No Safe Harbor

2011-03-06T17:00:00.000-08:00

Could I Get Just One BWHA-ha-ha? Please?

What is with the people who must end every emailed, texted, or posted sentence with LOL? Or even intermittently pepper LOL throughout the sentence? It's like some very bad laugh track in written form, and the people who use it typically aren't very funny.

Given the choice, I would choose Tourette Syndrome any day. The language has greater diversity and is certainly more colorful.

2011-02-25T13:32:00.000-08:00

When Good Karma Goes Annoying

Recently I learned of a healing technique called ho'oponopono. It has been famously promoted by Joe Vitale in his story of Dr. Len, a Hawaiian psychologist, who cured a ward of criminally insane patients. Dr. Len accomplished this without ever seeing any of the patients personally, but by studying each inmate's chart, finding that unhealed part of the inmate within himself, and saying "I love you. I'm sorry." (That got expanded to "I love you. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you." I went one further and added "I love you. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you.") http://www.wanttoknow.info/070701imsorryiloveyoujoevitale It's a fascinating story.

I'd been doing a lot of ho'oponopono when people or situations weren't falling into line with my idea of a perfect world, and I found that it immediately made me feel less pissed off or frustrated. Sometimes the situation would change almost immediately. Sometimes the shift would be more gradual—but it would shift. It's free, takes almost no time, and has no negative side effects—gotta love it.

Until today. I had an uneasy feeling that I couldn't immediately identify. After poking around at that feeling for awhile, I realized that I was hopping mad—at ho'oponopono. It has completely taken me out of my comfort zone. I can't be mad at anyone. I can't blame anyone for anything—because it's me! (With apologies to my junior high English teacher: "It is I!") What fucking fun is that??? Yeah, it feels good when I get to the other side and I'm all love and forgiveness and light—but that's like how good it feels after running a marathon, and the pain and puking stop. I love you. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. BAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Fuck that!

I want to blame and mentally point my index finger menacingly and be righteously angry (I want to be RIGHT!) and stomp around. I can still do that, of course, but it's not fun any more and doesn't feel so good because I know it's not true. I know that I'm pointing and angry at my own shadow, which points directly back at me. Now that I know it, I can't undo it.

The path to enlightenment and nirvana can be hell sometimes.

2010-06-13T19:08:00.000-07:00

A Year Unblogged

When blog becomes confessional: “Forgive me, Blogger, for I have sinned. It has been 369 days since my last post.”

On June 9, 2009, the last time I posted and my dad’s 96th birthday, he had a pulmonary embolism and never regained consciousness. Two days later he died. I knew I would feel enormous sadness; but I naively felt that would pass quickly since he lived a long and full life, dying as he would have wanted to—quickly and without suffering, while still mentally sharp enough to cheat at cards and physically able to take care of himself.

It took months to regain my equilibrium. I gained weight—never a great challenge for me, but the grief process seemed to invite extra tubbiness. I felt sad, depressed, out of it. I learned about accumulated grief and conscious grieving. The life and death lessons were valuable, and they sucked.

Last Wednesday was hard with the double whammy of it being my dad’s birthday and the anniversary of the day he functionally died. I talked to my sister, and we both boo-hooed together for a bit and then laughed as we reminisced about the funeral. (Ironic and maybe almost blasphemous, but it was a great funeral. Although plenty of tears fell, there was even more laughter in celebration of my dad’s love of life, his keen wit, and the happy memories so many shared.) There was something about that anniversary and sharing a final mourning with my sister that completed the circle.

It’s good to be back.

2009-06-10T14:00:00.000-07:00

What Do You Say to Fate?

Yesterday was my dad's 96th birthday. and my oldest sister Ruth is in Guymon visiting for the occasion and the week. Yesterday afternoon she called from the hospital to let me know that just before lunch, Daddy collapsed. The EMTs said that in the ambulance he was talking, but they couldn't understand how that was possible because they couldn't get any vital signs. This was verified by doctors in the ER who experienced the same and kept trying different machines, because the machines were saying he was dead; and he was saying "Let me sit up." One of my friends commented, "If that isn't good old Oklahoma sticktoitivness I don't know what is." He's always been a tenacious over-achiever.

The doctors think it was a pulmonary embolism, but they still don't know for sure. That's how they're treating it.

My sister Jo and her husband Mike were on their way back to Guymon from a wedding in Arkansas, and got delayed in Oklahoma City with some RV problem. All very frustrating and they were afraid Dad would pass before they got a chance to say good-bye.

The doctors decided to heli-port him to Oklahoma City because they don't have the proper facilities in Guymon. (According to Jo, the Guymon hospital doesn't have the proper facilities to take care of the family pet.) So the fact that Jo and Mike got stuck there and were able to be at the hospital waiting for him is pretty amazing as Universal alignment goes.

I talked to Jo in OKC this morning, and our dad's stable, but shutting down. He has not regained consciousness since he collapsed yesterday, but there does seem to be a certain awareness and response when she tells him things.

He is 96 afterall. He's had not only a long life, but a rich and mostly happy one. We've been preparing for this time for awhile. But how do you prepare for it? I have read that psychologically we view our parents as God because they have been there through our personal eternity. How do I prepare for God to die?

2009-04-29T15:01:00.000-07:00

At Our House We Have the Wisdom of Super Chicken

When you find yourself in danger,
When you're threatened by a stranger,
When it looks like you will take a lickin', (cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck)
There is someone waiting,
Who will hurry up and rescue you,
Just call—for Super Chicken! (cluck, awk!)

Fred, if you're afraid, you'll have to overlook it,
Besides you knew the job was dangerous when you took it! (cluck, awk!)

He will drink his super sauce
And throw the bad guys for a loss
And he will bring them in, alive and kickin' (cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck)
There is one thing you should learn
When there is no one else to turn to,
Call—for Super Chicken! (cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck)
Call—for Super Chicken! (cluck, awk!)

-The Super Chicken Theme Lyrics

Scott will be hitting the sexagenarian mark this August, and his job in the pharmaceutical industry is responsible and demanding. These and many other marks of adulthood and the biblical suggestion of "putting away childish things" have in no way diminished his enthusiasm for nor memories of Super Chicken, the short-lived 1967 cartoon series.

He can sing the entire theme song (with gusto); recount how he and one of his college friends had sweatshirts made with the hallmark backward F of Fred, Super Chicken's sidekick; and quote liberally from the 17 episodes. And then launch into another account about the nun who made him divide using Roman numerals.

Welcome to life with Scott. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.

2009-04-16T08:14:00.000-07:00

Best Advice Ever

Years ago when Carrie was a 'tween, we drove past a gas station with a sign prominently displayed in the window: "Help Wanted: Inquire Within". Carrie pointed out the Zen qualities of that statement, and I still use it as a reminder of unfailingly good advice to follow.

2009-04-13T12:40:00.001-07:00

Dogs, Orthopedic Surgeons, and Aggression Towards Baseball Caps

Periodically when I'm running with my dog Jazz, about three-quarters of a mile from our house two dogs come running from the house at 2810 Waubesa Avenue and give chase. One, which appears to be a Golden Doodle or Labradoodle or Snickerdoodle—one of those odd but highly popular breeds that purposely combines some largely decent yellow dog with a poodle—acts vicious, bares its teeth, growls, barks, and chases but has never actually attacked Jazz or me. So it probably won't. The other is a Yorkie, so that evokes little fear. But I am disgusted at having my run disrupted by these dogs, and it still freaks me out.

In years past I've been in several situations where I was running a dog, and it and/or I have been attacked and bitten by a free-roaming canine. Murray had his ear nearly ripped off by a Rottweiler in Sacramento, I have spent hundreds of dollars for multiple incidents in getting my dogs pieced back together, and I still bear dog bite scars on my leg. So when a loose dog comes at me and acts threatening, it's post-traumatic stress time. I freak.

Yesterday after going through the usual routine of trying to get away as fast as possible, I'd had enough. Jazz and I retraced our steps to the house from which these two dogs regularly spew forth, rang the doorbell, and a "gentleman" came to the door.

Me: Your dogs are running loose in the street. [I focused on staying calm and just stating the fact.]

Him: Oh, okay, I'll bring them in.

Me: This has happened too many times. I intend to call Animal Control. [Still calm, but somewhat surprised by his cavalier manner.]

[Pause}

Him: GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!

[I was stunned and just stood there on the porch.]

Him: YOU ARE ON MY PROPERTY.

[At this point he advanced, grabbed the bill of the baseball cap I was wearing, twisted it around to the side, and shoved it down on my head.]

Him: GET THE FUCK OFF MY PROPERTY!!!

[I turned around to leave and started walking down the steps. He followed.]

Him: EVERYONE'S SICK OF YOUR BITCHING! YOU COMPLAIN ABOUT EVERYTHING!!!

Me: Your dogs have chased me a number of times, but this is the first time I've complained to you or anyone else.

Him: WELL, SOMEONE'S ALWAYS COMPLAINING ABOUT SOMETHING. WE DON'T LIVE IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING MADISON!

[I kept walking and didn't engage. He kept following me as I turned to go back home.]

Him: YOU ACT LIKE WE LIVE IN DOWNTOWN MADISON!!! WE DON'T LIVE IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING DOWNTOWN MADISON!

I didn't respond, but it wasn't because I was unaware that I wasn't in the middle of downtown Madison. I was thinking "Yeah, but that doesn't mean animal control laws don't apply just because we're south of the Belt Line, and it's not like the housing density is any less, and we ARE still at a Madison address." Despite my thoughts, I had good reason to believe the guy had dropped a mental crankshaft, and there was no point in sharing my perspective. He didn't seem like someone really interested in someone else's counterpoint anyway.

By this time his Yorkie was running along with Jazz and me, and I didn't blame it. I wanted to get away from him too. From behind me, I would hear him bleat the occasional "Alvin!", assumedly at the Yorkie, which ultimately went about a quarter of a mile with us. At that point Mr. Teach You a Lesson By Jamming Your Baseball Cap Down the Side of Your Head finally started chasing his dog down rather than following behind me, and the Yorkie ran from him. It led a good chase, ran in circles causing him to run in circles after it. It was quite the spectacle and seemed fitting considering his implied contention that his dogs should be able to go wherever they damned well pleased.

Even though it was taking on sitcom proportions, I was still shaken and felt frightened of anyone exhibiting his type of threatening behavior, so I just kept going, kept my eyes straight ahead, and did not comment. But I did a LOT of internal belly-laughing. I passed his little circus with the Yorkie, and felt safe when I got home.

When I told Scott about the incident, his immediate response was, "Let's go pay him a visit." Oh great. No, let's not. We've had enough testosterone demonstrations for one morning.

This morning I researched the address and discovered that it's the home of a woman who, it would appear, is a triathlete and the race director for the Wisconsin Triathlon Series, which includes Lake Mills, Pardeeville, and Devil's Challenge. (Et tu, fellow triathlete?) I researched some more and under the Dean Health Care website found a picture of her husband and apparent co-resident at 2810 Waubesa Ave, and verified that he is the same person who expressed certainty that we don't live in downtown Madison, felt the need to re-organize my baseball cap, and followed me part way home—AND as a bonus, he is an orthopedic surgeon. My, my, what professionalism. I do not want his scalpel nor carpentry tools nor any part of his person anywhere near me.

I called Dane County Animal Control and left a full report this morning, and also asked them to call and educate me if I'm mistaken about animal containment laws applying on Waubesa Avenue.

2009-03-30T16:19:00.000-07:00

Cultural Differences Between Florida and Wisconsin

We just came back from a week in Bradenton. Some of the differences I noticed from our homeland:

1) Scott and I brought the median age down.

2) I could get in and out of women's public toilets while Scott was still standing in line for the men's.

3) There wasn't a single report of stolen snow removal equipment.

2009-03-16T15:50:00.000-07:00

Follow Up

Today I interviewed an applicant who wrapped up by asking if it would help my hiring decision if his former boss, a poobah in The Universe as We Know It, called my boss.

Yes, it would. Just not in the direction he would hope.

2009-03-11T13:42:00.000-07:00

Playing God is No Damned Fun

I will soon be interviewing and hiring for an available position in our department. One of the applicants is someone I have worked with and like and respect, but I won't know until the end of the process if he's the best person for the job. Hiring one person and turning down others always gives me the uncomfortable sense of influencing destinies. Knowing that in this job market my decision can have a particularly serious impact on the lives of job candidates and their families is a heavier weight than I like to have on my shoulders.

I can't hire based on who needs the job the most, which I consider fortunate. It's challenging enough to make a business decision based on the work I think each person can do and how I think he or she will interact with the team for the ultimate good of our department.

The other side of the Be a Manager/Play God coin is ending someone's job. Tomorrow one of my colleagues will be releasing an employee for non-performance among other issues. We have had several conversations about it, and I will be very surprised if he sleeps well tonight. It seems to be a good decision and based on sound business principles—but hard as hell to carry out.

I wonder if when I pray, God determines how to answer based on if it's good business. And if when making such celestial decisions, it makes Him itch when He has to say, "Sorry. Thanks for being on the show."

2009-03-09T14:09:00.000-07:00

Medals 4 Mettle

A few weeks ago an email hit my inbox via the Fleet Feet listserv from Heidi Duss. I don't know her, but on behalf of the organization Medals 4 Mettle (M4M), she was requesting the donation of finishers' medals for marathons, half-marathons, and triathlons. M4M facilitates the gifting of these medals from event participants to children and adults dealing with chronic or debilitating illnesses who have demonstrated similar mettle—or courage—in bravely facing these challenges.

Gulp.

Some little kid inside me was jumping up and down protesting, "Mine, mine, mine! I EARNED those. I was a couch potato who couldn't run a mile, and those medals say that I ran 26.2 consecutive miles on five occasions and finished a half-Ironman distance triathlon plus others."

Yeah, so? A conversation came to mind I'd had with Scott shortly after we started dating. Prominently displayed in his office was a plaque awarded for community service in 1991 to him and his ex-wife, with both their names emblazoned on it.

Q: Why would you keep that on your wall?

A: It's work I'm proud of.

Q: Don't you know what you've done to be proud of without having to show off a plaque about it?

A: It's important to me.

Q: Isn't that kind of old news? So what have you done lately to be proud of?

A: Bitch... [He's too nice to say that but probably rightfully thought it.]

As I've quoted here before, I love Ralph Blum's statement, "We are not doers, we are deciders. Once we decide, the doing is easy." My self argument was blessedly brief. After running the Austin marathon last month to raise money for St. Jude's Children's Hospital and its bald-headed kids, as well as Scott's daily work with pediatric leukemia drugs and his stories of both heartbreak and triumph of patients and their families—it wasn't much of a stretch to envision one of those medals coming out its cigar box in the closet and finding a much better and deserving home around the neck of one of those kids.

A couple hours ago I went to Fleet Feet and handed everything I had that qualified for this program—5 marathon medals and 2 triathlon medals—across the counter to Jessica. Sending those medals to their higher good and relieving myself of that weight made me feel lighter than air, like I could fly through those events now. I don't need medals to remind me of what I achieved. My legs know. My head knows. My heart most definitely knows. And besides, those events are past. Done. Finished. May the mementos from those personal milestones go to bless someone else and inspire them further, and spur me to focus on what I have yet to accomplish.

What have I done lately?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you'd like to learn more about this program, read on. Have your Kleenex box handy.

Runners World story about how it originated: http://www.medals4mettle.org/pr_articles/M4M_Runners_World_9-08.pdf

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pEkk2_X__k0

Official website: http://www.medals4mettle.org/

2009-03-06T14:02:00.000-08:00

My Bloody Valentine 3D

On February 20, I received the following email from my favorite movie reviewer, Teddy Durgin:

At long last, non-locals, here is a giveaway contest for those who do not live in the Baltimore-Washington, D.C., metro area and cannot make the various preview screenings that I help to co-sponsor. Since this weekend is the Academy Awards, I decided to ask you a few Oscar-related questions. To qualify for the prizes, you must answer all three correctly. For best possible consideration, please e-mail me your answers along with your prize preferences to my personal e-mail address at **@***. Good luck!

First, the prizes:
1) "The International" poster

2) An XL-sized "My Bloody Valentine 3-D" T-shirt (it's more like a Large, so if you weigh more than 150 lbs., you may wanna go with one of the other prizes)

3) A set of "Monsters Vs. Aliens" coasters.

Now, the questions:
1) For the 1988 Oscars (held in March '89), three of the five Best Actor nominees' last names began with the letter "H." Who were they?

2) Who was the only actor to ever be nominated for his acting in a "Star Wars" movie?

3) True or false? Sylvester Stallone has never been nominated for Best Actor.

I don't even like t-shirts. But there is something about even the idea of a My Bloody Valentine 3D t-shirt that is so deliciously perverse, not to mention the whole realm of psychology around WINNING anything that made this irresistible.

The keyboard was almost smoking as I dashed out the following:

1) Dustin Hoffman (winner with Rain Man), Gene Hackman (former roommate to Hoffman), and Tom Hanks

2) Alec Guinness (best supporting)

3) False. Nominated for Rocky.

If it's still available, could I get the t-shirt? If not--thanks for the fun (and any other available prize if they're not gone).

I am now the proud owner of an XL, My Bloody Valentine 3D t-shirt. I don't care how incredibly unflattering it is—I will be wearing my winnings & struttin' 'em down the aisles of the Wisconsin Film Festival cinema venues next month. Way bad fashion, but as movie kitsch goes—unsurpassable.

2009-03-04T14:32:00.000-08:00

The Transformation of The Biggest Loser

Despite my last post pivoting around a documentary viewed on the Smithsonian Channel, we're not big on watching television. It's not a matter of some high-minded Kill Your Television mindset. Quite the contrary. We have five boob tubes scattered about the house, including the ginormous plasma thing, plus the small ancient example of mid-20th Century technology in Scott's workshop. It seems, though, that we get busy and don't really think about tuning in on any regular basis. When Nielsen contacted us to do one of their weekly reports, we tried to tell the person who called that we weren't very good candidates; but she said that was fine, just so we reported whatever we watched. Okay. At the end of the week, our tally showed that I had watched one 30-minute segment of The Daily Show; and Scott had briefly tuned in to This Old House. One week. Six TVs. Less than one collective hour of viewing. How can we even call ourselves Americans?

That was before I became a The Biggest Loser junkie. I don't know how I happened to wander into the Season 6 finale, but I was captivated. Once Season 7 started, I made sure every episode was recorded so I wouldn't miss anything. But that's mostly unnecessary because typically at 7-9 pm every Tuesday, I am tuned in, turned on, torqued up. There is no way I could sit on the sofa and watch these people sweat, swear, and swelter. While I watch their almost super-human efforts, I run on the treadmill, do bike intervals on the trainer, and/or do resistance training. I've come to think of them as my homies, and they truly are inspiring.

What is it about this show that has me in its grip? Sure, there's this 10-20 pounds that I have struggled with for over four decades, five marathons, several triathlons, and too many diets to count—without any lasting success, I might add. But I think the greatest appeal of TBL is the age-old theme of transformation. Why do we watch Ebeneezer Scrooge every Christmas and never fail to shed a tear at the predictable ending? How can we watch Rocky for the 18th time and still cheer as loudly as the first time we saw it on the big screen? Why do we love X-Men? Transformation. We all delight in it. We all long for it.

TBL offers me 18 weeks over which I can watch the gradual uncocooning of human butterflies right in my living room—and via treadmill, bike trainer, and free weights, I can even participate. Shape shifters. Literally. Interwoven with every pound lost, the contestants also change the shapes of their characters, their self-beliefs, and their emotional landscapes. And in watching the unfoldment of each personal and very public pilgrimage, I share a little of that transformation.

Will they be able to sustain it? Will I? Stay tuned.

2009-03-02T14:54:00.000-08:00

A Culture That Preserves Hair and Teeth

Yesterday Scott had just finished working out on his stationary bike when I got to the home gym (read: basement) to pound out a few intervals on the treadmill. He asked if I wanted him to turn off the TV since I was listening to my iPod. Oh no. All manner of distraction is welcome.

The HDTV Smithsonian Channel was showing the National Geographic documentary Light At The Edge Of The World: Himalayas, in which Wade Davis goes on an anthropological and spiritual journey into the Himalayas of Nepal to experience and explore Buddhist practice. It was only a few minutes before I was so drawn in, I could no longer bear the distraction of the iPod and tossed it onto the sofa.

As I watched this gentle, joyous, and powerful unfoldment, the synopsis came in the statement, "Western science and efficiency have made a major contribution to minor needs. We spend much of our time in the West trying to ensure that people live to be 100 without losing their hair or their teeth. The Buddhists spend their time giving meaning to existence. The Buddhists spend their time getting ready for a moment that we pretend does not exist, and that is the moment of death."

Could I hang on to my hair and teeth and still find meaning? They're probably not mutually exclusive, but it is reflective of focus and priority. I meditate regularly—but there are days that I get busy and miss it. I never miss a day of brushing my teeth or doing all I can to make it a good hair day. After Wade Davis' stark statement of contrast and perusing my life values based on where I prioritize my time, it truly gives me pause.

2009-02-25T15:37:00.000-08:00

So... You Think You're Multi-Tasking?

Ha! Even computers with only one processor cannot multi-task, only time-slice. Which means jumping from one task to the next with some rapidity, but never performing them simultaneously.

One of the greatest powers is the ability to focus. That's a lofty goal I aim for, but for now I'm randomly spinning a bunch of plates on sticks and hoping I can keep them all aloft. Even mastery of time-slicing sounds better all the time.

2009-02-23T16:13:00.000-08:00

And Your Sins Shall Be Visited Onto...

Last night Scott grilled steak, scallops, and shrimp for dinner; and I steamed the perfect artichokes. Scott opened a bottle of red wine to accompany this feast, even though we were planning to drink champagne while we watched the Oscars. By the closing credits with Hugh Jackman waving bye-bye and everyone in India happy, we had managed to polish off a bottle of each. (Oh. My. Gawd.)

So why was it that what awakened us in the middle of the night was the unmistakable sounds of the dog puking?

2009-02-20T13:22:00.000-08:00

Ignore This Member
-or-
One of the Many Reasons I Love PaperbackSwap.com

When a friend referred me to PaperbackSwap.com, I didn't think it would be of much interest since I preferred to sell/buy books on Amazon or half.com. But I've come to LOVE ordering books for free—and unlike the library, which I also adore, I don't have to return anything. It comes with only the occasional inconvenience of someone expecting the same from me, at which point I put the specified book I no longer want in an envelope, add postage, and ship it out.

Just as I sometimes think I can't possibly love my husband any more deeply only to find that my love for him has widened, I recently discovered even greater dimension to my relationship with PaperbackSwap.com. In their newsletter they described a new feature in their forums: the Ignore This Member button, described as follows:

This feature allows you to ignore a member (or members) whose topics bother you, bore you, etc. When you have ignored a member, you will be able to go anywhere in forums and never "hear" from the member again, while seeing all the rest of the posts in topics. You can ignore as many people as you like. We think this is a great way to shut out any forum voices that may get on your nerves and spoil your day, while letting the other voices come through loud and clear.

I consider this Deep Thoughts Advice About Life. I have now installed an internal Ignore This Member button, and when I detect any "voice that may get on my nerves or spoil my day", I mentally click Ignore This Member. And giggle. While letting all the other voices come through loud and clear.

Thank you PaperbackSwap.com.

2009-02-17T13:20:00.000-08:00

I've Been Freakin' Busy (Not Unlike Everyone Else)

Yeah, yeah. I haven't posted in awhile. I got married. I honeymooned. Less happily, I went to two funerals.

I trained for a marathon. Again.

I won't give all the grisly details of training through a Wisconsin winter, but will only mention the highlights of requiring water-/snow-proof running shoes with strap-on ice cleats (Stabilicers) and the occasional 18-mile run on a treadmill because it was too cold outside to breathe for long periods of time. (I have made Scott swear an oath that he will stop me—stop me, stop me please! I can't help myself!—if I ever again sign up for some endurance event requiring major mid-winter training.)

It was the February 15 AT&T Marathon in Austin, Texas, made attractive despite the timing because my daughter Carrie lives there. Scott, bless his heart, met me there late Friday night after a grueling week at a conference in Tampa. Scott, Carrie, C's bf Shawn, and I enjoyed great camaraderie and way too much good food and drink—causing me to gain 4 pounds over the course of the weekend, despite burning probably 3500 calories on the run.

The morning of the marathon dawned at 50 degrees, perfect for the event. Carrie, Shawn, and my "granddog" Saint met Scott and me at our hotel. Carrie had had special neon orange t-shirts printed for everyone—including daughter Laura and her bf Chad supporting from Boston (and who sent way cool pics modeling the t's)—emblazoned with the marathon info, and "Z-Team" on the front and each individual's name and favorite number on the back. I had raised money for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, and using multi-colored permanent markers, tattooed my legs with the names of my contributors. I felt so blessed to be supported in so many ways by so many loving friends and family members.

Our hotel was only a few blocks from the race start, and after hugs all around, my "pit crew" took their posts on the curb. Finally the race started, and being toward the back of the fray of 13,000 entrants, it started with a slow shuffle and took over 10 minutes to get to the official starting line.

I felt so good and after the initial glacial pace, the first 12 miles went faster than I expected. I was keeping a little over a 10:15/mile pace. (One friend had asked me if I thought I would finish in maybe an hour. Uhhhh.... let's see. The world record is over 2 hours. I'm 56, slightly overweight, and don't train as hard as I could. That would be a "no". And I had no idea I knew anyone THAT retarded.) Somewhere around Mile 12 or 13, I started getting a little cramping in my calves. That slowed me down a little, but I kept going. By Mile 21 the cramps were radiating up and down my legs, and I was reduced to mostly walking, although I was able to periodically grind out a pathetic little jog. Anyway, I finished, and I did do my best time for a marathon. (Previously it was 5:14, and I finished this one in 5:01:59, just missing busting that 5-hour mark by 2 minutes—next time! Next time!) Like with any airplane landing, anything you walk away from (or finish) is a good one. Hey! That time would have qualified me for the Boston Marathon—if I were 75 years old.

As grueling as it was at times, I had a great time in the run and over the course of the entire weekend. Having Scott, Carrie, Shawn, and Saint showing up on different parts of the course (with Laura and Chad and many other friends & family there in spirit) to cheer me on was pure delight. Even with the painful and less-than-pretty finish, I was proud of working for this and the improvement I achieved. And it motivates me to go for more.

For my next trick: Half Ironman-distance triathlon in July. Stay tuned.

2007-09-30T15:50:00.000-07:00

Travelogue

From September 5-16 Scott and I were in London, Paris, and Brussels. Every moment was magic, and I have 30 pages of hand-written travelogue to prove it. Over whatever time it takes (probably until Christmas, and maybe that's Christmas 2010) I will be blogging stories and observations from this adventure. The travelfest starts below. Strap in, hang on, and stop your screaming.

2007-09-17T16:03:00.001-07:00

My Scottish Vacation in Paris

Until a few days before we left, Scott and I were keeping our travel options open. We would be leaving for London's Gatwick Airport on September 5 and returning from there on September 16. We had reservations at the London Marriott Grosvenor Square Hotel until September 10. But then? Would we go north to Scotland or south to Paris? Although we made reservations at the Paris Marriott Champs Elysees, we ultimately got both destinations.

On Monday September 10, we noticed several kilted Scots at the London Waterloo train station as we waited to board the EuroStar “Chunnel” train to Paris. After we arrived in "The City of Lights" and began exploring, we saw Scots everywhere and enjoyed their singing as we passed brasseries where they were in attendance. When we passed two of them on the sidewalk and I asked why the major convocation, they said they were in town for the football (soccer) match with France on Wednesday night. Cool.

Tuesday late afternoon we were on the upper deck of a tour bus and down one street spotted what appeared to be a thousand Scots having a block party. When we finished the tour and were standing at the bus stop deciding whether to take the "green" tour back to the hotel or get something to eat or... Scott turned to me and said, "What do you want to do?" Answer: "I want to go party with the Scots." So we walked the 10 blocks back to where we'd seen them, and there were probably a thousand of them in the street in front of a Scottish pub drinking and singing like gangbusters. Scott and I each got a lager and were just taking it all in (feeling conspicuous in jeans in the midst of so many kilts) when Les Grieg came up and introduced himself. We chatted for a bit, and then he introduced us to his wife Hazel. Hazel took over and introduced us to her sister Fiona, their mother "Black Label Mabel" and Uncle James, her son Clarke, daughter and son-in-law Rachel and Mark, her nephew Philip, and Fiona's husband Philip. Counting Rachel and Mark's baby-to-be, we're talking four generations. They embraced us as their own, declaring us the newest members of the Tartan Army.

We spent a glorious couple of hours drinking, singing, and socializing with our new friends, during the course of which Fiona told us about the plans for the 20,000 Scots in town for the game to meet at the Eiffel Tower at 5:00 p.m. the next day and march en masse to the stadium. We were invited. It was an irresistible offer. We also learned Hazel had two tickets to the game we could buy, and she would bring them the next day. Armed with Rachel's cell phone number and the hope that the dubious powers of international calling in France would connect a US number with a Scottish number, we left to seek dinner.

We settled on a restaurant and were seated outside ready to order, when along came our recently adopted family. YEA! "Come join us." One problem. The restaurant wouldn't serve them. The Griegs were not rowdy or impolite, although one could still hear the revelry from the party a few blocks away. Even though Scott inquired, we never could learn why the restaurant would not have them. But they were ours, so if they wouldn't be served, neither would we. We went to the next restaurant, which was happy to have us all; and we spent more happy hours eating. And of course.... drinking. The next morning Scott felt a "little fuzzy". I felt fine. I was born to be a Scot. He was born to be a Scott.

Five p.m. Wednesday afternoon found us at the Eiffel Tower. We were able to connect with Rachel ("We're near the yellow awning—where are you?" and similar mechanics were required until we were finally able to spot the Bozo mask with red hair Clarke was sporting) for the biggest honkin' tailgate party on earth—except there weren't any tailgates. Just the Eiffel Tower.

We drank some more then proceeded to join the march of the Tartan Army through the streets of Paris to the stadium—imagine 20,000 men and women in kilts, many with huge Scottish flags, bagpipes, drums, bugles, alcohol of every imaginable type some of it in such quantities as to be pushed in shopping carts—and a couple Americans joining the party and taking turns at flag carrying for that 3 miles. And singing our lungs out. Songs like "Tartan Army Boys" and "We Hate England More Than You". They totally LOVE "Doe a Deer". (We tried to teach them the "Dos, a beer, a Mexican beer; Ray the guy who buys us beer; Me the one who drinks the beer; Fa a long, long way to run; So I think I'll have a beer; Lots and lots and lots of beer; Tea? no thanks, I'll have a beer; and that brings us back to.... " version. You'd think a drinking crowd like that would love it, but it never caught on.) This is the closest we will ever get to storming the Bastille. What an incredible experience!

In the stadium the Scots outnumbered the French by probably 5-1 (and ironically, Scotland has a crappy team by their own admission—their wildest dream for that evening was for a 0-0 tie), so just by virtue of sheer numbers they had the homefield advantage. That stadium ROCKED throughout the entire game. The first half was a snore except for singing and cheering with the Scots in the stands. Then in the second half Scotland miraculously scored a goal, and it was a thrilling nail-biter for the rest of the game. Scotland upset France 1-0!!! There was incredibly good sportsmanship between the Scots and French both on and off the field.

After the game, Scott and I walked back the way we'd come all the way to the Eiffel Tower and viewed the carnage of the siege of locusts, although street sweepers were already starting to clean up. We were disappointed to learn that the Tower is closed to ascension after 9 p.m., and by then it was midnight. Due to the amount of time we spent meeting up with our Tartan Army friends, doing the march, and going to the soccer game, we missed a few sights of Paris—but we know those will be there when we go back—and this experience probably won't! We stood under the center of the Tower and kissed and made it a romantic moment. We’re livin’ The Dream.

2007-08-21T19:06:00.000-07:00

A Year’s Worth of Living in 30 Days

Since this time last month: I've become a gifted mouse trapper, my daughter came to visit for a wonderful week, we had a big party, my dog Bill died, I had a housemate for one week, we went to Chicago for my friend Lori’s surprise birthday party, we had a garage sale, I have expanded my imminent domain to two households, Scott and I are preparing for a trip to the UK, I’ve biked my butt into its best shape ever, and I’m making plans to put my house on the market.

Carrie came to visit us in Madison July 21-28. We had the Two For One Double Celebration Party (Daughter on Parade and an early celebration of Scott's 29th anniversary of his 29th birthday) that Sunday at Scott’s house, and it was a delight with fabulous weather, many wonderful friends, and lots of laughter. No one had a better time than my dog Bill—greeting guests, playing with a neighbor's new puppy, helpfully cleaning plates... Little did we know that it was a triple theme—Bill's Farewell Party.

He was playing with his toys before bed that Monday night and still being the party animal. At about 1:00 a.m., he started whimpering like he wasn't feeling well. He had a rough night and was finally able to lie down and rest. I was with him all night, and early Tuesday July 24 he peacefully went to his next assignment. He was pushing 15 years old and got some great bonus time. And how thoughtful that he chose a time when Scott and Carrie could be with me to celebrate his life, make a memorial stepping stone with his paw print, and escort him to his final resting place. It’s been almost a month now, and I’m still missing him a lot—but that's part of the process of having a wonderful pet.

Even with Bill’s passing we had such a good time with Carrie. Thursday July 26 we went to the airshow in Oshkosh and the highlight was riding in a 1929 Ford Tri-Motor plane there. I initially thought it was ridiculous at $50/person for a 10-minute ride, but Scott insisted (and paid while saying "It's an experience we should take advantage of. We won't always get this chance—we'll outlive this plane")—and it was fantastic! When Care went back to Austin, we were both ready to resume our regular lives, while knowing we would miss each other a lot.

A few months ago Scott and I decided that I would move into his place after Bill passed. Bill visited at Scott's, but it's a place with no fenced yard and too many stairs for an arthritic pooch—so it wouldn't have been a good place for Bill on a permanent basis. So I have started making the The Move. Once I get my house in shape, I'll list it with my friends and realtors Jeff Kramer and Jodi Pahs. In the meantime, I'm a dual citizen at Waubesa Avenue and Woodland Circle and actually kinda like it that way. I've totally enjoyed the extra time I've been spending at Waubesa with Scott, and it's feeling more homelike all the time. But I'm also liking this "twilight time" with my house. I stay at Woodland Circle on the nights Scott's out of town, so I not only get a few things done but also get that last taste of "Mine! Mine! All mine!"

Before all this, the house a woman in my neighborhood was renting was being sold, so she needed a place and was going to rent my extra bedroom. She got moved in the first of August and after five days she decided she wanted her own place and moved back out. (SHE moved out—somehow I'm still saddled with a roomful of her stuff she said she was going to get a week ago.) A seemingly nice lady, but ultimately a flaky user. She was a clean freak, so my house is now spotless and the furniture rearranged. Perhaps part of the problem was when she was cleaning and started discarding things of mine she didn't think I needed anymore, and I objected. But it's all good—her move-in motivated me to get HUGE amounts of stuff sorted out and ready for a garage sale (which Scott and I had on Aug 11—ridding ourselves of some serious crap and making $300) or discarded (of my own choice) that will help in my household transition. And did I mention that my house is clean?

I'm really sorry not to be getting the $400/mo, but even though it seemed like a good idea, I'm really happy to have my house back. It was a disaster from the beginning. Every time I was at Woodland Circle, she had a new problem. When she first moved in, her coffee maker sparked and blew the fuse to that outlet. Replaced the fuse, did it again. Then even replacing the fuse wouldn't fix it. When Scott went over to look at it, he had her plug it into a different outlet, and it blew that one too. She said when she took it back to her other place, it worked fine. Weird. Fortunately Scott was able to fix the blown outlet, but it took awhile. He figured there was something wrong with her coffee maker that was pulling way too much current. Then... that relief at having my own place back which I hadn't even realized since I'd been at Scott's the whole time she had moved in—except for the visits to pick something up and deal with her problems—it was so great after being grubby from my bike ride home from work and then doing yard work to sink into the tub with a glass of wine and listen to Harry Potter without the concern that I was blocking someone else from the bathroom or bothering her with Harry.

Next week Scott goes to Scotland on business then gets back just in time for Labor Day Weekend and for us to leave for the UK the following week.

In between major life changes, I’m training for the Oct 7 Milwaukee Lakefront Marathon. I’m now pausing to take a deep breath and just be. Before getting up to set another mousetrap. Or build a better one.

2007-07-16T20:36:00.000-07:00

Oh GAWD! Now That I've Got It... What Do I Do With It?

Thursday morning I turned on my dishwasher. All the water that should have been making my dishes spotless, instead was making my basement a rain forest. I suspect that a mousie chewed a hose. Maybe, maybe not. But for way too long I've been in denial about the tell-tale signs. Oh no... can't be. Huh-uh. Not MY house. I don't see any; therefore, there must not be any. And I'm sure if there IS any rodent activity they're way cute Mickeys and Minnies that are fine. Really. Just fine. No problem.

The truth will set you free but first it will piss you off. Those little dark rice thingies are mouse turds. Yuk. I opened my eyes and admitted it. Friday night Scott looked at the dishwasher and deemed the holey hose a job for someone who does plumbing for a living. When I revealed my Unholy Secret, he did not look aghast, he did not say "You have WHAT???" He simply apprised me that mice love peanut butter when we bought four mousetraps at the grocery store. (Doesn't that seem kind of disgusting that they sell mousetraps in the same place they sell food?)

I told him my Other Rodent Story. When I lived in Sacramento, a rat took up residence in my garage. Just as with the mice at my current residence, I was willing to co-habitate in peace and denial UNTIL its behavior went one step too far. When I got the box that contained my fabulous robot costume out of the rafters, it was gnawed and sullied beyond redemption. At that moment I declared war on the rat.

But with what weapons would I triumph? I usually side with humane treatment of animals, but to use some catch-and-release method would only make it someone else's problem. The old-fashioned traps seemed like the best solution, except their size and G-forces made me certain I would lose a hand before it had any chance at the rat. I settled on glue traps and set them out on a Friday night.

All weekend I waited for the rat to get its due. Nothing. Then Monday morning as I sashayed out to the garage wearing suit and heels for work and prepared to get into my car, I heard a skittering. There in front of the car was a rat on a glue-trap skateboard. As I was contemplating what to do next, my cat came into the garage and pounced on the rat. (Oh sure, now that he's easy game and after my robot costume is history.... Thanks, Sparkle.) The glue trap and rat stuck to her head and she began doing a wild dance about the garage with her odd new hat. It would have been funny if I weren't running late for work and getting a little testy at this entire menagerie and its collective bad behavior. I finally got the rat/glue trap combo off Sparkle, but then she grabbed it and ran under a bush. I turned the hose on her (not that I wanted to deprive her of a tasty snack, but I had just spent a fortune to have her dewormed), she left the scene, and I inspected the rat. It was bloodied and didn't look the least bit good on its glue bed. But it showed no signs of dying. Despite the slow, horrible death it deserved for fucking up my costume, I couldn't leave it like that. So I whacked it several times with a shovel before depositing it in the garbage. Case closed. Costume avenged.

Last night I set the four mousetraps, but not before clipping my own fingers with them several times in the process. I laced the "pedal" with peanut butter as advised and then put two in the basement and two in the garage. This evening I inspected four sparkling, peanut butter-free mousetraps. I had somehow set them so solidly, the entire mouse colony could have held a cotillion on each trap without springing it. I put more peanut butter on each pedal. I resnapped my own fingers several more times. Finally, I reset them as delicately as possible and put them at their stations.

I just looked in the garage and saw what looked like a mouse with the temerity to be feeding at the pedal as though it were a trough. Then I realized its head is under the springy thingy. Its eyes are open. I don't know if it's dead or merely not moving. Holy crap, what do I do now? Okay, yes this was the point of the whole exercise. But I didn't think that far ahead. Do I liberate the victim to its final resting place and reload the trap to kill another day? Ergh. At two traps for a dollar, I think I will be utterly wasteful and let it accompany its victim into eternity.... Hmmmm. Upon further thought, I will employ the Scarlett O'Hara Strategy of Mouse Disposal and wait until tomorrow to make my deposit into the River Styx of trash barrels. What's the hurry? It's eternity after all.

2007-06-13T14:45:00.000-07:00

My Boyfriend Went to Austria...
...and all I got were these lousy blisters

Scott’s company made a European acquisition, so in addition to his regularly insane travel schedule, he had to make a whirlwind trip across the pond last week. When he came back Saturday night, it was without his bag, which had apparently decided to jump ship in Amsterdam and do a little additional touring on the way back from Vienna.

Sunday morning when Northwest Airlines was still claiming no knowledge of it, I was asking him what all was in the bag and he got to “camera”... "You mean the DIGITAL CAMERA I GAVE YOU FOR CHRISTMAS???? You NEVER, NEVER, NEVER put a camera or valuables in checked luggage!!! Do you know how much stuff THEY STEAL????!!!" (So much for my determination to be more Zen. Well, I kinda tried. I reminded myself it is "just a camera". [No it's not! It's the freakin' camera I spent two months of discretionary income on and gave him for Christmas.] It's JUST a camera. Aren't you glad HE's home safely. Well, yeah, when you put it that way...)

Once I stopped ranting about not checking valuables, he resumed the list, which included his running shoes. But he has another pair, so we could still do our planned 3-mile run. When I was getting ready for that and went to his closet to put on running shoes (I keep a pair at his place since we usually run once or twice from there on the weekends), I found both pair of his—but not mine. Guess what? I didn’t get to go to Europe, but my running shoes were there that very minute having a great time with his bag.

As I told Scott later, “Not that you would have, but it's a really good thing you didn't fib and tell me that you'd gotten in a run or two while you were there.”

2007-06-13T14:36:00.000-07:00

The “What’s the Hurry?” 10K

Saturday I did the Dandelion Dash 10K. I biked the 3 miles to Yahara Park and helped with registration from 7:30-8:30. Then ran the race—or that's what I called it. I was bucking for the very low standard of 11:00/mile or less.

My legs felt tight the entire 6.2 miles, and I could feel every single one of the 450 miles I'd biked in the last month. I walked when I got tired, which was often. At two different times I saw Hasher friends who were volunteering on the course, so stopped to chat with them for a couple minutes. No rush about these things.

I finished dead last with a time of 1:06:03. BUT... nevertheless beat 11:00 miles (that came to about 10:38/mile). YEA! I also came in second in my age group. The moral to this is: You don't have to be good to win, place, or show—just outlive those other bitches.

2007-06-06T20:08:00.000-07:00

Race for Ruth

I am not typically a big Race for the Cure (RFTC) fan. Maybe I'm a curmudgeon, but even though it's theoretically for a good cause, it seems to have become a huge marketing juggernaut which automatically makes me suspicious. I hope every penny goes to cancer research—but whether it does or not, this year I ran it for Ruth.

Ruth is my co-worker who was diagnosed with breast cancer in January and is going through chemo and radiation. The woman is amazing. She is completely bald now and wears long dangly earrings and looks positively regal and goddess-like. Despite her appearance and her stalwart continuance of her work, she feels like hell a lot of the time. Bless her heart.

Several people at work formed a RFTC team for Ruth, and I eagerly joined in, signing up for the 5K run. When I got up the Saturday morning of the run, rain was coming down in sheets, and I thought, "Do I really want to do this?" And the answer was "Yes, I really do. I can't NOT do this."

The rain stopped by the time I got to Alliant Center where the race was staged. I had forgotten my race number. Ruth wasn't going to walk or run and asked if I would like to wear hers (and it was the special pink one for survivors). Oh hell yeah! That made me so happy that I could symbolically take her across the finish line.

I am a 10-minute miler on my good days, sinking to 12-minute slug-fests when it’s not so good. I’ve been wanting to get a little faster. I did the first mile in 8:45, which I could not believe. I slowed down considerably after that and even did some occasional walking, but still finished in something like 31:30 according to my stopwatch. I was way happy with the whole thing.

I didn’t realize that wearing the pink survivor number meant I would go through a different chute at the finish line. I received the special survivor finisher's medal and was delighted to deliver it to Ruth on Monday morning. We love you Ruth, and we’re there at your side—racing with you for your cure.

2007-06-06T19:41:00.000-07:00

Great Bargain: Daily Adventure and a Tight Butt

Just under two years ago when I was off work (read: lost my job and was promoted to "president of myself") I was using my bike for everything except getting to job interviews and only excluding those because of wanting to arrive in the nice suit without sweat. Then I got my current job Dec 2005 and kept thinking it would be a good thing to bike the 10 miles to work and back—but there was the schedule (it will take longer), the traffic, I'd have to pack my clothes, I'd be sweaty when I got to work and there aren't showers.... Definition of "excuse": the skin of a reason stuffed with lies.

As of 9 May 2007 my Waterford, the bike equivalent of a Mercedes, was hanging from the rafters in my garage without a single mile logged in over two years; my Cannondale road bike lay fallow in the basement with even less action than the Waterford; and my townie bike—a mountain bike that my daughter Carrie bought with babysitting money in 1993 when she was in eighth grade and that I had used for my previous commuting—now had only the air of neglect in its tires.

Skyrocketing gas prices were not pleasing—but what finally got me off the dime and onto my bike was when road construction caused my commute to double in time and left me sitting and fuming in unmoving traffic every morning. On the evening of 9 May, I pumped up the tires of the “townie“, put fresh batteries in the lights, planned my attire and lunch for the next day, and packed my backpack. Madison has great bike paths, and I plotted out a course that is mostly safe and pleasant. By the time I got to work that first morning, the endorphins were zipping around, and I was in my little commute euphoria.

They say there's nothing worse than a convert. I'm now an insufferable bike junkie. In just under a month, I have biked 400 miles. Even on the days it has rained, when I considered whether to drive, I could not abide the thought of sitting in traffic being held hostage in my car. I took the bike. There have been a couple days—one when I had a doctor's appointment and another when I had a multitude of far-flung errands to run—I drove. After going from the occasional spin class to 100 miles/week on the bike, my legs needed a rest anyway. Nevertheless, I resented every minute I spent in traffic and considered sticking my head out the window like a cocker spaniel to feel the wind on my face.

Almost overnight I fell in love with the daily adventure—seeing the goose family with its gaggle of adolescent geese puppies as I go through Tenney Park, greeting “regulars” I’ve come to recognize on the bike path, and feeling that wind in my face. It has all become part of the texture of my mornings. Then there are those REALLY major moments.

One morning last week on the bike path coming the opposite way I saw a woman on a recumbent trike then realized it was my friend Lori right before we passed. I said "Hi Lori", she looked a little startled, and I kept going, hoping I hadn't thrown her off-kelter. When I got to work, I had the following email from her.

When you called me on the bike path this morning I snapped out of Deep Thought, and turned my head and shoulders (and because I have under-the-seat steering), my whole bike to look at you. This caused the guy who was burning up the track behind me to slam on his brakes and veer for the side to avoid a collision. An instant later, two women and a large dog erupted suddenly from the bushes right down the path.

If you hadn't called out, I hadn't turned to look, and the guy hadn't slammed on his brakes to avoid me, all of us - him, me, the dog, and the two women, would have been in a gigantic and devastating pile-up, possibly the kind that involved an ambulance (not for me, but for any of them).

Then there was the night I met some of my Hasher girlfriends for drinks after I’d finished a surf and turf workout—swimming, then running intervals on the treadmill—at the UW Natatorium. I biked over to the bar Opus in my grubby, sweaty bike clothes; my hair was wet from the pool; and I was generally gritty from the treadmill and the bike ride over. When I emerged from the Opus ladies' room, I had blow-dried my hair; thrown on a little extra make-up; toweled off the sweat and applied cologne; and donned my black silk pants, black top, and pointy-toed, high-heeled, leopard-print boots. Pardon my being self-congratulatory, but I went from Sweaty Bike Chick to Glam Girl. Even my Hasher Grrl friends were impressed. A few hours and drinks later when it was time to go, I couldn't abide the idea of putting on the sweaty bike clothes AGAIN. So I just rolled the right leg of my black pants up to the knee so it wouldn't catch in the chain (the better to display the boot), donned my yellow jacket and helmet, and biked. My bike shop Crono Metro used to display a pair of cherry-red stiletto heels with bike clips. I jonesed for them the minute I saw them in 2002, but the CM Boys said it would be impossible to bike in them. But still... it captured my imagination. Essence of fantasy fulfilled: I biked home in my pointy-toed, high-heeled, leopard-print boots at 11:00 pm. I gotta tell you—it was grand! I wouldn't want to do it on a regular basis, but I certainly had all my style senses at high pitch while enjoying the deep richness of the night.

I want to think I’ll do this forever. I’ve even started consulting http://www.icebike.org for winter biking info. Besides my addiction to the morning adventure and endorphins, I have not put gas in my car in a month, I’m saving the environment and money, and I now have a butt so tight you can bounce quarters off of it. Nevertheless, I've only committed to doing this bike gig for as long as it's fun. But… as Scott says about his quest for immortality, "So far, so good."

2007-05-25T13:15:00.000-07:00

Shoosh

I find few things more powerful than changing my mind about myself. For 30 years I hauled around the belief that I was an impaired skier, forever doomed to re-learn the snowplow. Never mind that I was on skis for maybe a day every 10 years or so, and that was facilitated by little or no instruction. I just didn’t have what it took.

When Scott and I went to Snowmass for a week in March, I was determined that no matter what my skill level was (and we know what that was, don’t we?), I was going to have a good time. As soon as we’d rented our equipment and procured lift tickets, Scott signed me up for a half-day lesson with a pro. I had great hope and great trepidation. What if despite a solid block of time with the best, I was still hopeless? But… what if I wasn’t? And what did I have to lose? I remembered all my Shakti Gawain lessons and began creatively visualizing the best.

My instructor was Bob MacLean, a seasoned veteran of life and the slopes. He started me off in a remote area (far from the possible taunts of the heartless) on a slope even less intimidating than my driveway. We went through some simple exercises that were easy and gave me the first taste of success. After about 30 minutes, I graduated; and we went to a slightly more challenging area where children were being instructed. I used a pom lift without falling on my ass, and felt quite proud when, following Bob’s guidance, I made it down that little incline with skis and dignity intact. More exercises followed—still elementary, but increasing in their level of challenge, followed by another graduation to The Real Chairlift.

Three hours from the start of my lesson, I was a different person. I was a skier. A beginning skier, but a skier who was competent, balanced, shooshing, and laughing with the exhilaration of flying down a hill. Sometimes change is not hell at all, but much closer to a big chunk of heaven.

2007-03-24T14:28:00.000-07:00

No Sniveling
Bumper sticker purchased at Kemo Sabe, Aspen, CO
There were times when I was at Snowmass and wanted to whine about my ski boot hurting or how hard it is to be a 54-year-old klutzy beginner. Then I'd see someone on skis wearing a vest emblazoned with "Blind Skier" or watch a guy with no legs blasting down the mountain... and I'd shut the fuck up.

2007-03-24T14:15:00.000-07:00

Chicken Fried Steak, Onion Rings, & Bread Pudding
Little Annie's, Aspen, CO
My personal redneck culinary wet dream. Ate every bite. No guilt.

2007-03-14T19:55:00.000-07:00

Big Honkin' Goals, Rabbit Ears, and Grieving

The library is such an emporium of riches. Despite the fact that I have no cable or satellite TV and get by with rabbit ears (fortunately, my long hair makes them less noticeable), by exhibiting a little patience, I can watch almost any HBO series I want. Disc by disc, I got to be friends with Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, & Miranda as I diligently watched each episode of Sex and the City.

About two years ago I caught my first glimpse of Six Feet Under. I got busy buying and selling a house and watching the last of SATC, so I pursued it no further for several months. Then I got serious (we're talking “serious” about TV) and started putting the DVDs for each season on reserve at the 'brary and spent well over a year absorbing 6FU's texture and depth. Each character is fully and tenderly developed with gaping flaws, admirable strengths, and quirky twists. The plots (er… NPI) are absorbing and take the imagination soaring, while exploring the far reaches of what it means to be human. The series unfolds like an amazing journey of interlinked miles, yet each episode stands squarely on its own.

Last night I watched the last episode of the series. When I picked it up at my local branch and was talking to one of the librarians, she said, “I envy you that you’re getting to see this for the first time.” When I returned the DVD this evening, I saw her and told her how powerfully it had affected me. After watching this incredible ending, I was so revved up, I had trouble sleeping. As she and I discussed the series and the finale, it was like our own little funeral for it. We almost wept with the passion we shared for this show and its characters and grieved at seeing the end, while celebrating the fabulosity of its existence. The wisdom of one scene came to mind when several women were gathered around the table after the death of a son. The mother asked, “How will I ever get over this?” And her friend said, “With time you remember the things that are important to you, and you slowly fall back in love with them.” I suggested to my newfound friend that perhaps we should apply this philosophy in moving on from our 6FU fetish.

Now that I have finished the long 6FU journey, I think I need to set another HBO endurance goal. I'm considering The Sopranos. Everyone needs a little vicarious violence in their lives.

Tackling these big library/viewing goals is so much more gratifying than running marathons. Marathons are not nearly as entertaining, and it's tough to fold laundry and clean the kitchen while training for them. Besides... they don’t require those magical trips to the library.

2007-03-14T19:02:00.000-07:00

Most Condescending Service

I stumbled across this on the Isthmus.com Forum under the post subject "Most Condescending Service". The addendum read: "The service can be good or bad, but the attitude has to be one of superiority." I loved this poster's style and the story itself. It's not plagiarism if I give credit, is it?

"I miss the Italian Stallion at the Casa Bianca when it first opened. He was surly, mean, ill-tempered and a bitch. It was pure torture to order. He didn't just condescend—he loathed. He wouldn't even ask for your order, he would just roll his eyes and sigh heavily until you told him what you wanted. It got so insane I started telling all my friends about him, and he became quite popular; his anti-service grew to be highly sought after.

Finally, one day I came in alone, ordered, and was waiting for my pie when the Stallion walked over and slammed a glass in front of me. Vodka. Lots of it. "For you," he mumbled. I never saw him again. Posted by notblunt Fri Oct 28, 2005"

2007-03-14T18:46:00.000-07:00

Another Kind of Shoveling

I just finished scooping a winter’s worth of poop. It’s been warm this week, and as the snow has melted to reveal its buried treasures, my yard has taken on the appearance of a turd field. When I got home from work, it was raining. I was wearing some nice Anne Klein pants and soft leather boots. I should have changed clothes, but if I did it was going to be into my jammies. And the turd field would have stayed a turd field.

I didn’t even take off my coat—grabbed a kitchen trash bag, stalwartly marched out to the TF, located the 5-gallon bucket and scooping implements, put the bag in the bucket, and began The Process. Still in work clothes, in the rain, scooping shit. Doesn’t that sound like the most miserable scenario in the world? Au contraire. It was strangely gratifying—reclaiming my yard as un-turd space was uncovered, contemplating the brown grass that spring and summer will soon green up, and taking in big deep breaths of fresh outdoors. I wasn’t way happy to notice yellow shit on my boot, but oh well… it eventually scraped off.

The rain turned to snow. I finished filling the trash bag, tied it, and made my deposit in an outdoor trash barrel. My hair was wet, my yard was reclaimed, and my jammies were warm and welcoming.

2007-02-26T15:47:00.000-08:00

Waiting for the Other Shoe to Fall

Evidently, that phrase started out as the punchline to a joke in which a traveler arrives late at night in a small rooming house and is cautioned not to wake the other guests as he prepares for bed. Very tired, he accidentally allows one of his shoes to fall heavily to the floor, but is more careful with the other and places it quietly on the floor. He is sound asleep a few minutes later when he is awakened by the guest next door pounding on the wall and shouting, "For the love of Pete, drop the other shoe!"

For the last several winters in Wisconsin our cry has been, “For the love of Pete, drop some more snow!” This past weekend was like discovering the errant shoe-dropper is a centipede.

Even before the storm hit, it was forecast as the biggest in 15 years. Friday night it snowed a buttload (technical meteorological term) and the wind blew like a banshee. Scott and I shoveled/snow-blowed his walk and drive Saturday morning. Then we went to my house and shoveled the walk and drive. Since twice as much snow was supposed to be dumped Saturday night as Friday, it seemed easier to shovel Saturday before the Big Dump and do it again Sunday than to simply wait until it all accumulated in one big drift, then be compelled to call the National Guard and road graders if we ever wanted see our driveways again.

Saturday night witnessed blizzard conditions with snow you could HEAR pelting down, accompanied by thunder, lightning, and 35 mph winds. We were going from Scott’s house to mine to check on my dog Bill, and Scott was driving his 4-wheel drive Explorer. A couple miles from Scott’s house, we hit a spot in the road where there was so much snow we couldn't go forward. That was it. We weren't going anywhere, and there was no way to turn around, so Scott started backing. That worked well until we slid into the ditch, and the Explorer would only wallow in the snow with no solid forward or backward movement.

Snowmobiles were buzzing around getting through the hideous conditions effortlessly. It was the first time I ever viewed them as possibly useful machines for transportation as opposed to simply stoopid recreational crap for goobers seeking to claim a Darwin award by dying young and drunk.

In the meantime, it wasn't lookin' good for the home team. We went through the eternity of probably five minutes of fruitless back and forth effort while we considered that we were probably going to be spending the night on the floor of the farmhouse about 1/2 mile back with hope that the snowplow didn't hit the Explorer the next morning. I was imploring every deity that I thought might have an open line. The wheels caught, and we moved out of the ditch. I don’t believe in miracles—I rely on them.

We were SO happy to get back to Scott's place, and I kept remarking on his heroic driving; he kept proclaiming how lucky we were. Fortunately Bill would be able to get in and out his doggie door; but I still didn't sleep well that night worrying about if he got stuck in deep snow when he went out. He's 14 now and struggles with his hind quarters sometimes even on stable ground.

The snowplows must have started their labors at dark-thirty Sunday morning and worked magic. By the time we set out, the roads were in good shape. Whatever those folks are getting paid, it isn’t nearly enough. A short distance up the road from where we'd been stuck, four vehicles almost formed a circle around the road—mostly covered up where they'd apparently gotten stuck the night before. The snowplow appeared to have made one little path down the center of the road between them that was barely wide enough for us to pass through. We got to my house, and Bill was perfectly fine and happy. We brought the snowblower to my place this time—thank GAWD. When I walked up my drive, I initially couldn't walk up my drive. The first order of business was to climb over the ice mountain the snowplow had created as a convenient blockade to my home. Even when I got over that, every step put me in snow past my knees. Thank the stars for tall snow boots. And a man who is a heroic driver and wields a mean snowblower.

This morning there was about another 2-3" of snow on my walk and drive, but this stuff has become relative. I can get in and out of my driveway, and Sandy the mail lady can make it to the mailbox. The snow was still falling when I left for work, and I had no inclination to pick up another snow shovel.

Scott left this morning for a business trip to San Antonio where he will supposedly experience 84 degrees—all of them occurring at the same time even. If I have to hear any complaints about the chilliness of outdoor dining like the last time he was there, the shoe falling will be aimed to inflict pain for such whinging. Although after his white knight performances through The Storm and its aftermath, maybe I'll just smile and say, "There, there. It'll be all right."

2007-02-19T12:07:00.000-08:00

Charlie

At what point do you make the decision that you can no longer afford your dog? And once you arrive at that agonizing decision, what do you do?

I got Charlie, a bearded collie, in September 2005. He was 10 years old, had been fed but otherwise neglected for most of his life, and he had developed a terrible peeing problem. He had been tested for possible health-related issues, but none were indicated. No diabetes. No Cushing’s Disease. My hope was that the peeing was his response to being neglected and that love would overcome all. It didn’t work out that way.

Charlie was housetrained. When he went outside, he did exactly what was expected. Unfortunately, he also peed volumes in the house. The dog was a fire hose. He barked incessantly, so even though he loved being outdoors, I couldn’t leave him out for more than a few minutes if I wanted to maintain my good neighbor status.

With hope for redemption, I spent hundreds of dollars on “belly bands”—male dog diapers—and extra liners. They were helpful as damage control, but they merely limited the amount of urine poured directly into my carpet. I then spent another multiple hundred dollars and bought the best carpet shampooer I could find and used it regularly. In what became an ongoing desperate grab for solutions or even the tiniest of mitigations, Glade plug-ins and Fabreze were employed in further attempts to overcome the Charlie Effect.

As for loving care, Charlie wasn’t much into bonding. He was sweet… or perhaps “benign” would be a better term. Sometimes he would almost giggle when I rubbed his belly, but often when I would pet him, he really wanted none of it and would move away from the attention.

As the mother of an only child who is now 27 years old and quite independent, I nevertheless found myself washing a load of diapers every week. I was the plow horse for a carpet shampooer. And I was the hostage of a dog with the apathetic and “fuck you” temperament of a teen-ager that was destroying my budget and turning my house into a urinal.

A few months ago I started having furtive thoughts of having Charlie euthanized, and I recoiled that I could even entertain such a thought and still consider myself an ardent animal lover. Could I possibly find another home for him? Oh sure, brilliant. Who in their right mind would embrace a now-12-year-old dog that pees everywhere and barks incessantly? Even the idea of a farm that might allow him to be an outdoor dog was stopped cold with the thought of Wisconsin sub-zero temperatures. And I’m not the kind of person who feels comfortable making my problem someone else’s responsibility. I continued to be appalled at myself for contemplating doing anything but The Right Thing and marching into the future on the path I had chosen in rescuing this dog. Every option I considered was agonizing.

Last month I brought it up to Scott, waiting for him to give me an “I thought I knew you better than this” look. But he was completely sympathetic and said I’d given it my best and that he would never expect me to ruin my life for this cause. We talked about euthanasia, the Bearded Collie Rescue, and if it would be best to wait until Bill (my 14-year-old dog) passed to do anything. Bill and Charlie got along but were even less bonded than Charlie and I were.

A couple weeks ago, I brought the subject up to my friend Lori, who was equally supportive. I contacted the lady at the Bearded Collie Rescue, and she said Charlie would be virtually impossible to place. I was amazed that even she was supportive of euthanasia as a potentially appropriate option. I started considering it in more near-future terms.

I assumed my regular veterinarian would consider it unethical to euthanize a dog that still had good years left in him, so I considered an emergency clinic where I would have anonymity. But then I decided I didn’t want to feel like I was skulking around, and I would rather have Dr. Christman openly disagree with me and perhaps think me hard-hearted than to feel sneaky. When I talked to her, she was so compassionate and echoed the views of the others I’d talked to. “You’ve done your best with him, we haven’t been able to find out what the problem is, and something about him is not right.”

Saturday morning Scott and I loaded Bill and Charlie into the car and went to our appointment with Dr. Christman. Just as when she helped Murray make his exit with the final stages of lymphoma, Dr. Christman made Charlie’s passing more like a holy ritual than a veterinary procedure. Afterwards she hugged me and said, “You made the right decision.”

The happiest memories I have of Charlie are when I would walk him and Bill to the beach at the lake a few blocks from my house. I would let him off leash, and he would run and dance and gallop with the joy of a spring lamb. When I get his ashes back, that’s where I’ll scatter them.

A quote from Ralph Bloom goes, “We are not doers. We are deciders. Once we decide, the doing is easy.” I don’t know that the doing was easy, but the decision was certainly the hardest part. I hope Charlie is at peace and galloping along a lakeshore. I know I’m experiencing the most peace I’ve had in well over a year.

2007-02-03T07:34:00.000-08:00

Ice, Ice Baby

I was never much of a cold weather person. No, let me rephrase that. I hated the cold. I loathed the cold. I utterly despised everything about the cold. Then on a 2002 road trip I took before my intended move from California to Austin, Texas, I fell in love with Madison, Wisconsin; and I knew that to pursue that love—and the love for this city was so deep and hopless I could do nothing but—I would have to learn to tolerate... no, embrace... The Great White Cold.

My first winter here I bought ice skates and cross-country skis and learned to use them. I bought YakTrax, gizmos that fit on the bottom of my running shoes so I could continue that foolish pleasure on snow and ice with less potential for busting my ass. They say there's nothing worse than a convert. I knew I'd gone to The Cold Side when last winter I was upset that we'd had a month of daily temps above freezing. A Coldie to the core. No, no, not me. Why me, God?

But it doesn't stop there. Now I've fallen in love with this Wisconsin Yankee who believes with all his heart and will even say right out loud, "There's no day that snow doesn't make better." (He appears otherwise normal.) Scott's favorite musical—despite repeated exposure to the best of Broadway in which he delights—remains the Wisconsin original Guys on Ice, a saga of two guys ice fishing and singing such fare as "Fish, the Miracle Food" and "Ode to a Snowmobile Suit". We saw it in Milwaukee this past New Year's Eve afternoon—my first time and Scott's third for this quirky sub-zero version of Waiting for Godot. I loved it. Converted yet again.

Scott owns an ice boat with three other like-minded... er... men-boys. (For more information on this phenomenon of people who take the equivalent of an ice skate with a sail across frozen lakes at dangerously high speeds, see http://www.iceboat.org.) My friend Lori—a fellow Texas girl who moved here at about the same time I did and joined me in acquiring cold-weather sporting skills that first winter—upon meeting Scott and learning this fact, took me aside and all but held a knife to my throat. "I have been waiting four years for you to get a boyfriend with an ice boat. [Who knew?] You will NOT screw up this relationship before I've gotten a ride in it."

The boys got the ice boat out a couple Saturdays ago, and the lake conditions were perfect—solid, smooth ice. Unfortunately, there was no wind, witnessed by one intrepid we saw pushing his ice boat across the lake. Scott and I hoped for conditions that would allow us to give it a whirl the next day, but that night brought major snowfall. So the prospects for ice boating are such that we will be obliged to stay together until next winter if only for Lori's benefit.

Last week Scott was in San Antonio on business, and in our before-bed phone chat, he described how unseasonably cold it was there. He and his colleagues had dined on the patio of a local restuarant where the outdoor heaters did not compensate for the 40-degree temperatures, leaving his poor, pasty Wisconsin legs numb below the knees. I was uncharacteristically churlish in giving no sympathy. Perhaps it was because I had just made my way home through a driving snowstorm. Maybe it was that my workout had entailed shoveling my sidewalk and driveway with the temperature yielding a mere 7 degrees and a windchill at somewhere around minus meat locker. Or perhaps it was being in the kind of cold that required me to chip my dogs off a fire hydrant with a ball peen hammer. Forty degrees? Pah! Wussies!

It's now Saturday. The weather prognostication is for high temperatures in the single digits and lows way below the line for the foreseeable future. This is a world of ice and snow with the Dr. Zhivago theme playing in the background. I'm home, Toto. There's no place like it.

2006-12-24T11:16:00.000-08:00

Another Lamb of God

Back to my roots for the holidays in Guymon, Oklahoma, and it was Christmas Eve morning. While the rest of the family was at church, I was running a few errands and generally enjoying soaking up hometown ambience. As I pulled out of the McDonald’s parking lot with my reward of an eagerly-anticipated cup of coffee and headed back to "the ranch", I realized that I’d forgotten to get a card for my brother-in-law. Not 10 a.m. yet, and I was on my second trip to Wal-Mart in Guymon, America. I could only be grateful that in this buckle of the Bible Belt the throngs were still listening to their pastors read Luke, and I might be able to do another quick drive-by before it became completely covered in last-minute shoppers.

I scanned the picked-over remains of holiday greeting cards and tittered over the variety of evil greetings I could bestow on my beloved “brother” Mike. (OMG… Happy Redneck Hanukkah? I don’t think so….) My immersion subsided long enough to become aware of a small whitish figure next to me and to the possibility that I was smack in her way. As I apologized and moved aside, she said, no, I wasn’t in the way. “I’m looking for a card for my husband, but they don’t seem to have any.”

Enshrouded in a winter white down coat and sheerling-trimmed hat, she didn’t quite come up to my shoulder. Her face had both the lines and age of baked earth, and the concave cheeks and sibilant speech gave witness to the absence of even dentures. In guessing at her age, the possibility that she was born in a manger adjacent to Jesus’ was not unlikely.

Having already done my due diligence in memorizing the various categories such as they were, I pointed this ancient little lamb to the almost-obscured “Husband” area toward the top of the display. I wasn’t sure she could reach it, so I handed her one with hearts and reindeer and sweet connubial sentiments. As I was reaching for some others to give her a selection, she waved them away. “This is the one I want.”

Along with the card, she was holding an electric razor encased in the kind of plastic that will resist the best efforts of a blow torch. The Lamb turned toward me with the deepest eyes I’ve ever seen. “My husband’s in the hospital. He can’t talk. He had a stroke and is paralyzed from the face down, and they’ve had trouble finding a razor head that they could shave him with. I hope this one works. The kids are each going to call him in his hospital room. He can’t talk, but I can tell him what each one of them says.”

She had no tone of self-pity. I said something about the blessing of caring children and how much it would mean to him. She put her hand on my arm, and it stayed there in the sweetest of human gestures as she went on.

“We’ve been married for sixty-three years. If anyone who’s still together ever tells you they don’t have trouble, don’t believe’em.” We both laughed at that.

The Lamb and I hugged in the card section of Guymon America’s Wal-Mart, wishing each other Merry Christmas and the best of good tidings. I paid for my suitably loving/insulting card for Mike, then went out to my rental car where I oozed tears as if I’d just seen “It’s a Wonderful Life”. Maybe that’s the effect meeting a Christmas angel has. You never know where it might happen.

2006-11-17T20:04:00.000-08:00

Caught Between the Moon and NYC

When you get caught between the moon and New York City,
I know it's crazy, but it's true.
If you get caught between the moon and New York City,
The best that you can do, the best that you can do, is fall in love.
–Carole Bayer Sager from Arthur’s Theme

I do love New York. I lived there for two years in the late 80’s and get back at every opportunity—which doesn’t seem to happen nearly often enough. Scott had a symposium in Manhattan the week of November 6; and when he offered to book a ticket for me to join him that Friday for a long weekend, the speed of my acceptance exceeded the velocity of light. New York and Scott (not necessarily in that order) for four days—talk about breathless anticipation!

Scott is a LaGuardia Airport fan, but I held out for Newark. That was brilliance on my part—particularly when my flight got delayed to arrive just in time for New Jersey/New York rush hour traffic. My host thoughtfully had a limo service pick me up. The driver was a sweet man, but incapable of changing lanes—so for two hours we were always in the lane being passed by everyone else. Finally he deposited me at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square where Scott was waiting for me. We almost literally threw my bags in the room and set a new land speed record dashing down 50th to meet Scott’s friends, Jack and Maureen, for dinner at Bobby Van’s Steakhouse.

The company was grand, the food delicious, and Milton and Eddie took great care of us. It hurt my heart to leave a full side of beef sitting on my plate, but it was going to hurt my belly even more if I kept eating. Jack and Maureen had to drive back to New Jersey, and Maureen was getting up at dark-thirty the next morning to catch a flight for a business trip to Florida. We bid our adieus.

While friends in Madison were shoveling their walks, Saturday morning in New York dawned sunny and warm. We sashayed around Mid-town trying to figure out where to eat brunch, and finally at a Grand Central Station kiosk we shared some odd mix of chicken chili, an exotic salad, a soda and sangria. It was perfect.

Our plan was to catch the F train to Coney Island, then work our way back to my old Brooklyn neighborhood, and go on my personal Moonstruck tour. We caught the 6 and missed our stop to transfer to the F, ending up at the Brooklyn Bridge stop. When I asked Scott if he wanted to walk across the bridge, he was all for it. When I lived there, I ran and biked across the BB on a regular basis, but hadn’t been on it since I left. It was the perfect thing to do on such a gorgeous day with its breath-taking views of both Brooklyn and Manhattan, with plenty of room for old-time nostalgia. From there we went to the promenade in Brooklyn Heights, an old and lovely part of the Burrough.

Early on we had learned that we both loved the movie Moonstruck, which was filmed in and around my old ‘hood. We watched it together the week before we left, and as we approached the promenade, I took us a bit out of the way down the “fruit streets” First Pineapple. Then Orange. When we got to Cranberry, I headed us south. Scott didn’t question it, probably just assuming that once more I’d lost my mind and gone off on a tangent. Then I pointed to a brownstone at the corner of Willow and Cranberry. “Recognize it?” He did. It was where the Castorini family lived in the movie. I pointed out a few other landmarks as we went along. Eventually we closed in on Carroll Gardens, the Mafia-protected neighborhood where Carrie and I had lived. Along with the Norwegian Seaman’s Church that had been turned into co-ops, my old brownstone, and Carrie’s PS 58 where she attended fourth grade, I was able to point out one more Moonstruck icon. Cammareri Brothers Bakery, where Cher and Nicolas cage first met as Loretta and Ronnie—and more importantly where I used to buy my whole wheat bread—was now sadly gentrified into a sandwich shop.

We were never to catch the F train, which seemed to be out of service for the weekend. But the G was filling in, so across from PS 58 we caught the G and took the meandering, graffiti-filled journey across Brooklyn to Coney Island. A ride on The Cyclone, the terrifying wooden deathtrap of a rollercoaster, was not to be. That, along with most Coney Island operations and sideshows, was closed down for the season. However, just enough hawkers were calling out to entice us to win some hideous stuffed animal to give that carnie atmosphere. We walked down the boardwalk, with volumes of seagulls clouding the sky reminiscent of a Hitchcock flick—but the day was too bright and upbeat to carry the theme much further. We walked down to the beach and gazed at the beauty of the Atlantic Ocean, and I rambled on about the wonderful experiences of the two triathlons I did there. Then… back to the train and eventually Manhattan.

We caught an early dinner at the Grand Central Oyster Bar. Thank God we had enough time to take a quick nap before getting ready for Wicked, the Broadway show chronicling the other side of the Oz story of the Wicked Witch of the West. I had started reading the novel by Gregory Maguire last year, but some combination of personal distraction and not being absorbed enough by the book meant I never finished it. Until Scott suggested it and purchased tickets weeks before our trip, I had no idea it was a play. (As we sat in our orchestra seats in Gershwin Theater and I flipped through my playbill, I turned to him and blurted out, “Ohmigod! This is a musical!” He looked at me as though I had just landed from Mars. Oh my. I am SO out of the New York loop, just newly clued to the fact that this thing is anything but a book, let alone that it is a Broadway musical with 10 Tony Award nominations and 3 wins. Okay, now I know. I’m hip. Kind of.) It was two hours of being delighted and mesmerized with Ana Gasteyer in the lead role. How could anything top this?

Sunday. Rainy. But at least nothing that required shoveling. We had invited my sister Ruth, whom I hadn't seen in seven years, to join us for a New Orleans Sunday brunch at Joe’s Pub where Allen Toussaint would be playing. This was a place recommended by Jack and Maureen. Maureen, off in Florida, couldn’t be there; but Jack and his niece Anya joined us for food, music, and camaraderie. It was great seeing Ruth. At one point as Toussaint was playing, and she and I were both totally rockin' out to the music, she turned to me and said, “Why are we the only ones having fun here?” And I said, “Because as Nazarene girls, we didn’t for so long and are still making up for it.” (I’m sure the others were having fun but not quite as dynamically.) Ruth and I are not close, but there is something about family bonds that hits primal chords that go to some deep bedrock place. I was so happy that she was there. And of course, I was also thrilled to be sharing this with Scott, as well as the joy of new acquaintance that Jack and Anya brought. Oh yeah, I just happened to pass Elvis Costello on the way to the ladies’ room…. He ultimately joined Toussaint onstage for several songs, and it was incredible. Joe's Pub seats maybe 150 people, so this was intimacy almost equivalent to having the concert in my living room. http://www.elviscostello.info/wiki/index.php?title=Concert_2006-11-12

Sunday night Scott and I spent a quality hour at Border’s Books, where I bought Tarot cards and we relaxed with hot tea. Later we went to Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris. I had chosen it, and it was right on par with selecting Newark as my airport of choice. (To Scott's credit, he never gave me a bad time about these little miscues.) It was cool being in a funky theater with car seats and where they encouraged you to bring your bar purchases in to enjoy during the show. I guess they weren’t too worried about anyone spilling anything. The music was actually good, but it was so angst-ridden, it became exhausting to experience. I was so glad when it was over.

Not so much the trip. Monday we made our way back to Madison. Our stay had been the perfect amount of time. I was ready to go back home and to day-to-day routine (and Scott certainly was after being gone most of the week)—but it was still hard to see the end of such a fun-filled, love-filled, magical time. However, although the geography has changed, the inimitable sparkle of getting caught between the moon and New York City will continue to reflect its light.

2006-10-31T15:27:00.000-08:00

It’s a Bad Day When You’re Fired by the Sugar Plum Fairy

This morning I gaily costumed up in anticipation of the office Halloween potluck. Rebecca took pictures of me as the Sugar Plum Fairy—purple satin dress and gloves, big blonde curly wig, a tiara, a wand, and purple and teal gossamer wings. I was set for a day of work with a little fun and silliness mixed in.

Almost immediately upon getting into my office, the consultant who is doing our web design wanted to talk. It has not been a good fit, and last week I let her know that she needed to pull a rabbit out of her hat if she wanted to continue with the contract. She’s not easy to manage—even as she talks about wanting to keep this position, ‘tude and complaints come rolling out. This morning she began by apologizing for some of her comments (her agency had chatted with her apparently) and said she had a positive attitude and wanted to do a good job for us. She is not a good communicator and has a voice to which it is not easy to listen. As she went on way past the state of rambling and I saw my purple gloves folded in my purple satin lap, I could only think that to all appearances, this woman was negotiating with the Sugar Plum Fairy for her job. Even as I tried to listen well and wished she would stop, and even as I considered the irony of the situation, I felt for her.

A little later one of our business analysts, also a consultant, came in to talk about getting her degree and how much time it's going to take. We really want to hire her in the next year, but can't do it without the degree (UW requirement), and it looks like at minimum it will take her two years. So again, I found myself on the business end of a serious conversation about career issues, and wondered just how effective I could be with wings, not to mention a wig that makes Dolly Parton’s look conservative.

My boss cracked up every time he looked at me—even as he was telling me that none of the directors liked the latest batch of web designs. He told me it was entirely my decision whether to keep the designer on or not since I’m her manager—which I appreciated—but it seemed clear to me that having her stay would not do any of us, including her, any favors. I called her agency to let them know before I talked to her. Her rep wanted to come over for the Come to Jesus Meeting, and when he arrived.... the Sugar Plum Fairy performed her first firing. It was NOT fun, but seemed to go as well as one could expect—especially when playing the executioner in garb reserved for Christmas ballets and drag shows. Who knew the Sugar Plum Fairy could feel sick to her stomach?

Scott, unaware of the firing, emailed jokingly asking if, as the SPF, I’d turned anyone into a toad. I replied, “That is not the job of Sugar Plum Fairies. But in this case, I would have to say yes.”

2006-10-31T15:24:00.000-08:00

New Kid

Sunday a Bold New Experiment began—Rebecca, a Taiwanese exchange student, moved into my extra bedroom. I signed up for this in August with Wisconsin English as a Second Language Instituate (WESLI), and it’s a little surreal that it’s actually happening now. On paper it sounds great: cultural exchange and extra cash flow. But how do I really feel about having someone I don’t know sharing my counter space and in my house when I come home from work? Until February.

Rebecca is admittedly adorable—HUGE hair, big smile, halting but good English. It’s obvious by her mannerisms that she’s very careful to be the good guest. I hope I’m as a good a homestay mom.

Last night I got home from work, and there at the door was a big smile under huge hair and a loud “Hi Leez!” to greet me. I can only say that it felt warm, fuzzy, and a pleasure to be welcomed into my own home by the new kid!

2006-10-26T17:44:00.000-07:00

Meet Your Co-Readers

After my last post, my friend Rick joked that his level of enjoyment of my blog was in direct proportion to how often I mentioned him; and thus he was thinking of changing his name to Scott. For some reason this made me start thinking of how fun it would be to profile the people I know who are regular readers here. A little virtual party for all of you to get together.

So are you ready for this fantastic cast of characters? And I do mean characters… (If you are a regular and somehow I have egregiously left you out, please let me know and I will correct that post haste. )

Carrie – Austin, TX
Carrie is the kind of person I would want to know even if she weren’t my daughter. She’s quick, bright, and funny. I’ve never known anyone as loyal to friends and family as she is. Even a quick trip to the grocery store with Care becomes an exciting road trip—and even when it’s significantly further with the time and distance it takes to cover many states, she’s always a great travel partner. Carrie is 27, married to my “favorite son” Joshua, and has given me grandcats and a granddog. My only complaint about the whole bunch of’em is that I don’t get to see them often enough. Ask her about how she went from being the shy shrinking violet to the Rambo-ette who got suspended from eighth grade for fighting.

Jo – Guymon, OK
Although my sister Jo and I are politically at opposite poles, where the heart is concerned, it would be hard to be closer. When we were growing up, and our mother was fighting who-knows-what demons, Jo was the mom who nurtured me and listened to me and helped me grow up feeling loved. She has a brilliant accounting mind teamed up with a beautifully creative soul—displayed in her razor-sharp organizational skills and invitingly beautiful home. She plays bridge like a fiend while still firmly believing she's not all that good at it. She has patiently taught any number of people to play and love the game and is one of those few good players who doesn't make us bad ones feel like we should hang our heads about it. Jo does my taxes for me every year—which is only one example of how she’s always nicer to people than she has to be.

Rick – Madison, WI
We met standing in line for a Wisconsin Film Festival flick. We had a lovely conversation through the extended wait, then went our separate ways as we were swallowed by the maw of the theater. Nine months later I was standing in line for the Mad Rollin’ Dolls roller derby chatting with a silver-haired stranger when I realized, “WAITAMINNIT! This is déjà vu all over again!” That time we exchanged email addresses and have been growing our friendship ever since. Rick is the quintessential good person and does huge amounts of volunteer work, spreading kindness in his wake. When it was time to euthanize my dog Murray, Rick was there. He’s the kind of friend who not only gives you his extra aloe vera plants, but delivers them already planted in a pot. He burns the perfect theme CDs (with his own artwork for the liner) to get one through a rough spot or for no reason at all. And in case your diabetes is flaring up with all this sweetness, Rick has pretty close to the most wicked sense of humor in the world.

Lori – Madison, WI/Amherst, MA
When we met at a Marcia Ball concert and discovered our shared Texas roots, it was only the beginning of becoming sisters under the skin. We’re both loud, fun-loving, outspoken, analytical, and athletic—but the chemistry and friendship go way beyond those tangibles. Our discussions range from the mundane to the other-worldly. Lori supported me through my Ironman hell and other challenging times, while celebrating the milestones and miracles along the way. I’ve stuck with her through her good relationship with Jeff and attended their wedding in Massachusetts last year. For the past several weeks, Lori has been struggling with strange neurological manifestations that have affected her walking and her entire life—with the docs unable to pinpoint an exact diagnosis. She bought a recumbent trike, which she has been peddling to work like a trooper since she currently is not allowed to drive, and continues teaching her university classes when she's not being put through some new test. This weekend she and Jeff are going to Vermont to celebrate their anniversary—and hopefully to discover the Lourdes of New England. Whatever path this takes, my money's on Lori.

Karen & Beth – Madison, WI
It’s not that Karen and Beth aren’t unique individuals who deserve their respective profiles. It’s that they are inseparable in so many ways. I’m proud to say that I introduced them. They are both clear-eyed truth-tellers who bring spring-fresh openness and honesty to everything they do. They soothe the chaos, and when they’re there, you know that not only will everything be okay but that it’ll be a kick-ass good time to boot. To say that both are talented photographers is like saying Michelangelo was not too bad as artists go. Beth has been getting some great freelance gigs; and as the editor of the Isthmus Guide, Karen continues to be the person without whom social life as we know it in Madison would come to a screeching halt. Karen was another loving friend who came to be with Murray and me for the sad but special moment of his passing. Individually and collectively, Karen and Beth are the summation of all things good.

Katherine – Madison, WI
Brilliant. Intuitive. Artistic. Katherine blows me away with her abilities. Yet even with her incredible and varied writing (and many other talents), she is kind enough to compliment my efforts. I wish I could successfully balance the number of projects Katherine does with such grace, but I find it satisfying just to watch her do it. When we get together, I love knowing that I’m going to leave with a slightly different worldview than I came with.

Crystal – Evansville, WI
Crystal and I bartended together at the Radisson. She reminds me a lot of Carrie, but not so much that I’ve tried to make her a surrogate daughter. But enough that I definitely want her for a friend—not as a Carrie Clone, but for her own stellar qualities. Open. Centered. Fun. Funny. (“Boobage”, Crystal? Boobage???) Smart. Crystal clear. When I get together with Crystal, I always leave with warm fuzzies and a gladness that despite the very short time we worked together, our friendship lives on.

Suzers – Icking, Germany
Susan has got to be one of the funniest women I know. When I worked with her on an IBM project in California, her Tennessee accent and vibrant humor permeated everything we did. She fell in love with that Bernd dude from Germany—Mr. Athletic—and she convinced me to buy inline skates so I could learn how and she could get into shape to keep up with him. Shortly after our one inline outing, she couldn’t stand it any longer, sold what she didn’t pack, and moved to Germany to be with him. Good lord, that must have been at least five years ago. [Checked with Suzers, and it'll be SIX years in three weeks. OMG!] I haven’t seen hide ner hair of her since, but we stay in touch through email and occasional phone calls. BUT… on 8 November I’m trotting down to Chicago’s O’Hare and snagging Suzers and Bernd off their American flight and it’s going to be GREAT seeing them! (Suzers, I still have those skates. Haven’t used ‘em since our outing. Maybe someday….)

Scott – Madison, WI
Newbie reader. Barely makes the roster. But… a seemingly devoted reader nonetheless. I don’t trust easily, but with Scott I willingly had my first experience on a tandem bicycle and have even let him read my blog. Oh my. Although his humor is subtle, it makes me laugh out loud; and his kindness warms me from the toes up. I fully understand why so many of his friends have treasured knowing him for decades. I can only hope for such good fortune.

2006-10-22T07:40:00.000-07:00

Catching Up

The last two months have been a tilt-a-whirl of work and activity and… stuff. Some of you have bitterly complained at my lack of blogging—and I thank you for flattering me so. I have missed it too.

I was promoted at work, and my title changed to Document Control Manager. My dad has often said that you don’t have to be a sonofabitch to be a manager, but if you’re not, you’ll become one. I hope that isn’t truly the case, but it is reflective that managing is not a popularity contest one can expect to win every day. The title which I have bestowed on myself is “Document Nazi”—a pre-emptive strike before anyone else could. I have three people reporting to me now—seemingly happily so far for all of us. (Oh, except for the one that I have to talk to tomorrow about either getting fully engaged with the work, or...) I am so happy that along with the new responsibilities, I am still doing hands-on technical writing and documentation work; but it does make for some longer hours that cut into my blogging.

My therapist encouraged me to sign up on Match.com to get some romantic juice going in my life, and it has been the cornucopia of dating. It was uplifting to find that such abundance exists in single men sincerely (for the most part) seeking relationship. And although also uplifting to the ego to receive so much positive attention, juggling lunches and dinners and coffees to meet these potential suitors became overwhelming to a point that at times I just wanted to spend a night or weekend at home in my ratty bathrobe and Homer Simpson slippers. I also found it distressing to go through a series of mini break-ups. Even if it was just one meeting that showed no hope for potential relationship, it was always hard to go through, “I don’t think so, but thanks for being on the show.” Almost all of the men I met were decent people, but just not a match for me. There were a few who were very fun and that I continued to see with the knowledge that for the long haul, it probably was not happenin’.

Then I met Scott, and all the others faded into the background and off the map. As I’ve been sitting here trying to come up with profound descriptions, I decided that I can’t do him justice in 25 words or less. Or even 2500 words or more. He’s Scott. When people ask how we met, I tell them that I chased him down and calf-roped him, to which he responds, "Never was there a more willing calf." And you can now blame him for absorbing large amounts of what previously would have been blogging time.

Time with my friends has undoubtedly been pared back a bit by work and romance, but I have still managed to get together with those who make my life so rich and textured. Last week I had my bi-annual chick party/apparel exchange, which required bulldozing the chaos in my house to a point of respectability and preparing for the onslaught of women prepared to eat, drink, and “shop”. We had a wonderful time. Friday I got the last bag of left-over clothing to charity, the clothes racks down to the basement, and the cooler put away. Normalcy—whatever that constitutes in my life—seems to be re-asserting itself.

Here I am. I’m back. I’m happy. Life is good. I’ll be working at managing my time to get in the periodic blog on a more regular basis. Thanks for being on the show!

2006-08-24T14:02:00.000-07:00

Hell Knows No Fury Like Mother Nature on a Purge

Normally I love thunderstorms. Few things are as exciting and kinetic—and ironically, nothing makes me sleep better. Except when they’re punctuated with tornado sirens.

Last night I was looking forward to Mother Nature’s forecasted pyrotechnic show. Then the tornado sirens started, and I started watching TV and listening to the radio for reports. They kept giving expected—and extended—times that a tornado might hit my area, but they never mentioned any actual sightings.

Should I go down to the basement? My dogs, Bill and Charlie, are geriatric and don’t do stairs. They also collectively weigh in at over 110 pounds. The thought of carrying each down steep wooden steps and eventually carrying them back up was formidable. I got a tiny sense of what folks in New Orleans were experiencing last year as they assessed safety issues versus their pets’ well-being.

I felt exhausted and finally decided to play the odds, stay above ground, and go to bed as my dead-tired body was begging. I kept the radio on so I could perhaps get the heads-up if a tornado actually came into existence in my universe.

I don’t know if it was another tornado siren or the dogs’ restlessness that woke me at 1:30. It was showtime. No twister, but plenty of action. I raised the blinds so I could better absorb the phantasmagoria. White-hot canopies of lightning illuminated the night to show walls of rain descending. The sound effects were those of a howitzer as fists of hail landed continuous sucker-punches to the roof, accompanied by deep-in-the-belly bursts of thunder, followed by the sounds of the sky being ripped and cracked apart. Every flash brought a new scene, and it was mesmerizing and never-ending.

Finally it was 2:00 a.m., and although the show wasn’t over, I needed some sleep. The dogs settled, and I drifted off, filled with the experience and contemplative in its aftermath. How gracious is Nature, our Mother and favorite Drama Queen, to so beautifully and theatrically give us a great show with the resulting bonus of a clean slate and fresh air to breathe again.

2006-08-21T19:44:00.000-07:00

The Magic of Paul Cebar

It had been a hard week. Meeting friends at the Terrace to sit by the lake, drink beer, and listen to Paul Cebar and the Milwaukeeans seemed the perfect respite from—if not the cure for—what ailed me. And with four guys at the table, I was confident in my dance opportunities.

I fell in love with Paul Cebar’s enchanting cantos before I ever moved to Wisconsin, and his are among my favorite tunes to crank up on my iPod when I run. I hadn’t heard him in person for at least two years, so I crossed my fingers that the impending rain would hold off and the night would brighten in all possible ways.

The rain was held at bay, and the music started; but my hopes for dance partners were quickly dashed. The gay couple? Okay, they get a pass. But Rick & Craig were total poopy-butts. Not to be deterred, I joined the masses in the dance area, and lost myself moving to the rhythm and music. Then the little miracle of synchronicity occurred—there on the edge of the crowd was Michael, the man in whose Audi TT I first listened to the strains of a Paul Cebar CD in Austin, Texas almost five years ago.

Just the fact that he would spend huge bucks on a vehicle that is essentially a skateboard with a roof, says something about Michael. (To his credit, he did eventually trade it in for a Jeep.) Our… er… togetherness—you couldn’t really call it a relationship with a straight face—was something less than emotionally satisfying. But damn, we had some great adventures! We traveled well together—at least until we broke up in Cleveland—and we always shared a passion for music and dance. Even when we parted, it was with great warmth and respect. It was Michael’s sister who took me into her heart and home for my first experience of Madison that ultimately led to my move here.

As Michael and I swirled and twirled and stomped and glided, time and place disappeared and melded into the spell of sound and movement. We both commented that it took us back to the time we danced to this same music when Cebar & the Milwaukeeans appeared at a street festival in Winston-Salem. And when the sweat started pouring down, we were once again gyrating to the steamy sounds of JazzFest in New Orleans.

During breaks in the music we caught up on news. Michael moved in with his girlfriend and they’re hoping they can soon open a bar in Austin. His father died this summer. I gave updates on my family. Then the music resumed and we were dancing again.

Midnight is the same for Cinderellas everywhere. The music stops, and the magic recedes into the night. But as hugs were exchanged and good-byes said, the warmth and light of auld acquaintance and good memories brightened the darkness.

2006-08-02T18:42:00.000-07:00

Jack and the Squash Plant

I keep expecting a thunderous chorus of “Fee-fi-fo-fum” to come echoing out of my backyard, at which point I’ll have some ‘splaining to do.

"Really sir, it was an accident. When people asked if I was going to plant a vegetable garden, I was adamant with my 'No way!' How could they even ask? I’m doing this Gardening by Accident program, which is about making beautiful flower gardens; but it doesn’t seem to work out that way. For instance, in April I thought that while I had the rototiller rented, I might as well plow up every area that seemed like a good place for a flower bed now or in the next 15 years. I had no idea what to do next, and got too busy to do anything. But the weeds had plenty of both time and experience and knew exactly what to do. Not pretty.

"Based on these facts, sir, do you honestly think I had anything to do with that squash plant?"

Last year when I bought this house, it came with a wire enclosure in one corner of the back yard. I recognized it as a compost bin. Hey, that seems cool. I can make things rot as well as anyone. So I started donating grass clippings, vegetable peelings, and any other non-meat organic matter I could lift in the name of compost. I had subscribed to a Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) group, from which I got a box of organic vegetables every other week. I seldom consumed it all, so that was a slightly expensive method I found for expanding my compost heap and giving it some cross-training materials.

Shortly before my maiden rototiller experience, I shoveled all the compost out of the bin into a little hill to one side. I planned to till it into the flower-beds-to-be, but plowing up the North 40 sapped me of the will to till further. Last year’s compost stayed where it was. Then it started sprouting some big elephant ear-like leaves that even I could see resembled something like a squash plant. Soon the compost hill was nicely camouflaged with this greenery. Considering that I haven’t been able to grow much of anything on purpose, I was quite pleased with this non-weed vegetation and its ability to cover up less attractive areas that included compost hills and weeds.

Now the Squash Plant has taken on a life of its own and achieved the size of a Ford Taurus. So far it seems benign, but I don’t fully trust anything that grows faster than kudzu; and I keep a close eye on the dogs when they go out to make sure they don’t disappear in some horrible cucurbita maxima incident that should only occur in a Stephen King novel.

This Findhornish creation has started climbing over the fence and producing real, live, honest-to-god squash. I looked them up on the ‘Net, and they’re called “Sweet Dumpling”. Who could resist a name that sounds like some adored child? The one squash I proudly harvested so far is about the shape and size of a toddler’s head (although I suppose a mother would worry if her child had those equi-distant ridges spanning his gourd), and is a creamy color with green stripes. I can’t quite bear to cook it, so it’s reposing atop my microwave. I’m not quite as proud of this squash-child as I am of Carrie—but in both cases I do find it almost miraculous that I produced them.

As the mothership of flora that might soon require “USS” in front of its name continues its explosive growth, my awe expands with its size. Will it extend to the prairies and reach for the sky? What other magical feats might it perform? What fairytale creatures could it attract?

"Really, sir. It was entirely accidental."

2006-07-24T20:39:00.000-07:00

New 2008 Summer Olympics Event: Extreme Gardening

I never hurt this badly when I was training for triathlons. Even now I do workouts to videos by those fitness Nazis Cathe Friedrich and David Kirsch; and yes, my heart rate ascends and I curse them as I perform their punishing machinations and contortions like some trained seal. Sometimes I’ll even follow one of those Bataan death workouts with a 5-mile run, which can be a lot of damned work. Once I’m finished, I stretch, the endorphins spin around my blood stream, and we’re all good. Ahhhhh….

Not so gardening. I’m amazed that they haven’t made an advanced workout video that includes shoveling mulch, hoisting peat moss bales, wrestling uncooperative gas-powered equipment, and performing endless squats while weeding. Unlike the results of tortuous traditional workouts, I did not spring out of bed this morning ready to do it again. Due to the hours of yesterday’s yard work, I whimpered as I gingerly edged off the mattress, crab-walked into the bathroom, sucked down four Ibuprofen, then crawled back into the sack until I absolutely had to get ready for work.

The implements of this seemingly benign pastime are enough to prepare for guerilla warfare: shovels, pitchforks (Satan’s favorite—and now I have some feel for the association), axes, pickaxes, and all manner of tools with long and twisted prongs that look like they could be used to gut the enemy. I always thought gardening was for the meek and the grandma who had no strength left for anything else. Now I’m discovering that these gardeners are undercover Hercules and Xena Warrior Princesses who may be raising their own armies. Or at least indulging in the masochism of training for extreme sports. Stay tuned for Beijing 2008.

2006-07-19T20:05:00.000-07:00

Beware the Flamenco

I am in love. Each night before bed I have been viewing a brief interlude of “Flamenco”, Carlos Saura’s 1995 documentary; and it has taken on the guilty-pleasure proportions of a slightly illicit assignation. Conventional wisdom undoubtedly would interpret this in a way that mirrors my initial expectation of lithe, sinewy bodies cutting staccato swaths across the floor. There are certainly those. But the performances that have captured my very being bring beauty and sensuality from unexpected places and take it to an all-new level.

The singing. I never knew singing was a part of flamenco. Singing like I’ve never heard before. Singing coming from enormous mouths with teeth that beg for dentistry and set in fleshy faces carved with scars and wrinkles of time and experience. Singing that feels and sounds more like it is ripped from their hearts and lungs and souls than merely vibrated across vocal cords. Singing in words I can barely understand but in a language of passion and pain that is universal and makes my solar plexus vibrate and my eyes tear.

As I watch and listen, I feel as though I am pulled into a vortex of sound and emotion with the impact of a high-voltage wire—so intense I can barely stand it, and so compelling I cannot let go. I put off the inevitable as long as I possibly can….

Finally and regretfully, I turn off the VCR. I adjust my pillow. And I do my best to sleep while simmering with anticipation for tomorrow’s rendezvous.

2006-07-19T20:04:00.000-07:00

iVivo!

Eleven days ago I was foraging about for a new adventure and decided that Spain in July 2007 is the ticket. That will be perfect timing to do Running of the Bulls in Pamplona; and in the meantime, I can begin to learn flamenco dancing and expand my Spanish to include more than one verb tense. It’s the Swiss army knife of adventure packages.

Within 15 minutes of the decision, I had a local flamenco dance teacher on the phone. Unfortunately, her current class is full and the next one doesn’t start until September. (Come September: Bessie bar the door!)

Within two hours I was leaving the library loaded down with videos of Spain and a flamenco dance documentary, tour books, and Spanish language CDs. Within six days I was sitting in Spanish class, discovering that I remembered more than I thought and happy to be trilling “r’s” again.

I fully plan on being in Spain 350 days from this moment. But if for some reason that plan doesn’t come to fruition, the adventure is in play now and lighting up every minute of every day. As Ralph Blum said, “We are not doers, we are deciders. Once we decide, the doing is easy.”

2006-07-19T19:14:00.000-07:00

The North Star Spousal Unit

Yesterday was my parents’ 67th wedding anniversary. That’s an amazing number, made even more incredible by the fact that it took them 55 years to start getting along. Considering my matrimonial record, that perseverance gene is not one I inherited.

Last night I talked to my mom and learned that they’d had a wonderful day together, reminiscing over old times and old friends, later having dinner with my sister and brother-in-law. It all sounded so sweet. The two have become such a unit that it’s hard to tell where one stops and the other begins. My mother even seems to have forgotten that she likes French dressing. On my visit there last month, I noticed her dousing her salad with bleu cheese dressing, my dad’s lifelong favorite.

I wouldn’t have hung in there and waited for 55 years for someone to stop sniping at me, but the result of my parents’ persistence—or stubbornness—is something strong and North-star-like. One of those few treasured things that can be counted on as unchanging, that aids navigation in rough waters, and gives courage as it lights up the dark.

2006-07-09T19:05:00.000-07:00

Feet in the Soil

On my recent road trip to the wilds of Oklahoma and Texas, I reunited with a high school friend I hadn’t seen in three and ahalf decades. In 1967-68 when I was a freshman and Richard a senior at Guymon High School, we were in band together. Band rehearsals, marching drills, and football games gave me the opportunity to develop an unrequited crush on him and for him to torment me with the glee of an older brother. Surprisingly, he invited me to his senior prom, to which I couldn’t go because of the rules of the whacko Nazarene Church I attended and the parents that made me attend. We did go to the ersatz alternative event the church put on. He moved to Amarillo right after his graduation, and I only saw him once more shortly before my own graduation.

Despite the intervening years, from the first hello we didn’t miss a beat, and the conversation flowed easily. Like me, Richard has lived all over the country since those times, with his residence now in New Mexico. We discovered commonalities that we had never known during our high school acquaintance, such as the fact that he and I had spent our earlier formative years in Stinnett and Borger, respectively, small towns in the Texas Panhandle that were only 12 miles apart. And that after high school and college, we had both lived in Amarillo at different times.

We made our Amarillo history tangible by driving around to the different places we’d each lived. There was the house for which Richard's parents had paid $7200 while he was still in high school in Guymon, and where they lived until his mother died. His father continued to live there until he could no longer care for himself. Not far from there was the first house Richard had purchased himself, for the tidy sum of $12,850.

Next on this slightly off-beat Tour of Homes was the shack on Arthur street where I had lived for $95/month, and even that was more than I could afford in 1975. It looked like it was about to fall down, but was nevertheless in better shape than when I had lived there. I felt a little melancholy as I related how hard those times were. I had just graduated from college so full of hope and sure a great job and enormous success were waiting for me. It didn’t work out quite that way, at least not for a long time. Not then, and not in Amarillo.

We drove by various duplexes Richard had occupied when he was in college. We talked about our friends, families, hopes, dreams, and a few of the disappointments back then. As we drove down Amarillo Boulevard, I was reminiscing about eating at Ding How’s Chinese Restaurant from the time I was a small child when my family would come to “The Big City” to shop. That was back in the day when eating at a Chinese restaurant was exotic stuff. At that moment we drove by Ding How’s. It was faded, ramshackle, and closed with weeds growing in the parking lot.

Maybe it sounds depressing, but that tour of our past lives in Amarillo was wonderful. Just being able to share that history is a big deal. How can you explain Guymon, Oklahoma or Amarillo, Borger, and Stinnett Texas to someone who doesn't have that red earth running through their veins? Let alone feel that someone with a vastly different background can understand the lives and pains and victories experienced there without the visceral knowledge of those areas? Even as I drove back to Wisconsin, my adopted homeland that I love like no other, I felt enveloped by that sharing of times and events that meant as much and went as deep as the roots of the Texas mesquite trees we grew up with.

2006-06-18T15:39:00.000-07:00

The Best Utensil for the Bad Cook

Yeah, I'm bad. At cooking, that is. Perhaps I'm ahead of the pedestrian bad cook, if only because I know about Roxanne Gold and her 1-2-3 series; but there are 23 things I'd rather do than cook. Nevertheless, I'm here to help you in the kitchen.

Two words: swim goggles. If you're a bad cook like I am and burn things even in the microwave, keep the goggles handy in your kitchen and put them on before the billows of smoke get too intense. You will be able to see clearly to disable the smoke detector before it starts screeching.

Even if you're a good cook, swim goggles are a fabulous aid when you're chopping onions. You will not tear up (from high school chemistry, I can advise you that the ocular burning sensation is created due to the onion's sulfur compounds that bind with the water in your tear ducts and create sulfuric acid in your eyeballs, which burns like hell), and as an added bonus any guests observing you will be mightily entertained by their host sporting this odd apparatus. If you have any doubts, see Mary Stuart Masterson in Benny and Joon.

2006-06-12T19:37:00.000-07:00

Notice

I gave my two weeks' notice at the Radisson last Tuesday night. Working my full-time job and two nights/week (especially Fridays) were getting to be a bit much. I had been thinking about giving the Fridays up in the next month or so. Then they hired Lino, the penultimate asshole restaurant/bar manager. I've adored and worked well with the other managers and staff, so it's not like I've had a problem getting along until now.

One evening one of my regulars out of the blue motioned over to where Lino stood vulture-like and stated, "That guy's an asshole." My sentiments exactly, but I hadn't expressed that. "Why do you say that, Bob? You don't even know him."

Bob replied, "The other managers do work when they're here and help you when you're busy. He stands there and scrutinizes everything you do when he thinks you're not looking, like he can't wait for you to make a mistake." Yup.

When Lino pissed me off even more than usual last Tuesday, I figured that was the time to let it go. Basie's has been a wonderful gift in many ways—my first bartending experience, good people to work with (until now), wonderful customers, etc, etc. But I'm also tired of them making me dress like a man for all practical purposes with black pants, white shirt and a tie (not just me of course—but that's the dress code and I hate it); tired of stuff always being broken—doors falling off hinges, floor tiles missing, bar chairs they just set to the side—that they won't fix or if they do it takes months; and tired of working in a bar that refuses to carry Grey Goose vodka. I'm not even a vodka drinker, but any bar with any class will carry GG and Ketel One. Even though it's supposed to be a high-class place, in many ways it's very divey without having the charm of a true dive.

It was time. I'm excited about having some of my time back. And getting to dress like a girl on Tuesday and Friday nights.

2006-05-24T19:04:00.000-07:00

The Unexpected

I bartended late last night, but got up early this morning so I could take my car in for its scheduled body repair. (Nothing serious—a little rust spot under one fender, a scratch on the driver’s door, a ding on the back.) As I was getting ready to go out the door, John from Abra called me to say they were completely overbooked, and would I be able to reschedule? I kept my voice even and told him yes I could, but I was severely pissed off about it. My new date was set, and my day felt scuttled.

As I was driving to my day job being upset, I wanted to call a friend and complain; but it seemed like something I needed to sit with for awhile. Why was I so upset? This wasn’t like losing a limb or being cursed with eternal bad breath. It was merely a change in plans.

I thought about what would make me feel better, and decided that making a detour to Michaelangelo’s coffee shop might provide a small palliative. For some reason their coffee tastes exponentially better than even the best coffee anywhere else. Along with my java, I indulged in a seven-layer bar, which is seven layers of fat, sugar, and utter decadence. While finding comfort in caffeine and wicked food, I resumed my journey to work and my contemplation. What was the big deal about the changed appointment? I was soothed a little by the goodies, but still distressed.

Having to change my appointment was unexpected. Out of my control. Unexpected? Isn’t that the stuff out of which exciting experiences are made? I was the mother who refused to send my daughter off to school with the typical “Be careful” but instead yelled, “Make it a great day! Have an adventure!” It came to me that insistence on perfectly-followed plans, abiding only the expected, and accepting no waves is the way of comfort and unconsciousness—and John had provided me with a wake-up call.

It took me four false starts before I could bring myself to dial his number. Trying to convey this small epiphany to most people—particularly someone I knew almost not at all—seemed like an invitation to look like a whack job. But… if nothing else I felt like I owed it to him to say, “It’s okay.”

I finally dialed. “Hi John. I don’t really know how to say this without sounding like a nutcase. But first I wanted to say thank you for being kind when I was telling you I was pissed off. I know I’m entitled to my feelings, and I appreciate your listening and your kindness.” Then I related the thought process I’d followed about that distress and what caused it. About how I live my life as an adventure and why would I be upset by a changed appointment? Then realizing it was resistance to the unexpected and lack of control, but that ultimately I considered it a gift and an invitation to something greater. I was feeling really retarded by that point, sure that I sounded like one of those annoying, dreamy-voiced New Age people who need a dose of reality if not psychotropic drugs. I lamely finished, “So, John, I wanted to tell you it’s okay about the appointment and to thank you for giving me the opportunity to look at my day in a whole new way.”

There was a long silence. Oh crap. The man was probably moving as far away from the phone as he could. And canceling my rescheduled appointment. Finally he spoke. “You have no idea what this means to me. Thank you so much for telling me this. It’s making me emotional.” I don’t know what little planetary intersection occurred, but I got it that there was something beyond “Oh good, she’s not mad” going on.

There was some larger meaning there. Maybe I’ll find out what it was when I take my car in on June 7. Or maybe it will remain a mystery. But I do know that my day went exactly the way it was supposed to, making that call was the right thing to do, and my coffee and seven layer bar were exquisite.

2006-05-14T20:19:00.000-07:00

The Over-achieving Child on Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to me. My child is better than your child. No? So... did you get a loving phone call, a $25 gift certificate to Amazon.com, and a check for $602.77 this morning?

Okay, so the check wasn't exactly intended as a Mother's Day gift. Timing is everything. It was in yesterday's mail, which I didn't bring in until this morning; and The Kid was directly responsible for it.

Last month Carrie was listening to a radio show in which they were talking about the millions of dollars in unclaimed money around the country in bank accounts, stocks and mutual funds, uncashed checks and wages, etc. They suggested checking the website http://www.missingmoney.com, so Carrie started plugging in the names of her nearest and dearest. Lo and behold, my name came up with money vaguely described as "$100+" in Tennessee where I had been a stockbroker in the 80's.

After Carrie let me know about this, I followed the links, downloaded and completed the paperwork, made copies of my driver's license and social security card, had my signature notarized, and sent it all in. This morning as I opened yesterday's mail, I had a nice little Mother's Day surprise of $602.77 from the State of Tennessee. And my darling daughter.

You know how sometimes when people get a bad deal they'll say, "It's not the money. It's the principle of the thing"—but you know they're not too happy about the money part either? This is the other side of that coin. You would have had a hard time convincing me that Carrie wasn't the greatest kid on the planet before today—but a $600 Mother's Day bonus sure hasn't hurt her Favorite Daughter status.

2006-05-12T21:58:00.000-07:00

Tie One On

As a female bartender at the Radisson, the question I am most frequently asked by male customers is, "Did you tie that tie yourself?"

I would guess that at Hooters, the attire and the questions are different.

2006-05-11T21:12:00.000-07:00

No Oprah

Tuesday night at the bar was bizarre. Right off the bat, no Oprah, which is my little treat to watch if it’s slow when I first open. They (you know "they"... the great anonymous, omniscient They without whom so little could be vaguely attributed) had been working on the roof and had to disconnect the cable connection to the bar. So the TVs provided only loud, annoying static—similar to what I dole out regularly. No Oprah. Damn! But it was nice not having those noiseboxes blaring for the rest of the evening. No American Idol at 120 decibels like last week.

It was a pleasant and slow/steady evening. I had almost all my side work done and was looking at maybe actually getting out at 11. Then at 10:15 a dark and exotic-looking guy sat down at the bar. He sounded British, but was from Austria. After delivering his Grey Goose and tonic, I got an earful about the impending break-up with his girlfriend. Their trip from LA to Cincinnati last week in which the bitch gave him no peace, constantly nagging about his driving while he was going at a perfectly reasonable 100-110 mph. The fights. The Memphis hotel room where she vandalized his stuff. It was like listening to Vogon poetry, and not unlike Douglass Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide protagonist, I was ready to chew off a limb to escape. But where my customers are concerned, my bar is their confessional, and I am paid (and tipped) to listen.

If the bar isn't busy, I can give last call at 10:45, well before legal bar time. That blessed moment finally arrived, and I gave last call, hoping against hope for refusals. The only other people in the bar—two very sweet and slow-drinking ladies—ordered two more old fashioneds. Damn it all! I knew then I was looking at another hour of listening to Tales from the Bowels of Relationship Hell. Made another GG and tonic for Matthias, and as I suspected, he continued his litany—as though I needed further verification that he and his girlfriend are both disturbed neurotics bordering on the psychotic, if not psychotics bordering on the insane.

Another half hour dragged by, and before I had the wherewithal to lock the door, John, one of our VIPs who stays at the Rad frequently, slipped in. John is a great guy, but serving him meant that I had to give everyone else yet another opportunity at last call. And Matthias and the two sweet but slow-drinking ladies without exception called my bluff and ordered another round.

John immediately got that Matthias was a nutcase, and tried to buffer me by engaging him in conversation. Matthias was only too delighted to add another member to his audience, and slurred through another rendition of the girlfriend woes. I had locked up all the liquor after making John's drink and had also given everyone their checks. By this time it was 1:00 a.m. As Matthias was getting ready to sign his credit card slip, he kept trying to manipulate me into making him and John another drink. "If I give you a big tip, will you make another drink for John and me?" No. John didn't even want another drink. Matthias was unrelenting with blah-blah-blah, big tip, make John and me another drink anyway. I told him I was not going to serve John against his will, and that he had had enough, and thanks, but NO. So he signed the slip, and had still given me a $100 tip on a $30 bar tab. He kept wheedling. I cracked the whip back with "NO. Don't push it!"

When Matthias finally went outside to smoke, John said, "He's going to be a problem. I'll go out and take him his stuff [he'd left on his bar stool]. You lock up." Good by me. After that M came to the door, and I opened it a crack (I have this sad loyalty to my parishioners—er... customers)—and he whined about how misunderstood he was, did I even appreciate the tip (oh absolutely!)... I told him it had been a pleasure visiting with him and that I hoped he and the gf worked it out. Quickly re-locked the door. Then he kept hanging around right outside the (glass) door while I was balancing my bank and finishing the closing process. Definitely creepy.

When John went back to his room, he told the front desk Matthias was a potential problem, so Patti the night auditor came back to the bar and walked with me to do my cash drop and put the bar bank bag in the safe. Thankfully, Matthias had gone back to his room—or had at least gone away.

I finally got home at 2. No Oprah. But I did get a night that qualifies me to be a guest on her show.

2006-04-11T22:19:00.000-07:00

And the Alternative?

I called my mother yesterday, and we were discussing her upcoming milestone birthday. She sounded a little upset about turning 90. You'd think she would have gotten over that by maybe 80 or 85. Is this the ultimate validation that we're a family of late bloomers and slow agers? Or just that we're slow to catch on? "Oh my. I'm almost 90. Unlike 89, that is fucking OLD!"

2006-04-04T19:31:00.000-07:00

No Difference

Lori and I were walking to the next movie in our gala Wisconsin Film Fest weekend, discussing spiritual giving, and what is right whether it feels good or not. Lori was talking about the concept of “We are one”, that differences are only illusions, and how she understands the concept but can’t fully internalize it. As we approached Monona Terrace, a hooded person of dubious gender (later assumed to be female) with indelible writing all over her face approached us from across the terrace and demanded in a loud, tinny voice with cracker accent, “What do you think heaven is like?”

Lori stopped to chat. I wanted to drag her on so we could get in line for the movie; but was also interested to see what would transpire. Lori asked her if there was anything she wanted. The woman offered to share as she lit up a doobie and said, “I want to know who would be working if everyone who ever broke the law was in jail.” That entailed a brief discussion of "pretty much no one since most of us have broken speed limits if not worse". Then Lori said we needed to get on to the movie; and the woman asked again what heaven was like. Lori responded, “What do you think it’s like?”

Our angel in whacko clothing replied, “It’s a place where there are no differences.”

2006-03-24T23:17:00.000-08:00

National News, Up-close and Personal

The wildfires in the Texas Panhandle, the area where I grew up, were national news last week. This account from Patsy Duncan, owner of the Duncan Ranch East of Amarillo is compelling to say the least and makes it a much more up-close and personal event.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dearest friends and family,

We are ok.........Ronnie and Roper were on their way to Florida for Spring break when the fire hit and I was at the house with my housekeeper Sue, who was cleaning Roper's house.

I awoke Sunday morning realizing that the weather felt just like the last fire. I was wrong. It was worse. A good friend Sherron Boyd called me about the fire. It was a good 30 miles away when it started. It was about 25 miles away and heading for her home in Skellytown, when Sherron called to warn me.

I went on top out of our valley to see where I could move our cattle out of the way of the fire which jumped 4 paved highway lanes and many, many paved roads. We always hope they can stop these things at the roads. The wind was blowing about 50 MPH gusts, and the humidity was nothing.A few ranchers were up on the paved road watching. I told one he could move his cows on us up at this old house we have near our entrance (or did have...it isn't there any longer). His cattle were ok because of that.

I realized that wherever I moved our whole adult herd of cattle—300 cows that were in one section and around 200 calves—they would be in line of the fire as it was so huge, maybe 25 miles wide. I started back to at least open a gate to spread the cows out, and Freeman warned me that I would get caught down at my house and not be able to get out. But I had to go back as Sue was here at the houses six miles away, and you just can't believe a fire can be that bad.

I opened the gate for the cows who rushed through as many were on the fence line and would have been caught there. (I probably saved 200 head by doing this). I went down to the house and turned what horses I could turn out and turned the 50 heifers we were calving out of a pen. Then I got a call from a nurse, Patsy Chambers, who had taken care of Mother, that on the scanner they had asked anyone who knew the Duncan Ranch telephone number to call them and tell them to evacuate NOW. People care so much and her call could have been a lifesaver. I also called Ronnie and told him the fire was on its way to the house. Ronnie called the firefighters and John Fisher who saved our house. I loaded Sue and 3 dogs (all I could get in a hurry), my purse and cell phone and headed out. Sue followed in her car. We ran into a huge wall of fire just as we entered our Robinson pasture and turned North. The winds were out of the SW. I told Sue to park her car on this place where we had gotten Caliche and there wasn't much to burn. Then we headed across country to the neighboring ranch. Behind us poor cattle were being consumed by fire.

We drove down into a valley turning west. After a mile and a half I came to a dry creek bed where you can normally cross. But due to such dry conditions for so long it was puffy and I got stuck the first few feet. The fire was about 1 mile to our south. Across the dry creek bed is a windmill. I told Sue that we could survive there by getting in the tank and covering our heads with wet clothes. And there was just dirt all around the windmill.

We thought we needed to let people know where we were and didn't have service on our cells phones, so we climbed to the top of the hill. The fire was moving so fast that at that time we were sort of on the western edge. So we walked a mile to a road where I knew someone could identify and pick us up. The game warden met us. Thank goodness for cell phones.In the meantime Roper was on the phone with a county man, John Fisher. She told him the fire was heading to our house, so he drove the maintainer through fire to cut fire walls over and over to prevent us from loosing our house and to stop the fire from going North more.

The county commissioner went with him in his pickup, driving through fire to talk to him on a walkie talkie and let him know when the fire had escaped his firewalls.

As we drove North toward Skellytown, I turned to see the fire barreling toward our houses. I could see a long line of cows on the horizon that it looked like maybe were ahead of the fire as it turned? Or they could have been right in line of it. I couldn't tell. So I thought we had lost all our cows, calves, house barns horses, heifers, dogs and cats. The fire might could have circled us had it not been for the game warden being right there and cells phones.

As we drove out, there was fire on both sides of the road. Then on toward Skellytown, we had to turn around rapidly because we ran right into fire. When they say don't drive into smoke, it’s because the fire is right there.

The game warden took us to Girl's Town where my friend Don picked us up and took us to his house. About dusk we tried to get home. I learned from Ronnie and Roper that John had saved our houses, horses, dogs, cats, and heifers.

At home there were still fires everywhere. Don pulled our truck out and Sue's car was ok. We went to the house. Near the house another fire had erupted just south of the house near the creek with tons of fuel. But the wind had begun to shift out of the west, and we knew it was turning NW. Firefighters were also on that blaze. Firefighters continually stopped fires circling back that would have ended up burning our houses.

Sue and Don finally got out because the fire was threatening Mobeetie and Mclean and Pampa by that time. I slept with glowing fires to my south—big fires—but thankful the wind was calming and out of the North and NW.

Ronnie flew home Monday night. The whole west side of our ranch is leveled—16 or more miles of fences and pens, but we are lucky. From Skellytown to our house everything is gone, except the fire seemed to jump some homes.

Three good friends died in the fire. Jack Will who lived down the road from me. He was 94 and didn't get out of his log home. Jack used to help us work cattle. Then Cathy Ryan who left her home that survived to try to get two elderly people out. My neighbor barely escaped that same fire trying to help and had gotten Cathy in her vehicle with the elderly man, Bill, who panicked, we think, and got out of the pickup and ran. They drove through fire to save the old gentlemen's wife Oletha. We are moving cattle to the east side of the ranch with fences and that looks like the Garden of Eden right now but which is really horribly drougthy and grass blowing away to leave dirt. (Worst grass I have ever seen on this ranch and I am 57 years old.)

The cows and calves that were in the pasture I let most of them out of, are burned. We moved them slowly across 2 1/2 miles to slowly get them down to pasture and fences that are 5 miles away from where they were. Ronnie called it the "Bataan Death March." It was so pitiful. Calves singed all over with ears burned and partially blind calves and some lost hooves as they traveled. We shot a few before leaving and along the way. The calves had so much heart. Some mothers are trying so hard to help their babies. Ronnie shot more calves yesterday. Some of the ones who made the March looked better today. The mothers of the ones shot pine and cry for the babies and bawl and bawl. Ronnie was going to shoot one calf that lost his hoof casing in the March, but his Mother ran over to him protecting him as he raised his gun. He told me he wasn't shooting any more calves today—it's just too hard. He shot the ones suffering. One poor cow is badly burned and a burned udder. Then some were burned and are lying where the fire caught them. We've doctored a lot of calves. We probably lost or will lose 50 calves. Roper will head home this weekend.

I am worn out, but safe. They amazingly got our electricity back. But my phone may be quite a while. My cell is 806-886-5206, but only works if I am in town, not at my house in this valley.

We could not survive were it not for volunteer firefighters, the regular firefighters and all the law enforcement people who so willingly come to our rescue. The Texas Panhandle has volunteer firefighters in every small town. We heard we are a national disaster. I am not sure what that means—900,000 acres were burned and it's still burning. It was started by an electrical line falling or the post breaking. We realize how lucky we are to be safe.

Patsy
"Believe in Miracles"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
These are pictures of the Panhandle disaster– view at your own discretion: http://www.txfb.org/fire/FireIndex.asp

2006-02-24T19:23:00.000-08:00

Prevent Hate, Legislate?

Someone recently asked what I thought of hate crime legislation. Having absolutely no in-depth knowledge about a subject has never prevented me from voicing an opinion, and this is no exception.

Perhaps an odd view coming from a bleeding-heart liberal, but I think a hate crime is no more and no less than the crime that was committed. Using Matthew Shepard (gay Wyoming student who was tortured and killed in 1998) as an example: If the two men who tortured and killed him did it just because they enjoyed that kind of thing and were completely dispassionate in carrying it out with no feeling about him or his lifestyle—how is it different than if they did it because they hated him, his lifestyle, his race, or the brand of boxer shorts he was wearing? How does mindset make the crime different? Isn't it all about hate of one kind or another since no one commits heinous acts as a rite of goodwill?

Such crimes should certainly elicit punishment to the max—but based on the crime itself, not on the philosophy that was floating around in the perpetrator's pea brain. You can't legislate love. That's my current thinking anyway. If someone can show me that hate crime legislation would actually deter hate crimes—or any crimes for that matter, my opinion just changed.
~~~~~~~
After my friend Suzers read this, she emailed me with the following, and I liked the point of view:

I think that the hate crime legislation may be an attempt to eventually get it through the pea brain redneck mind out there that gay-bashing and gay murder is not socially sanctioned. Maybe. Your logic however totally works for me. But maybe someday there might actually be a shift in the collective unconscious....that one southern white boy's supremacist family values will not be destroyed by 2 men holding hands.
Condosuzi

2006-02-10T23:08:00.000-08:00

Five Reasons Bartending is Better than Dating

1) I can have men come in and serve 'em liquor that I don't have to buy, and for which they are willing to pay.

2) I can chat and look'em over without having to be trapped in a car or for an entire date.

3) If I'm busy or need to do something else, they have to be perfectly understanding that I have the right to ignore them, even for other men who need liquor or chattin' up.

4) They leave me money when they go, and it is in no way a bad thing for my reputation.

5) The only wet spots left from the entire social interaction are easily removed from the bar with a rag.

2005-12-18T22:34:00.000-08:00

The Catch-up Christmas Letter
(Sent to friends and relatives via snail mail & with appropriate holiday debris)

You are no doubt staring in amazement, pondering the fact that I am sending out holiday greetings at all, let alone at a more traditional time of year than Passover. But… chop-chop, no time to waste, it’s been a helluva year, and the following will bring it to you in all the detail and living color you would expect from the quintessential and highly personal Xeroxed holiday newsletter.

January started with the “Happy New Year” message from Esker Software that they were consolidating their Software Development offshore. That meant 19 of us would be laid off in March. They generously provided three months’ notice, a lovely severance package, and all kinds of outplacement support. So although it was a little jarring—all in all, not a bad deal.

In February, Carrie and her long-time boyfriend, Joshua Wood, got married in Austin. They are a gorgeous couple. (Not that I’m biased—I’m the same person who when I first caught sight of Carrie’s red, wrinkled face after her birth proclaimed, “She’s so BEAUTIFUL!”) The happy couple reside and work in Austin.

In March I was hired by Compuware Corp. to consult on a project to American Family Insurance as a business analyst and technical writer. I was fortunate to work with great people on an interesting project—although the company itself is a beautifully appointed hellhole that sucks the oxygen out of every living soul entering its portal. You can tell I love it, huh?

In April a thrift store purchase resulted in my personal international news event. Last year at the St. Vinnie’s thrift store outlet I found a gorgeous wedding dress for the irresistible price of $2. I deemed it costume-worthy, but no appropriate event had presented itself. So when it was my turn to host my running club, I mandated that it would be a costumed run with the theme “Running of the Brides”—similar to the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain but with much more fearsome creatures and far more bullshit. Fifty people turned out in wedding attire, and our run through the streets of Madison made the front page of the Sunday Wisconsin State Journal Local section. http://www.madison.com/archives/read.php?ref=/madison.com/html/archive_files/wsj/2005/04/10/0504090267.php Then the Associated Press picked up the story, and it was on the Internet and in newspapers around the world, discussed on national radio shows, and in general provided more than my 15 minutes of infamy.

In June I sold my house and bought my current home, which I LOVE! It’s only two bedrooms and one bath, but has a large master bedroom, screened-in porch, red retro diner booth in the kitchen, red fireplace with a mantel, and the perfect location. Two blocks south is the governor’s mansion, two blocks north is the Maple Bluff Country Club, two blocks west is the lake, and two blocks east is the best Chinese restaurant in the Midwest.

At the end of July, my life started taking on the proportions of some sad-sack Country & Western song. My contract finished at American Family, and my job with Compuware ended. (Oh wait, that doesn’t reflect “tidings of comfort and joy” one is supposed to dispense in a holiday newsletter, does it? Let me rephrase that, “I was promoted to the position of President of Myself.”) On August 4 my beloved dog Murray died of the lymphoma he had been fighting for several weeks. And in early October, my boyfriend went back to his ex-wife. It was a painful few months; but throughout, it somehow had a sense of divine proportion and that all was (or would be) good. It was a relief to be out of AmFam and to get my “oxygen” back. As much as I grieved Murray’s passing, he had had a wonderful life of 12-1/2 years—overtime for a large dog who had escaped the fate of the Sacramento pound 12 years earlier, and a joyous companion I was so lucky to have for that time. And as for the boyfriend… well, there had been a few “ick” factors developing that made it clear it wouldn’t be a forever relationship. Although I didn’t think “not forever” would be quite as not forever as it was, as one friend said, “He saved you from having to do it later.”

There’s an old joke about, “What do you get when you play a Country & Western song backward?.... You get your job back, you get your dog back, you get….etc.” My personal C&W experience finally began “playing backward”. In the past I’ve thought it would be fun to try my hand at bartending, so while I was enjoying my time off the work wheel and in between job applications and interviews, I took a week-long bartending course. My thoughts were that in my ideal world, I would get a bartending job with one of the nice hotel bars, have some time to get bartending experience before I got a full-time tech writing job, and maybe continue the bar gig part-time thereafter. Lo! and behold! I was hired by the Radisson Hotel at the end of October, and I absolutely love the job. It’s like getting paid to host a party, without having to clean my house, buy the alcohol, or fix the food.

I felt it was time to get another canine companion for myself and for Bill (my surviving dog, the same age as Murray), and got Charlie, a 10-year-old bearded collie rescue. He had spent most of his life being physically cared for, but mostly ignored. He is a sweet addition to our home and is enjoying learning how to be spoiled.

The last weekend of October I went to Massachusetts for the wedding of my friends Lori and Jeff. It was an event that captured every essence of the sacred and joyous, accompanied by raucous laughter, wonderful music, and energetic dancing.

On December 5 I started my new job as a technical writer for the University of Wisconsin School of Medicine. I’m in an area of the Department of Ophthalmology that does research in degenerative eye diseases. I love the work, enjoy the casual (read: jeans) but dedicated (read: people good at and committed to what they do) environment, and can definitely live with benefits that include 5 weeks/year of paid vacation. I also have flex hours, so I’m able to continue my bartending gig at the Radisson on Tuesday and Friday nights. Wahoo!

I’m now looking forward to seeing my family for Christmas in Guymon, OK, my home town and where my parents (89 and 92) and my sister Jo & brother-in-law Mike live and thrive. I’ll fly out this Thursday the 22nd, and Carrie and Joshua are driving up from Austin Friday. It should be a great time, and we can count on excesses of food, fun, and cheating at cards.

I wish you all that is good for the holidays and 2006. Make it great!

2005-07-19T11:11:00.000-07:00

Illusions

As I was running this morning, I came across a slightly ragged crow feather. I passed it, then went back the few feet to pick it up. "Bill, is that you? Talk to me." The feather remained mute. I tried to center myself and connect. Visions of quirky humor, Easter in Paris, Manhattan suites, and clinking cocktail glasses began taking form. Visions? Memories? What's the difference?

Bill died in LA 11 years and 8 days ago. I called him that morning just as I did every morning. Except on July 11, 1995, he didn't answer. I called repeatedly with the same result. I knew it couldn't be good, but it was afternoon when one of his friends called before I found out just how not good.

At that moment of bereavement, I appealed to him in whatever form he might have taken, "Bill, please give me a sign." Nothing. At least nothing until I walked out my front door and saw the owl feather standing straight up in the center of my yard.

Talk to me.

2005-06-16T14:12:00.000-07:00

Dog Days

I hadn't planned on sleeping in my SUV the night of June 5. My dog Murray had acted like he wasn't feeling well that entire day. It's a similar pattern to my 92-year-old father—the good and bad days that go with aging. When I went to bed at 11, Murray started whimpering; and I considered that he could either be in real trouble or seroius pain. Either way, a trip to the doggie ER was in order.

When the ER folks positioned Murray for X-rays, they made him worse where he could hardly walk when they were finished, and the injection they gave him only made him loopy and vocal but didn't diminish the hurt. Great. I spent $266 to deliver more pain to him.

When we got home at 2 a.m., M was in such incredible pain, getting him to get out of the car was not even an option. I couldn't see leaving him alone in such distress, so I brought out a blanket and pillows to camp out in the back of my car with him. He was crying the whole time. I finally went in at 4 a.m. because I HAD to get some sleep.

I went to Murray's regular vet, Dr. Christman, Monday morning and got a painkiller Rx for the poor creature. He was better when I got home from work that night, but even the next morning was still periodically crying pitifully. It ripped my insides out to see him in so much pain, and the whole experience rendered me physically tired and emotionally drained. I couldn't imagine what it was doing to Murray.

By Wednesday when I went to get more painkillers, Dr. C said that Murray should have been better by then. No one had to verbalize the fact that it would be a cruelty to keep him alive in such misery. She suggested that as a last-ditch effort I might want to consider veterinary acupuncture, which they have at the UW Vet School. I did some serious 'Net surfing and was able to find a veterinary acupuncturist, Lynne Dennis DVM. She's not with the UW, but she makes house calls. Better yet! I didn't have to take off work, and most importantly I didn't have to move The Big Lug in all his pain.

The minute Dr. Lynne came into the room, Murray responded to her. She did a thorough exam, then an acupuncture treatment. M would occasionally squirm a bit, but mostly he seemed soothed, like he knew it would help. His panting diminished, and over the next few days he slept better and was in far less pain. Thank God! Relief! His walking was still very stiff, almost crab-like. But just to see the expression and joy coming back into his face was enough.

Dr. Lynne came to administer another treatment Monday morning. When I got home Tuesday night, Murray was walking almost normally and was the very best he'd been since the pain set in 10 days before. I was so thrilled, I almost cried. After his first acu session when he responded so well and the pain seemed to diminish so quickly, I had great hopes that maybe over the next few weeks he'd slowly get back to normal. MAYBE. To see him responding this fast is almost a miracle. Of course, with every increment of improvement, he's also becoming commensurately more incorrigible. Definitely getting back to himself. YEA!

2005-05-16T10:15:00.000-07:00

St. Joseph: Real Estate Baron

I now have an accepted offer on my house. Wahoo! The buyers are a childless couple who are both employed (or DINKS—double income no kids), no mobile home or other houselike structure to sell, and apparently have the earnest $$$. They even OFFERED $1600 in earnest money instead of the more typical $1000. (Or $500 like the trailer park people.) The agreed-upon price is only $170K—I was a little disappointed that it didn't hit my projected low of $172K. But close enough. And they're willing to close on 6/15. So it's all good.

I won't be digging up St. Joe until after the close, but he will definitely assume a place of honor on the mantelpiece in the Maple Bluff House. I suppose I should give Jeff and Jodi some credit too. I just phoned Jeff and suggested that perhaps they should start their own statue cottage industry and provide their clients with Jeff and Jodi action figures that, like the St. Joseph statues, can be buried upside down in yards for real estates sales success, then prominently displayed in a place of honor in the new home. Good advertising. They could even multi-task as wedding cake toppers.

Jeff said he would pass the idea on to Jodi. I'd love to be a fly on that wall.

2005-05-12T15:44:00.000-07:00

Homelessness Has Its Benefits

In the ongoing house saga... the folks never responded to the counter offer. They had offered $500 ernest money and a 7/1 close. We had countered with $1000 earnest money and 6/15 close. When Jeff called their realtor to see what was going on, she said they couldn't come up with $1K. Good lord! I'm a paycheck-to-paycheck chick myself, but when shopping for a house.... Hmmmm.... Wouldn't one plan ahead and have a LITTLE SOMETHING set aside? They also didn't think they could sell their mobile home by 6/15. Mobile homes... okay, let's not even go there.

Last Sunday Jeff was kidding me about "maybe you should bury a St. Joseph statue". Huh? He said one of his neighbors had his house listed for 5 months, and it didn't sell. His grandma told him to bury a St. Joseph statue upside down in the back yard and facing the house. He did, and the house had an offer (which ultimately closed) in 5 days. Hey, I'm not above it. I said something about it to Carrie when she called me on Mother's Day, and she had actually heard of it. Wednesday I started surfing the 'Net, and OMG! Look at this! http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=St.+joseph+statue&btnG=Google+Search

It's a freakin' INDUSTRY! I went to Church Supply (I prefer to call it Church Depot) Wednesday and got my very own, and by that evening he was buried by the For Sale Sign. And believe you me, I've been sayin' the prayer to St. Joe daily if not hourly. Stay tuned....

St. Joe didn't bring me an overnight accepted offer, but he did bring my "new maybe-after-he-gets-divorced boyfriend" this morning. The husband part of the divorcing duo who, after changing their collective mind once and are now back on track to sell me their house, stopped by. It was like a replay of Tuesday morning when the wife part of the DD came by... I was getting ready for work and attired in my leopard-print bathrobe. The doorbell rang. And there on my doorstep was the man whose soon-to-be-ex-wife had indicated only two days before what a great catch he could be. I had him come in, and he very kindly apologized for putting me through so much on Monday when they thought they didn't want to sell... I told him not to worry about it—it WAS distressing and a little disappointing. But with all the other weird stuff that had happened with my house, when Jeff called me about the circumstances of their not wanting to sell, it was almost like some repeating punchline. As I described this, we had a nice laugh, and he said he was glad it hadn't been a completely horrible time for me.

I should start a pool on who will stop by next—their children? Their divorce attorney? Can this get any weirder?

2005-05-11T18:14:00.000-07:00

Climate Shift

This real estate transaction has become like Texas Panhandle weather—if you don't like it, just wait a moment and it will change. Yesterday morning as I was getting ready for work (running late and still hadn't even vacuumed to make the house look unlived in for the afternoon showing), the wife part of the sellers/divorcing duo (quick recap of Monday's post: the selling couple decided they didn't want to sell me their house after all because they preferred to get a divorce and have Mr. keep the family homestead) came by my house to apologize for any inconvenience and say that they're going through with the sale of the Maple Bluff house. She ended up chatting for about 30 minutes, breast-fed her baby in my kitchen, and by the time she left was offering to introduce me to the MB neighbors and give me flexibility on the closing date. She also indicated that her soon-to-be-ex-husband might not be a bad catch.

She didn't just say, "Take my husband... please." She was referring to his sterling qualities, and I jumped in to add, "And SOON newly single!" implying personal opportunity. I waved my hands in that "I'm kidding" way, to which she responded not to count it out since he felt a bond with me when we met as I was first viewing their house. Later she marketed him further with, "And he's a very handy guy." So handing him off like a baton in some relay wasn't explicit, but more implied. I think it could have some major benefits—he gets to maintain an interest in the family homestead. And I get... well... who knows? I'm sure I could make a list.

Does he really need to have a say in it, or is it enough that his almost ex- and I think it's a good idea? I suppose it would be the decent thing to do to let them actually transact the divorce before making my to-do list for him. Plus right now I'm seeing Andy the Cutest Boy in the Whole World—39, new Hasher, fun to run, bike & swim, etc with.

The offer finally made on my house was written by a realtor who's an idiot, but the main points were $168K, close 7/1, contingency on the buyers selling their mobile home (oh, don't you know). We countered w/$173K, close 6/15. No response yet, and they were supposed to respond by last night. Sigh...

After a new drama introducing each of the past two days, today seems so pale. But maybe that's okay. I woke up at about 4:00 this morning barraged by the sights and sounds of lightning, thunder, and heavy rains. I love thunderstorms, but felt compelled to send up a prayer of, "God, I know you've been having your twisted fun with me up to now on this house thing. But please don't be a total Jerk and have lightning hit 4606 Dakota. I know it would make a good story, but I simply don't want to deal with it." So far, so good.

2005-05-09T10:56:00.000-07:00

Cracking the Real Estate Code

As mentioned in a previous post, my house is for sale, and I have an accepted offer on a house in Maple Bluff contingent on the sale of my house. Usually the selling and purchasing of homes is a fairly straightforward matter, with only the occasional knot to work out. My experience has not worked that way. There is something very odd going on with this entire transaction. My realtors have been utterly baffled that in this hot market my house hasn't sold in the past 3 weeks. Houses that are far tackier (believe it or not) are getting accepted offers on the first day of listing. Particularly after ripping up the crappy carpet to display nice hardwood floors, and painting after removing the dark paneling, mine's stylin'. The realtors who've shown it are giving Jeff, my realtor, the thumbs up and no negative feedback. And I've had an average of more than one showing a day. But no sale.

The odd "this deal is snakebit" sensation continued Saturday when Jeff was at my house to let the dogs out for a showing, and as the buying agent and his clients went in, they were ever so impressed when the door handle fell off. And Sunday for another showing, a Rottweiler charged the potential buyers, as the punk who lives across the street with his parents was screaming at the beast, "Get your fucking ass back here!" (Fortunately the beast turned around, doing no harm.) Welcome to the neighborhood.

This morning Jeff called to tell me that a realtor had called to say she would be faxing in an offer on my house. Hurrah! At last. Then 30 minutes later Jeff called to say that the owners of the Maple Bluff house decided last night to get divorced, and the dude part of the couple wants to keep the house because it's been in his family since it was built 50 years ago. So he's considering his options such as writing an offer that would bump me unless I remove the contingency of selling my house, or possibly offering me cash to politely withdraw. Since the trust fund hasn't come in yet, my position on fighting him for the house would be tenuous, so I'm inclined to take the money and run. In the meantime, Jeff's checking options with his real estate attorney. At this moment it's all theory—I've seen no offer on my house, no generous offers of cash to withdraw from the Maple Bluff deal, no... nothing.

More to be revealed....

2005-05-03T20:03:00.000-07:00

Wild Ride

It hasn't been exactly a dull beginning to the year. Carrie got married in Austin, I changed jobs just beating the layoff axe, and I organized a costumed running event that inadvertently got international press coverage. Not bad for the first four months of 2005. Maybe those events triggered the need for more and better adrenaline fixes. Or maybe it's just One of Those Years. Whatever the case, the wild ride continues like a bucking bronco.

I was considering making some major improvements to my house (yeah, yeah, like cleaning it). But I quickly realized that if I sank any money into it at all, the location would not support a commensurate increase in real estate value; and my bedroom would still be too small. Suddenly selling my house and buying one more to my liking seemed like a stellar idea. Within 3 weeks, I had accomplished all tasks large and small I'd been meaning to do for the past 3 years.

The fake wood paneling darkening the hall and living room came down, followed by major spackling and sanding due to the panelers' generous and capricious use of finishing nails. I hired Keith-the-all-around-guy to paint the newly unpaneled walls and my Granny-Smith-apple green office a neutral cream color. I spent hours pulling up ugly carpet dating back to the Johnson administration, its rotting padding, and what seemed like thousands of staples and tacks to reveal the formerly shrouded red oak hardwood floors. Over the three weeks I accomplished these unvelings, every night I went to bed more stiff and sore than when I was training for Ironman. Not to mention the pain of the Home Depot $100 minimum every time I crossed their threshold. To paraphrase my dad's statement about aging, "Home improvement ain't fer sissies."

I cleaned and decluttered. I took over 20 garbage bags of donations to various charities, unloaded some "prizes" on friends, and over-populated the curb for every Wednesday's trash pickup. The only word that adequately describes what occurred with my living space is "transformation".

I had maybe 15 minutes to bask in the glow of my accomplishments before I was doubled over with real estate fear. One moment I was tied in knots over "What if my house sells, and I don't have any place to live?", then quickly teeter-tottered over to "What if my house doesn't sell, and I can't move into some fabulous new place?" My husband-and-wife team realtors, Jeff Kramer and Jodi Pahs, don't seem to be particularly religious; but nevertheless, I think they're contenders for canonization. My incessant calls, emails, whining, and fears... they have calmly and kindly fielded all of them, never once saying what any mortal would in such circumstances, "Shut up, ya damned baby!" No. Even over the phone, I can feel the hugs, the shoulder pats, and words that translate to "There, there, it will be alright." Besides offering a comforting presence, they also exhibit knowledge, intelligence, and the work ethics of Clydesdales. Who could ask for more?

So now... I found my house. I made an offer that was accepted on a house in The Village of Maple Bluff. Woo-woo... Maple Bluff is just a couple miles from my house and even the same Madison ZIP code. HOWEVER... it is one of the ritzier areas of Madison, and just living in MB will give me limited MB Country Club privileges. I'm not sure HOW limited yet, but I know it includes some golf, tennis & pool privileges. This is THE textbook real estate score—the tiniest house in the good location (but still more finished space than mine, along with a big bedroom and walk-in closet). So the real estate heebie jeebies are now confined to the single fear of getting bumped on this fabulous place if my house doesn't move pretty quickly here.

I'm having to live in an unnaturally clean environment so my house can be shown on a moment's notice. Daily vacuuming, dusting, and dish-washing have become the standard. I can't wait until these become regularly scheduled monthly events once again.

To add to the fun, Sunday morning I had an epiphany about doing a half-ironman distance triathlon in July. I suppose with the carpet and paneling demolition duathlon over, I needed something with which to maintain pain continuity. The training has begun. More to be revealed...

2005-04-14T10:17:00.000-07:00

First Annual Running of the Brides

It evolved into a Movement with international press coverage. It began at Dig 'n' Save, doing the equivalent of dumpster diving.

Most people think that the St. Vincent de Paul thrift stores are the end of the road for cast-off donations; but here in Madison we have a St. Vinnie's factory outlet—Dig 'n' Save (DNS). What doesn't sell at St. Vinnie's goes to DNS, is lumped into huge appliance-sized boxes, and sells for $1 or less per pound. Several of my friends are DNS habitués, and on one visit as we pawed through the boxes of other people's detritus and tax deductions, we found an abundance of wedding gowns. Some of us bought them with the idea that they would be great costumes. I found the odd juxtaposition hideously delightful—buying a beautifully ornate wedding dress by the pound.

That was over a year ago, and the gown remained unused. Then two events intersected: my daughter got married, and "Running Disaster" gave notice that he could not host his scheduled 4/9 Hash House Harriers run. As a good Hash citizen, I threw myself on the grenade and offered to "hare" the run. The combination of being in wedding mode after returning from Carrie's shindig and having the DNS wedding dress in my closet ignited my decision to make it a theme run: Running of the Brides (ROTB). I had a vision similar to Running of the Bulls except with far more fearsome creatures and lots more bullshit. Seeing a bunch of Hashers running down the street in standard running gear is pretty funny. The thought of those same Hashers populating the byways in wedding regalia totally cracked me up.

Eggbeater was my co-hare, and we planned the trail with a plethora of churches for photo ops, as well as appropriate spots for champagne checks. We got baklava and Ouzo to serve at the Greek Orthodox Church where ROTB commenced. For the on-in (party after the run) I ordered a sheet cake with wedding decorations and a cake topper from eBay portraying a miniature groom on his hands and knees with the bride holding his leash.

By the time Saturday April 9 dawned, I was practically vibrating with excitement—and a small dose of fear. What if people didn't dress up? What if not many came? Oh what the hell. I was gonna have fun, and it was a gorgeous day. The rest would take care of itself.

Eggbeater & I spent 3 hours setting the "nuptial trail", then went to my house and frantically cleaned to get it ready for the on-in. We donned our gay apparel and headed for the church after loading up with the baklava and the coolers containing bottles of champagne and cases of beer.

Shortly after our arrival, the parking lot was inundated with almost 50 people in all manner of wedding garb. Then there was the bevy of photographers. My friend Victor-charles came to film for his Burning Man project. Other friends came to watch the freak show. And the WSJ, bless its heart, sent BOTH a photographer and a reporter, Andy Manis and Tim Cigelske, who were ultimately simply extraordinary.

We came, we saw, we ran, we drank. Welcome to the world of the Hash. On this particular Hash run, we stopped traffic as well. Running of the Brides was a huge success based solely on turnout and run. But the ante was upped when in the Sunday WSJ we made the first page of the Local section—above the fold! We were thrilled! Wowie, zowie! http://www.madison.com/archives/read.php?ref=/wsj/2005/04/10/0504090267.php Then the story was picked up by the Associated Press (AP), and it began showing up in newspapers—both hard copy and online—all over the world, including a couple news outlets in South Africa. We were mentioned on radio shows and TV news around the U.S. An exercise in bottom-feeding bargain shopping became the Wedding Event the World Watched and gossiped about far more than any excitement Charles and Camilla generated on the same day.

Now... if you'll kindly excuse me, I have to go plan the sequel. And no, it's not going to be Running of the Fat-Assed Housewives.

2005-03-10T21:19:00.000-08:00

Changes: One Wedding, One Funeral, Near Lay-off and a New Job

Monday afternoon I was notified that I got the job for which I'd interviewed last Friday, and that I had 6-1/2 days before the inception of that new position. Say wha-?!?

Well hooray for employment and being able to buy dog fud and pay the mortgage in the forseeable future, after knowing I'd be laid off from Esker Software March 31. I am also immensely grateful that this is a job that gives every appearance of being interesting and absorbing, unlike my career snore of the past 3 years. But I had really counted on the regulation two-week countdown before leaving Esker. Now I feel like I'm on a runaway train; and there's just not time enough to get my system properly adapted to the absence of my Esker friends that I've seen and loved every day for a year, and the impending restrictive "business casual" dress code that will not accommodate choosing among costumes and jeans for my work apparel. I was doing really well with the intellectual take on "it's all for the best", "I'll be making more money and having a more meaningful job", and "sure, cool" until this afternoon when I had to say good-bye to Joy, my fellow tech writer, manager, and amazing woman, who doesn't work on Fridays. Since then I've been crumbling into the grief I really feel and dissolving into tears. Someone will eventually have to put me into a bucket and pour me to wherever I need to go.

This is coming on the heels of the whirlwind preparations for my daughter's wedding since December, followed by the nuptials themselves last month. Lovely. Delightful. Happy. But nevertheless one of those rites of passage that denotes Major Change.

Then last week Bob Wood/Prince Variant, one of the founders of the Madison Hash House Harriers died after a long struggle with cancer. He took the Big C down to the mat a time or two or ten... but it won the final match. He and his beautiful wife Barbara were two incredibly dynamic and loving people. (Well, of course, Barbara still is since I don't see her throwing herself on the funeral pyre. I guess what I'm trying to say is that they were dynamic and loving as individuals and also as a couple, and it's hard to think of them not together.) How could The Prince possibly be gone? He lived well, and even in his final days reportedly had blessedly little pain. He died peacefully in Barb's arms. One cannot live and die with much more grace than he did. I went to the viewing and wake Sunday night. Totally surreal. I kept expecting him to show up, even though I knew that he was the one in the casket. Rest in peace, and stay in our hearts, Prince.

Then there is my disturbing inability of late to say or do anything without unintentionally offending someone... I'm good at stirring the pot and sometimes pushing buttons, but that I do with purpose, a sharp scalpel, and large cannon. When with all goodwill I inadvertently stumble onto someone's personal landmine, the absorption of the resulting organic shrapnel makes me shrink back and think that perhaps I should give up on trying to communicate with those with whom I have such different wavelengths. Save us all a lot of grief. And at this point, I can hardly deal with my own overwhelming emotions and grief from issues that make sense. I'm in no mood to field petty bullshit.

I think I need to go back to hermitizing for a bit. You can reach me at my cave.

2005-03-01T21:14:00.000-08:00

Another Perplexing Sweets Conundrum

My neighbor who lives across the street participates in an annual American Diabetes Association fund-raising campaign, and faithfully mails me a contribution envelope each year. Never mind that I haven't seen her—even in a driveway sighting—for over two years. It's a good cause. Or is it?

I had gone so far as to write "American Diabe" on the check when I started thinking about this terrible disease that creates such far-reaching erosion of the human body. I also started contemplating that a large percentage of those afflicted, particularly with Type II, have some measure of responsibility for their plight when it is spawned or exacerbated by overweight that they personally piled on. I'm certainly on the tubby side myself right now, but I'm not asking anyone to shell out bucks to find a cure for Tight Waistband Syndrome.

I also considered this past Saturday when I turned down both the ASPCA's and Earthjustice's requests for donations, citing my upcoming layoff with no job currently in sight. To my knowledge, none of the ASPCA animals are homeless or abused due to their own acts; and Mother Earth certainly did not ask for the Bush Administration.

Of course, many who have diabetes, particularly Type I, have no responsibility for having the disease; and this does give me some measure of conflict about the issue. But there are too many worthy causes where all or most of the beneficiaries have no other recourse. For now, my money's on them.

2005-02-28T21:27:00.001-08:00

When Candy Hurts

Egads, where did this weight gain come from? This is worse than when I gained 20 pounds in my first two months of pregnancy and feared never seeing my feet again. Right now I'm only slightly smaller than my house. For my daughter's recent wedding, I had to have my dress specially tailored by a Bedouin tentmaker. And if the opportunity arises to escape this Wisconsin winter for a beach vacation, I now fear not only the potential for sunburn, but the very real possibility of harpoon wounds as well.

The problem is that my mouth desires entertainment when my body has absolutely no need of further intake. I have begun entertaining my mouth with sensations that are not high-calorie and fat-laden, with my current favorite being Altoids Cinnamon mints. WOW! I'm not sure if that's entertainment, but it is definitely a sensation and gets my mouth's full attention. Mmmm.... nice cinnamon scent, then a bit of a tingle, then... YOWZA, FIRE DAMMIT!

This reminds me of an article that appeared in Esquire March 2001:
~~~~~~~~~
Recall those innocent days when you thought a Tic Tac in the mouth gave a bang to your life? Or remember even your first Altoid, when you couldn't believe so much peppermint could be harnessed into one small tablet? Good times, good times. Now we've entered a dark era, mintwise. In what seems a bizarre and pointless competition—A Cool War, if you will—mint makers keep upping the dosage. Try a Starbucks After Coffee Mint—a baby-aspirin sized pill—and you're in for a surprisingly painful experience: Your tongue burns as if you just swallowed lye. Your eyes water. Your taste buds are so frazzled, you can't tell a Macallan 25 from a Mad Dog 20/20. Should candy really make us suffer? No. If we're going to test our physical limits as men, shouldn't we do it by climbing the Andes or kayaking in the Atlantic, not by sampling breath fresheners? Yes. And yet, this phenomenon shows no sign of abating. You can buy Titanic Extra Strong Mints. Fresch mints from Germany. Trebor XXX Mints from England. All promise to pummel your mouth with subzero temperatures. We've had enough, thanks. We're going back to Life Savers. —John Godfrey
~~~~~~~~

What are they going to create next under the misnomer of "candy"? Horseradish hard candy? Wasabi taffy? The good news is my taste buds are getting permanently seared out of existence, and miraculously, eating is losing its appeal.

2005-02-23T21:23:00.000-08:00

Wedding Reprise

Saturday my "little girl"—yeah, that 25-year-old that's taller than I am—got married. I left for Austin last Wednesday for the festivities and returned Monday night. Here's the Cliff Note version: I caught a cold beforehand. The wedding was great. I took no pictures. I got my belly button pierced. I consumed so much alcohol between Thursday and Sunday, I will be compelled to go to The Betty to dry out. Chicago O'Hare was...itself. (Although I mouthed all the right "It's your day" words to Carrie and Joshua—it's all about me-me-me when it comes to telling about it in my blog.)

I got a cold Sunday before last. Ergh. I held it off enough that the trip wasn't too miserable (read: better living through chemistry), although it was THERE.... It hasn't gone away, and I am really tired of being host to a mucous factory and the accompanying snorting that entails. However, I was and am hugely grateful that I didn't get ANY of the incredibly virulent stuff that has been going around the office and everywhere else.

Thursday Carrie, Lauren (the Maid of Honor), and I went to the nail place and had spa pedicures and manicures. Total heaven and fun to have Girl Time. Friday the three of us plus Page and Christine (Carrie's lovely and delightful sisters/bridesmaids that I love dearly even though I didn't give birth to them—or maybe they're particularly dear BECAUSE I didn't give birth to them), and I went to the beauty say-lon for up-do's. Fabulous place. They serve wine. Do you really need to know any more?

When I wasn't doing girly stuff, I was having fun with my sister Jo and brother-in-law Mike eating and drinking. And enjoying wearing several fewer layers than required at this time of year in Wisconsin.

Okay, I suppose I must pay some tribute to the event that got us Down South to Decent Weather (balmy 70's) in February: The wedding and reception were simply lovely. Carrie was gorgeous. (Not that I'm biased.) And Joshua looked quite handsome and dashing. Everything went smoothly and without incident. I was utterly thrilled that they had the good taste to have the DJ play "Baby Got Back" during the reception. Easy listening/dancing at its best.

Although I didn't take a single picture (just too freakin' busy drinking and being The Mother of The Bride), the wedding photographer is supposed to post hers to a website at some point. I particularly LOVE this idea after last summer when I had lunch with a few rarely-seen high school friends in Oklahoma, and one of them used the entire time making us look through THREE albums of her son's wedding pictures. It was ghastly! I can see where the delirium of proud motherhood might put one over the edge and out of touch with the feelings of others in such cases, so the wedding photographer website seems like an automatic governor to prevent such behavior and allow me to keep my friends. Or at least to find other and more creative ways of alienating them.

Sunday Joshua's grandparents hosted a brunch for the families of the wedding party. It was very nice, and another welcome eating opportunity even though I was about to founder under my own weight by that time.

Later Carrie and Joshua came over to my hotel for the piercing foray. They unexpectedly brought Jacob, Joshua's 13-year-old cousin, who is utterly adorable. Carrie and I started planning the piercing party shortly after I got my airline tickets and found I'd be staying over Sunday. I'd been wanting to get my belly button pierced (there really is NO logical explanation, so don't ask), and one of my friends had made a pact that we'd do it together in January no matter how fat we were, then get toned up before swimsuit season. But Patti backed out immediately after New Year's. Carrie and Joshua knew a place that was "good", meaning faith in its sterility being greater than that of a McDonald's bathroom. Care held my hand throughout the process, Joshua stood by encouragingly, and Jacob kept teasing me, "Don't scream like a girl!" It was an odd but fun little party and rite of passage.

Coming back, a one-hour layover was scheduled in Chicago, which should have been reduced to about 20 minutes since my incoming flight was a bit delayed. Ha. Ha. Sure... My friend Lori, who connects through O'Hare more often than I go to the grocery store, has probably taken the bus back to Madison more often than her flight has actually made it in, which has taught me to lower my expectations. United was performing maintenance on our aircraft. (Aren't they supposed to do that when people aren't scheduled to get on it?) Still, it could have been much worse. It was a 3:45 flight, and at about 4:15 they called us to board and herded us out onto the tarmac. Then a screaming maintenance woman came at us as though we had tried to storm the gate and told us Madison was not ready to board. Herded us back inside. Turns out the plane flunked a test after maintenance. It wouldn't steer or some other trivial matter, but they failed to communicate that to the INSIDE passenger herders. We did finally leave at 6—so luck is still holding better than the norm.

Now I'm back home. Wisconsin in February. It's colder, but the sun's shining. I'm happy to be home and in my own bed. And more importantly, I'm glad that Carrie is happy with her new husband and how Her Special Day turned out—even though it WAS all about me-me-me.

2005-01-18T21:33:00.000-08:00

Is It Proper to Ask the Virgin Mary to Relinquish My Bathrobe?

Sunday I woke up and saw the Virgin Mary in my bathrobe. Well... kind of. When I go to bed, I toss my beloved leopard-print robe over a convenient outcropping of my 4-poster bed. Sunday morning as I was in that not-quite-awake, semi-dark morning twilight, The Robe was sporting the sweetest, meditative face draped burkha-style, and it was enchanting. (Even in my grogginess, I suspected that it might not REALLY be The TRUE Virgin Mary, and I kept trying to figure out what was making that appearance possible. I later found that the roundness of the inside-out cuff just under the collar did the trick.)

Recently I have been fascinated by life-sized dolls (for example http://www.robinfoley.com/CalendarGirl.html ) and as I was hazily enjoying my personal audience with Our Lady, I kept thinking, "Hmmmm, how could I make something that looks like the Virgin Mary in jungle attire? That'd be SO cool!" So now I've ordered about a billion books from the library on doll-making, panty-hose art, soft sculpture, etc. Here's another amazing soft-sculpture site I found while surfing for info: http://lisalichtenfels.net/

I hope my interest in this doesn't expire as quickly as it has in everything else. Even if I don't do something for a profession, I'd like to find some long-term relationship with a pastime that is also a passion. And if I could do it for a profession, so much the better.

In the meantime, should I tell Mary to get down off the bedpost and find her own bathrobe?

2004-12-20T08:02:00.000-08:00

Bennett's Smut 'n' Eggs and Hash

Multiple monitors broadcasting hard-core porn. Eggs "Bennett-Dick". What says Sunday morning like watching some chick take it in the can while you eat breakfast with a dozen of your closest friends? Welcome to Bennett's Smut 'n' Eggs.

Shortly after I moved to Madison, I heard about this phenomenon that is Bennett's. I'm not a big porn fan—the pros have an amazing talent for making sex look about as exciting as white paint. But I love odd juxtapositions, and it just doesn't get much odder than going with a group to watch porn at a bar that serves breakfast. Two years ago I went with about 10 people from my biking group, the teacher among us wearing a disguise of binocular glasses and praying she didn't see any of her students' parents. (This alone I found hilarious and worth the trip. "Gina, if their parents are here, how could they possibly make an issue about YOU being here?" Well, I suppose they could. Welcome to American education and family values.)

I hadn't been back since, and it seemed high time to have a Hash (the drinking club with the running problem) outing here. So we agreed on the Sunday after the Hash Christmas party.

Probably a dozen Hashers ultimately showed up, some an hour and ahalf past the appointed time. They said they got lost, but maybe they had the good sense to make sex at home rather than punctuality for porn their priority. We all had fun drinking coffee and alcohol with not-bad breakfast selections, and making fun of the porn scenes while discussing the antics of the Hashmas party.

THEN... the midget sex started. It was always a midget (okay, a "small person"—but when you're at Bennett's with a buncha Hashers, political correctness is an even lower priority than punctuality) with a "normal"-sized person. But since when were 36-DD breasts considered normal-sized? It started out with a male midget and the DD-chick. The comments from our table became increasingly rude and raucous. MilkBoneher started a Top Ten List for the Hash newsletter on Reasons to Have Sex With a Midget, and we all happily and loudly contributed. The midget dude and DD-chick did each other several different ways, and then the film switched to a midget-chick who had a haunting resemblance to Madonna. She was teamed up with 12-inch dude of otherwise normal proportions. (One top reason the guys cited for having sex with a midget: your cock looks huge in her tiny hands.) The comments from our table continued to roll out with accelerated hilarity. Finally someone observed that Hashers were capable of embarrassing even the clientele of Bennett's Smut 'n' Eggs. It was a proud moment. Life is good.

2004-12-15T21:38:00.000-08:00

Integration in Theory Only

Today at work we had a free lunch. It was the big Christmas shindig with Rural Insurance, which owns our office building and occupies two-thirds of it. They are a conservative lot, and most of them look like 80's throwbacks.

Esker employees, being of a French-based company that was originally a Madison hippie-based company and still maintaining a basic dress code of "clothes are not optional", are a major contrast to Rural folk in every sense of the word. The women from Rural often look at me as though they are praying for my soul. (Today it's the black blazer over a plaid pleated skirt that's only a couple inches below my butt, with black tights & Mary Janes... Catholic schoolgirl meets naughty elf.)

At this exercise in shared holiday conviviality, all the Esker people sat at tables together, and all the Rural Insurance people sat at tables together, proving that socially not much changes after junior high. Except not all the boys and girls were segregated on opposite sides of the room.

After the barbershop quartet performed two numbers, my fear of more to follow propelled me to my car where I played heavy metal at high volume. I think my senses have now re-established equilibrium.

2004-11-22T21:44:00.000-08:00

I’M BAA-A-A-A-A-C-C-C-CKKKKK

I've heard rumblings from several quarters about my paucity of blogging. Guilty as charged. I must say, I’m so pleased that people would be urging me to write rather than cheering this particular blog vacuum.

One friend accused me of the “I’ve Got a New Boyfriend Disappearing Act”. I wish it were so romantic. I did have a new bf kind of. Sort of. For two weeks. Repeat of “Mr. Fisher”. Except this one’s “Mr. Hunter”. Newly divorced. I got to be the rebound. He found he was scared to death of dating. I found he was chronically moody and not nearly interested enough in dancing and/or me to compensate for that unpleasantness. When he left for his hunting trip, he said he hoped that spending a week in the woods would help him clear his head and decide what he wants. While he’s in the woods, I feel that I’m out of them. And quite clear-headed about what I don't want.

But back to blogging or the lack thereof.... What has really taken up my normal blogging time has been work—I've actually had to do some. It sucks when work cuts into my hobbies.I’m also back to triathlon training (TT). My psychic and physical injuries from the bike wreck have healed enough that I’m running, swimming, and biking again hallelujah amen! I worked up a new training schedule last week. Although it’s at a basic level since I’m just getting back into it, it still takes a LOT of time. Certainly more time than a mere boyfriend would suck up. And almost more than one of those really bad relationships where I... er... I mean someone... is attempting to stalk the guy into submission, which takes all kinds of time and energy. The training is that demanding, the difference being that it gives back endorphins that zing around and make me feel good, as well as making my clothes fit better. And I’ve never called a girlfriend to help me analyze just what the hell was going on with my TT and why it wasn’t calling. TT is almost codependent—it is ALWAYS calling, ALWAYS demanding I spend time with it, and it is ALWAYS there for me. Almost oppressively so.

And sometimes it keeps me away from my blog.

2004-10-14T22:10:00.000-07:00

The Toothpick Tower

This evening I went to a writer’s workshop led by the poet Hermine Meinhard. After introductions, she began a writing exercise by littering the table with a motley group of objects—corks, coffee filters, toothpicks, nails. The moment the toothpicks spilled out of the box, my eyes welled with tears of nostalgia; and I felt like I’d been pulled back in time—like hearing a song that returns you to the moment you first heard it, complete with attendant sights, smells, and feelings.

Carrie’s eighth-grade science teacher assigned the semester final: The Toothpick Project. It was actually a study in engineering design, with size and height specifications for a toothpick-and-Elmer’s-glue structure that, when completed, had to support the weight of a 10-pound bowling ball.

As was typical at the time, Carrie procrastinated. She started perhaps a week before the project was due and did a tiny bit. The vast majority was done the night before and into the early morning hours of the day it was due.

We had boxes and boxes and boxes of toothpicks. Can you imagine how many it takes to construct a tower a foot high and 6-8” in diameter? The little wooden creatures took on a life of their own in achieving random distribution throughout the house. I remember telling Care that we would be using the leftover toothpicks 'til she was in college. We did. And they were always a sweet reminder of The Toothpick Tower constructed in haste, that groaned in protest, but upheld the bowling ball.

2004-10-12T22:06:00.000-07:00

The Slump—it's not just for sports anymore

I’m trying to figure out why I’m now in the biggest dating slump of my adult life. Could it be that I’ve suddenly lost all social skills and have become a social pariah? Bad juju? Bad breath? Global warming? Maybe it’s because I don’t meet a lot of guys in my kitchen. (I can hear it now, “What’s a babe like you doin’ in a dump like this? Obviously not floors and windows.”) I guess I really haven’t been getting out much.

My friends Patti and Matt apparently thought so too because they wrangled me out of my cave for Saturday’s Beerfest at Quivey’s Grove. “Oh look! We have an extra ticket! You MUST come. There’s a whole group going that’s very fun!” Free ticket. Limitless beer. Best part: the wonderful people that are Patti and Matt I haven’t spent nearly enough time with of late. Sure. I’ll come out of hibernation for that.

We all met at Monkeyshines, a bar about a mile from QG. This allowed us to throw down some food to serve as belly primer for the beer, and also provided convenient parking and avoidance of the traffic crush. The group seemed nice, and of course it was great to see P&M. Once we were primed, we made the stroll to Quivey’s. OMG! WHAT a day! Crystal blue skies, temps in the high 60’s—it was a rush just to be outside.

The abundance only increased when we arrived. Twenty-five breweries at twenty-five tables giving out multiple flavors of beer on tap. It was better than an alcoholic Baskin Robbins. I kept running into friends and acquaintances I hadn’t seen in awhile. (Could The Cave be the culprit?) We exchanged hugs, told our stories, caught up with each others’ lives.

Standing under a tree with the gold and red of the season burning bright, I got into conversation with one of Matt’s friends. Days before, Patti had mentioned, with strong implied meaning, that some of Matt’s single friends would be in our group. I probably said something like, “Oh cool” or some other how-nice externality that interprets to something like, “Oh yeah? So what? Big deal.” As we talked, I had a hard time hanging on to my cynicism. He was smart. Interesting. Seemed like one of those people who has a core of solid decency fueled by a certain dynamism that makes it appealing rather than admirable-but-boring.

In our first 10 minutes of conversation, he invited me to go on a Dec ’05 Argentina mountain-climbing expedition. I called his bluff and accepted. I’ve never had good luck with guys who early on offered sweeping invitations for major future events. However, if someone I knew little or none said, “I’m going to Antarctica for Christmas. Do you want to go?”, I’d jump at that too. I was never good at passing up the potential for adventure. He did have the good grace to get my phone number.

It’s been so long since I’ve had the luxury of The Man Thing—that masculine presence in a social situation where there is some mutual interest, and that “Y” chromosome gives off an aura that’s stronger than musk. A drug I’ve been off for awhile. I had to make a conscious effort to get away—seek out the porta-potties, find other people to talk to, try a new beer—anything to avoid just standing there glassy-eyed, getting fix after fix and giving this man the impression that I had become a permanently-affixed barnacle on his ass.

Despite or because of having gone on countless dates in my lifetime, it becomes no less awkward, no less exciting, no less confounding to wonder if the phone will actually ring. Although the Quivey’s meeting was tantalizing, I expected nothing. Hoped a bit. But didn’t really do the Miracle on 34th Street “I believe” thing. After three days, I’m assuming my phone number has been deep-sixed. You can’t expect the cynicism to melt in one easy lesson on a clear afternoon with a wealth of beer. But damnit! Barry Bonds never went this long without a hit.

2004-10-11T22:01:00.000-07:00

What Would Superman Think?

I don’t feel overly preoccupied with morbidity, but my blog of late would seem to deny that assessment. But hey, people die, dogs have surgery, wars are waged, fears arise. It happens. And well… last night Superman died, and I simply can’t let that pass without commentary.

This morning when I heard the news that Christopher Reeve had passed on, I felt much more sadness than I normally do for even someone in the Hollywood community whose work I admire greatly. And let’s face it—Reeve at his height of fame was acclaimed for movies that required B-grade acting. His gift to me was ultimately becoming my biggest ally on bad days.

In case you’ve been living in a cave for the last decade—a cave without even a battery-operated radio or a couple Dixie cups with a string—Christopher Reeve played Superman in four incredibly successful movies of the same name and variously assigned numerals. His career was much more extensive, of course, but those were the flicks that made him fly both literally and figuratively. Then in 1995 he was thrown from a horse and paralyzed from the neck down. He had always been an activist, but after this event that at worst would have sent me into a permanent sulk and, at best, motivated me to perpetuate my blog by moaning into voice-activated software… well, Reeve was made of finer stuff. He took this horrible, life-flattening event and with this leaden tragedy alchemically made gold with his activism, expending enormous effort to make the way better for present and future victims of his fate. The man never gave up.

So what does this have to do with me? A few years ago I was having just a completely crappy day and was totally bummed and… surely I don’t have to tell you what it’s like to have a bad day. Back then I didn’t even have a blog to whine to. At some point I started thinking about Christopher Reeve, and how if I were he and had had this day complete with everything going wrong, it would still be the best day of my life because I was breathing without a ventilator and feeding myself and by God walking on my own two legs. I then imagined what it would feel like to be deprived of walking and to get it back and the joy that would accompany such a momentous event. In that moment, it felt like my obligation on Reeve’s behalf to really appreciate what a wonderful miracle I had goin’ there. Suddenly my day took on a sheen of amazement and happiness because I was WALKING! And even running. Okay, we’re not talking land speed records, but we’re not talking wheelchair-bound either.

I guess having this indirect relationship with “Superman” has been a little like having an imaginary friend. Whatever it is, it has been highly effective as my litmus test and reframer when bad days happen. “Hmmmm… what kind of day would this be for Christopher Reeve?” Then taking on those feelings of joy and amazement yet again. Once in awhile I try it, and my Inner Bitch mutters, “Oh for chrissake, even HE thinks it sucks!” And that makes me laugh, so it’s still a win.

This morning on the news, they replayed a 2002 interview in which he said how jealous he sometimes felt as people did the simplest physical tasks without realizing how precious those moments were. He mentioned watching a guy get out of a chair and stretch, and thinking, “You’re not even thinking about what you’re doing and how lucky you are to do that.” I probably don't fully know just how lucky I am, but because of Christopher Reeve, I have a much better idea of and appreciation for it than I would have otherwise.

If there is an afterlife, forget resting in peace, Chris. Catch up on your running.

2004-10-08T22:00:00.000-07:00

Time of the Season

Sure, I could look at the calendar to see that it’s autumn, but I prefer not to take my cues from such a blunt instrument for a season so nuanced. As early as August, signs that the door was closing on summer appeared—some as subtle as a blush, and others with the impact of a linebacker. Perhaps it was the chilly summer that provided premature encouragement to trees to start shamelessly changing colors and dropping leaves as wantonly as pole dancers at a Republican Convention. And to a girl raised in the wilds of Texas and Oklahoma where the pigskin is a holy sacrament, the commencement of Monday Night Football signals its own autumnal equinox celebration.

Over the last couple weeks, almost every run and walk with the dogs has been accompanied by encroaching seasonal early warning systems, including dawns that are waking up later every morning and sunsets retiring the light before it seems fit. When I first started hearing repeated raucous bird sounds, I couldn’t identify the source. Did someone in the neighborhood keep ducks? Then I looked overhead and saw Canadian honkers cutting their graceful “V” like a pointer to Florida. Oh yeah. We’re not in Texas anymore, Toto. Those birds of a feather are splittin’ before the snow falls.

This morning the ultimate “other shoe” of finality dropped. I dutifully picked up after Murray and Bill (yes sir, yes sir, three bags full), and as I got to the far side of Northland Park where I usually dispose of these treasures, I saw that the big, green park trash cans had been removed—not to be seen again until late spring. I don’t care what the calendar says. Winter is here, and tonight the flannel sheets are goin’ on the bed.

2004-10-07T21:58:00.000-07:00

Bill Update

When I got home from work, I had a message from Dr. Christman, Bill's veterinarian. The lab report is in. [Drum roll] The envelope, please....

The "mass" was a fatty tumor, and it was benign! (Unlike the gas the patient is currently passing, which is totally noxious.)

Wahoo! I'm SO relieved! Many of you who read my blog have sent good wishes, and even get-well cards. Bill and I both thank you all so much for your concern and kindness.

2004-10-06T21:55:00.000-07:00

Just One

When I go to a restaurant solo and the host says, “Just one?”, I will usually tease, “JUST one? Is that not enough? Do you have a two-person minimum?” My reaction was in a slightly less humorous vein when I was listening to the news Sunday, and a commentator wrapped up the report on yet another Middle East bloodbath with “Just one American soldier was killed.”

JUST one? Like that wasn’t enough? Or it was barely significant enough for her to even waste the oxygen to expel the information? I wonder if that soldier’s mother, upon hearing the news thought, “Oh well. It was just one.” How many tears will be wept this week and this year over that “just one”? How many lives had that “just one” touched, and how many of those will be unalterably changed because of that moment when “just one American soldier was killed”?

Maybe it hit a particular nerve due to the phenomenon of 'when one person dies it's a tragedy, when 10,000 die, it's a statistic'. All I know was that suddenly "just one" seemed up-close and personal, and the tragedy was in the depersonalization.

http://www.alternet.org/waroniraq/20080/

2004-10-05T21:49:00.000-07:00

Requiem

I’ve gone from being an inveterate partier to something of a recluse, and my activities of this past weekend speak volumes of that transformation. From the time I returned home from work Friday night until I went to work Monday morning, I left the house only twice. The first foray was to buy a lottery ticket and a burger. The second was for the social highlight of my weekend—singing at a memorial service for a man I'd never met.

As I was driving to the church, it occurred to me how odd it was to be devoting my Sunday afternoon to someone about whom I knew so little. The man, nameless to me, had apparently attended the Unitarian Church. His widow sings in the choir, but I don't really know her either since I’m new and she’s a soprano. As the radio announced the 0-0 close of the first half of the Packers/Giants bout, I inwardly grumbled that I could safely deduce the deceased and his family certainly weren’t Packers fans to have planned a service occurring in the middle of a game.

Once at the church, I found the tables where I could deposit my food contribution (hell, no, I didn’t cook—I’ve been transformed, not replaced by a freakin’ doppleganger!), and expended extaordinary culinary effort to arrange my fancy pickles and olives in faux crystal dishes. The choir warm-up was starting, so I assumed my place for the brief rehearsal. The music and camaraderie dissolved the little piece of resentment I'd harbored about spending a gorgeous Sunday afternoon not only inside but without even the benefit of a big-screen TV.

With my head feeling a bit dull and thick (not atypical, some would say) and 30 minutes remaining before the service commenced, I went in search of coffee. After a couple false starts, I found the life-giving substance in what is known as the “West Living Room” in this fabulous Frank Lloyd Wright-designed building. There I also stumbled onto displays set up to share glimpses of David Woodward’s life.

The pictures showed an attractive man, with a character-chiseled face and neatly trimmed beard. An obituary, blown up to poster size, indicated that he was considered important enough by the New York Times to rate an impressive amount of copy. He was British. (In the memorial service, his brothers in their UK brogues lovingly explained that he had merely been on loan to us Yanks for 40 years. Perhaps that heritage explains why there was no empathy for planning his memorial service around American football legacies.) Dr./Professor David Woodward "transformed the history of cartography from a directionless Eurocentric field into a respectable subject now global in scope." He and Ros had three children, one of whom died tragically at 7 in 1978. And David himself had died before his time of bile duct cancer just four days shy of his sixty-second birthday.

On a table a couple letters were displayed that appeared to have been written to Ros in his initial stages of infatuation with her. His intelligence, warmth, dry wit, and gentle self-deprecation were evident in these very brief missives, not to mention his glowing adoration of this woman to whom he was ultimately married for almost four decades. Copies of books he had written were on the same table.

During the memorial service I learned more about this quiet man, his unflagging drive in his profession, his remarkable lack of ego, his kindness, his amazing wit, his influence on and support of colleagues and students, and his propensity for mind-numbing detail. Of course, it was the guy who had the least relevant material to share who took up a full quarter of the service. One of David’s former colleagues, a dry and dusty cartographic librarian, seemed to think nothing of detailing 20 years of David’s resumes, including the full text of letters exchanged, and pretty much 30 minutes of excruciating detail about the history of cartography. This is the stuff Vogon poetry* is made of—it’s always the most boring person who thinks it’s okay to spend the most time making people contemplate chewing their collective foot off at the ankle to escape. My ass fell asleep during this sonmanbulistic trial by dullness, and I was surprised I could hoist said dead ass out of the seat when Mr. Anethesia finally wrapped it up, and it was time for our choral number.

Despite that one extremely long and disheartening stretch of verbal desert, the service was ultimately an event that left me wishing I had known David Woodward, even if it had been only during the one brief semester he sang in the choir. To him I say: Sing on, David. Make your maps in heaven. Chart the maps of history and the history of maps. Know that you were treasured by many. And that there are those of us who haven't met you who value your legacy as a remarkable human being who illuminated the aspirations of others and exhibited humility in an arena where egos were more the norm. Live on, Dr. Woodward.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*See Douglas Adams' "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy".

2004-10-02T07:55:00.000-07:00

Singin’ in the Comeback Choir*

When I started my “I need to recreate my life” campaign and went to the desperate measures of seeking out the Unitarian Church, I knew that chances were it was merely a temporary aberration. I went to one church service. I went to one choir practice. And I was hooked. The first fix is free.

The following Sunday we—the choir that now had me in it—performed. I was hooked more.

Music for me probably started in the cradle. Ours was a model dysfunctional American family, but in retrospect I can see so many cool things that my parents did that more than counter-balanced their wrong turns. My folks are just not what anyone would traditionally associate with the word “cool”—then or now. But I think about how my mom played accordion, my dad played the violin, and they both played piano—and they were just awful at all of these pursuits. My dad’s little joke was “If you can’t sing good, sing loud.” Except where some of our family musical abilities were concerned, it wasn’t exactly a joke. And now I think this was one of their great gifts to us—that freedom to make and enjoy music without the crippling burden of having to be perfect or even good in order to fully participate.

When I was a little kid my two sisters and I would sing while we washed and dried dishes, and I probably learned to harmonize before I learned to tie my shoes. On vacations we would sing in the car when we weren’t arguing. We sang in church. I consider the Church of the Nazarene to be an incredibly destructive force that probably should have come under scrutiny for its carnage to the human psyche way before the Muslims got a bad rep—but by golly, their music was great! I was in both school and church choirs throughout junior high and high school. I even made Oklahoma All State Choir my sophomore year. Once I started college, my choir days were mostly over. But that didn’t keep me from singing.

During Carrie's formative years, she would be embarrassed and try to shush me when I would start singing, which was often and anywhere. I had to remind her that public humiliation of my progeny was not only my right but my duty as a parent. Friends have always been much more forgiving and even seem to delight in my tendency to burst into song at the least or no provocation. Their enjoyment seems to escalate in direct proportion to the number of drinks they’ve had.

Now, in addition to karaoke and impromptu singing, I’m back in choir. Church choir, no less. Dan, our director, strikes the perfect balance of expecting excellence from us, while recognizing that we’re an amateur volunteer group. We sing great music that’s a stretch, and it sounds amazing. Well, maybe not the first time or two through it…

Thursday evening I was at a going away party for one of my co-workers, and when I mentioned that I had to leave to go to choir practice, our receptionist started belly-laughing. Then she looked at me and said, “You are kidding, aren’t you?” It took a lot to suspend her disbelief. It’s true folks—every Thursday night as I go to church choir practice, there are frost warnings in hell. I love defying the odds. For now my money is on the Jewish axiom: God respects me when I work—but he loves me when I sing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*With apologies to Bebe Moore Campbell

2004-10-01T21:46:00.000-07:00

You Can’t Keep a Good Dog Down

I was surprised by the number of people who said they would pray for my dog, and delighted with their effectiveness. Bill’s surgery went well. The mass was completely "encapsulated", so it hadn't wrapped around anything else and was pretty easy to get out (at least that's what the folks at the vet’s said—not like I was there—I don't want to give the impression that this is a first-person account and that I've taken up veterinary surgery in my spare time). They said that a dog’s “wrist” (that’s what I call it anyway) is not a place where fatty tumors usually develop, but they're more hopeful that's what it was rather than the Big C. We'll know more in a week or two when the lab results come back. I'm still worried for Bill, but not as much as I was.

When I picked him up after the surgery, he was limping but not zombie-like as I'd expected. As an act of faith in his longevity, I had had them clean his teeth while he was anesthesized. One molar was cracked and had to be pulled. The poor creature. That morning he had joyfully jumped into the car thinking of nothing but a nice ride. I can’t imagine his sense of betrayal when he awoke to a bandaged and painful wrist, a missing tooth, and sore gums. For me it was another $270 in unplanned expenses in a financial train wreck of a quarter. Lordy...

Bill limped around for a couple days. Slo-mo, but not bad at all for what he’d been through. During that time Murray kept trying to get him to play. Murray loves to incite—he'll bark or generally run around—trying to get Bill or me or anyone handy to play with him or chase him. If Murray were a kid, he would definitely be Class Clown. He tried his usual antics with Bill, who was havin' none of it and would just lie there as Murray barked at him. Part of their normal routine is that Bill won't let Murray have any toys, although I think Murray just goes along with it as part of their script. A couple times Murray went so far as to do the unthinkable and PICK UP A TOY RIGHT IN FRONT OF BILL. Oh my, THAT got Bill onto his feet, even in his semi-ambulatory state! Murray would drop the toy immediately, and then Bill would lie down again—so Murray’s mission wasn’t fully accomplished. But talk about dog psychology! Who needs television?

As of this evening Bill is no longer limping, and he's back in the fray of playing, protecting the toys from Murray, and exhibiting full energy. It will be another week or so before the lab report is back. It hangs like a little cloud, but I try to be positive and think about those faithful prayer warriors who are in Bill’s corner, favoring the miracle of good outcomes. So far, so good.

2004-09-29T20:39:00.000-07:00

A Small Tragedy

Last Thursday night I noticed a golf-ball size lump on my dog Bill's "wrist". You might wonder how I could NOT see it, but because of the way the joint makes its own little lump plus all the fur, it didn't show up that much. When I took him to the vet Saturday she initially thought it was a cyst. But it didn't aspirate like a cyst. That meant the signs were not good, and it was very possibly cancerous. We set up Bill’s surgery for this morning, Wednesday, to have what became known as “the mass” removed.

Bill and Murray both are pushing 12 years old, and I’m fully cognizant that as George Carlin observes, “You're not getting a pet, you're getting a small tragedy in the making. You know why? Because all pets die badly.” It does start hitting home when the dogs start having similar problems to those of aging parents: the arthritis, the cataracts, the groaning when they arise from a sitting position.... Although so far, The Boys show no interest in going to the senior center to play rummy.

Even with Carlin and the realities of doggy geriatrics in mind, having the potential of the “C” word looming over a beloved pet is a kick in the gut. Bill’s life—or what I knew of it—kept filling my thoughts. How when he runs to me he bounces as though he’s spring-loaded, how he looks at me so soulfully as though he can’t believe his luck in being with such a creature, how he seems oblivious to even the remote possibility that I might have flaws… The minute Dr C said “This concerns me” with that ominous tone, every blessed Bill story and moment and tic kept going through my head like bad sitcom reruns.

I have Bill because of Murray. Murray was an inmate at the Sacramento County pound (er... animal control shelter) in 1993, and when asked whether he wanted to face the executioner's gas or come live at my house... it wasn't an easy decision, but he finally agreed to the latter. He was about 8 months old, but still almost large enough to qualify as livestock. When people would ask, "What kind of dog is he?" the closest breed description I could come up with was a cross between an Italian Spinone and German Wirehair Pointer. So I would just say, "He's a Murray dog."In October 2001, a lady who, before her rates went through the roof, used to keep Murray at her kennel when I was out of town, left a message saying, "Sorry to bother you, and this might seem weird. But I watch the noon news every day, and they always feature an SPCA animal. Today their feature was a dog who looks like Murray and his name is Murray. Is your dog okay?" I called back, thanking her profusely for thinking of me, but assuring her that Murray was just fine. I pondered this oddity momentarily because Murray is not a generic-looking dog, nor is Murray a particularly generic dog name. But then dismissed it and went on with life.

A little over a week later, a friend emailed me with a link saying, "You've got to look at the SPCA web site. There's a dog that looks like Murray, and his name is Murray." Oh my. Is there a pattern here? Is the Delphi Oracle speaking to me? Then I made the mistake of looking. Not identical, but there was an amazing resemblance, and they were even the same age. I spent two hours arguing with myself about not wanting an additional dog. The trials, the tribulations, the expense. I also contemplated that statistically Murray's cosmic brother, going on 9 years old, had only slightly better than a snowball's chance in hell of getting adopted. I spent my lunch hours the next two days at the SPCA and by the weekend I had added another Murray dog to the homestead. It got a little confusing, so finally had to rename Murray 2, and when I polled for suggestions, got two votes for Bill. So now it's Bill and Murray.

I got Bill from the SPCA on October 20. When I looked at Murray's '93 pound papers, I had gotten him October 21. [Fade with Twilight Zone theme song.... ] I've only had Bill three years, and it hasn’t been nearly long enough.This morning I got up early so I could take The Boys for a final walk before Bill’s surgery—not knowing when he would be able to exercise again. Dawn was just starting to unbutton the night sky, and it was the perfect crisp autumn morning. This was the walk where I experienced first-hand that living-in-the-moment stuff I’m always hearing I should be doing. I love Bill and Murray, but I get exasperated as they poke along with their plodding, their sniffing, and their whizzing on anything upright. This morning I gloried in every sniff. Each whiz was cause for declaring it a remarkable day. And even wrapping a Woodman’s produce bag around steaming shit seemed like a privilege in the mere doing. These blessed creatures.When we were on the return, the mist hanging over the park didn’t fully hide an abandoned soccer ball. Usually I’m a law-abiding citizen, if not downright anal where leash laws are concerned. But a Last Walk, a soccer ball, and a wide-open parkground overcame any thoughts of citizenship.

The leashes came off. I ran for the soccer ball, and Bill, ever the one to think all my ideas brilliant, joined the game. Murray the Incorrigible did his own little dance, reveling in his freedom. Bill caught on to dribbling almost immediately, although he also experimented with putting his chest to the ball and rolling on it. Murray—the same Murray that gets slower and more doddering with each run and pants as though he’s expiring and hangs back with anything faster than a walk—that Murray bolted to the opposite side of the park. Damned sandbagger. I abandoned the soccer ball to capture Murray before he disappeared—and Bill, sure that I had some other brilliant plan, joined in the chase. We finally caught M as he stopped to hydrate a tree. Leashes were re-attached.

A sweet and uneventful finish ensued. Then the trip to the vet, where I planted a kiss on top of Bill’s furry pate and assured him that lots of people were praying for him. True to form, I blubbered as I walked back to the car unleashed.

2004-09-15T21:58:00.000-07:00

The City of New Orleans

Good morning, America, how are you?
Don't you know me I'm your native son.
I'm the train they call The City of New Orleans,
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.
-Steve Goodman

This morning NPR was filled with stories of The Big Easy emptying of residents as they fled for higher ground. For those who have not yet escaped the approaching Hurricane Ivan, the exits are closing, and they’d better be stocking up on plywood, liquor, and water wings. Even Amtrak’s celebrated City of New Orleans hauled its last load of human cargo out this morning and will only be going as far south as Jackson, Mississippi for the remainder of the week.

I find it strange to contemplate running away from New Orleans. I have countless wonderful memories made in different parts of the globe throughout my lifetime, but a disproportionate number originated in The Crescent City. It’s a place you go to—and typically depart from only because your vacation or money runs out.I was first exposed to the magic of New Orleans when I was in college, and drove there with a boyfriend. A hick chick from the Texas and Oklahoma Panhandles, I was a bit lost in its vast mystery; but it was like being lost in an enchanted forest. Intimidating perhaps, but still thrilling to discover history, new adventure, and even voodoo darkness around every corner.

Years down the road after I had barely left the ranks of couch spuds, I ran my first 10K there. Yeah, that’s right. Me. I ran it. Incredible! I’d spent most of my life believing only the superhuman could run a whole mile, and I had just run more than six of them in that soft, enveloping Louisiana humidity. It was a life-changing event that broke through all kinds of self-limitations and made me realize that I was capable of so much more than I had ever believed. The Crescent City Classic 10K was a turning point that made me so love the whole idea of running, I became a committed runner for life. (And yes, at times, a runner that should be committed.)

So many fantastic New Orleans experiences. I’ve been to one Mardi Gras. I’ve run two Crescent City Classics. Watched Final Four playoffs there. Delighted in Saints football at the Super Dome where the fans love and support their team regardless of the standings because it's one more chance for a party. Eaten too many sugary beignets to count. Happily awakened with hot cups of chicory coffee after long nights—and early mornings—of dancing and shameless imbibing. Learned to love the colors green, gold, and purple together and buses that have "Cemetery" on their destination marquee. Discovered that my distaste for large milling crowds completely dissipates when it’s the large milling crowd at JazzFest.

There was the time at the Carousel Revolving Bar at the Monteleone Hotel when I'd had a few and decided to interview people about their "revolutionary" experience. One precious blonde chicky drunkenly breathed, "Ah fahnd that if Ah keep one foot on the grow-w-nd, Ah don't fall off."

Ironically I can identify in some ways with the hurricane refugees. There was the one time I departed New Orleans to leave a marriage that had already sustained irreparable damage and for which the climate would never be anything but stormy. New Orleans has never again been my home although I’ve returned to that beloved city many times since. I hope those folks leaving today, contrary to all Thomas Wolfe predictions, can go home. Soon. To clear weather and the inimitable magic of The Big Easy.

2004-09-01T08:39:00.000-07:00

The Hellfire Club - R.I.P.

For a few minutes every Wednesday when the e-version of The Village Voice hits my inbox, I get to be a New Yorker again. The Voice serves as my personal time machine that returns the vibrations of the subway platform to the soles of my feet, wafts the stench of urine from concrete corners, and walks me to work through the World Trade Center concourse once more.

If The Voice takes me back in time, Michael Musto’s column transports me to the best of New York’s depravity—a weekly if momentary departure from my sadly wholesome Wisconsin experience. Musto is a flamingly gay and wickedly funny writer who delights in reviewing events and people who don’t show up under the Family Values banner. He even returns emails. God love’im.

In today’s column, he briefly mentioned “the late, lamented Hellfire Club”. Whaddya mean?! Late? Lamented? OMG! One more piece of my NY history gone with the WTC?

My relationship with—or education from—the Hellfire Club was brief but memorable. I had recently moved to NY, and was so excited to be in Gotham, working for a major Wall Street firm no less. I was dating a commodities trader whose tastes turned out to be… er… shall we say “eclectic”. I have always been a bit on the straight and narrow—more through happenstance and accidents of birth than through conscious choice. So when we entered this dark, cave-like place called Hellfire Club, and I started observing a world that you just don’t find in the Texas Panhandle, it was a total E-Ticket ride.

We sashayed through the club and watched the various convolutions for the furtherance of my sexual education and edification. There was the naked lady doing contortionist acts worthy of Cirque du Soleil. And the guy chained to a cross using one hand to poke himself with nails and the other to execute onanistic sexual acts. There were many more, but those were two of the more memorable. Around each of the “performers” were throngs of voyeurs. I suppose that would include us, although we didn’t seem to get quite as much dynamic pleasure from the act of observing as others apparently were. With our prosaic attire—Jack in his suit and I in a dress that was undoubtedly short but not provocative by Hellfire standards—we might as well have worn a sign saying, “Nope. Don’t come here often.”

The best word to describe my Hellfire foray is "hilarious". I know, I know, that is not the word normally accompanying Homer-esque sexual experiences. But everything there seemed contrived and like most of the habitués were working so hard for what can usually be achieved with a little tweak or buzz or nibble. The funniest aspects were the odd juxtapositions we encountered after making the circuit of this sexual Disneyland and going to the bar. A tough-looking woman in full dominatrix attire—black leather corset, exposed breasts, and Goth make-up—approached to take our order. As she opened her mouth, a voice better suited to Minnie Mouse than Xena Warrior Bitch inquired if we wanted juice or soda. Despite every manner of sexual perversity going on around us, juice and soda were apparently the hedonistic drinks of choice. What, no Kool Aid?

Once our refreshing beverages were served, Jack and I indulged in a bit of making out. Hardly that. No groping, no gasping. Just a bit of embrace and innocent kissing. Suddenly we noticed that we were surrounded by a phalanx of folks formerly engrossed by Cross Dude, Contortionist Chick, and... well, you know... what you'd think were far more interesting venues than a fully-clothed, white hetero couple sitting there kissing. But the naked S&M stuff had apparently become old hat compared to this novelty of a couple in boring middle-American apparel doing the unthinkable, if not unimaginable—kissing. Amazing how any pendulum will seek its extremes, but I guess in a sex bar, G-rated becomes the kink.

And now I'm reading that the Hellfire Club is gone. I emailed Michael to get the dirt. Where is it? What tragedy befell it? His response:“Like all the other sex and/or s/m clubs, it was turned into a trendy, overpriced restaurant!”So New York.
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Joke from this morning’s “La Dolce Musto” column: "Why does Kobe Bryant always cry after sex? It's the Mace."