God differently and know it is all the same God, even if..."

"Can I have a snack? Are they passing out the crackers today?"

"No, that is first of the month, honey," I whisper back."It is called communion, remember? I think they are just blessing babies today."

"Can I go to the nurse's office and eat my snack?"

Yes, we were at a church so large it has its own fully stocked nurse's office.

And later we found out that we were in a church so large that it has a security problem so a child is not allowed to walk from her seat to the nurse's office six feet from the sanctuary door. We found this out from security officers (yes, plural) with twirly ear pieces who took us aside to explain to us that they had been "monitoring the situation" and the 20-45 seconds of solo travel was too risky.

Kafkaesque? Yes indeedy.

The kindergartner sobbed loudly and begged to never go back. The nurse's office and the church restaurant had been her favorite parts. Yes, I said restaurant. No, I will not make her go back.

Her brother had already bailed two weeks earlier saying he thought everyone was staring at him because he was the only white boy in a room of 1,500 people. He was. They were perfectly nice, I thought. At least security was not involved. No, I did not make him go back.

** On the subject of that @#$% dog

The puppy is now one year old. She jumps the fence each morning to give people walking down the street an opportunity to scowl, admonish, and pass judgment on her careless owners all before 9 AM. Then she trots around the house to the front door and waits to come back in and take another nap, her work done.

I looked over at her sleeping sweetness as I typed this only to realize that she has snuck back on the forbidden couch and there is a small pile of vomit between my orthopedic boot and the pee stain.

I can't write with multiple canine body fluids in eyesight.

** On the subject of health

The orthopedic boot is one of those big black bulky contraptions to fix my foot that was injured, probably mildly, until I walked on it for three weeks. I will be in it for at least another two weeks.Well-meaning people ask how I hurt it. I have to respond that I don't know. They give me that "another clergy alcoholic" look.

I try to explain that one of my meds is bad for my bones and another seems to have given me an internal bleeding issue. I suggest that maybe that's what did my foot in. They nod and give me that "so this is what Munchhausen's Syndrome is all about" look.

My son's teacher asked if I broke it trying to kick my son. The clerks and deputies at the courthouse asked if I broke it trying to kick the boss/my husband. The neighbor asked if I broke it trying to kick the dog. The atheist asked why I didn't try to get it healed at the big house of worship. The buddy who doesn't like the new blog look told me I still look foxy in the boot thus saving everyone else (including him) from gratuitous boot violence.

I give them all the "I am a loose cannon, please stop talking" look. It works almost as well as my positive re-programming does. So I just have to keep coming up with plausible sounding answers. My next will be a yawn and a stretch followed by an understated, "Co-ed rugby match." And then I will crack my neck and do a quick "you want some of this?!" look with eyebrow lift.

** Potty attitude summary

So as you can see, I can just internally grumble grumble all day long. And what makes me fussiest of all is that I really have nothing to grumble about.

The children are healthy. The new resident in our home is safe and relatively happy. The dog is down to jumping the fence only once a day. I have friends who care enough to tell me the truth and to pick on me lovingly. The foot is healing very slowly, but healing. And I have yet to be forced to watch 98% of what is on television these days. That last one has nothing to do with anything on this post, but it still brightens every day a little.

I blurted some of this to a distinguished gentleman I know. He gave me a look I had not seen in awhile. It was the "Sister, I know exactly what you mean" look. Just telling him made me feel better and I thought the empathetic listening alone might bring on an upswing.

Then he said with great care in his refined accent, "What you need is the right combination of marijuana and prescription pain medicine. Everything will be just fine once you get those mathematics worked out."

Well...

He is probably right. But you think I am fussy now? Just wait until I am juggling rehab and jail time. How am I supposed to organize a scrapbook party and encourage the kids in their State Fair arts and crafts preparation from the Big House? My luck - my prison job will be to preach, my community service will be blogging, and they'll house me with the @#$% dog.

Instead of taking his advice I now have sweaty thighs and I have to scrub the rug in two places before I go to bed. Oh wait, I just looked over and someone on four legs took care of the vomit while I was typing. Gag!

What has become of my world when disappearing vomit is the high point of a day?

I think I'll just answer that with a simple, "Better."

What to Save What to Let Go

2011-06-16T12:18:00.001-04:00

The nasty side effect of having an open mind is the frequent imperative to change it in light of new information. I spend an inordinate amount of time saying, "You were right. I was wrong."
Last night I had to admit to my sci-fi book club that the book I boycotted on principle was really good after I read it.

Yesterday afternoon I had to tell my son that I was being too fussy about the wrong something while he was being perfectly reasonable about the more important and safer something. I'll be glad when he turns 9. There's way more dignity in a daily admission that you are wrong to someone who is almost 10 than to someone who was 7 not very long ago.

And now I am confronted with a stickler on one of my long-held beliefs.

I am a pretty staunch preservationist. Or so I thought. I grew up in an historic neighborhood with a castle across the street and a Civil War monument on the corner. I have roller skated on cobblestones. I anthropomorphized a century old house at 5, lived in multiple19th century and early 20th century homes, and (according to my darling mama) only attended institutions of higher learning that were architecturally stunning.

The S word is "sprawl." The D word is "demolition." The F words are " another @#$% suburban planned community", "another @#$% strip mall", and "another @#$% Wawa, CVS, WalMart, fast food restaurant, etc.".

So imagine my surprise when I read the recent list of endangered, historically significant places and felt a little doubt in my preservationist bones. The doubt comes from that durn open mind of mine.

The doubt creeped in with Fort Gaines which has lost 400 feet due to erosion. I am all for the preservation of civil war and revolutionary battlefields.They can become stunning green spaces and, in the midst of constant urban encroachment, a green quiet space reminding us of the past is positive on so many levels.

As a pacifist, I also appreciate them as a constant reminder of the horror of war in one's own country as well as a reminder of my imperfect pacifism.

Would I have wanted the Revoliutionary War to have ended differently? Not at all. Have I yet to figure out a way that could have been resolved by our ancestors without armed resistance? Nope. The battlefields are places that keep me chewing on my philosphical contradictions. Not to mention that they honor the dead, the wounded, and the ones who were left behind which is a practice close to my heart.

But erosion. Well, in some ways it is natural. In other ways it is our punishment for our rapacious lust for modernization at the expense of the earth. Either way... it is a sign for change.

In a world of limited resources I believe we should not waste time on reality television, selfish lovers, waxy chocolate, ugly shoes, non-organic lawn care, nor stopping the erosion of a battlefield for history's sake. For ecological reasons - sure. For national pride - I don't think so.

But then again, I could be wrong. It happens with painful frequency. Check out the endangered places link and let me know the ones that make you think twice.

This Just Crawled In

2011-06-14T23:24:00.001-04:00

Note - Since this posting I changed my blogger i.d. from "Death Becomes Her" to "The Jotter". Neither is satisfying, but I did not want to confuse you any more than my ramblings already confuse.

Ever since I did not show up at the royal wedding the rumblings among my 18 fans have increased until this morning when they reached a dull roar at last. At least that is what I have interpreted the AM hollerin' in the Mickey D's parking lot beside my office to mean.

To settle a few things I have seen in the supermarket tabloids about myself lately - These assertions are false:
Death Becomes Her (DBH) died in a limbo accident (We all know it would be clogging or two-stepping.)

DBH has a new job (I tried to put shirker as my IRS taxable profession but I never bothered to send it in.)

DBH is moving. (There is a Smartbox in my yard but it involves some scheme between my mother and son to get his room clean. It is currently holding two small boxes of treasures and has become a perch for the block's avian population.)

DBH is on the road with a band (if only.)

However, at some point aliens will land on earth and probe the tender private spots of people who have stopped taking their medicines. So the gawkers and gossips do get a few things right sometimes. These assertions are true:

Death Becomes Her has felt angry lately and is not into angry posts.

DBH is having a crisis of faith. For those of you who are not Unitarian Universalist, YES we believe in something and YES we believe in it strongly enough to be aggravated when we feel our religious institutions work against our faith beliefs. (I think my Catholic readership just tripled. Welcome to all three of you!)

DBH did go back to rebuild New Orleans and strongly considered not coming back to her home but her lovely family prevailed. If you are looking to rid yourself of some Magazine Street property call me.

DBH has spent considerable time of late inspecting the dance floors of a variety of cities. The ones checked so far have passed but the inspector's work is never done.

DBH has lost her focus and does not know what to write about.

That pretty much sums it up. When a blogger loses her focus - look out. She becomes just another failed vice-presidential candidate, Disney backed singer, or talking head on Fox news. See what I mean? Those were such dull and easy shots. I've got the mega blahs.

In the dim light of the blahs, I have tried some solo and group therapy lately which has taught me the following things about myself (but we'll put it in 3rd person to pretend it is about some pitiful stranger):

1) people with abandonment issues do not cope well with suicide loss;

2) eating more can control extreme hypoglycemia while also packing 10 or more lbs on you;

3) there is nothing on TV that will make you feel better so don't turn it on;

4) old pain still hurts.

Important lessons all but I see some of you taking an extra hit of mocha latte to counteract my doldrums so here are a few upbeat updates for the loyal fans:

In music - I do really enjoy the latest Lee Rocker CD. A Stray Cat covering "Honky Cat" is surprisingly enjoyable. Meanwhile Richmond's own The Chiggers have a new CD out and if you don't get the blues from "Every Saturday Night is Las Vegas" or shake some part of your body to "Roller Derby Girl" go to the ER immediately because your soul is broken. Download from iTunes, eMusic, or Amazon or show up to a gig and buy one of the purdy cd's.

In fashion I think the return of wedges is mildly hilarious. Let the ankle specialists begin buying vacation property! As for my sassy red polka dotted ones, they were a present from the Easter Bunny and no one looks a gift hare in the whiskers.

The roses are extra beautiful this year. Neglect spawns abundance.

My new dog continues to be a maniac. Neglect spawns a bounding nuisance.

My daughter interpreted a Picasso drawing called "Coupling" as "A boy, a beast and a cloud. And look! They're snuggling."

My son may use the Smartbox as a clubhouse and skip the room cleaning.

My husband is longer suffering than the last time you heard about him.

The undertaker bail bondsman continues to entertain. He is still pursuing his lifelong dream to organize a flashmob all dressed as nuns, start a pagan retreat center, make the perfect pork butt, and splash in as many bodies of water as possible before the Fall commencement of school.

So you see, you have not missed that much in two months.

See you for Independence Day!
Death Becomes Her

Ain't Looking for the Devil No More

2011-06-14T21:24:00.002-04:00

"The Devil came down to Virginia,

he was looking for a soul to believe in him..."

Or something like that. I'm down to one degree of separation between me and Charlie Daniels - it gives me liberal misquoting privileges.

Since my post on evil I have attended two Black Baptist services, an Evangelical service, and received a personal invitation to a Jehovah's Witnesses event that mysteriously disappeared from the dining room table this morning. My husband knows I will go if I can only find the durn invite.

So how does this happen? How does an over-educated, liberally religious, politically progressive, feminist end up in three of the most patriarchal, devil-believing, biblically literal religious traditions to be found in a Bible belt capital?

As the Catholic sorority sister said when arrested with a new friend behind the lesbian bar, "I dunno. I was just curious." (Not a metaphor. She really did and 10 years later when she told me the story, she didn't regret it one bit. But that is for another post.)

So I am religiously curious. As I explained to my sci fi book club best buddy, "Houses of worship are to me what I imagine the VFW is to a generation of veterans. It doesn't matter that we didn't serve in the same campaign - it is the same struggle, the same hope. For that reason, I can find something valuable in every house of worship."

The other side of this coin is that now that we are an interracial family, we have started going to interracial services. The devil appears to be a more acceptable subject in African American Southern religious culture.

At the evangelical service my third grader was alarmed by the music which was popular music re-lyricized to evangelical themes. This was pretty comical at times.

Ok. All times. My biased opinion, of course. My biased opinion shaped by two years of publicly singing popular songs that had been reworked to reflect your unrealized but irresistible urge to eat expensive but fresh slabs of fudge that I was slinging around for minimum wage.

As the lovely and talented soloist crooned about the devil pointing a gun to your head to the tune of a popular Bob Seger song from the eighties that normally recalls a nubile Tom Cruise in his undies... my son leaned in to tell me, "There's no such thing as the devil."

"So, does this mean you are not concerned about his gun?" I whispered back.

"Exactly. I can take him out with kungfu." Mine is a theologically complicated 8 year old.

"Shhh... I can't concentrate on the swing dancing," I reply. Oh, how I wish I were kidding.

Me and mine do not believe in the devil. But he sure is a useful metaphor. In recent worship services the devil was not only busying himself with murder and general misanthropic mayhem, he was making us cowardly. He was keeping us from using our god-given gifts (non-capitalization mine, naturally). He was undermining our credibility, keeping us from showing authentic love, and was masterminding the nasty emails from detractors to one of the pastors.

I may not believe in the devil but I know that it is complicated to talk about the bad, crummy, slack, irresponsible, selfishly horny, in poor taste, and evil acts of humanity. Not believing in the devil doesn't make the reality of evil any more palatable. And not believing in the devil does not make the subsequent messages of love my family has heard in the past week any less moving.

Those of us who want to talk about nurture, the forces of culture, an ethos of violence, and the like can take a page from the devil believers. We need to be more articulate about where goodness comes from. And love. Kindness, thoughtfulness, generosity of spirit, forgiveness, compassion, good taste and manners, and a whopping dose of humility... let's talk about these things. Misery does not need the devil to be real but it does need a consistent regimen of love therapy.

I will be examining this more for a sermon in a week at the Williamsburg UUs should you want to follow this in person. Your comments are welcome, as always.

Instead of Losing Weight...

2011-06-07T20:01:00.004-04:00

I have decided to take a class to re-design this blog and fix my broken one.

"What broken one?" you ask.

Exactly.

I find it fascinating (which is sometimes spelled h-o-r-r-i-f-y-i-n-g) that I would rather spend money on a blogging class than go to a gym. But I will feel so much better about going to a bar after this than I would after the gym.
Yeah... I am in the class. Yeah... I should probably pay attention right now. Html discussion or beer dreams: which would you choose?

After class my friends, family, and I will go out to observe my aunt's birthday. She would be over 50 and she would want me to keep the digits vague.

But she is not on this mortal plane per her own choosing. So we celebrate her birthday because it is much more uplifting than mourning her - which I, for one, am still doing.

Ok... back to class. Look for changes afinger.

Hmmm. That sounded better in my head.

Schadenfreude and Evil

2011-05-22T19:06:00.004-04:00

Is it possible that there is not enough evil in my life? How can that be? I read the news. I work in a criminal defense attorney's office and a bail bondsman's office. I am a minister. And I worked in food service for years. If anyone - I know the evil people can do to each other, themselves, and their entrees.

But this whole rapture scare makes me think I do not have a full appreciation of evil.

I feel for those who missed their chance at the destruction of this evil world as they know it. That has to be a major bummer for a true believer. I sincerely hope there are support groups for these people because if it were me and my judgment day passed right on by (spectacularly beautiful here in Virginia), I would be despondent.
It seems to me that the heralds of the apocalypse base their worldview on evil. The worse the evil gets the calmer they become because their cosmic narrative is that evil must win the battle for our planet so that good may win the war for eternity.

Have you noticed how calm the Jehovah's Witnesses are lately? They are grinning from ear to ear when they come to see me. And why shouldn't they be? They interpret global chaos and really, really bad weather as an affirmation of their theology. In case you are interested, the latest issue of The Watchtower is devoted to this very subject. As my Witness explained to me with breathless satisfaction when she gave it to me, "These are the end times!"

Rapture jokes were easy to make weren't they? I made a few: 1) If we end in fire the sunset should be nice tonight; 2) To prepare for the rapture go out in the street naked and wait - when you see the flashing blue lights you are saved; and 3) Pass me another cupcake - I need my energy for the rapture.

But I still felt sad. I get disappointed by my faith all the time... but my faith has not gone into the prognostication business so I believe the disappointments have been light by comparison.

Think about your day yesterday - what was the worst thing that happened? Now how does that compare to being denied the end of time. That petty marital squabble or bad seafood ingested look pretty small now, don't they?

So some people are obsessed with evil while others think they can outrun it. Oh, Arnold. Arnold. Arnold. Arnold.

I've done Mr. Schwarzenegger a terrible disservice. I taught an ethics class the day after the story of his fathering of a child thirteen years ago with a member of his staff. I used him. Yes, I did, Arnold. I used you as my case study. The only flimsy thing I can say in my defense is that I did not use it as you might expect.

I was interested in the role of competing concerns in his decision making process. I talked about how the danger of professional ethical impropriety is that a single, private act involving two people can become an avalanche with millions of witnesses who have only the end result by which to judge you. And because I was teaching a room full of businessmen I reminded them that sex with your staff is never a good idea.

But I feel scuzzy about it. Which is more evil? The power dynamic inherent in the relationship of a boss and a worker twisted into a sexual encounter? The possibility that they are or were in love over thirteen years ago and that they parted ways because of fear? That a husband could have a secret life? That a child's life may be ruined because of this revelation? Or that with every new nugget of information millions of people watch with hearts full of Schadenfreude?

In teaching his life as a case study I meant to highlight all that we do not know about the circumstances, and how with this sort of scandal the public does not care about your good intentions. But instead I slipped into the easy position of armchair ethicist. If I had not blinked out all the ways in which this situation could be evil or will beget it, I would not have used it as an example.

I'm sorry Arnold. As far as I am concerned I do not know the specifics and will not judge you on anything other than poor use of birth control. You are welcome in my home any time for Southern cooking, some homebrew or whiskey, and a good "settin'"on the front porch.

Why does this make me think I need more evil in my life? Well, it doesn't but I need to keep my antennae up to recognize the boundless possibilities to ignore evil out of fear, complacency, or denial.

I have had several weeks of people telling me their stories. It is a nice return to my favorite aspect of ministry. But when we tell the whole story there is often something lurking in there. A few reminders of the ghosts we all carry gleaned from talking to everyone I meet...

* If you believe the statistics that 1 in 4 women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime then it doesn't take many conversations for one of those stories to come out. In my experience of listening to and being a woman - I think the percentage is higher.

* A single crime perpetrated upon or commited within can affect a family for generations.

* One suicide touches and changes hundreds of lives.

* Sometimes you never stop carrying lost relationships with you. No wonder my older friends don't want to date. When two 55 year olds go out on a date they bring the memories of every other relationship to the table with them. That can get crowded fast.

* When you have no one who "knew you when" you can drift off course and lose your place in the world.

Which leads me to my last big think of the day. As we become less rooted and less intergenerational as a society, the wisdom learned from knowing the same people for decades is being lost.

There were certain things my mother was scolded for doing to me by my grandmother. And, because she was good at scolding, there were certain expectations of me as a granddaughter, a daughter, a wife and a parent that she laid out in no uncertain terms. I became my own woman but avoided some dangerous pitfalls thanks to my grandmother's advice. I am able to walk the right path sometimes solely because her voice is still in my head.

By living in the city of my birth I frequently see former teachers, mentors, parents of former boyfriends, "kids" I babysat, former bosses, former employees. They keep me sane.

They say things like, "Thank God you don't do that any more."

Or, "That's not new. You have been like that all your life!"

And even, "Maybe you should go back to doing that. You were really happy when you did that."

And most recently as I took an easy road on Arnold someone took me aside and courageously confided, "That story is my story. It never is what you think it is going to be."

Times like these I'm pretty sure honky tonk lyrics qualify as scripture.

Replies

2011-05-16T12:11:00.005-04:00

I am fully comfortable with the fact that my readers come to me so that they can do something, anything other than work. You think I don't notice that you all comment at 2PM EST on weekdays? Should I be insulted? No way. You had a choice to take a stolen nap in the office bathroom, eat another Reese's peanut butter cup, or read my blog.

I don't even mind that you had already done the other two before you read this. I reward your devotion with some replies to great comments received this week.

Nothing like coming out as an anti-mashed-potato-tarian to provoke comments. The apostasy snippet of two posts ago also got some murmuring going. So here are replies to the questions of my 18 readers since I love you and good people should not have to slave away from 2:00 - 2:10.

1) Why mashed potatoes?

Why anything? They gross me out. Some seem to bother me way more than others. But since my dad is one of the 18 kind and brilliant souls who read my rantings/drivel/meandering life commentary (and he's retired so I'm not sure why)- I have to share his theory on my bigotry against all heated, smushed taters.

In Daddy's nostalgic world view, all was right in the tuber cosmos until I was three. Before then he had a beautiful, all American baby girl who was happy, wholesome, and ate mashed potatoes. Then one day she had an ear infection and went to her doctor and hero known as Dr. Riva because his last name was too long for a three-year-old to remember.

As beautiful baby girl and devoted mashed potato eater was laid onto the examining table, beloved Dr. Riva said, "We have to get the mashed potatoes out of your ears."

He then proceeded to extract ear wax out of an infected ear which probably caused the beautiful one to transform into a demon beast straight from the bowels of hell screaming in pain and lashing out with all limbs and teeth at anything within reach.

Daddy's memory is that after that moment I would not touch mashed potatoes again.

I don't remember any of this, only the subsequent decades of gagging at the smell of them in restaurants, homes, and the school cafeteria. I have tried them dozens of times in dozens of ways and do not like them. Not the texture, the smell, the look, or the taste. And my aversion is so strong that I am pretty snooty about all manner of potato.

Now that I am a parent, I give my father's theory way more credit. The proof is in the Riva. I adored Dr. Riva. Always. The guy yanked icky thick bloosk out of my aching under-auricle and I never stopped loving him. But someone had to pay for that misery. My guess is: it was the potatoes.

2) Apostasy

I abhor any spoken or written piece beginning with a definition. However, I keep getting blank stares when I approach the subject of apostasy. In case you do not know the definition I have supplied it as a footnote.

I know a gabillion apostates. In Unitarian Universalism we don't even use the word, preferring to call them new members.

What do you get when a lapsed Catholic, atheist Jew, order loving Pagan, and angry Presbyterian come together? A Unitarian Universalist choir.

So anyway... the subject gets mighty touchy when you get to Unitarian Universalist apostasy. I have heard so much bunk about the low census of UUism all my life. A few examples incude...

We're small because it is a difficult religion and people are lazy. We're small because of the corrosive effects of pop culture. We're small because there's too much fussing in our small churches. We're small because we shouldn't call them churches. We're small because the fellowship movement failed. We're small because American religion is dying. We're small because we don't have enough minorities. We're small because we have too many minorities. We're small because of bad architectural choices. We're small because our men are geeks and our women don't wear makeup. We're not that small. Look - we're dying slower than other religions! We are small because of that jackass ______. (Insert anyone including me in the blank. Last name I saw there was Thomas Jefferson.)

I've heard it all. And I feel it is all mashed potatoes.

If you ask me, which a few of you foolishly did, we are small because (like many other religions) we swing from orthodoxy to innovation and (unlike some other religions) this undermines our credibility as an open community with a unique theology. Due to this, in every generation too many of our devoted members become apostates. I believe every other credible reason fits into that explanation.

As I listen to disenfranchised UU's I hear people who long for a sacred place that stretches their minds. I hear people who feel written out of the boundaries of their community after years of welcoming everyone else in. I hear people who feel insulted by the path of the religion or of their congregation.

These people are not unreasonable, fanatical, or even outside of UU belief systems. They just don't appreciate being called racist, sexist, elitist, penny pinching, earth destroying, heterosexist, ableist, angry, and closed-minded during a time of the week when they want worship (whatever their definition of that may be). They are sick of the shaming attitude of what they see as money grubbing Sundays. They are tired of yet another round of hymns that do not speak to them as a cohesive community.

They do not want a political party - they want a vibrant and intellectually stimulating religion. They mourn the loss of respectful dialogue in favor of overly careful and watered down multi-culturalism. They are tired of the re-writing of history every fifteen years: Can we still sing that hymn? The Unitarians were racists. No, the Universalists were racists. Don't forget to put the multi-generational, multi-cultural faces on your website.

They are tired of the "new" approach to social justice. They don't care what 1/40th of the denomination decides during a few days in June that they should talk about in their congregation for a year. If there is one thing they do well, it is coming up with stuff to talk about, think about, try to change.

I listen to these people who seek me out on Facebook, this site, and in public. And I feel their pain. To not be a part of the religion you love is painful. To feel like you can't have your children be part of your religion is not a decision anyone makes lightly. To wonder what you should tell your family about your wishes for services after you die is heartbreaking.

But, contrary to popular speculation about this former minister, I am not an apostate, but I would not mind belonging to a whole congregation of them.

Let me explain - I don't want to run a church. I don't want to be THE minister, head honchette, finger-in-all-pies type for whom churches keep asking and seminaries keep trying to produce. It doesn't work and never has.

But a group full of people who care enough about their religion to wrestle with it on a daily basis? I'd like to hang out with them.

I'd like to attempt to translate their distinctive concerns into a shared vision for possibility. I'd like to help the wounded heal each other. I'd like to encourage connections between those who think they are in complete opposition. I'd like to be among a group of people who realize that no hymnal is ever going to make them happy. I'd like to be one small part of a flawed community instead of the leader of a high-handed one looking down on the so-called less enlightened.

And for those of you who think I am talking about your congregation - you are diagnosing it, not me. The religious communities whose failures have been most visibly abundant to me recently are Presbyterian, Evangelical, Jewish, and Baptist. In looking at the trials of these other religions I saw our image more clearly.

I am not yet an apostate because I am one of the faith filled in a religion that is not wholly comfortable with the word faith.

I still believe that people trusting one another to share their most deeply held beliefs when they disagree with each other is the key to a peaceful world. I still believe that what you give financially to the church is no one's business but your own. I still believe that we should draw from a wide variety of sources even when the individuals do not live up to our current expectations because we are far from blameless in our lives. I still believe that a group can work to be better without name calling and finger pointing. I still believe that the -isms are best conquered by our friendships and our lunch companions. I still believe in a divine presence whom I address in the feminine and I still believe she is a key to honest and deep connection with other people.

This is what I believe on faith. This is what I have seen to be true in my life. This is what I share with the apostates and soon-to-be apostates. They disagree with me. We talk about that. We love each other anyway. And I think, hope, faithfully believe that there is a place for all of us in my beloved and lifelong religion.

***Apostasy is accented like monstrosity and is pronounced /Uhpoztasee/. It means formal disaffiliation from or renunciation of one's religion. The ne'er-do-well who does such a nefarious deed is often called an apostate (rhymed and accented like /da prostate/). I prefer to call these folks, whether I agree with them or not, "courageous as hell" and "my brothers and sisters."

I Ain't Eating That

2011-05-13T13:55:00.003-04:00

I will not be running off with Anthony Bourdain just in case we really are what we eat. That dude chows down on anything. He reminds me of my dog Chunk. This week Chunk has eaten a roll of paper towels, two crafts projects, sugar dots, a bike helmet, three types of garbage and something that caused me to have to bathe her within an hour of ingestion.

That's fine for a puppy but a dude is supposed to be kissable. Blech.

I was a picky eater as a child. One of those mac & cheese, hot dogs, french fry, pizza types. I did love fruit of every variety and freshly steamed blue crabs, but otherwise I was hopeless. I can remember when I started eating pork chops (14), when I tried beef stroganoff (16 - a boyfriend was involved), and my first baked potato was at age 22.

The greatest cure for picky eating? Poverty. I was a poor college student who became a poor Army wife who became a poor grad student and early in that process I began to try all kinds of food. There was an almost immediate snowball effect. Suddenly it was raw oysters, thai food, extra spicy enchiladas, tofu... if I could eat it for free I would give it a try.

Kharma is a bitch, however. A very reliable bitch. I'm getting it in the teeth right now with a beautiful, bright, loving daughter who thinks that pizza is a bit too exotic. As if that weren't fun enough, she has the family history of severe hypoglycemia. In case you don't have a medical degree - it is hard to control severe hypogycemia on a diet of grilled cheese and cheerios.

I read a great Parenting magazine article about manners recently. In the top 10 examples of how to behave as a child was: "No one cares what you dislike. Keep it to yourself." Amen, sweet Jesus.

But...

As a former picky eater and a person who tries not to throw stones lest they ricochet off a wall and break my nose, I have been thinking through my own still powerful lists of things I do not want to eat and why. I have been sharing this with my lovely child in an effort to give her a sense that she is not pathologically picky.

The Stuff That Mama Won't Eat:

* Brains, innards, sweet meats, guts, general internal nastiness, and body parts that dangle.

* Oysters out of season. I read a book that said that immune compromised folks like myself can eat raw oysters if they are fresh and in season. In the summer months the bacteria are more lively and dangerous and the oysters are sometimes full of... well, let's just say if it were on a bull it would be in a dangling sack. That's an over-generalization of the oyster mating process but I still ain't eating it.

* Blood. Come on now. My people did not leave the tobacco farms so I could eat blood. In fact, I do believe their wish for me would be cornbread, corn on the cob, corn salad, fresh melons, green beans, biscuits, country ham, baked ham, pork rinds, pork chops, bacon, and bacon grease. God bless their sweet departed souls.

* Any general crap that has been soaking in booze. Worms are for catching fish and shrivelling up on a hot sidewalk. Moonshine soaked strawberries look like things that dangle. Oh wait -there's an exception to this. I will munch on all kinds of greenery that swims around in a spicy bloody mary and citrus sloshing in some sangria. Otherwise it looks like something from Dr. Frankenstein's lab and I am not touching it.

* Stuff you gotta get the poison or bugs out of before you eat it. I read a recipe in my Buddhist magazine that was for nettle soup. The sheer amount of equipment the cook has to wear to throw those weeds in a pot was daunting. In spite of the need for body armor I was still with her until these instructions, "Sort your nettles, gently freeing any insects whom you may have just displaced." Not just no, sister, but hell no.

* Mashed potatoes. Everybody has some perfectly normal thing that they just do not like. For me it is mashed potatoes. And no, I do not want to hear about how Aunt Loozie makes 'em with garlic. And no, I do not want your special gravy. And no, I do not believe that I would like them if... I do not like them, Sam I Am, and you can rhyme your squirrelly little ass off. I am still not eating them.

So there you have it. My kid will be eating all kinds of stuff if this recession does not clear up.

I'm right queer when it comes to mashed potatoes.

And Bourdain doesn't get to suck face with me.

His loss because if we are what we eat I am like all great Southern food: a little bit o' sweet, a little bit o' salty, a stick a' butter, and a dollop a' bacon grease.

Gasp. I Know Kung fu!

2011-03-21T21:40:00.003-04:00

There is no way this could be my life. I must be living in some gelatinous pod in a human warehouse somewhere thinking I am living but really just powering...

You know, I just realized I have trouble remembering the plot of "The Matrix." It is too much to expect a woman like me to watch Laurence Fishburne and Keanu Reeves while grasping a plot. Never mind. Let's go back...

There is no way this could be my life. Why?

1) Because I thought it was supposed to be more complicated.

I had an RA flare-up so I took roids. Roids are good. Roids are so very good. The first two days on roids and I have lots of unflattering things to say about you able-bodied couch potatoes who get to feel like that all the time and do not use that pain free zest to become prima ballerinas or olympians. Since you are my only blog fans I won't repeat the cursing, but you can guess.

Then the roids wore off really quickly and I was very ill. On the cane, hobbling, barely standing ill.

I finally went to the rheumatologist who told me something complex and expert: I had a fever. He went to school for a century and paid a hundred grand for the privilege to tell me something I should have known by wrapping some innard of mine around a thermometer. I did the math and I had been febrile for 9 days.

NINE. I had been walking around with a fever that made every inch of my body hurt but the roids had hidden all other symptoms of infection. I took daily Tylenol and a Z pack and was doing a jig within a week.

For those of you who keep track of these sorts of things: when the steroid warning says, "Do not take if you have an infection" you may want to, who knows... check and find out if you have an infection. From my $500 of medical bills to you for free 'cuz I am that kind of gal even if you are able bodied.

Next reason why this can't be my life...

2) Because I am courageous, aren't I?

During the crippling flare that turned out to be my 19th double ear infection, the boys had an intervention on me. The boys have to work with me, live with me, travel with me, and do all the stuff I can't when I am in the middle of a flare. So one downloaded the DMV forms and filled them out for a handicapped parking pass. The other backed him up when I protested. Then I cried for a couple of days and got my sassafras together to talk to the doc.

My primary doctor is a god among mere mortals with medical degrees. He has treated three generations of my family. He likes opera, but only in Italian. He keeps my Christmas cards in my medical file along with paper clippings of interviews I have done. I adore him and have known him for over 25 years. I weepily handed him the paper with a trembling hand. He gently took it and looked at it with serious concern.

Then he blurted, "Oh my God! You are such a drama queen! You needed this years ago. I thought it was some Kevorkian order and I was going to have to hook you up to a machine. Do you have any idea how many of these I fill out in a year?"

I love this man. I laughed for a week. The signed DMV papers are still in my visor, though.

3) Because I thought I was a grown up.

In the midst of my convalescence I "babysat" a 15 year old 6'5" baby who drove my car while I "supervised", stayed up late watching "Will and Grace" re-runs with me TV in his parents' comfy king size bed, and co-downed an entire box of Lil' Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls. The next morning he was talking to my cousin on my cell while I ran my fingers through my hair to wake myself up. Or I tried. The innards of a Swiss Cake Roll had somehow lodged in my bangs. When I whispered to him, "What is this?!?" he covered the cell and mouthed back, "Spooge."

I would have grounded him but he's been grounded for something like 7 weeks and has gallows humor at this point. Besides, they never take you seriously once you snort while laughing.

4) Because I'm not looking for a job.

The only job I ever looked for, wanted, applied for, and got was my short-lived job as a 911 operator for the State Police. All my other jobs have come from someone saying, "You should do this," or "I'd like to hire you," or "SAVE US!!!" I realized this recently when I was preparing to teach a class and over dinner beforehand realized that the woman across from me might want to hire me. Because I am lightning quick I finally caught on to this subtlety when she said, "How can I hire you?" I should be a mind reader.

Then I realized my class was a job interview and my deodorant was not up to the challenge. I never did find out what the job is, but I think it is mine. Then again I might have dreamed the whole thing because, speaking of dreams...

5)Because I know the difference between dreams and reality

I woke up this morning at 4:30 AM because my hubby was packing for his canoe trip and I wanted to say goodbye. I woke up again when my daughter climbed into bed at 7 declaring, "God is bowling and he keeps getting strikes." (There was a thunderstorm this morning.) Before rolling over I mumbled, "What makes you think God is a he?"

Later I awoke at the end of a dream where I was in prolonged physical conflict with some stranger who kept lying about me to the border police. After much scuffling and punching I bent my neck and bit her hard on the forearm.

And suddenly I was both hero and villain as I awoke with a mouth full of my own arm and a sharp pain shooting to my fingers and elbow.

Finally - the Sixth reason why I am certain that this is not my life...

6) I think we may have adopted a person. A grown person. A grown person who is a stroke survivor with diminished cognitive capacity who would be homeless had we not stepped in. The good news? Unlike the world's stubbornest puppy, this was my husband's idea. The bad news is that we seem to have adopted a grown person. He lives in a group home that we helped get him an emergency placement in, but he spends time with us every day because as he said in his limited but astute language, "That place... that place... it's a whole lotta' I don't like it."

While the puppy I brought home has figured out how to eat my glasses and open the kitchen garbage can to remove smelly items, the person my husband and I adopted loves my cooking, has a charming sweet voice on the brief occasions when he attempts speech, is gentle with the children, and lights up when I walk in the room.

If this were really my life I'd be tempted to put a sign in the front yard that reads: Puppy - Free to a Good Home with lots of valium, Needed - reasonable contractor to build mother-in-law suite.

But since this is just a computer program, I will now return to my study of kung fu.

Talking Sex with the Kids

2011-02-07T12:22:00.004-05:00

I need a court reporter to live with me. I would share the mountains of money we could make in movie rights, tv spinoffs, and offering case studies for psychology textbooks. The court reporter would have to do his/her own laundry.

My children are at the constantly quotable ages: 8 and 5. It is a good thing I have removed myself from the pulpit, because most of it is not repeatable. Except to you, of course. Let's pretend we don't know these children and let's just call them Sonny and Lori.

Lori is watching TV with me and Sonny in a hotel room. Husband man is reading the paper in the living area of the suite. The preview for "No Strings Attached" comes on with lots of shots of the actor Ashton Kutcher looking sweet, buff and cuddly while he jumps Natalie Portman.

As the next commercial begins Lori sighs and with the most innocent 5 year old liliting song of a voice says, "I can't wait to have sex."

No one says a word. The newspaper lowers slowly. A fierce glare becomes visible and it is pointed in my direction. Moi?

I return the glare with a "What did I do?" double eyebrow lift.

He responds with a single eyebrow lift that says, "You are the one who calls herself giving the kids the big sex talk during a commercial break in 'Big Bang Theory'. As if that was going to fly smoothly!"

Ok. Yes. I told the children about sex during a commercial break. Like all parents I want to save my children from the childhood trauma I experienced. I was a child in the 70's and my parents gave me the most awful sex talk in history. It was rich with biological terms inappropriately paired with talk about love and kissing.

The way I remember it, the talk lasted for days and was so disgusting that I vowed then and there to "never do that PV stuff." (Penis, vagina.) As far as I can tell I have kept that vow. I have done something and had two children out of it but my recollections are pleasant so it is NOT the same thing.

Here's how my sex talk went.

Me: Hey, kids. I forgot to tell you something. You know how babies grow in a mama's belly from a seed and an egg? Well, the way the seed gets to the egg is what sex is.

Lori: Where does the seed come from?

Me: The daddy's willie. (Sonny flinches and moves to protect his groin region.)

Lori: How does it get to the egg?

Me: Through the mama's girlie.

The children know the words penis and vagina because I taught them at the pediatrician's quickly after reading that at 4 Lori should know them already. I started with, "Hey, kids. I forgot to tell you something..."

When my husband walked in the door that evening from a long day at work I announced, "I taught the kids the correct anatomical terms for their genitalia today! Watch this. Kids what's the name for a willie?"

Sonny: Wait. I know this one. Ummm. Penis!

Lori: (jumping on the bed) Penis! Penis! Penis!

Me: Yay! What's the word for a girlie?

Sonny: Vonnegut! No, that's not right. Veshugah!

So, as you can see, I have an unblemished track record with speed teaching sexuality. Back to the Big Banging Talk...

Lori: So when people love each other they can have sex.

Me: Yep.

Lori: And that's how I can have a baby!

Me: Yep.

Sonny: So that means. (A dawning look of horror washes across his face...) You.... (gasp) and... (gulp) Dada?

Me: Yep. At least three times.

Lori: Three?

Me: Baby Fontaine. (The pregnancy we lost.)

Sonny: Oh no! Ehhhghhkhttttgggrrrr... (I'm not sure how to spell that gurgling, wretching, crying sound. But right then "Big Bang Theory" came back on and we all went back into our sit-com trance.)

When Husband walked in after a long night of meetings I announced, "I taught the kids what sex is!"

Lori smiled. Sonny put his head in his hands and groaned. My beloved spouse with whom I am not ashamed to put on public record I have had sex at least three times lost most of the color in his face.

Husband: Can I put my briefcase down please?

And so I think this is what he was trying to tell me when he glared at me over the newspaper in the hotel room.

Sonny, meanwhile, was in the bed next to me trembling and gripping his pillow as if at any moment he would have to shred it in two and fill his ears with the spilled stuffing. Poor little buddy. In spite of my best efforts, I traumatized him anyway.

We went to the Virginia Museum last week and he yelped every time we turned a corner and saw yet another naked statue or painting. He prefers the early adolescent Harry Potter movies. He hollers every time there is kissing on Star Trek. I agree with him there. He and I have a bumper sticker worthy mantra "No kissing in science fiction!"

If I scarred Sonny with my age appropriate behavior he got me back good (as they like to say on the playground.) He went to a sleepover this weekend. He came back home sleep deprived and wearing a sports jersey. All as expected for an 8 year old sleepover.

The friend's father said, "We let them make Super Bowl jerseys. I'm not sure what the name on the back means, but it is what he wanted."

I looked at the back and it said, "SHAWN!" We don't even know any Shawns. Evidently, Sonny sees his own football personality not as a real player or himself but as a greater than all of you one namer like Prince.

Me, laughing: I like the exclamation point.

Sonny: Thanks. Mom, I ate a worm today.

Me: (still laughing) What kind of worm?

Sonny: The crawling in the dirt kind.

Me: What?!?

Sonny: We watched this show called 'Man vs. Wild' and he has to eat whatever he can find.

Me: So... you...

Sonny: We went outside and turned over some rocks. We found three worms and rinsed them off. Then we chopped them up and ate them but Sam didn't because his dad wouldn't let him.

When my husband returned from work I gave him the fierce glare, the uplifted eyebrow, and I did NOT allow him to put his briefcase down. As soon as I figure out how this is his fault, he is in for it.

Lori: Mama! These jeans make my bagina hurt! Can you make a babushka for me?

My son eats worms but won't kiss a girl because she has a veshugah. My daughter thinks a babushka will ease baginal pain. And I'm now calling a girlie a bagina. That's it. No more Ashton Kutcher. No more 'Big Bang Theory'. That should be easy enough.

I Vow to Let You Scrub the Toilet in Perpetuity

2011-01-28T10:42:00.003-05:00

'Tis the wedding pre-season. I have a lovely batch of Spring weddings lined up and am in dispatching advice mode. Examples include:

"Do not make that guy a groomsman - he has a BO problem."

"The chocolate fountain seems great until you see the flower girl pick her nose and try to chocolate coat the green treasure."

"Perhaps your parents should get that valium prescription now so it won't be such a shock to their systems when they pop 'em like tic tacs on the big day."

"No, I will not wear a robe that matches the flowers."

"No, I will not speak in the Princess Bride priest voice without $250 extra paid now (cash) and a note in the program that it was not my idea."

"Yes, I would like the salmon."

"One word I want you to consider prayerfully and deeply: ELOPE."

"Should the time come, Gawd forbid, I will not testify at the custody hearing."

Just kidding. I do have extra-adorable couples this year and I do believe that this is the first year that I am biologically capable of being their mother. Oh, heavens.

A question on their minds right now is whether or not to write their own vows. Here's my real advice on writing one's own vows...

When writing your own wedding vows you want to cover the following things briefly:

Who do you see your partner as:

"You are my lifeline";

"You are my true love";

"You are the one who makes me stop being such a jerk."

Next - what is special about your relationship:

"I want to wake up to your warmth beside me for the next fifty years";

"You make me want to see U2 another 20 times"; (I have a couple for whom this is a meaningful truth.)

"Our work with AIDS patients in the steppes gave me my calling and gave me your love";

"I wake up and go to sleep with a smile on my face and peace in my heart because you love me."

Now the core of your vows:

"I give to you my heart, my devotion, and my trust";

"I vow to be open to the changes that will come in our lives together knowing always that my life is best with you as my partner";

"I vow to be your dearest confidante, your lover, your cheerleader, and your companion through all the valleys and peaks of life."

Then a quick ending like:

"You are my greatest love and I want you to be my wife";

"I love our life together and I want to grow old with you";

"You have been my love and today we become a family."

The big no-no's on writing your own vows include:

1) Work it out between you as to how long they will be. One of my grooms was a very romantic and loving man who was uncomfortable in saying too much and wrote a lovely paragraph. His sweet and devoted bride wrote a page. They felt awkward during the ceremony. Uncomfortable shoes and fancy lingerie should be one's only wedding discomforts.

2) Don't make the Jots mistake. I wrote my own vows. I was 20 and my husband was about to go to war. I sobbed through every word and have felt like an idiot for the past 20 years. Can't say them without boo-hooing? There is no dishonor in hearing the officiant say the magic words, "Repeat after me."

3) No one wants to hear about your phenomenal sex life.

4) Keep the jokes to a minimum. This is your wedding - the symbolic event that recognizes a lifelong commitment. I am all for humor, imagine that. But too much humor in the vows makes the Vegas oddmakers start tipping the payoff toward the miracle of your reaching a 5th anniversary. And no jokes about your inlaws, your redneck roots, your shared Herpes, that hot groomsman, or your beloved's birth defect. None. EVER.

5) Have them typed days beforehand and practice them. My friend Todd gave his completely off the cuff and they were amazing. We are not all Todd. If you met Todd, you would know that almost no one is Todd and the world is a duller place because of it. But also... sadly, Todd is divorced.

We all know that the most important parts of marriage are left unsaid in the wedding. But from all of us who have been married 20+ years, please consider that the following are what your vows really say:

"I am hitching my life to yours from now on. We will be together through miscarriages, burglaries, cancer scares, cancer diagnoses, presidents we hate, presidents we disagree on, some craziness our families will pull, unemployment, the baby having to be hospitalized, your addiction, my addiction, our addictions."

"We will not kill each other when we move. We will sometimes have sex when one of us is not totally in the mood. We will clean up puke and feces from animals, offspring, and each other. We will worry ourselves into insomnia and silently cry ourselves to sleep so as not to wake the other. We will at some point think of each other as a really bad phase we were going through. We will change and argue and quietly fume and forget really important things."

"And we will get up every day and try again because what we feel for each other is the truest most genuine emotion either of us selfish, imperfect goof balls has ever experienced. I am not equipped for much of what the future will hurl at us but I will face every challenge with the goal of getting to the other side with your hand in mine."

"I will say I am sorry. I will bury the hatchet. I will just plain forget that nervous tic of yours. I will work to make you happy and I will work to understand what makes me happy. I will go to counseling with you. I will make you a birthday card. I will teach the children songs I made up about how great you are. When I am dying, I want your face to be the last vision I have. When you are dying, I will hold you in my arms until your last breath knowing that the greatest part of me dies with you."

"I love you. It is the messiest emotion I have ever had but I vow to rise to being a better person for you, for us."

Amen.

Music Fantasy

2011-01-19T12:05:00.003-05:00

I have lived every music fan's fantasy. I have also lived the nightmare. And I did them both on the same day.

I have already told the story on this blog about how I sent a fan letter to a honky tonk band out of Flint, Michigan and how less than 2 years later Whitey Morgan and the 78's were on my doorstep. And they even came back.

This is the music fan's dream. You fall in love with a band. You learn all their music. You send them a fan letter. They respond. They come to stay with you and tell you that you are marvelous. They are even better live than you had hoped. Then I go to Brooklyn to see them and Whitey picks me up with one arm and growls, "Hey, girl! How's the family?"

Oh, wait.

I guess that last part is just my thing and I didn't dream it because, at close to 6 ft. tall, the idea of someone lifting me is preposterous even in fantasy. But that did happen. And it was really cool. You short gals have all the fun.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Dreams come true. Then comes the nightmare part. I hesitate to even write this because somehow, some day Nick Hornby is going to find this blog post and he is going to die of embarrassment on my behalf. I don't want Nick Hornby to die. He hasn't written enough yet.

Nick Hornby has written six books that are pretty integral to my life. One is Juliet Naked which tells that fan dream story I have lived and another is High Fidelity. If you have not read High Fidelity, shame on you. It is the book that decodes the complete insanity that comes with being a music fanatic. And it will help you understand why I nearly ruptured a brain vessel when Whitey Morgan sat on my couch and started idly flipping through my CD rack.

(Just imagine me in the interview room of a cop show. I look sort of normal on the outside but as I recount my version of events it rapidly becomes clear that I am criminally insane.)

The cd's were not in order, you see. He was sitting right there. And the cd's. THEY WERE NOT IN ORDER. I don't listen to those cd's now. The children have knocked them down so many times. I don't even know what is up there. No. No. Those aren't the ones. Those might not even be mine. I had to kill him. Don't you see? He didn't see the real stuff I listen to! He might have told the rest of the band. I couldn't let Jeremy the bass player know about my Annie Lennox phase. I was just curious about 3rd Bass in 1992, but he wouldn't understand that. I should have given that away years ago. What if Travis the drummer found out about my Daft Punk or Billy Idol? Dear God, Tamineh the fiddler might have seen my Greatest Hits of Garth Brooks. Don't you get it? She would have told Brett and Stubby and it would have brought about the honky tonk apocalypse. Don't you see? He had to die. Yes. It was the only way. So I slipped a Koko Taylor disc in his bbq sandwich. He went peacefully. I did not disrespect him. I kept my Randy Travis to myself, officer. Koko is a great way, an honorable way to go. He knew I loved him.

So that is not how it went down. But my husband did think I was going to cry.

"You did not enjoy that, did you?" he asked today.

NO! This is my band and they are rifling through my husband's Doobie Brothers, my opera cd's. It just doesn't make any sense. As a fan, you want to show your musical idols what you are made of. It is not necessarily a kissup. I don't listen to that much honky tonk. But I do listen to its distant musical cousins that make for some good conversations.

Fans and musicians are people who sit around and wonder what would have happened if Jim Morrison lived, if the Smiths had not broken up, if Hank Jr. and Dolly Parton had a baby (it would be Whitey Morgan), if Janis Joplin and Marvin Gaye had a baby (sadly it would be Amy Winehouse.)

This is the band with whom I belted Dale Watson's (love child of Hank Sr. and Frank Sinatra) "Whiskey or God" in a van as we crossed a snowy bridge across the mighty James River. We bond through music and my uncle's Wagner cd's that I listen to annually are not going to further bonding.

So I am rewriting the nightmare. This is how it should have gone down. If they ever come back, these are the cd's that will be on the top shelf in random order, of course. I'm not OCD. I'm just fanatical.

This is my music, what I listen to. No one has to die. Just stick with this list and no one gets hurt.

Prince - (any of my 23 cd's)
Billy Ray Hatley and the Showdogs - More Years Than I Got, Deuce, Cryin' Shame
Lucero (any of 6)
Black Joe Lewis and the Honey Bears - Tell 'Em What Your Name Is
John Mellencamp - Life, Death, Love, and Freedom
Aretha Franklin - Queen of Soul
Delbert McClinton - Acquired Taste
The Gourds - Shinebox
Cedric Burnside and Malcolm Lightning - Two Man Wrecking Crew
Temple of the Dog - self titled
Steve Wynn and the Miracle 3 - (all)
Gladys Knight and the Pips - Greatest Hits
The Hold Steady - Heaven is Whenever
Mary J. Blige - What's the 411?
John Paul Keith and the 145's - Spills and Thrills
Allman Brothers - Eat a Peach
Independent Music Awards '09, '10 - Now Hear This
Whitey Morgan and the 78's - Honky Tonks and Cheap Motels, and self titled
Koko Taylor - The Earthshaker, Old School

Should the band never come back to my house, I would welcome some time on a bar stool with a similarly minded fanatic or two as we consider what would happen if Hank III converted to Judaism. Or the possible radical transformation of Richmond bluegrass if Jim Skelding of the Slack Family quit with the home repairs and devoted the bulk of his immense energy and talent to that fiddle of his. Or even who would you rather be stuck in a canoe with for two days: Waylon Jennings, June Carter Cash, or Elvis?

You buy first round.

And They Call it Puppy Love

2011-01-11T21:34:00.003-05:00

I am mostly unconscious, drooling on my pillow in the middle of the day. Minding my own business, and thick with a cold I am trying to breathe through any possible vent in my face. Visions of friends and road trips are beginning to dance through my stuffed, dozing mind when out of nowhere a dog flies through the air and lands on my head.

SNEAK ATTACK!!!

Meet the newest member of our family: the puppy mutt named Chunk. Chunk is 8 months old. She likes to chew. She has a rather weak bladder. She digs when she is anxious. The outdoors make her anxious. The back yard makes her very anxious.

She is fortunate to look like a cross between two of our beloved who have died in the past two years. She is unfortunate to have already been named when we got her.

I consulted the Honky Tonk Dog Whisperer Whitey Morgan at a gig in Brooklyn last month about her issues. He said he would be glad to give her a lookover when the band rolled through town again. I was greatly looking forward to his advice. Whitey is an Alpha Male to the Nth degree, so I figured he would teach me a snarl and a menacing glare that would put Chunk in line and we would all live happily ever after.

Whitey and his glorious band the 78's came by last weekend. They shared a supper table with us and then rocked the house at the bar down the street. Our town has finally recognized their Honky Tonk greatness. The show was sold out and the dance floor did not empty for a single song.

But first Whitey met Chunk. Before I even had the chance to introduce them, Chunk sneak attacked Whitey's massive leg and kind of bumped off it with a stunned look. I have a personal rule not to sneak attack people with neck tattoos. Chunk has no rules and I think Whitey respects that, being a little free and untamed himself.

"Well, there she is, Whitey. What do you think?"

And that's when the Alpha Male of outlaw music in Flint, Michigan turned on me. I have a personal rule not to give giants with neck tattoos reason to turn on me. He gave me a mean stare that looked like a cross between Clint, Chuck, and the Duke.

"She's a perfect little baby!" he started to coo in an octave I didn't believe men that size could hit. Then he got down to Chunk's level and the only word I can think of is... snuggled her.

"What a good girl! Yes. You are such a pretty one, aren't you? That's a good girl."

Chunk and Whitey spent the rest of the meal together. She would sneak attack him. He would cuddle and coo. As the person who was hoping for a showdown, it was all a tad disgusting to me. They were in love. Completely in love. Love is all good and fine but anyone who has ever fallen in love with a baby knows: love don't keep the urine in the bladder, now does it?

After we finished our superb meal (that was blessedly hijacked by my best buddy and transformed from food into cuisine... bastard) Whitey began his pronouncements on Chunk.

"First of all, you can't call her Chunk. That's just gonna' give her a complex. She's a Princess. Or a Fancy. Aren't you, baby?" More cuddling on their part. More gagging on my part.

"You got yourself a fine dog here. She's gonna' be just great." Scratching behind ears. Hers. Licking on neck. His.

"I know that, Whitey. But what do I do in the carpet peeing, fence jumping, sneak attack meantime?" Chunk is teething on Whitey's huge hand. The band all start to chuckle.

"You think Whitey is gonna' help you get your dog to stop jumping the fence?" asks a man who, I kid you not, is named Stubby.

"Hahahahaha..." they all laugh together. Whitey and Chunk make more lovey faces at each other. I scowl politely in the corner because Whitey is my guest, Chunk is mighty cute, and let me reiterate: That Dude is HUGE.

Turns out the Alpha Male of Flint is a pushover for female dogs. His girl, Bella, jumps the fence at will and still gets the cooing and the loving, while his male dog gets comments like, "Angus! It's time we had a talk, boy" as he his led out of the house, tail between his legs.

Be that as it may, Whitey did have what is probably the only advice that will work.

"You're gonna have to wear her out. She's tired enough, she won't go jumping fences. That's it."

That's it?

"Just tire her out and give her plenty of love. She's a mighty fine animal. Aren't you, Princess?"

As I write this, Whitey and the 78's are back home in Michigan (and Austin, for their phenomenal fiddle player) for a break in touring. My cold has eased up. The back yard looks like a training ground for grenade throwing. The children are asleep. The dryer is doing its clack clack turning. The original dog is sleeping on the floor like a good dog does.

Meanwhile, the royal Chunk is curled up on the couch where she absolutely does not belong. I was going to move her but it is the very spot where Whitey sat during his visit. She is sleeping and no doubt dreaming Flint, Michigan Alpha Male dreams. I know how she feels. I miss the band, too. I wouldn't snuggle with them, but they make some mighty fine music. I relate to the misty reminiscing - me dreaming of the shows I've seen, her dreaming of the one person who understands her. I cannot deny a fellow fan her dreams.

Then I remember all the chewed up refrigerator magnets. The professional carpet cleaning appointment. The tiller we will have to borrow in the Spring. The BITE MARKS on my prescription GLASSES.

Oh, the hell I can't. Whitey ain't here to save you now, puppy-cita. SNEAK ATTACK!!!

Oysters, Atheists and a Mini-Skirt does not a Skank Make

2011-01-06T14:21:00.002-05:00

This week at Jots has been full of celebrations: a birthday, the anniversary of the family business, the new year and yesterday - our 20th wedding anniversary.

In lieu of a post I am sharing excerpts from the note I sent my mentor, a brilliant Unitarian Universalist retired minister of refined taste and faith up in Maine. My letter was part of my thanks for his agreeing to marry us when we were young and D-U-M dumb. Six years later he and I shared leadership of a congregation. This was back when I was skinny and he was unbelievably patient - except with ministers in mini-skirts.

He had sent me a note that said "May your marriage last until 2040 when Trout Unlimited says my life membership is up and I will expire."

Dear Guru,

I am concerned by your recent letter. Is it really up to Trout Unlimited to determine your lifespan? If so, my theology is completely screwed up.

For our 20th wedding anniversary, we had a lovely dinner with the kids at the Robin Inn, the former hangout for the crotchety atheists at church. The fun-loving atheists always went to the Strawberry Street Cafe to eat salad out of the bathtub. These days I am related to all the crotchety atheists that are left, so ours is now a roaming show.

After I hissed at and threatened the children all afternoon, they were perfectly sweet to each other and did not bicker once during the meal or on the way home. In fact they were singing songs together at the breakfast table this morning which is an encouraging development. They weren't even anarchist anthems. But the lyrics seemed to inexplicably revolve around my parents' neighbors being in bed together. I'm trying not to overthink that one.

I am reading an important new work in faith and childrearing. It is called Stop Dressing Your 6 Year Old Like A Skank and is hilarious. Evidently any mom with a stripe of independence in the South has the exact same experience in raising rugrats. I have laughed myself silly. There is a great Maine vs. Disney World chapter. I think Maine wins.

Before that I read a GREAT book about oysters. It was called Sex, Death, and Oysters but that is a horrible title because it should have been "Oysters Don't Even Have (recognizable) Sex and We Keep Killing Them Off". Or maybe "Oysters are Not Clinically Proven Aphrodisacs so Don't Eat Them Out of Season Because They Could Kill You".In spite of the misleading title, the work has lit a fire in me to make a pilgrimage to Apalachicola, Florida to try their tonged-only oysters, in season.

As far as the quilting I had planned to do once freed from the bonds of a congregation, I haven't stitched an inch in months. Don't tell your bride. (Correction: I did make a pillowcase for a friend. It was covered with small roosters. The fabric sales-lady asked me my plan for it and looked perplexed when I told her. I had to look at her meaningfully and ask if she knew the other name of a rooster. When it dawned on her, her jaw dropped and I said, "Let's just say it suits him and leave it at that." She was still giggling as I walked out the door.)

The law practice is going well. The only drawback is that the boss is sleeping with his totally inept secretary. Since I also make dinner and care for his children he's keeping me around at both home and work. One year in practice and I still don't know the difference between the courts, can't read his handwriting, and I just finally completed all the insurance misery.

In one year we doubled our life insurance, picked up a disability policy for him, bought our own health insurance, and dealt with the phenomenally expensive malpractice insurance. And yet, when I confer with our many agents I still say things like, "I picked out that second one. The one with the $3,000 thing." Or more simply, "Don't explain. Just tell me how much and where to sign." (All of that was just included so that you wouldn't feel like an old geezer. I know that people of your vintage have a lot to bitch about when it comes to insurance, so I just thought I'd share a moan or two with you.)

Our eight-year-old decided this week that "braggadocio" is a word he should drop into casual conversation more often. The kindergartener asked for three braids this morning. You know me. As long as they are polite and don't freebase crack, I'm happy. Speaking of happy, as I write this from my office... I. AM. WEARING. A. MINISKIRT! Take that.

Oh, one more thing. Having learned to wrap his mouth around the words "Unitarian Universalist" at a very young age, our son likes to drop it often. During Hanukkah this year, our daughter asked if we were Jewish. I was cooking homemade latkes in the kitchen and the menorah was burning in the living room so it was a reasonable question. Little Man huffed and said, "NOOOOOOO! We are Unitarian Universalist." As if the child had suggested we might be something asinine like, I don't know... people who think Fox broadcasts news.

She dropped it for a few days. I walked through the kitchen recently as she and her father were talking. I did not hear her father's side but her response was, "Come on, Dad. Aren't we a little Jew? We celebrate Hanukkah!"

I picked up the bag I had come into the kitchen for. As I made my exit I said, "Plenty of Unitarian Universalists celebrate Hanukkah, too."

She perked right up and Dad looked relieved. Maybe I need to ease up on the trips to the synagogue? Or at least tell her that we are lanky Jews who like to hang with crotchety atheists.

Love and Shalom!

Death Becomes Her

Consciousness is a Turbulent Stream

2011-01-03T13:13:00.004-05:00

Frankenstein wanted to pick flowers. Dracula wants a meaningful relationship. Aliens are just satisfying an innate scientific curiosity when they abduct and probe humans. And me? I'm just trying to work some things out aloud.

Someone mistook me for a budding author yesterday. An easy mistake since I did write a novel in November which I am editing now. There are forty-some pages of a memoir started years ago, and hundreds of pages of sermons that I try to pretend aren't taking up every inch of filing space. But I am not a budding author.

Here's how this works. As far as all that written on paper stuff - it's just a phase I am going through (like Frankenstein's lab destruction phase.) Some people do marathons. Some try eating contests. Some dabble in kama sutra. Me? I just write stuff down every now and again. I will grow out of it at some point. Probably when the weather warms up.

The blog on the other hand is my ongoing conversation with friends, family, former congregants, and myself. (As far as you strangers go, you are welcome as long as you don't weird me out, but I do strongly suggest you figure out what on earth brought you here.) When I wrote back in June about my clothing failures we all got to know each other REAL WELL. You write and say, "What do you think about..." and I respond. It isn't writing - it is just talking while saving our vocal cords.

Two friends whom I've known for over twenty years recently confessed to keeping up with the blog. Both did so a wee bit sheepishly. Let me put this out there once and for all: YOU ARE NOT STALKING ME IF YOU READ THIS BLOG.

The guy with the webcam outside my kitchen window? Stalking. The friend who sends me postcards? Not stalking. The one who drives by my house on purpose but does not stop to say hi? Stalking. Readers of the blog? Not stalking. Facebook and Google searches? Let me get back to you on those.

My friend Michelle published a critically acclaimed novel and she has to go around and read from it all the time. I was sort of hoping that writing it down would mean I could move on and do something else. I would rather read your grocery list aloud than to read aloud more than once something I've written. I haven't even re-read any blog posts of my own in years. It would be like replaying a telephone call. (This is my way of getting off the hook for being redundant in my posts. I forget that you have been on all my trips to rebuild the Gulf Coast, funeral conventions, and the funerals of my friends and loved ones.)

Enough of that - what did you get for Christmas? Is that not the weirdest question ever? In my house we did 16 days of Hanukkah because I flunked the first go round. We did the winter solstice, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day, New Year's Eve and Day, and my husband's birthday. Somewhere in there I hosted a mini-reunion for my high school friends from out of town. Over the season I saw over sixty of my family and friends. What did I get? Great memories and indigestion.

I have been over conspiculous consumption so long I don't think I was ever under it. It was an easy step for me to take part in Yes! magazine's "No Impact Week" this week. It is set up in a way that seems inspired by Kwanzaa. Each day represents a different principle of reduction of our impact on the environment. Yesterday was consumption. Today is trash.

Those are two issues I think of often. It was impossible not to think of them during the holiday season. The blessing of a difficult economy is that we all were pretty creative in gift giving this year. There was not a giant pile of trash at the end of it all. As far as consumption is concerned, the days when I did not have to buy anything were the best days of the season.

So this is what I am up to this week. I am writing just for the hell of it. I am thinking about my family's impact on the environment and ways to cut back even further. I am still making resolutions for the new year. The number has gone up again but getting organized, losing weight, and stopping smoking are nowhere on it. Oh crap. I forgot to start smoking in 2010. Another lost opportunity for growth and change.

It would not be me if there weren't something kind of depressing: I am thinking about my uncle a lot these days. He died less than five months ago and some of the pain is really just hitting now. Much of the pain is not my own personal feelings but due to being part of a network of family who love each other and hurt for each other. My parents are sad. My children miss him. My extended family are all dealing with his absence in their own personal ways. But at the heart of it we are all wishing he did not have to die alone, even if it was his choice. We thought so much more of him than he thought of himself. And that just makes us sad.

Six of us went to a church service yesterday which included a ritual for those who died and were born in 2010. It was painful for us to stand in his honor wishing he had chosen life and not fully understanding his long struggle. But just as we were seated and passing tissues down the aisle, we had to stand up again in honor of my brother's baby who was born this year. And the tears that came with that one felt more refreshing than the earlier tears. She is an adorable addition to the family and we are lucky to have her.

Yesterday I was supposed to keep my trash for No Impact Week. I had panty hose packaging (recyclable), hard candy wrappers from keeping the kids occupied during the service, twenty used tissues (all mine), a receipt from the comfort lunch I dragged everyone to, and the tags I took off the new PJ's my mom gave me that I put on at 5:30PM. "For where your treasure is, there too your trash will be."

Happy New Year!
May you have more blessings than heartaches.
May you fall in love with the world all over again.
May you see something amazing in nature.
May you have moments of bliss and inspiration peppered in with meaningful work.
May you push yourself to be your best and forgive yourself when you fall short.
When it is time for you to leave us, may you be missed. But may that time be a long ways off.

Thank you for reading. Feel free to send your grocery list.

Previews

2010-12-12T00:00:00.003-05:00

I've been reading about reduced attention spans in our culture due to multi-media saturation. Since you are savvy enough to figure out blog reading, you are obviously at risk. In the hopes of keeping my readership interested, here are some blog post "trailers" that may actually get written this week.

1) Hanukkah Re-do: Why the Hell not? On any given night half of the household was sick during Hanukkah. Now that the festival of lights is over, the youngest one blinks Manga large, tear-filled eyes today and says, "Mommy, when are we going to shred the potatoes for latkes?" Looks like the miracle continues into 16 nights?!?

2) The Last Supper meets Asian Porcelain Porn Spent a few days in NYC with my adorable mother and was struck by the odd juxtapositions offered in that city. Yep, I took pictures.

3) Bish and Dame It - Teaching the next generation to cuss. I thought the hubby was getting our son closer to nature, instead he was teaching him the intricate laws of obscenities.

4) Well, looky there: I'm a joiner! - I was raised Unitarian Universalist - the only portal into religion for the non-joiners and staunch individualists of this world now that "Father Ted" is off the air. At 9 I already had issues with the rigid strictures of the Brownies. ("What do you mean we meet every Wednesday?") I believe that line dancing needs to be subverted and I relish going in through the out door. So how did I develop this recent compulsion for joining?

Don't those sound just grand? We'll see if I have a long enough attention span to write any more this week.

Blogger, Death Princess, Novelist

2010-12-01T01:23:00.004-05:00

My head is as big as a gourd. I successfully finished Nanowrimo, National Novel Writing Month. My novel's title cannot be published here because either 1) it is under hush hush negotiations with a top publishing house or 2) it is such an awful title that the novel ended up having nothing to do with it and is filing for an annulment. Here's a hint: you won't be seeing it on any shelves at any book stores near you, but if you come to my house it is in the FedEx copy box beside the recliner.

155 pages, single spaced and I perused it yesterday. I'm pretty sure that the spouse was slipping me complex mushrooms for the whole month because I remember writing very little of that. Suddenly Keith Richards' memoir and Hunter S. Thompson make perfect sense. I am also way more sympathetic towards bad writers everywhere.

In other news, I will be posting some Hanukkah advice for the next eight days per request. The requester happened to steal my 3 to 2 prong computer plug adapter today while babysitting my sick daughter so you may not get it tonight... but soon.

Thanks to so many of you who checked back here at the blog or on Facebook throughout the month and kept me going. And thanks to my fan from Massachusetts, previously of Hawaii, who outed his fandom at his beloved grandmother's funeral. I love you, too.

As for those of you who didn't make Nanowrimo this year: we can sign up next year on October 15. You'll love it when it doesn't make you want to die.

Novel Ideas

2010-11-01T17:22:00.003-04:00

November is National Novel Writing Month and apparently I have slipped and hit my head at some point and thus decided to participate. A concussion is the only reasonable excuse for doing something this harebrained.

Before the Nano hit squad comes to bludgeon me with red pens and coffee cups: I think it is a great idea for other people. I have always openly admired NaNoWriMo participants when reminded of them around November 20. I always like to think, "Oooh if only I had known in October."

But realistically, this is a recipe for disaster. I am not a good "daily"participant in anything except taking my medicine. And I can be a little iffy on the meds every now and again, so maybe that is not the best example. 2,000 words a day. A novel in a month. It just gives me the willies.

Anyway in spite of my fear, my unreliability, my poor health, my other commitments, my lack of plot, and the wee bit of sanity I cling to, I am doing it. I am 474 words in and I haven't ruptured any crucial blood vessels yet. I'll try to drop a line or two here at the blog. I owe you pictures from rebuilding in New Orleans post-Katrina. I'll put those up when writing block hits. That should be Thursday if my past is any indication.

One hint: my plot is NOT what if Yoda was a hobbit/vampire hybrid.

Just What Your Funeral Needs

2010-10-27T14:34:00.005-04:00

A few pictures of some of the more flamboyant sights at the National Funeral Directors' Convention in New Orleans. I call that top one origami urn. There appeared to be a language barrier between myself and the sales dude so I can't tell you what it is really called, but I think with some papier mache, twine, and couple of beers we could make this happen at home.

I loved these tree balls. Again it was the language barrier, but I did catch that they take very little time to dissolve. A reminder from me and my funeral buddies: cremains are inert. You will not be fertilizing your tree with Uncle Gerardo's ashes. They will just be peacefully co-existing. See my previous post and you'll find where you can procure some horse manure for fertilization.

This is a closeup of the jaw-dropping glazes on the snazzy handmade art urns. I wonder if Mama would mind if I made her into a lamp.

And the Steinway shiny black casket would be good for the man we call in my family Grandaddy Babe. Babe has created multiple generations of Star Trek fans in our family. I think it only appropriate that we bury him in something that looks like what Mr. Spock was briefly laid to rest in.

An SUV hearse for when you need that extra room. Or is it the horsepower? Driving in snow? Who do they think they are kidding? This is all about the bling.

Speaking of bling: a gold casket because you are worth it and you want to look like Liberace in your final moments above ground. Earth to gold casket maker: we are NOT pharaohs. If this can convert into a hope chest, a 7 foot mirror, and a dinette set, then you have yourself a deal.

For some reason, they did a big reveal on that hearse below. I think it is this year's new model. Call me an old fuddy duddy, but I think your brother would get over his car fixation at death and be satisfied with the lovely horse drawn caisson at right. Or with you giving him the ole' fireman's carry to a shady spot under a nice tree free of golden caskets and horse manure. But truly, if it makes you happy... go for it.

As for me, funeral conventions make me happy. I like the death work I do because it makes people less anxious and helps them through their grief. I like many funeral directors because many of them are characters. That's like looking in a mirror but the reflection has an uncanny knowledge of anatomy, life insurance, cremation regulation, and how not to stop a fistfight at a funeral home visitation. I like all the things pictured on this page because I may not want it for myself but I am glad there are many, many options out there.

I still want to be wrapped in a quilt and laid right down in the ground so the earth can take me back a little at a time and a I can be a tasty treat for worms and microbes. Maybe one day plants and a tree could grow up right through me and take a little of me back above ground for a new life as a leaf, or a seed, or even a petal.

That's what I like but it is hard to exhibit that in a convention center.

Thousands of Funeral Directors Again

2010-10-27T13:56:00.005-04:00

Time for another year at the National Funeral Directors' Convention. This time it was in New Orleans and it is a wonder I survived and came back home again. I'm pretty sure if feather dude here had offered me and mine jobs as feather tamers or tambourine tuners, I would have not returned to the lovely Commonwealth of my birth. Thanks to this convention I could also be employed as a keg taster of NOLA craft brews, a gumbo ad campaign chairwoman, and a professional wanderer of side streets in the Garden District.

This was the best convention for incorporating local funeral customs as a jazz funeral was conducted in honor of those funeral directors and their loved ones who have died in the past year. Great music, a good homily, and everything ran smoothly as one would expect from the pros represented. Then there were the elements of the jazz funeral: from the dirge to the costumes, the horses, the band, the waving of the white hankies, the move from sorrow to jubilation, and the dancing in the street. I was very pleased that Emporia, Virginia's divine Miss Edna whom I eulogized this past summer was one of the honorees. I danced and waved a hankie in her honor.
In addition to the jazz funeral, there were classes on everything from embalming to marketing, from green cemeteries to business management. I did not include pictures of those, because the fantastic dancers from the funeral are better looking and more interesting to readers of this blog.

My son is old enough to read this blog now so I will point out that the horses did unload a pile of manure inside the convention center but funeral directors are good detail people so precautions had been taken due to the likeliness of such an event. (In other words, Little Man: there was a special carpet and a guy with a shovel who took care of the problem.)

Per request of one of the most faithful followers of Auspicious Jots, I am including some very nice urns here. Each one is handmade. The artist is a crafty and inventive woman who determined that we all aren't wooden box and ginger jar people. If my faithful reader posts a comment, I can provide the link to this gal's website to help you procure one. Prices ranged from $600-$1,000. Beauty ain't cheap but I like the symbolism of that bird one.

You know I won't lie to you. Not every minute of the convention was spent in classes, going to funerals, in cemeteries, or checking out the latest in funeral stuff. I did a lot of that. But much of a convention entails networking. In the funeral business that seems to involve a bar and good food, no matter where the convention is. With this one being in NOLA, there were just a LOT more choices for the food and beverages. Let's just say that we made the most of what the city had to offer and utilized its fine public transportation system on a daily basis.

As one of my new funeral friends likes to query, "Do you undertake what I'm saying?"

I will be posting a couple of the quirkier finds from the exhibit hall in a separate post. You know you can't help but check it out.

Honky Tonk Queen

2010-10-27T13:17:00.007-04:00

There are times when life is just flippin' perfect. My day with Whitey Morgan and the 78's was even better than flippin' perfect.

They came to my town because I begged them to. They liked the Southern food my homies and I whipped up for them. (Homemade fried chicken, hush puppies, cheese grits, the world's best green bean casserole, biscuits made with LARD, olive spread, brownies, bean salad, and deviled eggs all washed down with beer and some jello shooters.) They were kind enough to hang out with me and mine when they could have been napping. We got to know each other and then they rocked the house. It was great.

Their new CD is very different from their first one and I love them both, much in the same way that I love the 78's and the Chiggers who opened for them. It was great to have local honky tonk buds hanging with national honky tonkers. I would happily follow both bands all over the country if it weren't for that whole raising kids, family business, not a dime in my pocket thing I've been workin' here lately.

A quick review of the pics that don't speak for themselves: *Dancing with Chiggers frontman Wes who dances as well as he sings and that is a major compliment on both parts. Not pictured is me dancing with Mrs. Chigger who can cut a rug on her own with her fine self.

*Up next is Whitey himself who is surprisingly tall. You watch the YouTubes and you don't pick up on that. Reason being, the rest of them are pretty tall, as well. Some would argue that it is the boots, but as a later shot shows: we were all wearing boots.

*I am snuggling with friend of almost 15 years and Chiggers pedal steel player, Tim. He helped sweeten the deal to get the 78's to play by offering the Chiggers as an opening band. It was a great match and both bands liked each other immensely. That is the victory grin that Tim and I are sharing.

*The orange shot is of the bassist of the 78's, Jeremy. He was the one I talked into this insane adventure. As a buddy of mine who has passed his 70th year said that night, "That man is a darn fine bassist." I agree. He is just a fine person who has translated that into some fine musical talent.

The night was a dream come true and I will be smiling about it for years to come. There is a track on the new CD called "Honky Tonk Queen". Please see that it is played in my honor when I pass on to the great dance floor in the sky.

Positive Obsessions

2010-09-29T10:08:00.003-04:00

Last night at gayraoke (gay karaoke) I was stunned as two women and three men sang every word, every note, did the drum parts and the spoken parts to the dreadful 1987 abomination "Naughty Girls Need Love, Too". My stun turned to nausea when I realized I was one of the women. I am only able to write this because just one of us had the mic and blessedly it was not yours truly.

Your Honor, I plead guilty by reason of obsessive teen behavior to the charges of creating a public nuisance, curse and abuse (at Samantha Fox and Full Force for unleashing that demon hymn into the world), and impersonating a pouty British accent. My defense is that my co-defendants and I were teenagers when the song was released and thus had no immunity to what Billy Collins calls "a mad fan belt of a tune".

I think it is a decent defense. But I have my own bail bondsman and lawyer just in case I'm wrong.

I have a brain full of Nick Hornby which leads me to believe that obsessions are a necessary part of life. Unfortunately, I happen to know that when he wrote his most famous odes to obsession: High Fidelity, Fever Pitch, and About a Boy, Hornby was a functioning madman. I've read all three of these works in the past month as part of my grief abatement program, so as a somewhat functioning obsessive, I know of which I speak.

But let's go back to songs that grab you this time focusing on the better aspects of that phenomenon. When I hear Paul Simon I can remember the sound of my mother's record spinning in our living room. I remember rapping along with my classmates to "La-di-da-di, we like to party. We don't cause trouble; we don't bother nobody." I remember stopping what I was doing in Germany to find out who Lisa Stansfield was in 1990. I remember the first time I heard the voice of Roger Carroll, a talented local singer and saxman.

And I remember when emusic offered me a free song that they thought I might like based on previous downloads. Anyone who has ever been on the receiving end of these things knows that they are hit or mostly miss. If you followed the four hyperlinks of the previous paragraph you can imagine what the iTunes genius and programs of its ilk are up against when they have to guess what I am going to like. I downloaded warily.

The song was "Crazy" by Whitey Morgan and the 78's. After a few weeks of listening to that song more and more, I downloaded three more songs by this band. Within a month I had downloaded the whole album in this day and age when whole album commitment is either a sign of abundant wealth or maniacal obsession. For me it was the latter.

Since I had become fanatical about this Flint, Michigan Honky Tonk band I decided to take the next step: I wrote a fan letter. I asked them when they thought they would get this way. That probably would have been the end of it except soon after I sent the letter I found out that they had been this way and had performed at a small place with no promotion. I sent a quick PS saying "XXXXX?!? You played at XXXXX? That's like booking George Jones at the Krispy Kreme. Look, if we can lure you back to Richmond, my friends and I will come out to party with you and we'll feed you a big ole' Southern meal at my place before the gig."

18 months later Whitey Morgan and the 78's will be playing this Saturday at the Playing Field at 7801 West Broad St. right here in river city. It didn't hurt that the booking guru at the Playing Field also contacted them. Also helpful was that the pedal steel player for Richmond's own The Chiggers, another band I love, contacted them and asked (and were subsequently invited) to open. And then their record company was nice enough to send them out on tour - it was all meant to be.

Some think that my over-the-top enthusiasm for music is a sign of a stunted maturity. I say that if maturity is keeping your ass on a comfortable couch and watching whatever pathetic pablum American TV broadcasting has coughed up this week instead of kicking up your heels on a dance floor with people who are talented and drove 667 miles to party with you... then you are damn skippy I am immature. I also think being able to gush and effuse about a band I've never met, never heard live, and yet am as excited as if those four bowl haircuts just stepped off the plane at Kennedy in 1964; well, that just makes me damn lucky in this life. I think it could be worse. I could obsessively hyperlink. Oh, wait...

Speaking of obsessions, I am embarking on my 5th trip to the Gulf Coast to rebuild houses. Between working in the ninth ward on construction, eating gumbo, and listening to live music I doubt I will have time to be blogging. That's a shame because I am doing my annual pilgrimage to the National Funeral Directors Association Convention at the end of the trip and I know how y'all love my blogging from that event. You can wish me a bon voyage Saturday night because as soon as Whitey says "Thank you, Richmond!" and turns off the amp, my driving buddy and I hit the road to NOLA.

Thanks for reading when you could have been web surfing for bands. Word to your mama.

The past, the soccer, the evil within, and at the end: boobies

2010-09-21T21:36:00.003-04:00

My mother used to say that her earliest memory was of family members gathered around her cooing and applauding as she did a dance number. She was the first born of the first born and was considered by a large web of loving family to have invented cuteness. I've seen photos and have to agree.

My earliest memory is of potty training. My parents are both in a very small apartment bathroom encouraging me in sweet "you can do it, little one!" voices. I am on the toilet and scared. Then I am in the toilet, wet, and scared. And can you guess what my beloved parents did in the face of this scarring tragedy of their only child?

Those peckerwoods laughed their tails off. I was furious at the two of them trying not to laugh and tears streaming down their faces as they coughed out, "It's okay, baby" between fits of giggles. I may have only been two, but righteous indignation was an instinct.

In those earliest memories my mother and I both learned lessons we have used the rest of our lives. For Mama it was: you can be adored by many, but you will have to dance your sweet fanny off to keep their attention. For me it was: they are going to laugh at you no matter what, learn to like it. (My lesson was closely followed by a fear of water and of falling. Mama has an aversion to lace trimmed panties and tap shoes. But that's another story.)

I share my first remembered life lesson to goad myself into sharing yet another humiliating story about myself: why I am not allowed to follow sports. This is on my mind for two reasons. First, I am immersed in Nick Hornby's Fever Pitch, an engaging look at his decades long obsession with the English soccer team, Arsenal. Second, I am off in less than two weeks on my fifth trip to the Gulf Coast to rebuild after Katrina. This time I will be working in the 9th Ward of New Orleans and am finding the lure of Saints football to be almost overwhelming.

It may come as a surprise that in the marital rules by which my long-suffering spouse and I have lived for almost twenty years, there is a provision that restricts me from observing any sporting events other than German World Cup matches, the Super Bowl, and the occasional UVA basketball game. I can do an annual live baseball or soccer game only because in person I always find a crowd and our squirmy kids far more attention grabbing than the sport itself.

I will save the long version of my sordid sportsfan past for my memoirs. Let's just say that I have an ugly side that reared its head twice in the early nineties following a season of abysmal Raiders football and another of spectacular but ultimately soul obliterating Knicks basketball. After these seasons he enacted the draconian law that I am not allowed to follow a team for a full season. It is the only marital law he has ever enacted. The rest are requests, strong suggestions, and a wish list.

I have only been able to stop scowling and begin to laugh about this 17 year law for about... um... three... months. But in the spirit of dunking one's bottom in icy water and grinning, and seeing as how football mania is under way, I am sharing my struggle here.

I can very easily put the fanatic in fan. I have all the attributes: a long attention span, loyal affection, quick to forgive (although not at the end of the season). I am willing to alter my schedule for things I care about. I enjoy dressing in costumes. I like beer. Most of my friends are dudes.

These are the gifts I long to bring to the New Orleans Saints and possibly, through the miracles of the internet, Bayern Munich's soccer team. To the latter I also bring a gift of being able to mutter curses and shriek in glee in the German language.

Unfortunately, following sports even if allowed is pretty miserable for me because I become enmeshed. Ask my friends with whom I watched the World Cup this year. For the matches televised only on cable I arrived at their homes quiet and antsy. I failed at polite small talk. I barely spoke for the duration of the game unless it was in German directed at the TV. I was wearing German themed athletic gear. (And to think, I wasn't laughing at that point?!?) I exhibited a variety of nervous tics including sitting ramrod straight, holding my breath, and wringing my hands. God bless my friends. They laughed openly at me and let me drink their beer.

I handled it pretty well in the beginning. I mean who can't chuckle and enjoy the day when mopping the floor with Australia or cleaning the toilet with the jerseys of England? But there was never a point in Germany's meteoric rise through the tournament when I felt safe. After all, the pre-tournament talk was about France, the Africans, the South Americans, most anyone other than Germany's "young" team.

Like any good fan, I was wrapped up in the skills and failings of the players. I had fallen for the Polish powerhouses of Klose and Podolski four years earlier and was expecting good things from them. I had no hope for the newbie goalie, the aptly named Neuer, but was pleasantly surprised and soon gave him the pet name of the big Banana. It helped that I don't trust pretty men and thus had never been under the sway of former captain Ballack, so I was able to ignore the constant prattle that the team would be lost without him. (Is this talk creeping you out yet? It always stuns my family. I normally save this kind of detail for death, obscure theology, poetry, and rock and roll. Obsessive analysis of a sports team by yours truly is my equivalent of a sudden understanding of calculus.)

I could go on but I wouldn't want you to faint, so let me move on to my anxiety which reached its pinnacle in the days leading up to and including Germany's penultimate game that booted them from the final.

I was on pins and needles all week. I replayed the previous games in my mind. I followed World Cup news through a variety of apps and in three languages on my phone. I talked smack to Spain fans. I was so tense I didn't sleep well the night before. During the match itself I became increasingly unhinged as they were deftly over-powered by Spain. It has taken all these months to be able to stutter out that compliment to the World Champions.

But here is the best part. For that game I was in a van with my undertaker buddy and our kids on the way to South Carolina for his brother's wedding. In best-friend-enabling fashion he had let me watch as much as I could on his TV before we hit the road. Then we tuned in on some iffy radio stations. When those blitzed out another buddy... are you ready for this? ... gave me play by play analysis in a series of 90 some emails that I followed like a crazy woman on my phone.

When the game ended with Germany's loss I was green with carsickness and disappointment. In commentator buddy's last email he apologised to me and offered condolences on my loss. This from a man who probably gave himself acute carpal tunnel typing things like "Spain's striker rushes but Big Banana blocks it" for the better part of two hours. The undertaker held my hand and gave me his best undertaker comfort talk, while driving 75 miles an hour with the kids yakking away in the back in 95 degree heat. And folks, neither of these guys are German soccer fans.

It has taken me almost three months since the World Cup to realize why I am not allowed to follow sports and to laugh at long last on the marital moratorium: I am a sports menace. I have a natural ability to get people to jump in on my plans and in the sporting world this is called "inciting hooliganism."

"Hey y'all - let's go do karaoke even though only one of us sings and we all have stage fright." And the gang says, OK!

"If I lead a church will you come, even though you say you aren't religious and churches freak you out?" And the crew says, Sure, why not?

These are endearing and admirable traits when used for the good of humanity and honky tonk bands. (October 2, 8 o'clock, the Playing Field on Richmond's Broad Street. Be there and wear your dancing shoes.) But something about sports turns me into the Rasputin of the arena. Suddenly good, innocent people find themselves in bad places letting me act like an ass and bending to my fanatical will.

It is for YOUR OWN GOOD that I not be allowed to become a Saints devotee. If I were to follow the Saints this year, chances are some of my devoted readers would wake up in mid-winter with a giant Fleur de Lis tattooed on their backsides wondering how the hell that happened. At least one of you would be injured in a gumbo related accident. Far too many of you would be wearing feathers and flashing your chests come Mardi Gras. Mayhem would ensue and, should they start losing, quite possibly riots.

In the very best scenario I drink your beer and you have to email me play by play updates while I am at the opera. I just can't do that to you. So there you have it. My dark secret. My evil within.

But I know you did not read all this way for that. For my faithful readers who send me such sweet, supportive mail: boobies.

I was prodded, scanned, zapped, felt up, and squeezed by trained professionals and their high tech machines. Three well-educated medical specialists and two very expensive machines confirmed my high opinion of my faithful breasts. They are disease free. The diagnosis was another refrain of a mantra of my life: the problem is just another side effect from the nasty medicines I take.

Don't forget to get your mammograms! Save the ta tas and all that.

Thank you for reading. It keeps me from watching sports.

It is Not Like I Sprouted A Penis

2010-09-16T14:36:00.003-04:00

Because that would be really embarrassing.

I talked to my beloved Dr. today. I had self-diagnosed myself with strep throat because I am brilliant that way. And by " brilliant that way" I mean that I have no idea what I am talking about.

I do not have strep throat. I have thrush again from the nasty medicines I take. And I have a lump in my breast because I do not know the difference between a swollen lymph node and a boobie bump. Brilliant that way.

So anyway, the Dr. and I were chatting about my other condition, grief zombietude (see previous post), when he asked me what my family and friends had to say on the subject. So I told him.

And he said, "How do you know?"

And I said, "Because I asked them, 'Just how much of a psycho-bitch am I right now?' "

And the Dr.'s jaw dropped. "You just asked them?"

But of course. How am I going to know if I don't ask?

This brings me back to my worldview and blog focus that people should talk about things. Mouths are good for eating, drinking, and breathing. Voices are good for yelling "HELP!" and singing along with Prince. Brains are good for eating. (Little zombie joke there.) Brains are good for everything.

Put a mouth, a voice, and brains together and you have someone who can talk which is a never-ending miracle unless they are talking about the MTV awards, Hollywood infidelity or are the Pope. (Secularism has made the UK a third world country?!? Nazis and atheism?!? He needs to have his potassium checked. Trust me. I'm brilliant that way.)

I've had concerned emails and calls today from the lovely tribe I call my friends about my blog post yesterday. Several of them are considerably more private than I am about their feelings and are a wee bit concerned that I would share such "intimate" details of my life. We have very different perspectives on this.

In review, people tell me stuff. All kinds of stuff. Stuff they don't tell just anyone. And most people tell me these things almost immediately after meeting me. After salsa dancing with a girlfriend I listened to the divorce and parenting woes of the man (a stranger) on the next barstool. My waiters share their money problems. My paper carrier and I have become blood sisters. I have never flown anywhere without hearing at least one deeply held secret from someone.

I think people tell me stuff because a) I don't mind a bit, b) I find people interesting, c) I encourage them because I think it makes them feel better and I always learn more about human nature, and d) I don't carry people's secrets around like they are secrets. I remember some. I forget most of them. If I see the person again, I treat them like I always have.

And this is what I have learned: secrets are just no big deal 95% of the time. They are usually just emotions that got housed in the wrong place and some strange occurrence resulted from the misfiling. Why should your pain be a secret? Why should your confusion be a secret? We all have these issues with love, grief, mortality, our bodies, and fear. No one is in a place to judge anyone else on these things.

So why wouldn't I confess to being a grief zombie? I've known lots of grief zombies. They were perfectly nice people. Why wouldn't I confront my co-workers on my level of bitchitude, more so since one is my husband and the other my best friend. Why wouldn't I talk publicly about suicide loss? It hurts. It sucks. And tons of people get it from a variety of angles. More importantly, I get it better now that I copped to it publicly. My willingness to talk about it has made lots of great people tell me their stories and I feel connected in new ways to old friends, acquaintances, and even strangers. This isn't "intimate". This is just life.

Not that I don't need help.

I called a new friend this afternoon because he'd sent the grief zombie a sweet message and I had then tried to put the toaster in the refrigerator. I don't know what the connection was and it turns out neither did he.

I called my blogging buddy Lizard Eater because I think this mammogram will probably hurt what with the lymph/boobie bump and all. She has more cancer experience than anyone should and we agreed that this is not a cancer scare. I may be brilliant that way but she actually knows a thing or two.

I read an email from a friend who became a close friend after I admitted on this blog to putting my dress on backwards, dropping my pants by accident in public, and making my own underwear. He has more Grief Abatement ideas a-brewing. Clothing will be firmly in place.

And somewhere along the way I explained that talking about these things for me is not intimate. Then I blurted, "It is not like I sprouted a penis." Since that is one of the funnier things I've said lately, I do believe I struck a blow against grief zombie-tude.

Rock on witcho' bad selves. Thanks for reading.

The Long Wait

2010-09-15T14:35:00.002-04:00

I have not been a very good grieving person. I wrote twenty thank-you notes in August. I have no idea where I put them. I have lost my ability to cry which is like a normal person saying, "I have lost my ability to pee." Every time a thought about grief starts sneaking into my consciousness I squish it like a spider. I don't have much to say because I am wrapped up in trying not to think about it. And when I try to think about it... nothing comes.

People have been so kind to me. I call them the Grief Abatement Patrol. They have taken me to movies, to the musem, cleaned up my yard, brought me food, taken me to karaoke, given me hugs, sent cards, cuddled my children, called, stopped by, even made me some mix CD's. It is really, really nice. But I am having trouble remembering it, absorbing it, showing my gratitude. I think something inside me died this go round and all that is left is a shell.

I have become a grief zombie. Zombies are no good at thank you notes.

I have watched my family and others who are feeling the pain and shock at my uncle's sudden death by his own hand. I try to mimic them. These are people who remember to buy groceries. These people seem to have a full range of emotions although they are predominantly sad and confused with an occasional angry outburst. These people seem to be able to speak and don't look like zombies. They smell good.

It is hard to write accurately what it feels like to be a grief zombie because the core of my zombie life is not having feelings. I say I try not to think about it, but what I mean is that when thoughts of sadness start floating in an emotionless voice says, "Not yet." It is not conscious so much as zombie survival instinct kicking in. I can no more will myself to feel, to not feel, or to concentrate than I can will myself to cry.

I used to see zombies like me all the time when I did grief counseling for a living. It was always a creepy thing to watch from the outside. The grief zombies I worked with never knew they were zombies. They thought they weren't upset. They thought they were handling their loss surprisingly well. They thought that they kept forgetting things and losing stuff because of some medication they were on. They never ever thought that their emotions were now undead: not functioning as alive, not yet dead.

The grief zombies were some of my toughest cases. They refused help. They had car accidents and fell down stairs. They lost interest in the usual joys of life. They tended to become ill, some of them terminally. And still, they did not know they were zombies.

So, I guess it is a good thing to know. Knowing I'm a grief zombie allows me to make a blog post to help explain why people aren't getting thank you cards or may get them in November. It means I don't have to worry about a Halloween costume. It takes the pressure off at meal time - I'm not hungry and no longer interested in food not because I am sick... I am just undead. And best of all, I can joke about it, because if I can laugh I can cry.

Speaking of crying, I have been able to cry twice in the past two weeks. Since we are in the middle of the High Holy days I have gone to some Jewish services. And I have managed to cry during the Mourner's Kaddish. It just sneaks in. I guess zombies can speak Hebrew.

If I were my grief counselor I would say, "Keep going, Zombie Girl. It takes awhile. If you cry at Shabbat services and no other time... go to Shabbat services. There is something in you that is trying to get out. You will come back to life but you need to give it time. Sometimes it is a Long Wait."

Zombie Girl Me would then tell Grief Counselor Me to shove some things where the sun don't shine and then have a "Long Wait" before getting them removed. Just because I am undead does not mean that I've lost my sass. I've lost my thank you cards, the stamps, some of my passwords, my allergy medicine, some bills, many shoes, my appetite, half a dozen partially read books, and my coherence.

But I got my Hebrew, my Grief Abatement Patrol, and my sass.

Back in the Valley of Shadows

2010-08-17T22:38:00.003-04:00

No, I am not Job but I think we are related.

Last week my erudite, generous, beyond energetic, gentle uncle decided that he had nothing to offer the world and so he left us. He was a Princeton man, did a Fulbright in Rome, had a PhD, loved opera, was interested in church history and theology, was brilliant on Shakespeare, drove people around who couldn't drive themselves, and was kinder to my children than you can imagine. He was a teacher in profession and in calling. He was steadfast in his support of me personally and professionally. And now he is gone and for all the wrong reasons.

His death came one year and four days after my aunt (no relation to him) took her own life.

His death is like an earthquake in our family. In just a few moments everything looks different; there is no stability, and three generations of us no longer feel safe. There is no "getting used to" suicide. There is no "better suicide" than another. It is all a nightmare, but each a different nightmare than the other.

In the years since I have had this blog, my parents have fought cancer and a coma, my last two grandmothers died, even my dogs died. I have tried to understand my own health problems (considerable to the average healthy person, absolutely nothing in light of this week) that limit my ability to live as I would like. I have waited for test results with my friend Lizard Eater and a buddy Undertaker. I now pray for another one of my hero buddies as she enters into another fight against her own cancer.

Through it all my goal has been to be honest and open about grief and loss. I wanted to pull back the veil on some parts of death and dying so it was less terrifying for people. I have shared my worldview that not only is life still funny when you pay attention to death, sometimes it is funnier. My thought has always been: maybe if we talk about it, it will help.

But I am run down to the ground on this one.

My uncle left me a package. It included a long letter and a bag of items. The letter was his instructions for his funeral, his asking for me to perform it, and some suggestions for what I might include. The package included some of the items he mentioned in the letter - photos and notes mostly.

It would appear that in all my comfort concerning death, all of my talk about pre-planning, all of my suggestions for finding meaning at the end of life... my uncle had listened very carefully. Too carefully and I am left with the realization that I never said the most important things.

I never said: if you are physically healthy but wanting to die, something is very wrong. Yell for help, and when help does not arrive start sprinting for help, and when you can't find it scream for directions.

I never said: all the pre-planning in the world is not helpful when you hand it over to your own brothers, your own niece, your dear friends after your unexpected and fully intentional death.

I never said: LIVE! LIVE! LIVE! If life has lost its siren call to survival before anything threatens your physical well-being, treat your mind like a body with cancer and fight for life.

I know that this was his struggle not mine. I know that his choices were set in granite a long time ago. I know because he said so in what he left behind. I know that my words could not have changed his mind.

But my heart does not believe as I look over the meticulous plans done to the very letter of how I have taught people for a decade to plan. He did everything I asked. I just wish I had asked him to live.

So I post again in the face of very personal and deep pain because every time I come out as a survivor of suicide loss, I meet more people who have walked this road with no more ease than I. I share my selfish feelings that resist the lessons of my psychological training because that's just how I feel. It may not be "right" but it is true. Our feelings rarely behave in times of grief and I am not going to compound the pain by shaming myself for how I feel.

If I want to dream that something could have made him save himself, who would be so cruel to take that little dream away from me? I don't plan to build any structures on that foundation and it isn't hurting him, that's for sure.

And I share, most of all, because there has been a stunned silence in the wake of my uncle's death. "How can one family have so much loss?" "What do you say in the face of compounded suffering?"

I don't know. Unlike Job, I don't even have a theory. But like Job, I feel judged, blamed, avoided, pitied, feared, misunderstood, fussy and really damn weary.

As for my family, we are all putting one foot in front of the other, getting through each day as best we can, trying to keep talking to each other gently but honestly. We are hugging the children a little too tightly and saying "I love you" more. We are fussing over stupid stuff and apologizing. We don't know what we had for dinner any day since last Wednesday. Our cell phone minutes are all used up. We don't sleep well.

Day after day we do this because there is only one road through grief and it is THROUGH it. Not over, under, or around it. The only way out is through. We aren't courageous, just reasonable.

And we will all get up tomorrow and see what that day brings. Some days we cry. Some days we are angry. Some days we are sick to our stomachs. But one day it will be better than this. So we keep walking through it all toward that inevitable auspicious dawn.

You'd do the same. That was always the lesson of Job to me: you'd do the same.

A Room of One's Own

2010-08-06T18:56:00.003-04:00

Virginia Woolf says I need a room of my own. I think a nap, a loft, a secretary, a nanny and a well-stocked bar could be more helpful.

If I had a room of my own, I'd just fill it with all those boxes of crap in my attic that I haven't taken to the thrift store. In fact, I had a room of my own. It was my sewing corner. It is now full of clothes to mend, sweaters looking for a summer home, the children's art supplies and another pile of things that I don't have the energy to throw away. I'm no longer sentimental, I'm just really damn tired.

I also had a car of my own. It looks like my children got some weird chewing disease and ground through our belongings leaving nothing but shreds, crumbs, and my blotted lipstick prints. My car has become a possum den on wheels. That is not to say that I don't sometimes get in it and drive nowhere in particular just to feel quiet and alone, as much as that is possible with Ben Nichols hollerin' at me on the hifi and that infernal honkin' sound behind me at stoplights.

My grandmother bequested a man chair to my husband which quickly became a chair of my own. Just last night I wasted some hours and sanity I can never recover on that chair watching "Sin City". Does any movie ever need that many severed heads? In addition to causing me to make questionable choices of cinematic "entertainment" that chair also gives me a neck ache and I have to fuss with the children to sit in it so it is not the throne of my calm. (Hopefully all men reading this are toasting my poor seatless husband at this point because no matter who is blogging it: that man never gets that seat.)

I gave up on the bathroom as the room of my own when the children arrived. As Mom, I am the one person everyone is allowed to interrupt in the bathroom. How did I become the least interesting naked person in the house? Sometimes I forget that I am allowed some privacy and just leave the door open so I can skip the process of screeching, banging and sudden entry most favored by my 5 year old. Today two of my buddies pulled shower shifts in there due to a power outage in Southside and the DIY renovation of a bathroom in Carytown. These are my drinking buddies so I have this dreadful feeling that when I take my shower limericks are going to appear on the mirror and walls as soon as they steam up.

There was a brief and wonderful period when the kitchen was all mine. I picked everything out for its renovation and personally rode herd on the construction crew whom I also picked. The light strip now needs replacing, the floor needs a moppin', the fridge needs a scrubbin, and I feel like Loretta Lynn every time I go in there. Plus both those dudes who used my shower today cook better than I do so I've lost my will to excel in that joint. It has become a place to put the cereal box and the dog bowls.

So I whine and pout about not having a room of my own and then I have a day like today. This morning I toured a shelter for people trying to rebuild their lives. They live in 6 by 8 foot cubicles for a year. For lunch I visited a new friend and broke the bad news that she needs to convert her lovely sitting area of her beautiful historic home to a hospital room for her mother. I then came home and joyfully played hostess to the friends needing showers and the friend coming to get his dog we've been babysitting for a week. And when they all left, I truly missed them and wished they'd all come back.

Now I sit at the dining room table trying to blog and have been interrupted countless times by phones and texts, yelling and hungry children, sneezing dogs, and various reminders of the countless undone chores. And I am gateful for a big heart with room enough for all of this and more.

When Outfits Attack

2010-06-19T15:08:00.006-04:00

Life after 40 is not for the easily embarrassed. I am in a process of reflection to decide whether I can live with that truism or if I need to seek other options. As the other options are looking bleak, I'm temporarily embracing the ludicrous in my life and sharing in the hopes that the cosmic joke is meant to be laughed at.

I have had so many humiliating moments lately that I decided for the sake of sanity and brevity to share only one category today. And the winner is: sartorial humiliation.

(Warning: this post is not a great one for men, my mother, the easily embarrassed, or anyone with a shred of personal dignity. If you have given birth, breast fed in public, been employed as a health care worker, or would rather laugh at me than realize you've been wasting your life on sudoku and bad television then this is the post for you.)

First Episode: Clothing Confusion

I arrived at work two weeks ago feeling well-rested and enthusiastic. As my boss is also my husband I figured he'd be doubly pleased to be in my ebullient presence. I practiced being a happy morning person on the children and the other parents delivering their kids to school. I assumed that the surprised smiles on the parents were affirmations that people love cheerful and energetic. What a stupid ninny I am.

At work I bounded up the stairs, merrily opened the door to the office, and called out in my best Debbie Reynolds impression, "Good Mornin'!" The boss was out. Our best friend, co-worker, and chief heckler was in. "What happened to you?" he muttered. Not the reaction I was hoping for.

"Good night's sleep I guess," and in an attempt to remain positive I launched into some of the many hopes I had for the day ahead that I had been considering on the way to work. I was coming to the end of my list and wrapping up with an expansive arm gesture when I felt a breeze that no woman ever wants to feel suddenly at work.

For want of a better term, I'll call it a nippular breeze.

With my arms still spread wide I looked down to blessedly NOT see my own nipple. What I did see was both explanatory and briefly more perplexing.

The source of the nippular breeze was a strange gap in my dress at the cleavage. The gap was caused by a stiff piece of fabric known in some circles as a tag. This fabric looked suspiciously like the tag in the back of the dress but I wondered, who puts a tag in the... front of... oh NO! With a trail of decidedly un-cheerful expletives behind me, I dashed into the bathroom, took off my dress, and turned it right way round with the last of my energy for the day.

Upon returning red-faced and discouraged to the office lobby the heckler said, "Don't worry. You didn't flash me. It was just hanging in a way that made your butt look huge." How very comforting.

I eventually confessed to this morning horror on Facebook hoping for some, "I do that all the time" comments. Instead many friends ruptured appendixes and gallbladders as well as spitting perfectly good coffee out their sinuses guffawing at my expense. Oddly, I still felt better.

Oh, if only that were my sole tale of clothing woe...

My lifelong friend turned 40 last week and was planning a great big night of: nothing. I kidnapped her for a full schedule of fine dining and crazy karaoke wearing her favorite color in a pair of pants that I made at least 6 years ago. I have only worn these pants a few times because they are quite dramatic. They are essentially wrap-around pants and a stiff breeze can show an acre of thigh. I was well prepared for this and wore a blouse that was rather long for some coverage, while being attentive when I sat down to keep the side vents closed.

If only I had been more attentive to the ties.

Anyone who has ever worn anything wrap-around knows that the ties are crucial. In these pants the front tie is particularly important. Why anyone would put a crucial tie in the front where it can be sneakily undone by a seat belt on the twenty minute ride to the birthday girl's house so that when a person gets out of the car the entire back of the pants falls to the ground leaving a person standing with a two yard long apron in the front and causing a shocking breeze that for want of a better term can only be described as an assular breeze in the back... is beyond me.

When that cool assular breeze blew past my behind I screamed like I had been shot. I sat down very fast but I couldn't stop laughing and tears were running down my face, so my daughter and friend panicked thinking I was having some sort of a fit.

As I tried in vain to communicate my predicament, all I could think of was that I was wearing a pair of back-of-the-drawer underwear. They reside there because the pattern on them is so loud they can be heard even under denim. They are the vuvuzela of panties and here I had just flashed half her apartment complex with them.

My friend swears no one saw, but I think my daughter had temporary partial blindness and I know that the security cameras, some satellites, and the man on the other moon caught it.

Final Episode: Making One's Own Mayhem

For our final vignette of the day I will share with you some sartorial humiliation in the making.

Because I am demented (it really is the only possible explanation) I have decided to make my own underwear. This idea came to me at an outdoor concert where my store bought undergarments were not cooperating with the rest of my outfit. Enough said on that. Use your imagination. (Oh, now she gets discreet.)

At that uncomfortable concert I thought, "Pants, blouses, jackets and shoes don't fit me... why should I expect underwear to fit me? I make some of my own clothes. I should make my own undies."

Thinking just like this is how the world ended up with toxic waste, nasty fast-food, and bad TV.

If only I hadn't gone through with it, but after much consternation, very little research, and some pre-sewing bragging... I made me some underwear this afternoon.

I am wearing this article of clothing... RIGHT NOW and I am about to get in the car for a 90 minute drive. Say what you will, but I question if anyone at Exxon, BP or Three Mile Island could possibly be as stupid as I am. This is a disaster in the making.

Did I mention that I did not use a pattern? I just took another pair of underwear from the drawer (front of the drawer this time) and cut fabric around it.

Did I mention that I did not use elastic? Elastic seems to be the source of my woes in other undergarments so I decided to skip it. I wonder why they even put elastic in panties? I bet I'll know the answer to that question by the end of the day.

Did I mention that I don't own a serger? All the sewers reading this just passed out on the floor. For those of you still conscious, making women's undies without elastic or a serger is like building a house without anything sharp and nothing to pound stuff with. A person might could still get away with it if a person had a pattern… oops.

Did I mention that I got front and back, inside and outside all confused? With the right combination of those mistakes everything could work out. You already know that I did not get the right combination, don’t you?

Did I mention that I tried to take a picture with my phone of the article in question on the behind in question and that was almost more humiliating than every other story I have told today? My thinking on this was that with a picture I could see what they looked like, because having not gotten into a car yet, they feel just fine. The good news – the photos were all blurry and are all deleted. The bad news – turns out that patterns are very, very important and that every warning you have ever heard about stripes is true.

In case you have not formed a full visual yet, there I am in the middle of the afternoon standing in my kitchen squinting at a blurry picture of my fanny crookedly clad in a pair of undies that may be on backwards and are definitely inside out when I hear the voice of Stevie Nicks singing "Landslide" in my head. I start humming along as I scroll then delete. Scroll, squint, gasp in shock, delete.

"If you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills, the landslide will bring it down..."

Lovely tune. That's when it hits me: these panties make my behind look like a landslide took out my right cheek. No amount of hitching seems to put that snow covered hill back together again. Oh heavens. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.

For those of you looking for the big spiritual meaning in all of this, I'm with you. At the most obvious, I need a tailor. More subtle are the lessons I have yet to learn. Perhaps today, particularly in the next 90 minutes, I am going to learn essential life and sewing lessons, all of which should decrease future embarrassments of aging. Maybe by sharing these humiliations I am becoming a wiser person.

One thing I know for sure, should I end up in an ER today, somebody is in for quite a surprise.

"Doctor, we don't know what happened to her but some sort of disaster has befallen her britches."

No dignity. No dignity at all.

In the Company of Dudes

2010-06-09T13:27:00.003-04:00

I work in an all male environment and it is turning me into That Chick who spends too much time in the company of dudes.

Exhibit A: Today I opened up a sleeve of Thin Mints. I called out to Ink Dude in the back office, "Yo, Ink - you want a Thin Mint?" He did not respond. Before I became That Chick I would have gotten up and walked (Thin Mints in hand) to the back office to offer again. Instead That Chick muttered, "No response, no cookies."

Exhibit B: Last week I used an expression the boys taught me in a conversation with one of their male friends. Let's say the operative word I used was "Weltmeisterschaft".

That Chick: You know he is all Weltmeisterschaft.

The Friend: Ack! (He kind of squeaked like a mouse.)

That Chick: What? You're a musician. You know I'm right. He's got Weltmeisterschaft written all over him.

The Friend: Okay. Whatever. I'll agree as long as I never have to hear you say that word again.

That Chick: Huh? You mean Weltmei...

The Friend: Ack! (And he ran away.)

Exhibit C: I held a staff meeting a couple of weeks ago to discuss toilet cleaning responsibilities, the lack of non-alcoholic beverages in the office refrigerators, and the office sexual harrassment policy. The jokes those boys made about the agenda were unrepeatable. By the end of the meeting Ink had cleaned the toilet but nothing else had been decided and I was laughing too hard to care.

Exhibit D: Speaking of Weltmeisterschaft, that's how the Germans talk about the World Cup. That Chick wants to buy a TV for the office so she can watch her team (Deutschland, of course) when they play. That Chick is all down in the mouth because her team is not looking good this year. That Chick has choice words in several languages that are not fit for polite ears when she thinks of her team not placing in the final three this year. That Chick says fussy things to her co-workers regarding sports apps on her droid. I read over that list and all I can think is, "Who is this woman? Sports... apps... on her... droid???"

I have always thought that gender differences were overblown in our society. I thought that "masculine" and "feminine" were cultural constructs with often nefarious power implications. I never felt like I fit in with the extremes on either end of the spectrum. Yeah, I sew, cook, and do crafts with the kids but I like philosophy and sci-fi, homebrew and barbecue. It all seemed to end up being a kind of gender neutral collection of interests shared by both men and women. Until I worked with all dudes. Now I am either "the girl" of the office which is a role I have NEVER coveted or I am That Chick who runs with the big dogs rather than stay on the porch.

Don't get me wrong. I truly work with three of the nicest guys I have ever known. They are smart, funny, responsible, loving Dads. They are serious about their work and they work hard. They have been incredibly patient with my office music choices which range from jazz to bluegrass, alt-country to hip hop, Sinatra to Snoop Dogg to Springsteen and back again. But put them together and throw me in the room and we become Three Dudes and That Chick.

I am not in full feminine crisis mode yet, but the day is nearing. When I give one of the boys a "Good Game" bum smack and belch out loud I'm checking myself into testosterone rehab: a quilting convention.

June 6 - Libby Booth Was Born

2010-06-05T22:17:00.005-04:00

There are people who hide from honest emotional engagement because it is too messy, too scary. I admire those folks like I do fire-eaters and tightrope walkers: I could never do it, but I imagine that it would be cool if I could. At least for a little while.

This is the eve before my aunt Libby's birthday. I love birthdays. Can't remember them to save my life, but I love them. Reason #5 for having a large percentage of male friends - most of them don't remember birthdays either and are thrilled when you buy a round to celebrate theirs even if it is 6 weeks late.

I would not have remembered that Libby's birthday was tomorrow. My mom told me today. She is the oldest sibling and not only remembers birthdays, but has all those other responsible, thoughtful habits that are the hallmark of so many firstborn.

My aunt was many things but responsible was a little lower on her list, let's say. But she had many other fine qualities including a great laugh, a green thumb, an eye for design, a flair for theatrics, and the most beautiful eyes in a family full of beautiful eyes. She loved animals. All of them. She loved Jackson Browne and the Allman Brothers, and dancing. She loved Mardi Gras and Halloween. And she was alive for her birthday last year but is not this year.

I am envying the emotionally distant folks of this world because I imagine them handling something like this pretty easily: the anniversary of the birth of a unique and flamboyant life ended too soon by her own hand. I like to think that this imaginary "they" do all kinds of things in the face of something like this. They play golf. They watch TV. They don't think about it. They don't regret. They don't wish for time machines or amnesia or to wake up and it will all have been a dream. They sure as hell don't blog about it.

I don't eat fire. I am afraid of heights. If I know you more than a day, chances are I'll get emotionally attached to you. And the anniversary of my aunt's birth makes me so sad I don't even know what to do with it. In writing this I am not looking for pity, or comfort, or solace. As I keep looking at the clock waiting for it to be midnight so her birthday will start and we can be closer to it ending I just think... I am not alone.

My mother remembers her sister's birth and has two other siblings who will be trying to get through tomorrow, too. My aunt grew up with twins who remember her birthday like they remember their own. Libby was their "third twin." I inherited the twins in the will Libby did not have. They keep her alive for me. I keep her alive for them. There's Libby's son, her step-daughters, her friends, her neighbors, her husband. Everyone has to deal with tomorrow and the realization that her birthday this year has become something we all "have to deal with".

I have several friends and other family who carry the weight of being recent survivors of suicide loss. Tomorrow may not be their day of lost promise, but they know what I mean. I stopped crying and feeling anxious and wrote this for them. Nobody else seems to be talking about the way it feels when someone you love kills herself and then her birthday comes ten months later and you feel so strange and extra sad. I think it translates to other traumatic deaths and the grief of those survivors, too. I think. I know for sure that there are some losses that make other people afraid to talk to you and this is a big one.

The pain of love lost is dreadful but when I imagine my world without ever having Libby in it, that feels much worse. Maybe next June 6 I'll know what to do with myself. Maybe next year I'll have some emotional distance. What I hope is that next year when my mother reminds me that it is the day before Libby's birthday, I can think about more birthday kind of things in Libby's honor and less funeral thoughts.

More Mardi Gras less Maundy Thursday.

More beer less tears. (She'd find that one extra funny.)

May those who were unable to die at peace, rest in peace. May those of us left behind know peace, too.

Cheerful Survival

2010-06-01T16:22:00.002-04:00

This post was nixed because it is sad and I'm tired of bummer posts. It is resurrected as more news from the Gulf Coast comes in.

I'm standing at an oyster bar in New Orleans with a dripping empty shell in one hand, beer in the other when it occurs to me - misery changes not only how we see the world but also what we are capable of seeing in the world.

Now I was not miserable at that moment as I had my own friendly fireman in tow in case the Tabasco got out of hand, and I was eating in New Orleans - how bad can life be? There was the looming possibility that we would never eat indigenous oysters in that city again, but this was the third fine establishment of the evening so the threat of of environmental annihilation had been pleasantly and intentionally dulled by hops, barley, andouille and other gifts of the land of Saints.

By my second oyster I had already started a friendship with our shucker who asked what brought us to the city. We explained that we had finished another volunteer week of Katrina rebuilding in Mississippi and were observing the sabbath in that unique NOLA fashion of eating and drinking too much. And the Shucker said in complete seriousness...

"NAW! Mississippi got hit by Katrina, too?"

I then proceeded to break the very bad (and very old) news that his childhood summer playground had been wiped out. He was shocked. It was surreal. I listed off the cities in which we have worked: Gulfport, Long Beach, Pass Christian, Bay St. Louis, Waveland... he knew them well, but was hit particularly hard by the news that Bay St. Louis had been heavily damaged. At first I thought, how could he not know? Now I think, why would he know?

In times of difficulty we shield ourselves whether intentionally or instinctively because we cannot bear to be wounded again. Why would someone who was trying to get through the devastation of his home, the jewel of the South, take an inventory of other devastation? Where would the TV be that he would watch the coverage on? And who would begrudge him if once he had the luxury of turning one on he chose to change the channel instead of watching more bad news?

Optimism is powerful taken straight but a chaser of willful ignorance can be just the boost one needs in the face of the unfaceable.

I've thought a great deal about this cheerful man since I left NOLA assuming I'd eaten my last real all Louisiana gumbo and oysters. I used to be an optimist. It was one of my finest qualities. Then I got a series of life beat downs that I found it hard to stand up after. I have not become a pessimist but I do always have a plan B, a packed suitcase under the bed, a few lines prepared should I need to deliver a eulogy. I can't embrace life with both arms any more because one is always guarding my gut from the inevitable sucker punch. I do endeavor to give life a mighty high five, though.

When asked about the oil spill the Shucker firmly and cheerfully told us that it was not going to be a problem for New Orleans. (To his credit, this was only a week after the spill when the news was still ridiculously low key.) His exact words were: "We gonna' be alright." This one was going to pass them by. Good point of view for a professional shucker to hold onto, in my opinion. And even if he no longer shucks, I do believe that he will be alright. He had that mindset and air about him: the cheerful survivor.

I then started to wonder where I could get some of that. I want to be a cheerful survivor. I'm very good at gallows humor, gutting it through, and empathy but I want to work on my cheerful survivor chops. I want to have the chutzpah to relax into the turbulence instead of thrashing determinedly.

This is becoming more important to me now that the life of a survivor of suicide loss is less of a postcard I look at wondering who on earth would have mistakenly sent it to me and more of a package I unwillingly carry around because I don't know where to put it. I found myself thinking the other night that through a strange series of connections, addictions, and errors, my aunt's death is one of the late casualties of the Vietnam war. "If there were no such thing as agent orange then..." This is fruitless thinking. It heals me not a jot. (And ain't auspicious!)

I follow a similar fruitless line of thinking on my grandmother's sadness. "If her mother had not died so young..." I think, and then I imagine this line of history threading from the 1930's to today where everything would have been different. This is regret, not optimism. This line of thinking fails to take into account the innumerable blessings in the lives of we, her descendants, that come from that flawed line which connects the young mother who died suddenly in rural Virginia to my giggling children running about acting like Bengal tigers 80 years later.

If there's any lesson from my grandmother's travails, or my aunt's suicide, it is the Shucker's lesson. We are going to be alright. We may need to put some blinders on to the woes of the world for awhile, but we will survive.

Today when I am overcome by the empty awful feeling of no going back that comes with grief; today when I heard my aunt's beloved Jackson Browne haunting me through the radio; today as more bad news comes about the Shucker's homeland I try on the weight of the cheerful survivor. If misery changes the world I see, I can have some control on how blurry or defined the picture is, can't I?

Sap is Rising

2010-06-01T15:23:00.003-04:00

Beware: Post fest is coming. I've been muzzling myself again. I figure if I put them all out there at once, no way will you read every one, so my perfectionism will be unnecessary. This nixed post was some time in April when I was supposedly publishing whatever drool I could spew.

I was inspired by my blogging buddy of the Great White North, Guy Wonders, to capture some of the joy of a Southern Spring day. For Guy's take on Spring in suburban Canada go here.

The Doctor has said I need to beef up the walking and I swear he muttered "while you still can" but that was probably just the chatter of my anxiety. So I'm doing five times a week, mostly in my neighborhood which is loveliest in Spring. This weekend was another Virginia stunner. Because I was just too darn healthy (HA!) I have developed a mild but irritating eye condition. The upside is that colors are astonishing this Spring. I go outside and the world looks like a cartoon. I'm a big fan of green and with lush grass, fluffy bushes, and fresh trees there is much to celebrate.

I like to sometimes walk with headphones on but have had to adjust my tune choices because I just love that depressive Southern music. But Ryan Adams crooning about the slow death of his soul, Jason Isbell lamenting another failed co-dependent relationship, and my beloved Lucero's detailed descriptions of sobering up only to sink down again do not jive with the abundance of lilacs, azaleas, tulips and other happy bursts of color in yards and alleys all over my 'hood. For respite I have turned to R&B because they sing about Spring. Well, they sing about sex, but my high school coach said that was the same as Spring. And at least they are happy about it.

R&B also helped me realize that my 7 year old has reached "student of the human condition" status. He has been grounded for three weeks for lying his tail off to me about school assignments. After the misery of having to deal with his sulking and sighing the first couple of days, it has been quite pleasant to have him underfoot making anthropological and philosophical declarations.

Recently I was flipping through radio stations because my parental discretion slipped. While driving I zoned out listening to a satellite R&B station and when I came to, Little Man in the backseat was trying to figure out why Rihanna wants a Rude Boy. I barely caught the dial in time before he asked why the neighbors know Trey Songz' name.

For those of you lounging around listening to opera and Garrison Keillor on the weekends, let me explain modern R&B to you. Much of it is very dirty. Short on metaphor, little left to the imagination, and all about sex. Makes Marvin Gaye look like a celibate monk. Makes Gladys Knight sound like a prude. Makes Teddy Pendergrass, god rest his fine sexy soul, seem kind of prim.

That said, I have enjoyed my month long foreign exchange listening program because R&B is not only good for walks. It is danceable and I am alone in the office for extended stretches that beg for dance breaks. Say what you will about the "Ah-a-a-a-a-alcohol", but it begs for some shimmies.

So, Little Man is in the back seat as I hurriedly switch off Trey Songz crooning about his vociferous and insatiable girlfriend. I jump through three stations and we hear, "Look into my eyes, can't you see they're open wide, would I lie to you, baby?' then "Love to love you, baby" then "I love..." when he sighs and shakes his head.

"Whazzup, Lil' Man?"

"Mama. (sigh) Why are all songs about the same thing?"

"You mean love?"

(grumpily)"Yeah."

"Lack of imagination, my boy. I heard a song about animals today. It was a mystery, a who-done-it involving a peacock, a wolf, a Mama Bear, a raccoon or two. Very interesting stuff."

"Now THAT sounds like a good song. Was it on the kid's station?"

"No, outlaw country."

"Mmmm... outlaws..." he said in the same tone as he says, "Mmmm... cookies." I love little boys.

Fire the Editor

2010-05-23T21:56:00.006-04:00

If anyone sees a scapegoat wandering around Northside, I've been looking for a speckled one. I need someone to blame some stuff on, mostly my lack of blogging. I don't drink enough to take Jamie Foxx's advice and blame it on the A-ah-ah-ah-ah-alcohol. (And if you do not follow that link, your views of Ron Howard will never be enlightened.)

I received three friendly reminders this weekend that my sorry behind had not posted in a month. Oddly enough, I have written three posts but the inner editor nixed them all. They were pretty highbrow as I recall and I swore off that for Spring, and maybe Summer, too. One was on animal research, I recall that much. Did you just spontaneously yawn? Me too.

I have been busy with my social life and happy mindless activities so blogging just has not been an option. Do you have any idea how many years I have waited to say that?!?! It is fantastic. In the past month I have been to an amazing gala celebrating the grand re-opening of the Virginia Museum. I had to dismantle and rebuild a very fancy hand-me-down evening gown for that one which took almost a week. Then there was the recovery from the festivities themselves in which some blaming it on the Ah-a-a-a... might be appropriate.

There was a fourth trip to Mississippi to rebuild after Katrina. I now recall that I blogged on that and the editor sent it to the cutting room floor, too.

There was a brief trip to New Orleans that was almost entirely about great food and good beer, but the best part of that story is when a strong-armed stripper zinged me in the neck from a Bourbon St. balcony with a strand of Mardi Gras beads thus hexing me into believing with all my heart and soul that New Orleans is the greatest city in the South. But that hasn't worn off yet, so I am not telling that story.

Then there's my sci-fi book club. I walked into the bar where we meet to discuss this month's book, the American classic The Man in the High Castle and the waitress says, "What are you doing here?!?" because there wasn't a band and it is a touch out of character for me to walk into a bar with a book. I told her I was there for the book club and she looks really confused.

"You mean those g... guys?" I should have said, "No, those geeks," because we all know she was thinking it. The greatest geeks in town are in this book club and I hope to grow up to be just like them. I don't understand 2/3 of their references, but they are very nice about my smiling ignorance. They even let me choose next month's book. They had their doubts with the title, The Sparrow but once I gave the plot in three words they were sold: Jesuits in space.

I have also in the past month gone over to people's houses where they cook food and share it with me and my family. It is amazing and fun and you should try it some time. (I think I have had as many meals with friends in the past month as I would in a year while engaged in my former profession.)

I have played Twister (a major coup for someone with my unique body chemistry.) I have sung in a car for hours with a friend to and from Mississippi. And he survived it. I have brewed beer. I have made graduation presents on my sewing machine and delivered them... ON TIME. I walk the children to and from school. I have been introduced to a disturbing but hilarious sub-genre of music in which white g... guys sing gangsta rap lyrics to re-written music like bluegrass, lounge music, or power ballads.

In other words, I am living a normal social life for an extrovert who took the road less travelled 15 years ago and discovered it led to a place devoid of life beyond work so got a helicopter to pick her up in a meadow and airlift her tail back to the real world so she could try again.

But I have not blogged. And I did have one little slip into old bad habits. I preached a sermon. At least I think I did. It happened pretty quickly and was followed by eating at a friend's house and going to a music festival so I might not have. If I did preach, it was on the ideas of Dawkins, Harris, Dennett, Hitchens, Christian Arnsperger and a naked Alan Greenspan and how they could all use a little gleeful hope in their lives. And if I preached, one thing is for sure: the music was awesome.

I will go back to the cutting room to see if anything can be salvaged from those earlier posts. Thanks for the pants kick from my fans. Always nice to know that someone is reading.

Hope to see you all on a dance floor somewhere soon.

My Tears Make Big Pharmaceutical Rich

2010-04-22T10:58:00.007-04:00

Pharmaceutical companies aren't the devil. Maybe they've just sniffed too many non-FDA approved powders.

If they did, I would say that sometimes these wild card drugs make them brilliant.

Evidence A: They realized that saying "Call a doctor if you have an erection that lasts more than four hours" sold a LOT more erection drugs than images of middle-aged couples ballroom dancing.

Other times they should have passed on the magic happy powder.

Evidence B: I live with chronic illness. I hate it. I do not think that if I could turn back time I would keep the disease. I would ditch it in a hot second and become a bikini model. I hate my meds. I hate the side effects. I hate going to the doctor frequently. I hate falling down. I hate being in pain. I hate waking up in the middle of the night crying from anxiety about disease progression because now that my eyes are involved, tears hurt.

And I hate you, pharmaceutical company who makes the expensive eye meds I now need. Your frequent buyer program that tries to make me feel better about the gobs of money I have to spend on yet another medicine that has yet another set of side effects by giving me some of my money back in a form that can only be used to buy more of your meds? I hate it. It makes me angry and it makes me write run-on sentences.

I have no doubt the medicine will work and I will feel better and then join your rewards program and try to make jokes about being a card-carrying-member of the art museum, the botanical gardens, the ACLU, and an eye drop fan club.

But the evidence for me that someone in marketing has been sniffing around the experimental lab is that you call your despised progam for your product I take reluctantly "My Tears, My Rewards."

Insensitive, asinine, and kind of cruel, you big, rich meanies who make stuff I need.

My Brief Career in Law Enforcement

2010-04-20T22:44:00.000-04:00

(Another previously unpublished post per request of my friends who read my blog as part of their court-ordered community service. This one is from October, 2009. I did not post it before because it reveals how stupid I can be. I post it now because... I have no idea why I am posting this.)

Well, my fun career in law enforcement came to an abrupt end, and it had nothing to do with marijuana as had been prognosticated by the tie-dye-clad Unitarians of my mother's generation. (I passed my drug tests, Uncle Jethro. Can you say the same?)

No, the State Police of this beautiful Commonwealth and I turned out to have many things in common, much to our surprise, and would have most likely remained a good employment fit. Some examples:

1) We both think that it is safer to gargle pesticides than to drive during rush hour.

2) We feel that the world is a better place when people are allowed to use the full extent of their language mastery, particularly in times of stress and aggravation even if those times are during working hours. Our shared motto: Metaphor is more meaningful when paired with profanity.

3) We are all addicted to FarmVille, YoVille, Mafia Wars, or all of the above.

4) We are hard on our automobiles.

There were other similarities involving WaWa sandwiches, karaoke, and that holiest of beverages - beer, but let me just say that we ended up getting along better than anyone would have thought considering my strong predilection for pacifism and fondness for Nobel Peace Prize recipients, and their affection for carrying a varied inventory of weapons both in full view and concealed.

So there we were getting along and trying new things... in my case: new combinations of bad words, in their case: listening to a preacher try out new combinations of bad words... when cruel fate intervened severing us like star-crossed Shakespearean tweens.

The deus ex machina in our little one-act turned out to be the Governor who laid off 596 employees of the Commonwealth, an inordinate amount of whom were female, and #347 was yours truly. Serious bummer. They got my girls Ollie and Tonia, too. My brilliant new career cut short by budget cuts.

I was really in a ^&$$#* of a mood about the whole thing and was able to say exactly that during working hours, but I am old enough to know when a relationship was not built to last (or I am cynical) and recovered fairly quickly. In the end, I had to admit that we had a communication problem as so many relationships do. For all we had found in common, there were some chasms that perhaps should not be crossed.

It started with the fact that they refer to one another as numbers. "Have you seen that slackass 2929's new ride?" Or "What does 6737 have a booger up his butt about?" Or my personal favorite from a dispatcher, "What the hell? Is 1040 waiting for an engraved invitation to get in on this pursuit? Come on, knuckle head, COWBOY UP!"

I love that talk but I couldn't remember anyone's numbers. I knew the name of the king of drunk driver catchers, the sweet man who brought us coffee at 3AM, and the one who looked like a slightly redneck Richard Gere. I could remember the trooper who is named after a famous mystery writer, the one whose name should be a hero in a romance novel, and of course the one who shared my last name and called me 'Cuz. But I was no good at calling people by a number. As a dispatcher, that became problematic. You don't get to blab on the radio, "Dave, sugar, you got a possible drunk driver headed toward you. If it's one of my relatives, remind them about the Christmas gift exchange this year, 'Cuz."

Then there was the military-like insistence that natural human reactions should be avoided at all costs. The nature of law enforcement work on our highways necessitates a shockingly high instance of on-the-job encounters with body parts that have left their owners. It is my personal opinion that a person who sees another person in parts should be given some emotional distance should they need it. The cadre agrees with me in writing. The men and women who serve live by their own code, however, so woe unto those who slip into normal human responses. I kept my opinion to myself on this.

So, we had our differences, too. And then there was this colossal miscommunication...

I decided from my gleanings on shifts that there was an epidemic of religious intolerance in the force. I was very wrong but had copious examples and a whopping case of antibiotic resistant dingbat to support my conclusion.

As I give examples, insert a religious persuasion with which you are familiar (like Presbyterian, Quaker, or Theravada Buddhist) anywhere you see the five capital X's.

An agent says to a dispatcher supervisor, "Did I ever tell you about the time 1999 and I were at that bar off duty and he realizes that the guy he's been talking to all night on the next stool was, of all things, a XXXXX!"

Or, "Yeah, that lardass pulls over a XXXXX all by himself and doesn't give a location, the numbskull! Like anyone wants to risk hanging out on the side of the highway in the middle of the night alone with one of them."

And, "You don't hear much about those XXXXX's any more. They're killing their own selves off at this point."

I did not like what I heard but the more I heard it I realized that the prejudice was at every level of the force. The State Police had seen too much unlawful activity perpetrated by XXXXX's and they were not going to put up with it.

I wanted to tell them they were wrong. I wanted to tell them that the XXXXX's I know throw delicious vegetarian potlucks and celebrate Earth Day. I wanted them to know about the XXXXX priestess I know well who is a devoted friend, grandmother, and teacher. I know there is a lot of ignorance in this country regarding XXXXX's but could not believe that the State Police would be of one accord about a religion. And yet, they were.

Thanks be to all that is holy that for once in my life, just once... I kept my giant, chatty mouth shut.

Because one day some pictures of some XXXXX's came across the wire as persons of interest in some tale of illegal activity and general violent nefariousness. And I looked at them. And I thought to myself, "If that's a XXXXX, they must be a Yankee XXXXX because they would not fit in with the Virginia XXXXX's at all!" Maligning kind, sweet Yankees from Maryland to Maine in defense of Virginia XXXXX's, I swear to you, I really was this stupid.

For the record, there is no religious intolerance epidemic in our State Police. There is concern over the safety for the citizens and officers of the Commonwealth regarding an outlaw motorcycle gang who happen to go by the very same name as a group of peaceful, nature-based spiritual practitioners. The motorcycle gang tend to draw their weapons on law enforcement, while my friends celebrate the cycles and seasons of the Earth and make good tabbouleh.

In case you are as sheltered as I... you say Pagan, I say Pagan. And the governor called the whole thing off.

Dudes, Food, Words

2010-04-16T21:47:00.003-04:00

(Another post that did not make the cut. This one was in January at the height of my inability to put finger to keyboard. Once written, I could not bear to read one word of this and almost deleted the whole thing in disgust until, to be perfectly honest, I just forgot about it and never got around to destroying it. Since this writing the Dude Harpy and my 15 devoted readers have succeeded in making me more positve about the writing experience.)

I've got a friend breathing down my neck for me to get back into the regular writing routine. We have long conversations about this. Maybe 'monologue' or 'harangue' are better word choices than 'conversation' which implies that I say something. There are beers and potato dishes involved in these interactions which keep me at the table. He may be a Harpy but he's still a Dude.

The Dude Harpy has very compelling arguments. He says I am squandering my potential. He says I have a story to tell. He points out that I wrote page after page every week for five years in my most recent ministry, but have not shown him a written word in five months. He says he will needle me endlessly until I bend to his writer will. In other words, he is the perfect friend in many ways.

I know dozens of people who would love to have a friend like this and I have given him all of their numbers.

But I am of the school that one should write only when one can't not write. I am of the Wake Up in the Middle of the Night with an Idea and Write Til Dawn school. I am also currently a card carrying member of the I Don't Feel the Writing Mojo and would rather work on my shrimp and grits recipe. The Dude Harpy has his work cut out for him.

I am also isolated these days which works for Billy Collins, Anne Tyler, and pastoral poets, but only makes me sour. I like people; lots of people. I love listening to people. I have found that most people have something fascinating to say but they have poor judgment as to which story of theirs is fascinating. Much of my joy in human interaction comes from uncovering that secret fascination within a person.

For example, I met a neighbor yesterday and talk turned to supper. I had made the shrimp and grits. We talked awhile about the heart of shrimp and grits as a cuisine. There were many single syllable utterances like, "Mmmmmm" and "Yeeeeeeeeeah" (being Southern, that second one can get stretched out to three syllables.) On principle he was not pleased with my use of shallots, but we agreed to disagree because we came to an accord more essential than shallots to shrimp and grits: butter is the tree of life. Once that accord was reached, nothing could tear us asunder.

As the conversation began to drift along elsewhere he put this out there: My wife and I had TWO shrimp and grits stations at our wedding.

Now that's a story. That's a fascination. Two shrimp and grits stations told me volumes about him, and his superb taste in women.

Since we do not live in South Carolina, to have the stations at all is beyond a culinary choice - it is a character move. That's a couple who say with pride, "We know good cooking. We love food with compelling textures and don't give a rat's ass if you got grits running down your seersucker suit. This is our party and we are going to enjoy it to the hilt. Oh yeah, and we don't like lines, so double the grits stations!"

I like these people, shallots or no.

But maybe that's just me in my isolation. In my limited non-family human interaction, I am finding the little details of every exchange fascinating. Here's another one...

Two weeks ago I reunited with one of my favorite Virginians whom I had not seen in five years. He's a trial lawyer. Other than my In House Counsel, and my lawyer/knitting buddy (I don't knit- she knits and gives me stuff: what a buddy!) I am not regularly putting Virginia lawyers above Virginia artists, musicians, poets, teachers, funeral directors, and children on my Favorite Virginian list. I'm not a lawyer basher. It's just that lawyers tend to like the Law and I like other things like, well, most anything more than the Law. The Law to me is like sauerkraut to a kid - I don't know much about it but I don't think it is my thing.

The Favored Virginian and I caught up, talked about lasagna recipes, and he told me about some of his cases. With a lawyer in the house, I hear case stories frequently. In House Counsel keeps the stories short because, frankly, I don't get the thrill of the courtroom because it seems to be all about the sauerkraut known as the Law.

What is all the law and order excitement? There is no band, no poetry, and they don't let you eat in courtrooms.

"Lives in the balance"? Yeah, okay. But they could at least let you bring a little homemade fried chicken in. That said, I greatly appreciate the stories of In House Counsel because he tailors them to my interests and he is often scratching my back when he tells them.

The Favored Virginian does not keep the stories short. He plays all the parts. Funny voices, mannerisms, odd colloquialisms, foul language... he includes it all, except for back scratching. This should disqualify the Favored Virginian from any further contact with me. That and his over-dependence upon cheese in his lasagna recipe. Instead, he makes it to favored status?

Here's my thinking on this: it does not matter what the Favored Virginian tells or that he LOVES the sauerkraut/Law. Watching a grown ass, articulate, professional man work his way through a five character, three act, courtroom theatre of the absurd by himself is a damn good time. I don't remember the cases - I remember the characters he brought to life for me. I would be a total sucker for him as a juror. As long as he kept telling the story, I'd want to hear more until I was completely overwhelmed by hunger and the need to hear a guitar. The Favored Virginian understands that sometimes the story can just run away with you. I love that.

Oh, damn. That's what the Dude Harpy has been saying to me for months. His whole premise is that the story's the thing. You keep telling the story and at some point you are able to capture more than what happened - you capture the fascination we are all brewing up inside of us. He thinks that shrimp, grits, lasagna, lawyers, beer... it all counts. It's all worth telling.

Maybe he will accept this as a forged hall pass on all of the not-writing demerits I have racked up. I sat down to whine and I ended up telling a story or two. I feel like the kid who accidentally ate and enjoyed the dreaded sauerkraut.

Counting

2010-04-12T18:22:00.003-04:00

Thanks to the overwhelming response of the Auspicious masses I am posting this although it did not make the cut 8 months ago. For my empathetic readers, I am happy to no longer be in the place I was when I wrote this. I stand by my views on Don Johnson, however.

There are many ways to look at life but I have never found a mathematical approach to be helpful. I do not recommend taking a tally of any aspect of life even though so much in life suggests that we should.

Facebook friends. Why does facebook promote the tally of the number of friends anyone has? It's not like you are having tea and crumpets with them all each week?

Weight. As a tall woman I have never wanted to talk numbers on my weight. I was a teenager the first time I read a description of a man who was supposed to be the epitome of masculinity and weighed... the same amount as I did. I had to abandon my marriage plans to Don Johnson because of an age difference, a weight similarity, and height issues that need not be addressed here. I am still torn on that decision.

Number of academic degrees. Salary. Number of trips to wherever we are supposed to be travelling now. Cholesterol level. Failed marriages. Speed limits. They have their purpose these numbers, but we are usually misguided as to the breadth of their import.

I have never found any of this to be telling of anything intriguing about who I am or anyone else is, but I still fall into the traps. (And not just the speed traps.) With my defenses down in my mourning time, I don't feel the traps coming at all.

Today I looked at my weight on my driver's license, and determined that I filled that out BEFORE the birth of my second child. Today I also kept quiet about the years spent in academic study post-high school for fear of being judged by people I do not know well. Today I was self-conscious about my age twice - once too old, the other too young. Today I looked at my children and counted the years I have left to treasure them in my house.
All of this is ridiculous and could not be less Zen, but in times of stress, counting is easier to deal with than big thoughts on overwhelming emotions.

I have been counting the days of life without my aunt in this world where she belongs. I counted my stomach aches, but got over that (the counting, not the stomach aches.)I counted all the sympathy cards but they had far more power than their numbers would suggest. I counted the number of vegetable types in supper - 7! I counted the minutes in traffic until I thought that was stupid, then remembered that I was counting because it was better than crying, and so I resumed counting minutes in traffic.

I almost counted the words in this seemingly purposeless post but decided to count reasons to be forthright and honest about grief instead. The numbers were about the same.

Non Sequitur Buffet

2010-04-10T21:31:00.003-04:00

Returning from a Wi-fi free camping vacation I realized I left the 15 Jots faithful in a lurch again. That's a shame because I had some very deep thoughts on that air mattress in the tent in my Uncle's backyard in Florida, but I have forgotten all of them. I received a traumatic brain injury from staring at the highway for 16 hours on the solo drive back that I took straight like a Jaeger shot with Cuervo chaser. All I have left are random thoughts with the intellectual calories of a Fox news commentary. But now that you have all outed yourselves, I know who my readers are and you are a forgiving bunch.

First up - In the interest of building the kingdom of heaven on Earth, let's boycott chicken. I have decided that poultry farming is inhumane and unreasonable. All people are created equal and none of us should have to ever be near a chicken or a rooster. I came to this conclusion when some red-crowned bastard rooster from Germany started cock-a-doodle-annoying-the-ever-loving-crap-out-of-me-dooing in small-town Florida every morning at 1:30 AM. (That's how I knew he was German. He was on time in Stuttgart.) The way I see it is simple math. No eggs + no chicken fajitas = no roosters and peaceful sleep in small-town America, which will most likely lead to peace on Earth. If we start the boycott now we should see results by Wednesday.

Next up - I should go into another writing block built of self-loathing and grammatical inertia after my Florida trip because another week with my Uncle Dan confirms that he is one of the funniest people I know. I have said it before, but it is so true that it needs repeating- I come from a long line of superb story-tellers and I am not one of them. In a super story powers ultimate tale match I am in only the ninth tier behind my cousin Ellen, my aunt Libby, all of my grandmothers, Uncle Dan, my Dad's dog Scruffy, and my mother's architecture library. I do squeak in ahead of my sister's security blanket and my cousin's travel photos from Piankatank Shores, but barely.

I looked up one of my uncle's favorite expressions and it turns out, as expected, to come from a Western series - "Rawhide" to be exact. My uncle who survived multiple near-fatal crashes and has more scars than I have years of life, who hand-raked two-and-a-half acres in preparation of our visit and wore a different Hawaiian shirt every day we were there... as if he were not colorful enough, he peppers his speech with expressions from old Westerns. He is a jack of many trades but blogging is not one of them so I can continue to write if for no other reason than to introduce him to you. The word, by the way is "jasper" pronounced /jay-spur/ and meaning kid or doofus.

For the dessert course: I am taking an editorial vote. I found some old posts in the Jots archives that did not make the cut. I could pull a Salinger and wait until I'm dead to post them but I believe that the best part of dead is that you get to forget all your passwords. Not that remembering "JasonStathamLoveNugget1" takes all that many living brain cells. Would you like to see that which did not make the cut in the past 9 months or keep the vault sealed? Comments welcome. For you Facebook readers, now taking votes on the comments page at http://acmiles.blogspot.com.

In conclusion - (as if there was any logical progression here and I did not just think of this last little vignette... but in sermons I used to say "in conclusion' to let people know that freedom was nigh) I passed one of my readers on the street today. He looks awesome. Spring in his step, good coloring, lost some weight... I resisted asking if I could use his health and well-being as crass blog marketing. I'm thinking something along the lines of "Auspicious is as Jots reads" or "Auspicious Jots is for Optimists - the next post has got to be better" or something classsy, witty and subtle like the blog itself. Something like "Reading Auspicious Jots will make you Hot, Baby".

Lent 2010

2010-04-03T09:37:00.005-04:00

Ever feel like the jackass who walks into the wedding and blurts out something about the bride's ex-girlfriend? I am normally blessed in being the minister who watches that outburst and thinks, "Not this again. Hope they have bacon wrapped scallops at the reception." But today - I am the jackass.

After my recent post it has been brought to my attention that I have not three but twelve readers, and nine of them would like recognition. Sorry that I did not see you there in your lovely bridal veils. I apologize with glee and thank you all for the affirmation that you would rather read my blog than scrub your toilet. I will post more regularly starting now.

(For my reader who IS the jackass at the wedding, you should probably start blogging, too, boy-o. I know five of these people would read you because they have more than one toilet to avoid cleaning. )

Today is a bright shiny Saturday morning on the 40th (** explained below, bitte) day of my Lenten diet/cleanse/purge/meal time death march. For my reader of the Zoroastrian persuasian, that means I am three meals away from being done with this spiritual experiment gone nuclear.

** For my savvy Christian reader, you know that Lent can be 40, 44, 46 or 55 days depending upon one's sect. I meant to go for 40 and figured out at 10:40 PM on the 46th day that I'd gone for the gold, at least in Western Christendom's Lenten terms. I will be seeing Jesus tomorrow for a 6 day refund.

I cornered a possible 13th reader at the elementary school yesterday who claimed he would read the blog if I wrote about the Lenten cleanse. I have a quota to fill or Blogspot reduces my clearance level which currently allows me to use asterisks and occasional German words (and as exhibited above ** I really need those. O Tannenbaum.) So it looks like it is the request hour here at Auspicious Jots.

Lent, duh... what?

Lent is the Christian observance leading up to the celebration of Easter. In my case it lasted from Ash Wednesday until the morning of Easter Sunday. Some denominations take out the Sundays in the count, celebrating multiple "mini-Easters". Others stop at Palm Sunday, others at Maundy Thursday; and the Eastern church does some hard core math that brings them to 55 days.

There are many Lenten traditions, but the most commonly known ones are a dramatic dietary change and fasting. One of my readers thinks that Lent is a time to quit coffee, chocolate, and sex with the lights on, but she is confusing New Year's with Lent. She is seeing Jesus tomorrow about a whammy of a refund.

What was I thinking?

I have observed a Lenten/Passover combo plan off and on for years. Each year at this time I pay more attention to whatever spiritual discipline I am practicing. Some years I go to Lenten lunch lectures at the Episcopal church. Other years I journal and meditate. Some years I do lectio divina (** to be explained in a different entry, Kartoffelnkuche). I find that the end of Winter is a great time to do this because as the practice becomes harder to sustain, Winter becomes easier to endure. By the time Easter and Passover roll around, I am one happy camper.

What was the plan?

The plan was to strip a little slice of joy out of my life every week. No, that was the result. The plan was to progressively remove foods from my diet in order to think about sacrifice and blessings every day of Lent and into Passover. The progressive method was something I learned from a former judge who used to do an annual diet cleanse that she described as transcendent.

Here's how it worked. Every week I removed another element of my diet without replacing the previously removed items. On Ash Wednesday I lost beef. February 24, I lost pork. March 3 - chicken; 10 - eggs; 17 - seafood; 24 - dairy; 31-wheat. I also removed caffeine about half way through and alcohol out of necessity because chickpeas do a crappy job of absorbing vodka.

How hard was it?

It was hard in the out of shape couch potato running 10 miles world of hard. It was not Mt. Everest hard. The worst was at the end when I lost dairy and wheat and dishonored the pork fat heritage of my ancestors by becoming a gluten-free vegan.

At that point my son began calling it "that crazy diet." My husband began eating meals with friends. My co-dependent enabling best friend bought Tofutti cream cheese and started putting his hand over his plate so I could not see his meal, as if a hand can cover the smell of Jerk Chicken.

What made it easier was that it was progressively restrictive but I was not required to go cold turkey (went out with the chicken). I had plenty of time to adjust to each stage before the next came. Next time I will take the wheat out at the beginning of Passover but this go round I couldn't handle it that early. I also cheated with a couple of things: milk chocolate was allowed all along in small portions; I intended to go to water only to drink but let myself have juice if I was having trouble keeping my blood sugar up; when my mom brought me a philly cheese sub on week 3 I ate it anyway because I felt like throwing out animal flesh was a greater sin than eating the meat. And because my mama is bigger than I am and scares me.

Has it been worth it?

Yes. This was the most eye-opening Lent ever. I thought about Lent every single day with increasing concentration as my menu shrank. In addition to the spiritual benefits, I slept better. I developed a healthier view of eating as sustaining instead of eating as a hobby, friend, escape, reward, or reflex. Eventually I had more energy. And, honest to Elijah, once the wheat was gone I had far fewer cravings and overate only once. Exercise was easier. And I did happen to lose weight although that was not the purpose of the cleanse, Reader #7.

Why did I not think of this earlier?

You would think that a minister would come up with this before leaving the ministry when one could share it with a congregation. The 13th reader may do just that for next year's Lent. The problem with a rewarding career that requires creativity, empathy, boundless energy, and an extremely flexible schedule is that it is untenable on this planet. At some point you lose one or more of those attributes and the whole system transforms from a fluid dance to a... what's the word? Struggle? No. Chaos? No.

Oh yeah... the Alcatraz of the creative spark.

I did not think of this when it would have been a useful tool for the seekers within my congregation because being a minister meant that I raced my days at a full gallop, without a saddle, holding on to mane for dear life. Now that I stand at a copier, look at boxes, and have a complicated relationship with a telephone system: these things come to me. Go figure.

In 12 hours I will be eating pot roast with roasted root veggies, orzo salad with feta, brown rice in organic chicken broth, fresh pineapple, and broiled scallops with shrimp. It will be the best Easter dinner of my life. It will also be eaten in very small portions because I am appropriately fearful that it will make me vomit. After that fiesta de tastebuds I plan to ease back into food on a 20 day plan, give or take 6 days.

And Reader 8 thought tomorrow was about bunnies.

**Verschnoerkeln**

Dear Bob

2010-04-01T23:37:00.002-04:00

Dear Bob,

Thank you for your recent fan letter. These days at Auspicious Jots due to our blogging negligence we only receive spam mail so it was exciting to recieve a note that was in English, pertinent to the blog, and complimentary.

Regarding your questions in order:

1) The long delay in this response is due to many obligations to my fans. This is an award winning blog that examines life and death issues, the heartbreaks and joys of parenting, and honky tonk music. With such a wide-ranging scope we have a breadth of readership that is... what is the word... ? Ok, well... by breadth I am referring to the two other fans named Gray and Mary Rose. Lovely people those two. I'll introduce you some time. They were probably at my local watering hole when you celebrated my birthday in my honor but without my presence. And by my many obligations to them I am referring to the concentration required to change the subject quickly and dramatically when they mention the blog.

2) I do not need an intervention. I stopped writing the blog because I no longer had an audience. Or so I thought. Now that the three of you have let me know your interest, I will resume writing. I will just need you to intervene periodically and remind me of my blogging purpose, give me encouragement, threaten me at times, and prod me. But this is in no way an intervention.

3) You asked about my new vocation. My latest career move involves many, many copies. Copies and file folders and facsimiles and duplicates, because I can't say copies any more without looking dim.

Each day I sit at my desk after a long round at the copier. Once rested, I offer a meaningful look at the phone. Sometimes I cock an eyebrow so the phone knows that I know, but I don't really know. Eventually I break eye contact to get up and move the furniture until the phone rings because I stopped watching it.

After I tend to the phone's needs I look around the office. Eventually my eyes fall upon boxes of my own writings and hundreds of books that I collected in a 15 year career. I try not to give these boxes meaningful eye contact. I try to give them the disinterested face I give lotion hawkers at the mall. But the boxes stare and I think they sometimes lift a communal cardboard eyebrow to let me know that they know. And it seems that they really know.

When the boxes are staring me down I take a deep breath because that's what I used to do for a living - I led by example in breathing deeply. Sometimes I open a flap on one of the boxes with my pinkie finger to peep inside. If I open the flap wide enough to let in some sunlight I see orders of service with my name on them. I see sermons and funerals and newsletter articles and meditations all in my handwriting or with my name on them. The books have meaningfully turned down pages and enthusiastic marginalia and on the inside covers -my name. Occasionally there is a photo tucked in of someone who looks a lot like me. Like me if I wore a robe for a living which is a silly but oddly familiar thought.

And if the phone still does not ring I stare intently at these papers who would very much appreciate some collating or filing or even a little shuffling. I stare at the books with their bright underlinings. I stare inside these boxes full of my name and the office gets very quiet. I take another deep breath. I blink. I breathe again.

Then I look away. I break eye contact with the boxes, slide my pinkie back closing the flap, and I walk back to my desk adjusting the rocking chair on the way.

I say to myself that my name being all over those things is a coincidence like when you have cereal with honey for breakfast from a little plastic honey bear and then driving home from work the radio plays Black Joe Lewis and the Honey Bears. I say to myself that somewhere very close by is a piece of paper that needs to be duplicated then I look hard at the phone to hurt its feelings so it will go away for awhile.

This is what I do.

Thank you for your letter, Bob.

Death Club Celebrates Poe!

2010-01-13T12:36:00.002-05:00

We have a business with no office. It's mighty darn cold. My sister had her purse stolen in a most obnoxious way. And our 4 year old began the day by vomiting in our bed.

There's only one thing that can pull me from this funk... DEATH CLUB!

This Saturday (January 16) is the anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe's birth and the venerated and quirky Poe Museum of distinguished Richmond, Virginia is throwing a party. Let's join them, shall we?

Arrive at 1914 East Main Street no later than 5:30 or you will miss the zombie cheerleaders. At 6 we will take part in the Eerie Nights ghost tour. After all this joy and fun we may head off to supper somewhere close unless we are all freezing and miserable; in which case you can pick up your Death Club Calendar of upcoming events and head home.

For more information on the Poe celebrations go to www.poemuseum.org

For more on Death Club: stay tuned here or see you at Poe!

Happy Birthday to Poe!
Happy Birthday to Poe!
He wrote frightening stories...
And led a life of woe!

Living Up in the Air

2010-01-11T11:43:00.003-05:00

Things have been up in the air at home and work.

My husband and I have gone into business together which is either one of our more brilliant decisions (like having kids), or one of our less inspired ones (like living at Ft. Bragg, NC). Only time will tell.

Right now we are hustling every day just to do the basic work tasks because we have no office space. Well, that's an exaggeration. We have coffee shops, courthouse meeting rooms, my husband's car, and our dining room table. But other than that, no office space.

{------ This is our office space last week. Once the space is done I am hoping that stilt man will remain. He is chill and seems nice, and hell, how many law offices do you know with a guy on stilts walking around?

I am in the early stages of discerning how a fifteen year career in ministry translates into being an office manager and Gal Friday in a family business. Right now I am just surprised and grateful each day that no one appears to be dying. They are all in jail... but you pick your blessings.

Will be posting the Death Club calendar shortly. I have a dozen events planned in the coming months for all who embrace life and make sure their ducks are in a row in case of death. In case of incarceration... call the office. The lines are forwarded to the coffee shop/dining room table.

I Answered Them All

2009-12-30T22:34:00.007-05:00

"Mama, do fish get seasick?"

"Mama, I know my Spanish teacher says 'rosabado' for pink. You must have forgotten that word."

"Mama, how does the holodeck work?"

"How much more of this do I have to eat, Mama?"

"Mama, is this going to hurt?"

"When will I be rich, Mama?"

"Mama, where do Dolly Parton and Jollene live?"

"Mama, is this breakfast or lunch?" (This one is karma at work: this was my favorite question to ask as a child.)

"Mama, how many ghosts can get into our house?"

"Mama, where did the first person come from?" When that was answered in light of science, "So what will we become next?"

"Mama, can I marry Wesley Crusher and live on the Starship Enterprise with him?"

"Mama, does Santa bring Christmas to someone in jail if they've been good all THAT year?"

"Mama, why did the dog scratch me?"

"Mama, when our dogs die can we get two dogs and name them both Honey?"

"Who wants to pick me up and swing me around the kitchen... Mama?"

"Mama, how tall will I be when I grow up?"

"Mama, what's a geezer?" And when that one was answered, "Well then... what's a keister, Mama?"

"Mama, can I warm my heine in front of the fire?" And when answered in the affirmative... the child dropped the PJs and sat bare rumped on the warm hearth.

"Mama, why did Janie Belle and Spock's daddy both have a brain sickness? Did they know each other?"

"Mama, how did you and Dada get those wrinkles?"

Post-Christmas Malaise

2009-12-28T23:01:00.002-05:00

Lucy Van Pelt of Peanuts comics fame was known to suffer from a post-holiday disorder that involved depressed mood, aches and pains, and lethargy. I have many things in common with many Peanuts characters, but this time I am all Lucy.

The remedy for this post-holiday ailment was mentioned in one of the strips I read the kids tonight, but that book is downstairs and I am just not up for long distance travel.

In spite of opinions expressed on our local editorial page, Unitarian Universalism is not a lazy religion. The holidays are a perfect example of why this is a religion for over-achievers.

We believe that all in our family are welcome to discuss matters of faith and belief, observing and celebrating accordingly. My son is a pantheist at 7, but also believes that Jesus is the son of God. So that gave us Christmas and Solstice observances complete with readings, theological discussions, and Native American history lessons per his prompting.

My daughter and I embrace Jewish theology and culture which accounted for eight crazy nights of story telling, candle lighting, and her ability to bless the candles in Hebrew this year at 4.

My husband is a loving son who supports his parents in their celebration of Boxing Day in spite of its unknown spiritual meaning for the family. We did enjoy a family google search, though, which determined it is unlikely that we celebrate it for any of the reasons cited by Wikipedia. As his mom would probably say, "It's a good day for a party." And so it was.

And we all love us some Santa. Are you keeping count of observances here? I lost count around December 21.

All I know is that this holiday season I prepared 150 sausage balls, 1.5 gallons of clam chowder, 4 liters of holiday punch, 5 lbs of shrimp, yams that fed three parties worth of guests, 30 dim sum yummies, Muffaletta for 20, Jezebel for 30, a Mississippi Mud cake, a pear bundt, a gingerbread chalet... and I am still cussing because I forgot the latkes. No wonder I have developed a disorder. I am relishing the possibility of an agnostic phase for any or all of us by next year.

Happy damn New Year and leave me alone while I take a nap. I've got to get myself together by Passover when I hope to have the energy to take the tree down.

Brilliant Holiday Ideas by Children: Ages 7 and 4

2009-12-20T11:58:00.005-05:00

4 year old:

"I asked Santa for a skateboard. He said he thinks we can work that out."

On the eighth night of Hanukkah: "Can we do Hanukkah again?"

"I think Santa becomes a baby so he can get down the chimney."

What are the names of the reindeer? "Prancer now Dancer... Vixen... I know Cupid and Honor... and I forgot the other ones."

7 year old:

"Why is it the Mama gets to light the candles? I don't like that part of Hanukkah. I want to light them." (This may be amended when he is no longer so frightening in behavior around fire.)

"Let's have a cocktail party for our friends for the holidays. We can have food and drinks and give them presents we made. I'll be the host." (This somehow passed the committee and we are cleaning house today in preparation.)

"There is the real Santa and there are other Santas. But you gotta' be nice to them all because they've got connections and you never know..."

"I'm going to pull out my loose teeth on Christmas Eve so Santa and the Tooth Fairy can hang out."

Friendship over Recession

2009-12-16T22:26:00.002-05:00

I prefer to buy things from people I know. It is a preference that has bitten me on the hindparts on an occasion or two, but I stick with it.

I found many a source for business cards online and at the chain stores around town. There were all kinds of bargains, deals, and the "hottest" looks. But on paper - cheap shows and I'm no longer 25. I don't need a business card to affirm my hotness. And neither does my husband.

So I went with friends. These are friends I have done business with before. They are not convenient because they are three states away. They are not the cheapest. And they did not offer hot, so I am not sure if they carry it.

But today the most gorgeous cards showed up on my front porch. They are the "Cheap and quick" version to tide us over until the raised ink ones can be printed. (Their idea.) My husband swooned. He normally saves swooning for canoes, chocolate and a firm mattress.

This is why I like buying from people I know.

The gorgeous cards would have been enough. The mouse pad/calendars and the ginger bread house for the kids to build that we found underneath the recyclable packing peanuts... that just makes me fall in love all over again. If you follow this link, you'll meet my friends but you will not see their business cards. Gotta' call them for that. They do a nice wedding invitation, too, I hear.

Short Attention Span or Dementia Onset? Disappointment Either Way

2009-12-15T17:14:00.004-05:00

I am swamped. How can this be? I am unemployed. My children are in school all day. I am not sleeping too much, am not addicted to anything, don't watch TV for more than an hour or two a week. I can only conclude that I am being abducted by aliens for three to eleven hours a day.

Wait, this is the internet: The author does not believe she is being abducted by aliens. She is fully aware that her family, neighbors, friends and an evil demon named Facebook are filling her hours with amusements and requests for her attention. She likes alien abduction as an image only. And if she could please have an alien who looked like Jason Statham, that would be just grand, thanks.

I never have time to blog so the only way I am going to make my remaining two blog fans happy is by writing in small bursts. Nothing so radical and asinine as a twitter feed, mind you, but brief nonetheless.

My conclusion of the day is that adulthood is all about realizing that you are a sad disappointment to yourself. You have three choices in how to respond to the disappointments.

1. If you can move past your daily failures in your own eyes, you get to have a fulfilling mature life.

2. If you are unable to get past your own disappointments you develop a voice like Ray Romano, Jerry Seinfeld, or Ben Stein.

3. If you don't disappoint yourself you are a self-important blowhard who rides around in a bus with your own name on it. So wrong.

With this in mind I am going to take in stride the fact that I have never been to Egypt to visit one of my dearest friends whom I adore and fret over often. I will not obsess over the fact that I almost never go out dancing even though at 20 I swore to myself that I would not be one of those sad sacks who goes out dancing less than three times in a month. And I will calmly realize that there is a block mother on our block and she is not me.

Adult decisions done. Now I am going to have some cookies before dinner and dancing.

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.