One Heart, One Hope

Back to Earth

2012-01-23T02:52:00.001-08:00

Woke up this morning to a chirping cat whose chirping took on a slightly more sinister note when I saw her...how can I describe this...scooting on her bottom along my bathroom floor.

Yeah.

My suspicions were confirmed a few minutes later when I turned on the lights. Sight was joined by smell. I would have been horrified had I not been worried about her well being. After a few minutes of discomfort, she obviously dislodged whatever was...stuck...and is now grooming in one of her favorite chairs.

I hope this isn't indicative of how the rest of my Monday will unfold. When you start out cleaning up smeared cat poo, surely your day can only improve.

Right? o.O

Victory, Sweet Victory

2012-01-22T18:02:00.000-08:00

I did it. I finally figured out how to work those blasted DPNs.
Photo evidence below. All I can say is BOOYAH!

Double Pointed Needles = Tools of Satan

2012-01-22T07:42:00.001-08:00

Since my last post, I've created another set of wrist warmers, these in a bright turquoise, and have braved the beast known as double pointed needles (DPNs) again. One particular project I've been dying to try requires knitting with five double pointed needles. Five. Needles. At. One Time. To give you an idea of how uncoordinated I am, I will admit that I've been attempting to master this trick on and off for the past six months.

I KNOW.

At some point, a normal person would decide that life is too short to bash her brains against a wall and would try something else. Not me. My father told me decades ago that I always did things the hard way, and he wasn't just whistlin' Dixie.

I've watched several videos on YouTube wherein normal people with ten fingers whip through knitting with five needles at one time like it's no big deal. I've learned that part of my problem is that the project calls for very few stitches starting out, so the needles aren't secured by the stitches themselves. Another problem may be the weight of my DPNs; my preference for needles is wood, but these are ultra-light and tend to slip, slide, and spin. So I've bought some heavier metal needles, and I've bought some heavier cotton yarn in a similar color to the thin silk I bought for the project.

Into the breach. Again.

Oi.

The Diva

2012-01-04T18:29:00.000-08:00

SIL Kat asked for a picture of the Diva performing her yarn selection supervisory duties.

You may admire her now.

;)

A New Year

2012-01-03T18:37:00.000-08:00

Oh holy cats, it was cold here today! Highs got up to the oh-so-NOT-balmy mid 30s, but the whipping wind made it feel like the 20s. I'm not a fan of cold weather anymore, but at least I got to wear my newly-made fingerless mitts and my knit cap from the Knit Happens group.

Work was okay, mostly a day of catching up and re-prioritizing. Unfortunately, the cold from hell got the best of me, and by the end of the day, I was queasy from coughing so much. The inhaler & tessalon pearls did very little to slow things down, so I stopped and bought a box of Allegra. It's not doing much either. I really don't want to go see the doc because she's of the belief that if I try hard enough, I can suppress the cough through sheer willpower alone, and I don't want to be lectured about my lack thereof. Bah.

Did some more crocheting tonight, this time with a felting wool in shades of rose and cocoa. I'm going to felt the swatch tomorrow and see how the colorway comes out. If it's as pretty as I hope it will be, I'm either going to make another set of wrist warmers or go whole hog and make a purse/bag.

I pulled out a selection of yarn to take to work tomorrow so a pal can pick out yarn for her own wristwarmers. The Diva promptly jumped up into the chair where I was stacking the yarn and arranged her fabulous self across the cushion. Of course, I had to snap pix and take a short video. She suffered through it all with her usual grace and patience, blinking calmly at me as if to say, "Well, if you MUST make a fuss, go ahead. Do focus on my left side; it IS my best side, after all."

Bedtime, hopefully soon.

Last Day of Vacay

2012-01-02T05:30:00.001-08:00

I go back to work tomorrow after a lovely break, so I'm trying to figure out what to do with my last day of leisure. I finished crocheting the fingerless mitts and started working on a simple scarf to match, so I'll probably finish that up. I'm in the midst of re-reading A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness, and it's calling my name as I type this. ;) Love that book! Our computer room (aka where we spend most of our time) is a literal wreck; there's wrapping paper, unwrapped gifts (still!), knitting projects (oops), and miscellaneous craft stuff (double oops) all over the place. The dining room table downstairs is in similar straits with gifts that need wrapping and boxing up for shipping. I have laundry to do and groceries to buy, and it would be nice to do yoga again today to stretch my achy muscles. The little bit I did yesterday helped immensely.

It's refreshing not to dread going to work. I'll get to see some pals and break out my new 2012 calendar. The structure of work days will help me get back into the routines I've let slide during this break. Each day that passes will bring us closer to spring and warmer weather. I have a girls' weekend in the works in February with old pals from my engine days. I have fun to look forward to. It's all good.

Time for coffee and some breakfast and some socks for my freezing feet!

Happy Monday, y'all. ;)

Happy New Year- 2012 + Movie Talk

2011-12-31T16:25:00.001-08:00

Ok, so it's a little early, but I'm not sure how much longer I'll be up. The allergy thing has turned into a cold plus laryngitis plus coughing/wheezing. I'm not real happy with my immune system right now, but whaddaya gonna do, eh? It is what it is.

Did manage to get out to see Mission Impossible 4: Ghost Protocol, otherwise known as the Mission Impossible Movie That Did Not Suck. Part of the reason for the lack of suckage is that the filmmakers gave the supporting characters, played by Jeremy Renner, Simon Pegg, and Paula Patton, just as much to do as Mr. Crazy Eyes. The fX were great, the action sequences were suspenseful, and TC's ginormous teeth did not blind any moviegoers. I give it 3.75 stars out of 4, only because Agent Ethan Hunt is still the Mary Sue of espionage & hijinks.

Happy New Year! *throws cat hair in lieu of confetti*

Movie Talk

2011-12-31T08:19:00.000-08:00

So the hubster and I saw Breaking Dawn, Part One, last night. There's a lot of hate out there for Bella Swan & company, but when I read the first couple of books, I took the story at face value---girl and boy meet, fall in love, encounter difficulties. I'm not going to spout all the feminist theory angles about how Bella is in an abusive relationship and how Edward is a creepy pedophile because (a) that shit gets old and boring, fast, and (b) folks can read whatever they want into a story. As my good friend Annie likes to say, your mileage may vary.

I've been approaching the Twilight movies with fairly low expectations just because a movie adaptation of a book is rarely as good or better than the source material. I had real doubts about the Breaking Dawn movie when I first read the book because there are some scenes in there that I could not imagine being in an PG-13 movie. Bella's labor scene in the book was pretty horrifying on a number of levels, so I assumed the future movie would either skip that part or gussy it up somehow to make it less, uh, freakishly scary.

Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, because Bill Condon, the director of Breaking Dawn, didn't flinch from the crazy of that scene. Massive spoilers ahead, along with some discussion of graphic images. Feel free to skip if you haven't read the books or plan to see the movie.

SPOILERS

SPOILERS

SPOILERS

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In the book, Bella, who has been suffering internal injuries from the half-vampire, half-human baby she's carrying, suffers what her physician father-in-law thinks is a separated placenta. Edward, Jacob, and Rosalie rush to deliver the baby via C-section themselves as Bella convulses in horrible agony. At one point, her back breaks, she vomits up blood and begins to choke on it, and her heart begins to fail. The scalpel can't penetrate the unnaturally strong placenta surrounding the fetus, so Edward uses his super-strong teeth to bite through the placenta to get the baby out. I. KNOW. Freak show central, right? The book scene was bloody and horrifying and so over the top that I couldn't decide if I should laugh or burn the book. No way can they film this shit, I scoffed.

Hah. Well, they did, and Bill Condon, bless him, has some mad skills.

In the movie, you don't see Edward chewing through Bella's uterus, but you know what's happening because you see Robert Pattinson bend down out of the frame, you hear what sounds like metal being torn, and Kristen Stewart screams like a feral animal. The camera work during this scene is pretty damn amazing, with the focus on Kristen/Bella and her fierce drive to keep her heart beating long enough for her baby to be delivered. I can see why some viewers suffered seizures during the scene; there are flashing lights, multiple fast camera cuts, blurred, fast moving images, and a cacophony of sound. It was way too intense for a PG-13 movie, but it worked from a story-telling point of view.

Quick aside here: Some magazine thought it would be funny to get an Ob-Gyn to comment on the whole pregnancy and delivery scenes, and of course, the doc was all "Seriously? This is crap," which is exactly what the magazine wanted the doc to say. Come on, people. It's FICTION. Fiction = NOT REAL. Is it really necessary to pull in a real Ob-Gyn to talk about how unrealistic the idea is of a half-vampire, half-human baby and the pregnancy and delivery that goes along with such a critter? Really? That's all you've got? Just say you hate the books, the movies, and the whole Twilight universe and move on. Sheesh.

So yeah...the crazy off-the-wall delivery scene from the book actually translates well to the screen. I still can't get over that, but it just goes to show that my imagination lacks the mad skills of a determined director with a vision. Mad props to Bill Condon for being willing to go there and doing a bang-up job of it.

The wedding scene in the movie is gorgeous, but most beautiful of all is the orchestral music that plays during Bella's long walk down the aisle. I have to give mad props to Billy Burke, aka Charlie Swan, Bella's Dad, for his perfect portrayal. He is gruff, tender, sarcastic, and loving in all of the right places. Kristen Stewart shows a range of emotions with nothing more than her expressive face and body language as she walks in her wedding finery beside her father. Her portrayal of anxiety made me start having mini-panic attacks right along with her. (Seriously, I was clawing the neck of my t-shirt away from my throat so I could breathe.) WHen she finally sees Edward waiting for her at the altar, her anxiety and ambivalence dissipates in slow degrees. She lifts her head. Her spine straightens. She loses that I'm-going-to-throw-up-any-minute expression. When she's close enough to see Edward's smile, she is already transformed from jittery bride to confident woman, and her transformation has nothing to do with vampire venom but everything to do with love and faith in the goodness of another person.

And yes, the honeymoon scenes are pretty hot, but they are also laugh-out-loud funny in all the right places.

All in all, I'd say Breaking Dawn is a win for Team Twilight. Is it Oscar caliber stuff? Of course not. That isn't the filmmakers' intention. So all the haters can keep on hating, and the Twi-hards and Twilight Moms and all the other fans can keep on loving the stories. As for me, I'll be buying the DVD when it comes out, and I'm looking forward to seeing Part Two.

My completely subjective rating: 3.85 stars out of 5 (points off for the goofy voiceover for the wolves' discussion)

Yarning, Part 2

2011-12-31T02:11:00.001-08:00

Finished one of the fingerless mitts last night. HUZZAH! I am inordinately pleased with the results. Amazing what happens when you use the correct size of crochet hook! ;)

I started the second mitt last night after getting home from the movies, and the dark purple is working up nicely. I may make another set with some cotton yarn I have in my stash.

I have a feeling I will get a lot of crocheting done today because what I thought was just a random allergy thing has turned into a cold, complete with laryngitis. I woke up at 4 a.m. because I couldn't breathe or swallow properly. Blek. Not the best way to bring in the new year, maybe, but not the worst, either. Plan for today is to drink lots of hot tea, maybe venture out to see Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol (despite my loathing of Tom Cruise and his gigantic teeth), and spend lots of time with yarn and hook.

Happy New Year's Eve!

If it's the thought that counts...

2011-12-30T14:11:00.001-08:00

...what does it mean when your mother gives you a piece of clothing from a consignment shop wrapped up nicely as your Christmas present?

I'm still trying to figure that one out. The item in question---a heavily beaded black georgette blouse---is pretty in a mother-of-the-bride kind of way. Since I'll never be a mother of a bride, I'm not sure where I'll wear this blouse. Come to think of it, it wouldn't look out of place if I were headlining a show in Vegas, but unless there's a big demand for watching a fat woman in a sequined blouse knit, read, and surf the 'Net, well, I'm outta luck.

This isn't the first time she's given me a used item wrapped as a gift. There was the year she gave me a bright yellow and white silk scarf stained with red lipstick or nail polish or ink that she bought at a yard sale for seventy-five cents.

Here's the thing: I've got nothing against stuff from thrift stores/consignment shops, or yard sales. Even when the economy isn't made of the suck, I like looking for stuff in all of those places. It was the way she made a big deal out of the blouse before I even opened the box. "If (insert name of beloved sis-in-law here) can shop at consignment stores, so can I," declared TMOM dramatically. My internal alarms went off at that point, so I was able to keep a pleasant expression in place and avoid setting her off.

After all, I'd promised her I wouldn't ruin Christmas by "picking a fight." Like I always do, right?

But the prize winner for this year's holiday festivities has to be the four-slice toaster that she bought on sale at Sears for us. She made sure to tell us how she was so exhausted the day she drove out to Sears to buy the toaster that she had to literally drag it behind her in a big bag from the register to her car. Uphill. In the snow. No, not really...at least, not the uphill in the snow part. The dragging it in a big bag---totally part of the story. I wanted to apologize for her trouble, but I was afraid it would come out wrong because we hadn't asked for a toaster. We hadn't asked for anything. Between her health problems (real and imagined) and the fact that my Dad is running himself ragged trying to do everything, we didn't expect anything from them for Christmas.

It's a shame you can't return guilt trips. I'd exchange the toaster guilt trip for a nice skein of yarn.

Just sayin'.

Yarning

2011-12-29T17:59:00.000-08:00

The Salty Sheep in Swansboro is running a 20% off everything sale, so of course, I had to drive out there and wallow. I nabbed a midnight-blue Malabrigo, some sock yarn for a certain someone, and a couple of skeins of worsted cotton so I can crochet a set of arm warmers as seen on Rachel's blog at www.cornflowerbluestudios.blogspot.com.

After an unintentional nap this afternoon and a brief bout of furniture re-arranging, I started the arm warmers in the acid green yarn. I was buzzing along when I started wondering about the size of these things. Did I misread the crochet hook size? I had to come upstairs to check Rachel's instructions, and sure enough, I was off by about three sizes.

Oops.

My next purchase will be several sets of reading glasses that I can stash around the house. I have a set, but, uh, I don't know where they are. I remember using them in knitting class back in November. That seems so long ago...

So the plan for tonight is to re-start the arm warmer project, this time with the correct hook (size J). I'm still planning on making an intentionally mis-matched pair---one acid green, one deep purple. Why? Because I can. ;)

Peace, love, & yarn, y'all,
Me

Office Rules

2011-01-29T16:31:00.000-08:00

Office Rules by madwomanchic on Polyvore.com

Arrow Hanger
$40 - yliving.com

Peacock background
dresslerstencils.com

2011-01-25T02:23:00.001-08:00

And then she flew away by madwomanchic on Polyvore.com

Silhouette Tree Wall Decal
$28 - urbanoutfitters.com

Birds and Blossoms Wall Decals : Target
$25 - target.com

forsythia - 8x10 fine art photograph : product : papernstitch
$25 - papernstitch.com

Just When You Think It's Safe to Visit Blogspot...

2010-09-06T03:14:00.001-07:00

Well, now. About time I came back, eh?

2010 has been...interesting. Let's just leave it at that for now.

It's Labor Day Monday, and I have two possibilities in mind for today: either a trip to G'Vegas for another wallow in B&N, A.C. Moore, and Starbucks; or a trip to Swansboro for a long-overdue second wallow in The Salty Sheep yarn store.

Note: I do not need yarn, books, craft stuff, or calories. I just want all of these things. Well, except for the calories. But I digress. A lot.

What?

I've been feeding my creative side lately by scrapbooking my visit to the Eastern State Penitentiary. Wow, that sounds like I did serious jail time...ESP is not a working prison now. It's a historical landmark in Philly, and those crazy ghost hunter people on TV swear it's haunted. Coworker Lisa convinced me to go whilst we were in Philly on business. We had so much fun. So it's taken me nearly a year to put all of my photos and such into order and onto pages, but that's okay. Next project: the U2 concert. *squee!!!*

As far as knitting is concerned, I'm working steadily on a bunch of UFOs (unfinished objects in crazy-knitter-speak). I unearthed some really old projects that are surprisingly well done and have been working on those as well as on the new stuff: a baby hat for a newly-pregnant friend, my leaf-vine scarf, an experimental scarf in periwinkle and cream angora.

I'm still eyeing the sewing machine and its pile of projects with some trepidation. I don't know what my mental block is with the sewing. Perfectionitis, I'm sure. I have a pair of Robby's summer shorts that need mending, a skirt that needs hemming, and a purse project that needs finishing. Nothing too difficult, yet I'm as skittish as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Pffft.

I'm sort of leaning towards hauling out some of my fall/Halloween stuff and putting it out. It still feels like summer outside, but the trees in the backyard have started showering gold and copper leaves all over the grass, and the sky has turned that particular shade of bright autumn blue. Weirdly enough, I'm more inclined to decorate for Halloween than Christmas this year. Maybe it's just too early to think about Christmas. Doesn't matter that some stores (who shall go unnamed) have started putting out Christmas stuff. Argh!

So...G'Vegas....Swansboro....G'Vegas....Swansboro....

A New Year

2010-01-01T11:41:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! I'm so glad 2009 is gone from my sight!

So, no big resolutions, really, aside from learning how to not have regrets and to not dwell on the painful stuff in the past. Notice I said "learning how to" 'cause I know it's a process for me. Did you make any resolutions?

No big news from my end, kittens, 'cause I'm still battling a stupid cold. I finished a truly excellent book (Marisa de los Santos' Loved Walked In) and bought a cool ottoman for my craft room, and that's about it for productivity today. I may take down the Christmas tree. Maybe. The only other for-sure plan is to go get Chinese food at some point soon. Maybe even drive to M'head 'cause the hubster has a gift card for Best Buy, plus I need an adapter so I can use a keyboard with the new 'puter (yes, it's finally hooked up, and so far, Windows 7 is not the antichrist). Why didn't I order a keyboard when I ordered the new 'puter? No clue. None. I must have been distracted by something shiny while I was --- oh look! A chicken!

*wink*

Stars on the Ground

2009-08-24T16:20:00.000-07:00

My grandmother's service was lovely. The Methodist minister---who looked young enough to be my son---struck the right balance of humor and solace. I was so glad to hear him talk about my grandmother's love of fun, her independence, her penchant for playing practical jokes. He made us laugh, and believe me, that was a fine thing to do. Years ago, my grandmother informed us that she didn't want a lot of crying and sniffling at her funeral. She didn't really want a funeral; she wanted us to throw a big party with lots of laughter and good food and conversations about all the wacky things our family has done.

At one point during the service, I made myself look away from the beige-and-ivory marble urn that held my grandmother's ashes. I was close to losing my composure for the 987th time, so I was trying to distract myself from doing something disruptive, like howling at the sky. So I focused on the strand of trees that bordered that particular corner of the cemetery, and as I watched, a puff of wind stirred the branches and sent a handful of bright gold leaves floating free. They spun and dipped and finally settled, one by one, on the blazing green grass. They looked like stars on the ground, rare and beautiful and somehow holy.

Hours later, after everyone had left and I had let myself have a good cry in the hotel room, Robby and I went back to the cemetery. The sky was restless with heavy clouds in shades of gray and lavender. Birds sang in the darkening trees. I touched the rough curve of the family headstone and brushed bits of grass from the foot marker bearing my grandmother's name and date of birth. I put my hand on the small patch of rumpled grass and turned earth that marked where her urn now rested. The wind made the white roses on the funeral spray flutter their petals.

"I can't feel her here," I told my husband.

"Because she's not here, really," he replied. "She's busy having fun."

"Places to go, people to see," I said.

We stood shoulder to shoulder, and I tried to convince myself that crying did absolutely no good. I kept hearing her voice in my memory, the way she said my name, the way she'd laugh all the way up from her toes. It began to rain, softly at first, then with real force. The only thing I could hear was the sound of the rain on the ground and the low distant murmur of thunder.

I said good-bye to my grandparents one more time, and I left them to their quiet sleep with the rain, the trees, and the leaves like stars on the ground.

2009-08-17T20:09:00.000-07:00

Edna Rebecca Lowe Huston
February 3, 1920 - August 17, 2009
Beloved of my heart

clutches heart

2009-04-18T16:42:00.000-07:00

I just saw a pic of a bebeh pygmy goat. *clutches heart* I think I'm having palpitations. The cuteness factor is overwhelming!

Life has been of the suck lately, what with family melodramas, very sick friends & coworkers, bad news on an almost daily basis. Bebeh pygmy goat pictures are good therapy for hard times. I'm just sayin'...

The hubster and I ran away from home last night. We drove to G'vegas after work just because we could. Supper at K&W, productive wallows at Kohl's, Wal-Mart (for Cricut supplies), Barnes & Noble (eeeee!), and Michael's, and then back home to a very miffed diva who let me know she was most unhappy with our extended absence by presenting her tail to me all night long. I'm learning to sleep with my head under the covers.

After taking care of altar guild duties at church, I spent some time on the front porch with my laptop (a little writing) and knitting (lap blanket). I somehow managed to purl when I should have been knitting, so I have a couple of rows of boo-boos in the blanket. My OCD tendencies voted for ripping out the blunders, but I bravely left 'em in because if I keep ripping out the blunders in all of my knitting projects, I will get NOTHING finished. So unless someone can prove that knitting blunders can cause planets to fall out of orbit, I'm leavin' 'em in.

I think we're going to watch some movies tonight, or maybe just *a* movie since we're both kind of tired. Still haven't watched Appaloosa, Becoming Jane, or Hancock (all of which we own). I bought Moonlight this weekend after getting hooked on the random re-runs on Sci-Fi; I do love me a good vampire show. So a quiet night at home, plus bebeh pygmy goat pictures: life doesn't get much better than this, eh? ;)

The Gospel of Luke + U2

2009-03-26T17:24:00.000-07:00

While at the haidresser's today, I caught up on some magazine reading, including a recent issue of Rolling Stone. The cover story was on U2 and their new album, No Line on the Horizon. Hie thee off to iTunes and download it; you won't be sorry.

Anyway, the RS article talked about the inspiration behind "Magnificent," one of those songs that can make you break out in wild goosebumps. "Magnificent" was influenced by the Gospel of Luke, specifically, the Magnificat, a joyous prayer told in Mary's voice. Here it is in English, followed by the Latin:

My soul magnifies the Lord,
And my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.
For He has regarded the low estate of His handmaiden,
For behold, henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.
For He who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is His name. And His mercy is on those who fear Him from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with His arm:
He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He has put down the mighty from their thrones,
and exalted those of low degree.
He has filled the hungry with good things;
and the rich He has sent empty away.
He has helped His servant Israel, in remembrance of His mercy;
As He spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and to His posterity forever.

Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit.
As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen

-*-

Magníficat ánima mea Dóminum,
et exsultávit spíritus meus
in Deo salvatóre meo,
quia respéxit humilitátem
ancíllæ suæ.

Ecce enim ex hoc beátam
me dicent omnes generatiónes,
quia fecit mihi magna,
qui potens est,
et sanctum nomen eius,
et misericórdia eius in progénies
et progénies timéntibus eum.
Fecit poténtiam in bráchio suo,
dispérsit supérbos mente cordis sui;
depósuit poténtes de sede
et exaltávit húmiles.
Esuriéntes implévit bonis
et dívites dimísit inánes.
Suscépit Ísrael púerum suum,
recordátus misericórdiæ,
sicut locútus est ad patres nostros,
Ábraham et sémini eius in sæcula.

Glória Patri et Fílio
et Spirítui Sancto.
Sicut erat in princípio,
et nunc et semper,
et in sæcula sæculórum.

Amen.

-*-

Goosebumps, I tell you.

The RS article also talked about the process of making music and how the group recorded songs all over the world, how they immersed themselves in the beauty of whatever moment moved them to song, how they sometimes took the piss out of each other when necessary. ;) U2 the group is nothing more than four men who are a welter of contradictions in themselves, from the lofty to the earthy, from the spiritual to the profane.

I just love 'em.

Missing

2009-03-07T10:30:00.000-08:00

Our white cat, Noelle, has been missing since Tuesday night. I was the one who let her out for her once-in-a-while front porch forays. She doesn't usually like to stay out there a long time; she prefers the security of the screened in back porch. But she had gone to the front door, mewing over her shoulder for me to follow her, and I let her out.

I forgot her. I went to bed, and Noelle stayed out all night. It was bitter cold that night. When we got up the next morning, a hard frost made the yard sparkle. When I realized what I'd done, I ran outside without my coat to call for her. It didn't take long for my hands to start to ache from the cold, and all I could think about was how her paw pads were so pink.

Robby and I spent most of the afternoons and nights that have followed calling for her---in the woods behind the house, in the overgrown tangle of Mimosa trees across the street, up and down our road. We've driven over to our old house several times in the hope that she got confused and headed for the old homestead. We've looked for a limp bundle of fur along the highway and have been grateful for its absence.

But she's still missing.

Well meaning friends have told me stories about cats who normally don't stray taking off for extended walkabouts and coming home just fine. They tell me not to give up. I'd settle for not tearing up at the sight of her litter box in the laundry room or her food and water dishes in the kitchen. I'd settle for not automatically glancing over into the spare room as I walk by with the expectation of seeing her belly-up on the bed. I'd settle for not going to the front door and peering through the kaleidoscope jumble of the leaded glass panes somewhere between five and twelve times a night.

I probably don't have to tell you how much I blame myself for what happened. I probably don't have to tell you about the what-ifs on constant playback loop in my head. I probably don't have to tell you that every time I walk past the Saint Francis statue in the flower bed, I whisper 'help' in his direction.

Maybe I should ask for Saint Anthony's help too; he's good with lost things.

Prayer for the Animals
by Albert Schweitzer

Hear our humble prayer, O God, for our friends, the animals.
Especially for animals who are suffering; for any that are
hunted or lost or deserted or frightened or hungry;
for all that must be put to death.
We entreat for them all Thy mercy and pity,
and for those who deal with them, we ask a
a heart of compassion and gentle hands and kindly words.
Make us, ourselves, to be true friends to animals,
and so to share the blessings of the merciful.

Maybe she's born with it

2009-02-18T17:12:00.001-08:00

Work it, dahlingk.

(Diva, 2009)

Long Weekends

2009-02-15T13:30:00.000-08:00

How glad am I that I don't have to go to work tomorrow? Words can't describe the depth of my contentment.

It's not that I hate my job; I don't. Yes, there are times I get annoyed with the politics and the pissing contests, but I don't dread going in and taking care of business. I just enjoy having days off a lot more.

I did go in to work yesterday for several hours. I haven't been able to make headway on a couple of projects, and deadlines are looming. I don't mind working on a Saturday if I know I have an extra day off, as I do this weekend. Plus the office where I work is super-quiet on Saturdays. No interruptions from well-meaning coworkers, no phonecalls from annoying people-in-charge, etc.

The hubby & I didn't do anything big for Valentine's Day, mostly because we both prefer the low-key life. He sent me tulips, orchids, and star gazer lilies. I gave him a card with coupons for fun things like a back rub, a fancy dinner, that sort of thing. We cooking shows on Food Network TV, watched Madagascar 2 on DVD, and ate supper at Jersey Mike's. We don't need fancy high-priced restaurants and candlelight. Although I did light the rose-scented pillar candle Laurie gave me for Valentine's Day. It added a certain je ne sais quois to Madagascar 2.

We skipped church again today (heathens!) and went down to cadge a free meal from the MIL and to deliver crack...I mean, Partylite candles to my SIL. MIL's homemade clam chowder, spicy cornbread, ham biscuits, and carrot cake turned us all into contented, sleepy lumps scattered on the couch and chairs. Hubby had to crash on a bed for a short nap. After we got home, I put the kettle on and made tea (Republic of Tea's Comfort and Joy blend) and took a half-hearted stab at clearing up some of the clutter in the kitchen and living room. I really need to do some honest-to-goodness cleaning and decluttering all through the house, but I have a feeling that the most I will accomplish tonight and tomorrow will be a bare minimum of both. I'd just rather be lazy.

So, plans for tomorrow... I'm pretty sure there will be at least one trip to the bookstore and to Wal-Mart (for material and other sewing supplies), and if I'm very good, a trip to Starbucks for another go at their new tea lattes and tea-fusions. *wipes drool from chin* I'd like to get a little crafting done, pay a few bills, and spend the rest of the day reading. I've got a quirky little novel about lycanthropes called Sharp Teeth going right now, as well as Stephen King's Lisey's Story (this is my 3rd attempt at reading that particular novel). And maybe I'll do a little baking. I've had a yen for scones for some time now, and I must admit, I can make a pretty fine scone.

But right now, the couch, the Sunday papers, and my cup of hot tea are calling my name.

Crafty

2009-02-01T17:05:00.001-08:00

I decided earlier in the week that I was going to be selfish with my weekend. I promised myself I'd say 'no' to any commitments, and darn if I didn't stick to my plan. So Saturday morning, the hubby & I consumed a ginormous breakfast at IHOP (under new management, it appears) and headed for the mecca known as Jacksonville. I was dying to hit The Cotton Patch for material, Barnes and Noble for a bookstore wallow, and Michael's for an all-out rampage.

We hadn't been to J'ville in quite some time, so we were completely unprepared for the Traffic from the Ninth Inner Circle of Hell (tm). Seriously, traffic in J'ville now surpasses DC and Baltimore traffic for striking equal amounts of terror and frustration in my soul. Even my even-natured hubby was growling cuss-words by the time we left. Anyhoo...

The Cotton Patch turned out to have Amy Butler material, a fact that made me very happy. I'm addicted to Amy Butler's stuff---material, sewing patterns, scrapbooking stuff. She uses fantastic colors and interesting patterns. Her stuff isn't for the faint of heart, that's for sure, but it's fun. I ended up buying an armload of material---a couple of yards of a yellow-background-floral and a watermelon-pale-pink with which to make a tulip bag; several fat quarters in various shades of red, black, and blue; a thimble; a pattern for the tulip bags. I also had the joy of playing with the owner's wee dog. When I say 'wee,' I mean really wee. My cats easily outweigh him, but he has energy and joie de vivre to spare. He brought me his stuffed lion so we could play tug of war with it. I wanted to scoop him up and smooch his ears.

I behaved relatively well in B&N. I did buy a couple of paperbacks and some magazines, and I had to renew my B&N membership. We were too full from breakfast to take advantage of the Cheesecake Factory goodies in the bakery cases, but we did sit for a spell in the moss green wing chairs in the cafe while we had a beverage break. Awesome chairs, y'all.

I told myself that I would try to behave in Michael's. I wanted to buy felt in various colors, take a look at their needlework hoops, and maybe take a peek at the scrapbooking stuff. SIL Kat gave me a beautiful scrapbook, and I was hoping I could find some papers that would coordinate well.

Oh, who am I kidding? I totally used the new scrapbook as an excuse, yo. ;) I'm shameless that way.

It turned out that Michael's had some freakin' awesome new paper packs, as well as a whole pack of Amy Butler paper (*squeeeeee!). I totally jumped on that. I did buy a bunch of felt and a couple of study plastic embroidery hoops (I'm too hard on the wooden kind). I felt a little better about my lack of control in Michael's when the hubby wandered over with a handful of silk flowers for the arrangements that flank the fireplace. (Yes, he made the arrangements. He used silk flowers we've had for a while, and they look like something you'd see in a catalog or a house magazine. He so totally rocks.)

So I've already filled up a few pages in the beautiful scrapbook. I'd done a layout with childhood pictures of my sweetie and me months ago, so that was my first page. I'm working on a page featuring Lythrum & Mawavi, and Quickbeam will be prominently featured too. It's bittersweet to look at those photos of our extended family in Alabama; I miss the three of them so much. I'm totally irked by the fact that I have to work for a living and can't fly down to 'Bama when the mood strikes. Grrrr. ;)

While I was working on the scrapbook last night, I realized I really need to re-arrange my craft room. It was put together rather haphazardly---a piece bought and plopped here, another piece stuck there, not really planned for its intended use. At lunch today, I mentioned to the hubster that I'd been thinking about moving things around in the craft room. "No way!" said he. "I was thinking about that too!" He'd seen some storage stuff at Lowe's that he thought I might like. Then he did some online research and decided the Lowe's stuff was better suited for the garage. So now we're looking at some of the craft storage stuff Michael's carries, and we're kicking around plans for where to move what. It's fun to have another house project.

Stay tuned for more crafty nattering! I should post before and after pictures of the craft room and maybe pix of ongoing craft projects.

The Queen Surveys Her Kingdom

2009-01-22T16:11:00.000-08:00

A Big Heart in a Small Body

2009-01-22T16:09:00.003-08:00

Look at that smile! ;D

Beauty

2009-01-22T16:07:00.001-08:00

Cuteness

2009-01-22T16:01:00.000-08:00

Enough about stupid work. How could anyone resist this face?

I need a dick!

2009-01-22T15:59:00.000-08:00

No, really.

I had one of those phone calls today---you know, the kind that makes you want to stab out your own eyes. Guy calls me up and puts me on the spot in front of one of my many bosses via speakerphone by asking me all these questions about projects I just barely know about, much less have completed. I told him what I knew, and he gave me all manner of BS about how I'd been "sitting" on one "for over a year." That made me laugh; I've been on this program all of a month. I reminded him of this, and something in my tone must have caught his attention because he rapidly backpedaled. Then he began to argue with me about what I needed to do for another project. I politely disagreed with him, he kept insisting I was wrong. Lather, rinse, repeat. He finally went on his way, no doubt unhappy with his meager updates from yours truly.

About an hour later, he called back and breezily informed me he was going to explain why I was so confused. "Hear me out," he insisted. I had to take a deep breath to keep from yelling because I'm not confused. I know what I need to do. He just won't listen to me. And then for some reason, I remembered my 7 Habits of Highly Effective People class. I put aside my impatience and anger and just listened to this guy. He was very earnest in his desire to set me straight. He did a great job of explaining the situation....except he was talking about a cancelled project that I had nothing to do with. I hadn't even mentioned this particular project during our earlier phone call. I was talking about one thing, he was talking about another. I let him finish his explanation, and then I explained again--slowly and calmly---what I needed to do with the project I'd been talking about.

"Oh," he finally said after a longish silence. "Well. Looks like you're on target after all."

Uh-huh.

We chatted a bit about non-work stuff. I found out he's from Maine, and we talked about the wacky weather here in NC and the lack of snow he's having up there in western Maryland. We ended the call on cordial terms, so that, at least, was progress. He found out that I'm capable of being somewhat civil, and I found out that he just wants to help. Oh, and that his office chair needs some WD-40. It was really squeaky.

I made the comment to my cubicle mates that the "here, let me explain why you're so confused" phone call wouldn't have occurred if I were a man. The one guy in my cubicle, who is one of my favorite people in the world, laughed ruefully.

"I hate to say it, Mel, but it's true," he told me. Bless his heart, he actually looked embarrassed when he said it. But it's something I've known for a long time. No matter how hard I work, no matter how many degrees I complete, no matter how many projects I start and finish, no matter how many problems I solve, I will still be seen as lesser than/not as good as a man. In my field, men are automatically seen as better, and women are automatically seen as dumb.

So...I need a dick. With a dick, I could get away with just about anything and everything. No one would question me if I said I needed to do XYZ for a project. No one would tell me I'm too aggressive. Judging from the stuff I've seen at work, I could barely do any work at all, and no one would question my lack of productivity because I'd have that all important accessory, more important than a brain and skills and experience. Life would be fucking grand. Right?

/hateful sarcasm

*takes a long, deep breath*

Happy 2009!

2009-01-01T06:40:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! I hope 2009 brings you good health, happiness, and peace.

I'm starting out the new year with two projects that focus on creativity. One is Project 365, a daily photography/journal-writing project. The photos can be of anything in my life---daily scenes, special celebrations, random images that catch my eye. I'm looking forward to doing this project because I'm hoping it will help me pay more attention to both my visual and mental creativity. A tip o' the hat to Kat and Irene for getting me involved. ;)

The other project will involve daily guided writing from a book called The Daily Writer. Here's the blurb from Quality Paperback Book Club:

"Created by Fred White, The Daily Writer is a 365-day devotional, dedicated to making your writing life both more productive and more meaningful. Emphasizing the importance of deep thinking, White guides you through many of the most pressing dilemmas that writers face—from that dreaded writer’s block to maintaining both a creative frame of mind and a healthy set of writing habits. Designed to get you on track and keep you there, The Daily Writer will give you the focus, discipline and dedication to match your talent and ideas—365 days a year!"

I've already read my assignment for today, and it's a humdinger. I have to compose an allegory. Yeesh! I haven't messed with allegories since Composition 101 in college. I'll muddle through it, though.

We didn't do anything big for New Year's Eve. My sweetie came home safely from Florida, and I got my hair cut and colored. Aren't we party animals? ;) We did go out to eat at 37th Street for salads and manicotti, and then we came home, lit a fire, ate a little dark chocolate, and watched the NY Philharmonic on PBS. At some point, neighbors set off firecrackers and earned the potent displeasure of both of our cats. I was asleep well before the ball dropped in Times Square and the big acorn dropped in downtown Raleigh. The new year comes whether I'm awake for it or not. ;)

We're playing things by ear today. It's far too cold to venture out, so we may stay in and noodle around on our computers, watch a little TV, maybe play with the Wii a bit. My nephew has moved way past me in the Guitar Hero world, but I believe I can still give him the proverbial run for his money with the Wii Fit balance games. ;)

Have a happy first day of 2009!

A true conversation

2008-10-05T08:09:00.000-07:00

One more thing...

I talked to my Pop last night...or at least, I tried to. This is the conversation that took place when I called him.

Me: "Hi, Dad! How are things?"

Dad (sounding rushed and stressed): "I'm having a time right now."

Me: "What's wrong?"

Dad: "Your mother is having a gas attack, so I gotta go. I'll try to call you back later."

Honestly, I wonder about my family.

Not at All Christian-Like

2008-10-05T07:54:00.001-07:00

A gal I used to work with would crack me up by yelping "That's not very Christian-like! I'm gonna pray for youuuuu!" whenever I was being bad. She'd say this as a joke because there are few people in the world with a less profane mouth than this gal. Heh! I miss working with her.

Anyway...I'm having one of those days where I don't feel at all Christian-like, in the serious sense of the word. I went to church in good spirits, but about ten minutes into the service, I lost all thoughts of love, patience, and understanding. Why? Because one of the younger members (18 or so) began coughing loudly, wetly, and vigorously. It was obvious that she wasn't bothering to cover her mouth or didn't have a cough drop at her disposal. Nor did she get up to get a drink of water. Nope, she sat there and coughed...and continued to cough...and cough...and cough....and cough. She sounded like she had either a juicy case of bronchitis or maybe TB.

Here's the thing: I'm semi-germphobic in that I don't like being around people who have an obviously contagious illness. I'm prone to going from a bad cold to pneumonia, and let me tell you, that sucks. My husband, who used to never get sick, has had half a dozen colds in as many months, courtesy of mold in his work building. Then we have several semi-frail elderly members of our church, one of whom has diminished lung capacity and another who is battling lung cancer. None of these folks needs to be exposed to the crap this gal was spraying out of her mouth every 10 to 15 seconds (yes, she was coughing that much.)

Her parents sat next to her, oblivious. And may I say stupid too? I'm sorry. That's ugly, but it's true. I like the girl, but not when she's giving an accurate portrayal of Typhoid Freaking Mary.

Sweet Baby Jesus. I'm going to hell. You betcha.

So I sat there in church, inwardly seething and thinking horrible thoughts that were not at all Christian-like. I know a cough is nearly impossible to suppress. I understand the mechanism that makes the tickle in your throat turn into a sound like a seal's bark. I'm sorry she's sick, I truly am, because she had to feel wicked bad after a solid hour of coughing. But is it too much to ask that she use a little common sense and common courtesy and stay the hell home and not infect the rest of us with her freaking germs?

By the time we left, my right eyelid was twitching, and I couldn't get my jaw to unclench. I was ashamed of myself and pissed off, all at the same time.

And now I'm grumpy. Really really grumpy.

It's too nice of a day to spend it feeling like one of the minor demons in the fourth circle of hell.

Maybe I should go back to bed.

Massive Rambling

2008-10-04T09:10:00.000-07:00

Yep, I’ve been a bad blogger. It’s been a long time since I updated, thanks to the wackiness otherwise known as my life. I think things are calming down a bit. Knock wood, y’all.

Speaking of wood...is Rich Lowry (of the National Review) for real? And I quote:

“A very wise TV executive once told me that the key to TV is projecting through the screen. It's one of the keys to the success of, say, a Bill O'Reilly, who comes through the screen and grabs you by the throat. Palin too projects through the screen like crazy. I'm sure I'm not the only male in America who, when Palin dropped her first wink, sat up a little straighter on the couch and said, "Hey, I think she just winked at me." And her smile. By the end, when she clearly knew she was doing well, it was so sparkling it was almost mesmerizing. It sent little starbursts through the screen and ricocheting around the living rooms of America.”

Dude. Seriously. Get some fresh air! Yeesh.

When I haven’t been laughing my butt off over the insanity that passes for our political process, I’ve been tied up with work stuff. My technical manual projects are almost done, thank God. I pulled a bunch of overtime last month just to stay on schedule because my time at work is not my own. I’m training three different people in addition to reviewing and editing the manuals, pulling and analyzing data, answering data calls, tracking hiccups and other problems, and dealing with the horror otherwise known as NSPS, our new pay-for-performance salary system. Oy vey.

I’ve been indulging my penchant for fun that doesn’t involve a computer, which is probably the only thing that has kept me relatively sane these past couple of months. Hubby and I went to The Big City to see Yo Yo Ma perform with the NC Symphony. The old cliche, it was a magical night, holds true. Picture this: you’re sitting in the darkened auditorium after clapping your hands numb at the end of the performance. Yo Yo Ma comes back out on stage, hugs a bunch of musicians, and sits down with his cello again. He begins to play softly, the notes in the lower register rolling out with somber tenderness. You hear something that raises goose bumps on your arms: voices softly singing. It’s the symphony musicians, singing quietly along with his playing, swaying in their seats, their instruments cradled in their arms. Tears well up in your eyes as the audience picks up the song---a hymn whose name still escapes me. Voices join in a soft swell as the cello’s notes spiral up and up and fly free. The universe pauses to listen, and God in His Heaven smiles because music is prayer and praise.

Yeah. It was *that* good. I’ll never forget it.

I’ve bought a sewing machine, some really nifty fabrics, and some patterns for making Halloween-themed doo-dads. I’ve been hankering for a sewing machine for a while now. I’m going to try my hand at quilting and some fabric crafts, and I might even attempt sewing clothes at some point. I didn’t do well with sewing when I was in home ec , and when my mother tried to teach me again one summer...well, let’s just say it went very, very badly. Heh! I think it’ll be fun, and it will be a good creative outlet.

Of course, getting a sewing machine means I need to set up a space for it. This weekend’s project is imposing some order on the chaos of my craft room. I should post some before & after pictures.

Have I mentioned lately how much I love my iPod? I have it plugged in my nifty docking station with speakers contraption right now, and Patty Griffin is singing “Nobody’s Crying” and giving me big ol’ goose bumps. I’ve been adding music from my own CDs, not to mention buying music & TV shows & books from iTunes. The newest version of iTunes has a feature that creates awesome playlists for you based on music you like. (Thanks, sis-in-law, for telling me about that!) My iTunes recs for y’all: Matt Kearney’s “Nothing Left to Lose” and Christina Aguilera’s “Better All the Time.” Rockin’!

Have y’all been to www.etsy.com? It’s an online ‘store’ for crafters to display and sell their goods. I’ve ordered some nifty gifts from a few artists, and I’ve been really impressed by the quality & prices. Go check it out!

Aaaaand...that’s it for now, folks!

Remembering With Love

2008-07-26T12:05:00.000-07:00

The link will take you to a diary entry of one of the bloggers on Street Prophets. Please note that the diary entry deals with the death of the writer's father. Despite the sadness of the circumstances, I think you will find the entry life affirming in many ways.

http://www.streetprophets.com/story/2008/7/19/141540/665

What Not to Say During Communion

2008-07-06T18:02:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's time for another pastor story.

Pastor D likes to say things to me just as I'm accepting the Communion wafer so that I'll either laugh, choke on the wafer, snort, or do some combination of all three. When he actually behaves and simply offers the body of Christ, I usually eye him suspiciously, which makes him extremely paranoid.

I had my hair done Thursday, and yes, I dyed the hell out of my gray. I now have mahogany colored hair. There's quite a bit of red in it, but it's mostly my natural dark brown shade. So today, as I approached Pastor D at the altar, I got this:

"Wow. Your hair...*pause*"

(My eyes narrow at this point.)

"No, it looks good," he hastens to add.

(I'm waiting for the inevitable.)

"What can Brown do for you?" he singsongs before racing into "Accept the body of Christ given for your sins."

Only our pastor could quote a UPS tag line during Communion.

D'you see what I have to put up with? ;-)

With Charity for All

2008-07-06T16:51:00.000-07:00

The past has been on my mind lately, no doubt because of the 4th of July holiday. Independence Day, Veteran's Day, and Memorial Day bring up thoughts of my paternal grandfather who fought in WWII; my father's two decades of military service on the seas; and cousins, coworkers, and good friends who have served in more recent times. They all have my admiration and respect. More importantly, they have my gratitude.

I'm lucky to be an American. My mother's people came here from Spain and settled in Texas. My father's people came here from Scotland and England and settled in the Eastern Shore areas of Maryland and Delaware. Of all of us, only my paternal ancestors descended from the Nanticoke tribe could claim to be Americans. The rest of us are immigrants.

The current brouhaha over immigration confounds and saddens me. Yes, I understand that we have waaaay too many people who came into this country without the proper legal documentation and without going through the proper process. I understand that from a population standpoint, our infrastructure is strained to accommodate everyone who needs health care, housing, education. I understand that there's friction about assimilation, about learning English, about being loyal to this country. There are lots of issues and problems, lots of talk, lots of finger-pointing. I get it.

I also get that a lot of these immigrants came here for a chance at a better life.

Which is what some brave folks did 232 years ago.

**

I recently read a fascinating article about Abraham Lincoln. What I knew about him before I read the article was the standard stuff of history classes. I didn't know he struggled with what's now known as depression. Or that he really didn't know his purpose in life until middle age. He taught himself trigonometry so he could work as a surveyor, then read Blackstone so he could practice law. He memorized large parts of the Bible and Shakespeare. He learned Euclidean geometry for fun. He's described in the article as a "compulsive scribbler, forever jotting down phrases, notes, and ideas on scraps of paper, then squirreling the notes away in a coat pocket, a desk drawer---or sometimes his hat---where they would collect until he found a use for them in a letter, a speech, or a document." I love that little bit of trivia because it means that I have something---however small---in common with Abraham Lincoln: a love for words.

And then there's this: "Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are equal." I can't read that without getting goosebumps.

And this: "With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan---to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations."

'A lasting peace.' I could go for that.

A better day...

2008-07-01T17:04:00.000-07:00

...than yesterday, that's for sure. For one thing, the headache from hell has more or less evaporated. I slept better last night than I have in a few days, and when I woke up this morning, I didn't feel like I'd been beaten, dredged through flour, and fried. So yeah...that's an improvement!

We had the wildly anticipated tech refresh at work today, which meant that roughly 70% of the new computers didn't work. I spent most of my morning helping other people go through their configuration set up and troubleshooting all the stuff our crackerjack IT team managed to screw up. Here's a prime example of your tax dollars at work: The gal in charge of coordinating the tech refresh told everyone over and over not to call her about their computer issues; they had to send an e-mail so she would have a documentation trail. Well, that's great...unless that sterling IT team forgot to load the freakin' e-mail program, which is what happened to one very short-tempered woman on my floor. By the time I got to my desk and started configuring my own brand new (so they say) laptop, it was nearly lunch time.

My new laptop is fast. That's the good news. The bad news is that my Excel program is, well, possessed by aliens. I use Excel a lot, so I'm going to have to call our national help desk tomorrow and spend, oh, at least 20 to 30 minutes on the phone with them in order to get them to fix the problem.

Fun stuff, no?

Despite DH's bad summer cold, we had a good, long bike ride tonight. It's not muggy at all, and the sunset has turned the puffy white clouds into pink lace. Wonder of wonders, I've finally found an insect repellent that actually repels mosquitoes: Burt's Bees all-natural bug-be-gone (not the real name, but you get the drift). It smells like mint and some other pleasantly sharp herb. I think I smell rather tasty, but apparently, the mosquitoes do not agree. Huzzah!!

Funny but true church story: During Bible study, Pastor D was talking about the altar guild at his old church. The head of the altar guild was very particular and had special gloves that the ladies used to carry the communion silver. He said that if she'd had her way, the guild ladies would have worn special aprons, special gloves, and special booties. Well, I heard the man say "special boobies." And I wasn't the only one who heard that. Chaplain Crandall reared back in his chair about the same time I did. "What did he say?" I asked DH about the same time Chappy blurted, "Did he say 'boobies'?" He heard me snickering and turned to me to confirm that yes, I heard 'boobies' too. "We're in the same gutter!" Chappy exclaimed while his wife looked mortified. So of course, I had to 'fess up to Pastor D about what Chappy and I thought we heard. He regarded me gravely as I told the story, then pronounced me beyond redemption. And then he cackled.

Sheesh. I'm gettin' grief from all sides these days. ;)

So tomorrow is hump day, and it will be one of those short days for me because I have to drive to M'head to see the doc. I'm thinking my car will suddenly veer into Starbucks for no apparent reason on the way back to work. It might even veer over to Panera Bread for a salad. I'm just sayin'....

Democrat is Not a Dirty Word

2008-06-30T18:47:00.000-07:00

For that matter, neither is Republican.

So this is what happened today: I dragged myself into work despite the humdinger tension headache that made me feel like someone was beating me around the head and shoulders with a rather large hammer. One of my coworkers, a guy I've known since day one of my career as a gummint employee, dropped into the chair next to mine. He was killing time because he didn't feel like working. We got on the topic of respectful dissent and how it's not really allowed where we work. You have to drink the Kool-Aid or be branded a troublemaker. I mentioned how boring the world would be if we were all the same---thought the same, felt the same, etcetera---and this guy says, "Yeah, I don't like Democrats, but I'll do my best to respect them." Now, he knows I'm a Democrat because we've had political discussions before, so I got the message. As far as he's concerned, I'm...what? Less than zero? Pond scum? Something not good. Of course, the fact that I'm a damn dirty Democrat won't stop him from asking for my help when he needs it, but that's another story.

Democrat isn't a dirty word.

I'm a Democrat who believes in personal and fiscal responsibility. I go to church, I pay my taxes, I try to behave myself and not break the speed limit laws. I don't cheat or steal. My husband has been my only sexual partner. I paid back my college loan. I'd rather that women had access to affordable, plentiful, and efficient birth control so that abortions wouldn't be necessary, but I don't want the government or anyone else telling any woman that she is a criminal/bad person/going to hell if she has an abortion. I believe in God and Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit, but if you don't believe in any of those three, I'm not going to hold it against you, and frankly, I don't think it's my place to tell you that you're wrong/going to hell/etc. for not believing the same things I do. I don't believe in political correctness; I believe in good manners and treating human beings like other human beings, so when I get pissed because you call someone a "towelhead," it's not that I'm being PC. I'm a product of my upbringing, of grandparents who would have flayed my skin off my hide if I'd used any phrase that could be construed as a slur against anyone.

Yet my coworker and other folks who really really REALLY don't like Democrats don't know all of this about me because they just see me as the enemy, the one with the big scarlet D on her forehead. They assume that I'm a danger to the country, that I have no morals, that I---I don't know---eat kittens for breakfast.

I'm trying to put a humorous spin on this, but really, I feel kind of sick about it. Heart-sick, soul-sick, physically sick.

To hell with it. I don't have a solution. I don't have a clue. I'm going to take my Democratic ass to bed. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

Cycling

2008-06-14T07:50:00.000-07:00

A couple of posts ago, I mentioned that I'd decided to buy myself a bike. I did some research online and read about the different kinds of bikes, how they compare to each other in comfort and price, that sort of thing. After checking out Target and Wal-Mart, I asked my chiropractor for advice, since he's an outdoorsy type. He likes to bike as well, and he recommended a local bike shop in Havelock. I like giving business to local folks, so after work one hot Friday, dear hubby and I stopped in. A little more than an hour later, we left with two Trek bicycles and a definite appreciation for the gentleman who owns and runs The Bike Depot.

You know how you can meet someone and know right away that they're genuinely into what they do for a living? This guy was like that. He loves biking and bikes, and he genuinely likes talking to people about bikes and helping them find the right bike. He talked to me about what I want to do---bike for exercise and relaxation, as well as explore the area. He explained the physiology of biking and how our hips and knee joints work when we pedal. He wasn't trying to make a sale. As a matter of fact, he gave me a catalog with good candidates marked and encouraged me to shop around. When I told him I was really interested in the Trek bike he had in the shop, he explained everything about it to me: best surfaces for riding (pavement and hard-packed dirt/gravel), how the gears and brakes worked, why the frame was the right size for my height, why the tires looked the way they did, and then he told me to me take the bike outside and ride it around so I could make sure I liked it.

In case you can't tell, he impressed me. A lot. And I don't impress easily because I'm cynical and crabby.

So hubby and I have been riding our bikes daily since then, with just a few days off due to weather (lightning and a metal frame don't mix), bad air quality from a fire, and a couple of instances where one or the other felt unwell.

I wish I could adequately describe how I feel when I'm on that bike. Cycling helps me focus. My brain quiets down, and the crap from the work-day falls away. I love the soundtrack of cycling: the faint tick-tick-tick-tick-tick of the wheel spokes when we coast, the rush of birdsong, breezes rustling the trees and scattering fallen magnolia leaves so that they sound like pages turning, the excited yips and woofs of neighborhood dogs when we ride by.

I see something different every time we ride, even if we follow the same paths. One day, I see everyone's flowers are blooming, the splashes of color bright against the green of grass and hedge. On other days, I notice statuary: St. Francis gazing at his cupped hands, a crane arching its verdigris neck, a blue stone rabbit standing sentry by the steps. Then there's the joy of the unexpected: rounding a corner and seeing a massive concrete rhino basking in the sun; meeting a pigeon-toed geese couple in a cul-de-sac; catching the quickest glimpse of a bashful fox; hearing the drumbeat whir of wings as doves take to the air; spying the heavy damask face of a magnolia blossom as big as a salad plate; riding through a sweet scent-wall of honeysuckle hidden in a strand of trees.

Cycling has helped me ditch my self-consciousness about my chubby, farmer's-tanned arms; I wear sleeveless t-shirts and tank tops to take advantage of any coolness in the air. I don't obsess about how my big butt must look perched on that little seat. I don't worry about what the sleek black helmet is doing to my hair. I just pedal, and I feel myself smiling because my heart is light. My heart and lungs work together. I can feel my blood flowing. Even when I'm sweating and my bad knee starts to twinge because it's going to rain soon, I can tell my body is thankful for the exercise, for the chance to soak up late afternoon light, for the reprieve from artificial light and computer screens and stress.

My bike is worth every penny I spent on it, and I'm worth every minute I spend cycling instead of working on my never-ending to-do list.

Life is good, y'all.

Perspective

2008-05-22T17:35:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I really need it, and sometimes, I'm too deep into my own sh*t to get it.

So I go read a cycling blog, which is not just a cycling blog. It's a blog written by a man who loves his wife beyond all measure. She has cancer. He is caring for her, and he's doing it with bravery and tenderness and love.

Go read: http://www.fatcyclist.com/

And keep the family in your prayers, 'k?

Things I realized the hard way this week

2008-05-15T17:11:00.000-07:00

Things I realized the hard way this week:

1. Doctors don't know everything.
2. More of something isn't necessarily better.

My GP gave me a prescription for metformin, a medication that helps control blood sugar. She had me start at the low dose--500 mg once a day. A week later, I was to increase the dosage to 1000 mg. A week after that, the dose goes to 1,500 mg. A week after that increase, I'd top off at 2,000 mg a day.

That's a lot of medicine for someone who's in the early stages of diabetes. I asked my doc if I should check my blood sugar so I could see how the med was affecting it. "Nope," said she. "You'll be fine."

Hmmm. Well, I felt okay until I hit the 1,500 mg mark, and then my back started to hurt. It took a couple of days of pain and discomfort before it hit me: my kidneys were hurting. I knew that the med is metabolized through the kidneys, so I got on the phone with the doc's office. The alarm in the nurse's voice told me what I suspected: the dose was too high for my body to process. She told me to back down to 1,000 mg a day, and now I have to go in on Monday to have kidney function tests run.

Jimminy. If I've screwed up my kidneys, I'm going to be PISSED.

3. I'm not MBA material.

I started grad school again, this time to get an MBA in human resource management. I really don't want an MBA, but I've been told by folks at work that it will make me more 'competitive.'

Hmmm. Okay. Well, I'm on class number 2, and I'm ready to claw my own eyes out. It's not that the coursework is particularly difficult or boring. I just don't want an MBA. My heart isn't in it. And I don't really see the point in going after the MBA to get a promotion that I have slim chances of getting because (a) I don't have a willie, and (b) I don't have an engineering degree. The Good Ol' Boys' Network is alive and well in the federal gummint, and where I work, if you're not an engineer, you're pond scum. So why am I doing this?

If I'm going to put my finite amount of time and energy into another degree, I'd rather direct that energy towards something that sets me on fire: tech writing, literature, psychology, library science. I guess I'm really not that interested in competing with The Big Boys. Glad I realized this early in the program.

4. I really need to have more fun.

I've decided to buy myself a bicycle. I loved bike riding as a kid. It's an outdoor activity that won't kill my knees or my crabby back. Even though it will soon be hot and muggy here, I can generate a semi-decent breeze on a bike. That's my plan.

I'm researching local hiking trails. I found out that there are some nifty trails around our local beaches. It's good exercise, plus there's that fresh air factor.

5. There's nothing wrong with being lazy.

There were a couple of days this week when I felt like having myself committed. Between perimenopause symptoms, the damn depression, and the medication/kidney problems, I've been feeling like I was going to crawl out of my own skin. So instead of forcing myself to do the stiff-upper-lip, keep-on-keepin'-on thing, I've been sitting outside on our back deck for an hour or so each afternoon. A good book, birdsong, sunlight, soft breezes, and the occasional cursing of a feisty squirrel have done wonders for me. It's a shame it took me this long to figure out that pretending that I don't feel crappy doesn't do me any good. Sometimes you just need to slow down and chill.

Thank God Friday is around the corner. Can I get an amen from my sistahs? ;)

Stumbling Again

2008-05-05T05:45:00.000-07:00

My better half and I had a long discussion after Bible study yesterday, the kind of discussion that makes me thankful, for perhaps the millionth time, that we are married and that he's willing to listen to me.

One of the big questions I struggle with in terms of my faith is the reality of suffering. I believe God to be all powerful and all loving. So in believing that, I tend to believe that He should be able to step in, put down his Godly foot, and say, "Enough!" when the fecal matter starts hitting the oscillating apparatus, you know? Yet He doesn't do that, or at least, He doesn't do that in ways that I---puny mortal with bad eyesight---can see and understand. And then I start doubting. Not a good thing.

The issue of doubt is our current topic in Bible study. It's refreshing to find out that doubters can be Christians, and Christians can be doubters. The religion of my childhood and adolescence didn't allow for such struggles. You believed, or you were damned. Do not ask questions, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.

I used the Holocaust as a prime example. Why didn't God step in and smack the living crap out of Hitler and his cohorts? One of the military chaplains at our church regularly pipes up and reminds me that we're all sinners, therefore, suffering exists. Ohhhhh-kayyyy, but there's suffering, and then there's the Holocaust. Are you sayin' that the Holocaust happened because of sin? Babies and little kids had their brains bashed in by soldiers because the little ankle-biters were sinners?

I don't buy that. I can't buy that. Saying we're sinners, therefore suffering exists, is too pat of an answer to cover the horrible things that have happened in the world. I realize evil exists. I realize that innocent victims are often in the wrong place at the wrong time. I get that. But can't God stop it, or at the very least, do something about it? And when it seems that He doesn't, what is a believer to do?

R brought up many good points in our discussion. We talked about free will and the existence of evil. We talked about the trials of the Jews since the Old Testament times. And he offered that maybe the Holocaust happened because we humans had to learn about our capability for horrific inhumanity. Maybe it had to happen so that we could be sure it would not happen again. But it wasn't punishment for our innate sinfulness, and it wasn't that God stood idly by and watched his Chosen people be methodically tortured and murdered. And as we talked, I realized that He was there in the midst of the dying and the suffering. He witnessed all of it, and He felt every living soul's agony, and He welcomed each departed soul into the paradise of His unending grace. That's what I need to believe. That's what I needed to learn. It's not God's job to stop the horrors that we do to one another. WE are responsible for that. We have the choice to do, to not do, to step in and stop the madness.

I took comfort in R's words and in his faith. His faith is as quiet as a stone, but it's as unshakable as a mountain.

I'm still moving forward in my journey, and yep, I'm still stumbling on the big rocks and the little ones, and getting turned around and wandering, confused and muttering, in circles every now and then. I don't think my sense of direction will ever improve.

And you know what? That's okay. I know how to ask for directions.

TMOM*

2008-04-20T03:34:00.000-07:00

*That Mother of Mine acronym was created by Lythrum. ;)

It's Crazy Mother Story Time, y'all.

My cousin Diana is flying across country with her husband to visit my mother. Those two are, as the saying goes, thick as thieves. Diana is my least favorite cousin. My childhood interactions with her were rife with friction. She was loud, bossy, and mean as hell. (Some would say that description fits me too. Hmmmm....) As an adult, she's more of the same.

The funny thing is that Diana and I share eerily similar family histories. She has a difficult relationship with her own mother, who has a fractious relationship with my mother. (Are you sensing a trend here?) Diana relies on my mother for comfort and advice and calls her at least once a week to vent about her problems, gossip about her brothers and her own mother, and so on. Like my mother, Diana is a drama queen, so every little thing is a Big Freaking Deal. Those two are peas in a pod, I tell you.

Let me go ahead and get this out of the way: I'm envious of Diana's relationship with my mother. My mother gives her the compassion and attentiveness that I wish she'd show me. Plus I'm willing to bet Diana gets none of the grand guilt trips I get. The way I see it, if she gets the benefits, she should also get the adverse side effects. I'm just sayin'...

So whenever I talk to my mother these days, I get to hear about Diana. A lot. Diana's allergies were acting up a couple of weeks ago, and my mother went on and on about how sorry she felt for Diana and how much she suffered. I was so tempted to chirp, "Oh, she's young, she'll bounce back quickly," which is my mother's standard answer for me whenever I slip up and mention that I'm not feeling well or have to undergo something minor but unpleasant like gallbladder surgery.

I made the mistake of talking to my mother on the phone yesterday. I hadn't made it a point to ask to speak to her during my last couple of phonecalls to check on my parents, so I figured I'd better do the right thing. Of course, the conversation returned to Diana and her impending visit. My mother ordered me to not tell my aunt that Diana and her husband were visiting should my aunt call me. Apparently, It's a Big Sekrit, OMG.

About a month ago, my mother called me at work and demanded to know if it was true that I had talked to her sister recently. Diana had blown the whistle on us, and my mother wanted to verify the details. You'd think I'd been talking to, you know, people with shady connections instead of a family member. She even asked what we'd talked about. When I queried her about the third degree (but in much nicer terms), she turned huffy. Hmmm. She went on to tell me that my aunt had told Diana that we'd spoken, and according to Diana, either I or my aunt had told the other "everything." Ohhhhhhkaaaaay.

I have no idea what "everything" constitutes. My aunt tells me things my mother tells Diana. Like how my mother thinks Diana should have been her daughter. Like how R and I are "rich" and fly all over the country whenever we want. (This was in response, no doubt, to our February trip to Alabama to visit Lythrum, Mawavi, and Quickbeam.) That sort of thing.

I wish I could find a copy of the last letter Diana sent me years ago. It was a humdinger, full of accusations about my coldness towards my mother, my horrible treatment of her, etc. Diana's mother has told me stories about things she's said and done to her own mother that don't exactly put her at the top of the list for Daughter of the Year. Then again, I don't know what to believe whenever I talk to someone who shares my mother's DNA. Diana has proven herself to be a champion fibber, right up there with TMOM.

So I'm in the middle of crazy-making family sh*t right now, and it's getting to me. I gave in to the emotional ache inside and ate junk food and promptly felt guilty and disgusted with myself. I had really weird, mixed up dreams all night long and woke up feeling like an alien in my own skin. It's thundering and lightning outside, and the clouds match my mood. So yay me.

Righto. Enough with the wallowing. I'm going to get ready for church. I'm going to go and ask for forgiveness and pray for comfort and give thanks that I have a crazy mother because there are folks who don't have any kind of mother at all. And maybe, just maybe, I'll figure out a way to deal with all of this crazy-making family sh*t.

Maybe.

Sing Hallelujah

2008-04-19T15:01:00.000-07:00

For most of my life, I had a pretty solid fear of public speaking. I was a shy kid, prone to a stress-induced stutter, so talking in front of a large group has never been my idea of great fun. School did little to assuage the fear; I had one teacher in elementary school who delighted in making hyper-critical remarks about my work, my appearance, my unfortunate taste in corduroys and sneakers whenever I’d stand up in front of the class to give a report. I hope Miss West soon realized that she was not cut out to be a teacher and sought work more suited to her personality. Say, as a prison matron. Or a proctologist.

Age, confidence, and experience has made public speaking a little easier. Teaching an adult continuing education class helped me get over a great deal of my fears because I had to think on my feet while talking and instructing others. It helped that I had the best class ever of motivated, good-humored students who ranged in age from 19 to 78, students who listened and responded and learned from what I taught them.

So when our pastor asked me to speak in front of our congregation, I didn’t even consider saying no. “Just talk about your experience at the prayer vigil,” he told me. Can-do easy, as my pal Oscar likes to say. Sure, I had a few butterflies in my stomach when I walked up to the lectern, but I saw Johnnie smiling at me from her seat and Mary nodding her encouragement. I spoke at both services. I didn’t stutter, lose my train of thought, or trip and knock over a candle, thus ensuring that St. Paul would count three fires in its colorful history.

Then our pastor called and asked me to speak at the catered congregational dinner at the convention center. I gulped a bit, envisioning the larger group, the white cloth covered tables, the potential for me to trip over my own feet and take down an innocent waiter who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I said yes, thinking I would just expand a bit on my prayer vigil talk. Except our pastor wanted me to talk about something else, something more private. He wanted me to talk about my faith journey, about how I came to be a member of the church. Even worse, he told me he was going to ask Charlie to talk about his faith journey. “Don’t have me talk after him,” I warned our pastor. I reminded him that when Charlie spoke about his faith journey at a prior event, I bawled so hard that I made really alarming snuffling noises like a congested bloodhound. “You’ll be fine,” our pastor assured me cheerily. I knew right then that my goose was cooked. When he’s that cheerful, he’s up to no good.

The week leading up to our big dinner was crazily busy and stressful. I didn’t have much time to think about what I was going to say, much less spare the energy to be nervous. I knew I would talk about absent friends who encouraged me in a low-key way to visit the church, about how I felt peaceful and whole during services, about how the new member classes radically changed my ideas about God and Christ and the Bible. Aside from that, I hadn’t a clue about what I’d say.

Bet you’re not surprised to hear that Charlie spoke before I did. And as expected, 99% of the folks at the tables in the big room were either outright weeping or stuffing their napkins in their mouths to muffle their sobs. The man is lethal, but in a good way.

When Larry passed me the wireless microphone, I had one of those “Oh, crap!” moments. I had on new shoes, some nice flats from Target, and I felt one foot skid a bit in something on the floor (maybe a mashed green bean). “Y’all, I have on new shoes, so if I fall, don’t take pictures of me with my skirt over my head,” I said by way of launching my talk. Laughter mixed with calls of “Take them off!” followed me as I made my way to the front of the room.

The weirdest thing happened. I opened my mouth, and words came out. Intelligible words, even, strung together to form cogent sentences. I didn’t stutter. My voice didn’t shake or rise in pitch as it normally does when I forget to breathe. Heck, I even kept breathing.

I looked at all those faces looking back at me, and I told them my story. I told them about growing up in a Catholic church where I felt nothing that came close to joy, about catechism lessons that left me with more questions and my teacher’s anger. I told them about feeling like I was so far out of God’s reach, so far removed from His love and grace, because for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt unworthy of, well, everything. I told them about the lifelong battle with depression and the dark pit that waits at my feet for the slightest stumble. And then I told them about the friends who invited me to the church, who gave me time to work up my courage, who sat with me in the pew and talked about the strength and comfort that came from being filled up with God’s grace. I told them about that first Advent service and how I kept trying to hide the tears that kept leaking out of my eyes. (Pastor said later that he saw me crying during that service and thought to himself, “Yup, I just scared off another one.”) I told them about being flabbergasted to finally hear the real message, the one I never heard in all those years of attending Mass: that God loved me just as I was, perpetually cranky, potty-mouthed, impatient, stumbling, wholly and utterly imperfect. I told them what the church meant to me: family, redemption, belonging, acceptance, knowledge, peace. I told them about missing Mure and Mawavi and Quickbeam so terribly but still feeling the echo of their friendship whenever I’d sit in the pew we dubbed as ours, and how I would always consider their act of kindness a literal life saver. I told them that no matter what would come our way in the future, we were blessed. We were loved. As a church family, we had each other’s back. We could lend our strength to someone else who needed it, and in doing so, become stronger.

I don’t remember much about the walk from the front of the room to our table except that my knees got weaker with each step. Delayed reaction, I guess. Ute grabbed me in a hug that I felt all the way down to my feet in those dang slippery-bottom shoes. I leaned my head against R’s shoulder and cried. I still don’t know why. I think my heart was just too full. R told me later that he looked around the room while I was talking and saw folks swiping tears from their faces. He did not, however, see anyone blow their nose on a tablecloth hem, something I was tempted to do myself.

Later that night, home once more and freed from the skirt and shoes and feeling as stuffed as a tick on the back of a dog, I thought about my experience in front of the congregation. I’d never witnessed or testified, but I guess that’s what I did that night. I’m pretty sure I didn’t yelp out any Hallelujahs or even a “Can a sister get an AMEN?” (which would have been funny as hell and might have caused our Pastor to pee himself laughing). But in my own rambling way, I passed on the story of my faith journey in all its doubt and shadows and eventual light and joy. My only hope is that maybe something I said touched someone else who was feeling doubtful or lost, and in time, they’ll gather their courage and accept what is so freely given, even when we don’t ask for it. As the saying goes, “Bidden or not bidden, God is present.”

Sing hallelujah, y’all.

Toxicity and Its Antidote

2008-03-29T08:43:00.001-07:00

Don't you love Saturdays? Don't get me wrong---Fridays are awesome too. Fridays are all about anticipation and plotting and planning. But Saturdays are awesome. Especially when you tell yourself that you're going to do something you don't really want to do but feel like you have to, and then you decide to let yourself off the hook.

That's what I did. I was going to drive down to Beaufort and spend the day with my mother so she would leave my Dad alone. He's in Delaware taking care of my ailing grandmother. My mother is one of those unfortunate souls who is never happy unless she is the constant center of attention. So with my Dad in another state and, even worse, paying a lot more attention to someone she considers her rival in many, many ways, it's only a matter of time before my mother explodes. She'll get "sick" or hurt herself or somehow finagle a way to get my Dad to leave his mother and come back to take care of her. This is an old pattern, oft repeated.

So I was going to take one for the team and go stay with her and let her use me as the proverbial punching bag. I'd pay attention and let her say all the terrible things she's been storing up all week---things about my Dad, my grandmother, my aunt, my uncle, me, my husband. We're all her targets because we're all guilty of...well, something. Everything. Who knows. I just know that when she gets going, we're all The Bad Guys, and she's the Helpless Victim.

I probably don't have to tell you that as the days crept closer to the weekend, I started feeling crappy and resentful and depressed. And then my husband, whose soul is much kinder and generous than mine, had a talk with me about the difference in being a good person and being a martyr.

I felt pretty bad about being called a martyr. The word has uncomfortable connotations for me because if you look up the word martyr in the dictionary, there's probably a picture of my mother's face creased in a rictus of suffering. She suffers terribly because of us, and she tells us on a regular basis that she does it because she loves us. She tells me every now and then that she would die for me. You know, I hate it when she says that. I really do.

R and I talked a little more about this martyr thing, and he explained that what he meant was that I could be a good person without putting myself in an unsafe situation. Sad to say that spending time alone with my mother is considered an unsafe situation in our family, but there you have it. The woman is toxic in ways you can't even begin to imagine, and despite years of exposure, therapy, medication, and prayer, I still haven't found the antidote to her poison.

And finally, I figured out that my plan to go spend time with her would accomplish nothing at all. She's still going to crack at some point and insist that my Dad come home. She's still going to make him pay for leaving her behind. She's still going to say terrible things to and about all of us, including my poor grandmother and my stressed-out aunt. So why sacrifice my Saturday and my mental well being to a lost cause?

It might seem like such a little thing, but this realization is huge for me. Despite knowing that my mother is a pathological liar and a toxic person, I carry around a significant amount of guilt about her and our relationship. I've felt guilty for not going down to see her more often, for not talking to her more often when I call every week, for not being more present in her life. I've felt guilty for protecting myself from her.

Did you notice the use of the past tense in that paragraph?

I'm not saying I'm completely free of guilt, that I won't give my mother a second thought today. But I'm not feeling guilty or deficient in my duties as a daughter for not going down there to soak up the poison on my dad's behalf. Nothing I can do will change what's going to happen. And honestly, this is more my Dad's problem than mine. He has a choice in how he responds to her behavior. I can't be the one who pays for his choices.

Whew. Heady stuff for a Saturday, yeah?

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take my husband out to lunch. And then I may hit the bookstore. I want to get some more writing done today, and I've got a couple of books calling my name.

Don't you love Saturdays?

The Doorway Into Thanks

2008-03-07T00:25:00.000-08:00

Yes, it’s really 3:25 a.m., and yes, I’m really awake. :)

I just got back from our church’s 24-hour prayer vigil, and I wanted to write about the experience before I conk out for a few hours.

Several weeks ago, we created prayer request cards and handed them out to our congregation. Then we relentlessly nagged people about filling out the cards and turning them in. I know I filled out at least a dozen; it’s an unfortunate fact of life that I know so many folks who are struggling in one way or another and could use some extra help.

 When the sign-up board went up for the vigil, I picked the hours that I figured would be the least popular---from midnight onward. I signed up for the 12 am to 2 am block because I know my limits (I get extra cranky when I go without sleep), plus I have this superstition-thing about 3 am after seeing The Exorcism of Emily Rose. *shudder* Anyhoo...

After a long after-work nap, I got up at 10:30 pm and headed for church by 11:30. A clear night and light traffic made the short drive enjoyable. Our church was well lit, and the number of cars in the parking lot surprised me.

The warm lights in the sanctuary were complemented by soft instrumental music. Our pastor loves instrumental versions of hymns, so he’d set up a portable CD player and supplied a stack of “Our Daily Bread” CDs. I settled into a pew and opened my copy of The Night Offices - Prayers for the Hours from Sunset through Sunrise. I’d hoped the set of prayers for midnight would be a good way to settle my mind and focus on praying, and sure enough, the graceful rhythms of the prayers, hymn texts, religious poems, and readings did the trick. I could feel the day’s tension and generalized crankiness draining out of me.

I’d participated in the last prayer vigil our church held, so I was sort of prepared for the experience. What I wasn’t prepared for was the tremendous feeling of tenderness and humility that filled me as I read through the prayer cards I fished out of the box and offered up prayer after prayer for the people who needed comfort, healing, direction, a new job, a home. There’s something amazing about praying for others; the practice can lift you out of your own life, your own troubles. I’m fully aware of my own self-absorption and tendency to stew about silly crap, yet tonight, I stopped thinking about my stupid stuff and concentrated on adding love and positive energy into the universe on the behalf of people who were struggling with real problems. Several cards moved me to tears, and I was kind of glad that I was alone in the sanctuary so no one would see me wiping my nose on the hem of my shirt.

I had one of those moments that’s hard to describe without sounding (a) crazy, (b) self-indulgent, or (c) woo-woo new age-y. I had a stack of cards in one hand and our Lutheran service book in the other, and I was praying for someone I knew, someone I’ve worked with who has given me more than a few gray hairs, sleepless nights, and too many opportunities to abuse Maalox. Despite all of this, I like this person, even though 9 times out of 10, I could easily hang him on a hook (as Pastor likes to say). And as I prayed for him and pictured him in my mind, pictured him healthy and grinning and causing trouble, I felt this odd sensation in my chest. Not pain, not pressure, not trapped gas. It was like I was being filled up with light and warmth and peace, and I felt connected, like I was part of something bigger, something with purpose, something Good with a capital G.

This has happened several times in my life, most recently at my goddaughter’s baptism. I don’t know if it’s grace, God, the Holy Spirit, or all three. I don’t want to over-analyze it or tie it down with too many words. But it was awesome in the real sense of that word, and humbling and beautiful.

I sat and prayed for a long time, alternating between our service book and praying in my own words (something I struggle with because I ramble and digress and lose my train of thought, and I imagine the Good Lord leaning His head on his His hand and sighing "Oy, this one again..."). I could hear night-sounds outside the church window: the intermittent white noise of passing traffic, the sleepy, high-pitched call of nightbirds. These sounds mingled with the soft music on the CD player, yet the sanctuary was still somehow quiet, expectant even.

God was listening. I just know it.

I’m closing with a poem by Mary Oliver. She wrote this while she was struggling with the loss of her partner of 40 years. During this difficult period in her life, she discovered her faith.

Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or
few small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and silence in which
another voice may speak.

Tee-hee!

2008-03-04T15:49:00.000-08:00

My SIL is a mystery writer, and she's proved herself to be pretty darn good at solving mysteries. :)

I left a comment on her blog, and when she saw the unfamiliar user name, she checked out the blog---which, unknown to her, was actually mine. I have intermittent brain farts, as well as CRS (can't remember sh*t) Syndrome, and I completely blanked on telling her that I had a blog.

So my SIL read this "stranger's" blog and was struck by the writer's interests. They were so similar to my SIL's, and she told her DH that this blogger could practically be an 'alternate Mel'. Then the lightbulb went off, and I was so busted. She called me at work today and called me by my blogger ID. We had a good laugh, and I went back to the spec that wouldn't die with a lighter heart.

Just goes to show that the people who really know and love you can pick you out in even the largest of anonymous crowds. :-)

Behind As Usual

2008-03-03T15:16:00.000-08:00

I haven't updated this blog lately because I've been so dang busy. Our church's capital funding campaign has been taking up what little free time I have, and husband and I traveled out of state for our god-daughter's baptism. That was a too-quick trip, but at least we were able to be there for such a happy event. In between the day job and the church work and the trip, I've been battling various minor illnesses and issues with depression. I'm pretty sure I'm on the upswing.

The big thing on my mind right now is religion. Specifically, how do I reconcile my personal beliefs with what I'm expected to believe? I'm not a big fan of labels, but if I were to take on the label of a religious denomination, I'd have to say I'm a Lutheran who is an ex-Catholic who is also somewhat agnostic at times. I question, I doubt, I get surly when logic fails me, and whatever you do, don't say "The Bible says so" and expect me to docilely swallow that. I'm sorry, I just can't.

Last night at our biweekly Bible study for young adults, I ran up against the type of blind prejudice that makes me literally sick to my stomach. One guy---my age, which is old enough to know better---used a derogatory term to refer to a Muslim. Another guy, young enough to be my son, added his two cents' worth about the evil influence known as Oprah Winfrey. As my ex-military colleagues are so fond of saying: WtF? I tried to play devil's advocate by reminding them that they were painting human beings with too broad of a paintbrush, not to mention promulgating as fact their own opinion. I was lectured and talked down to, and I had one of those moments of clarity where my conscience spoke loud and clear. I walked out. I couldn't sit there any longer and take their bullshit.

If you claim to be a Christian, do me a favor and try your best to act like one. Don't call people of a different belief ugly names. Don't cast aspersions on someone you don't know just because you don't like her taste in books. Don't portray your opinion as fact. Try to understand just a little of someone else's viewpoint.

I was fortunate enough to talk to our pastor tonight about all of this, and he helped me understand my gut-level reaction. As burdened as he is by his own responsibilities---of his own life, his office, his calling---he still spent an hour on the phone answering my questions. He gave me another perspective to consider about the events in my life that led me to last night's confrontation. Best of all, he listened. Not many people can do that.

I'm tired now. Husband and I went for a walk after work, and then I got on the Total Gym monster and did some exercises. I've had a fake mocha---one of those instant 100-calorie things---and a pumpkin seed and cranberry cookie. Bed soon, maybe a little magazine reading.

Tomorrow will be better.

First Day on the New Job

2008-02-04T17:26:00.000-08:00

So I made it through day one. It wasn't a big deal; I've known the people I'm supporting for more than 20 years. The work is the new thing. A lot of pubs work, some tracking, nothing as difficult as what I did on engines...so far, at least. My cubicle mate is soft spoken and kind. It's just the two of us, which is fine. We're in a sort of aisle-way that gets a lot of foot traffic, so we get a lot of attention. The iPod will be coming out soon.

I was homesick today, homesick for the gang on the engine team. What I didn't miss were the phone calls and demands and constant hurry-hurry-hurry. Still, I came home with a headache I can't shake. I stretched out on the floor for a while, then did some slow yoga and a little bit of belly-dancing to loosen up my back. I'm still achy. The plan for tomorrow is to fetch my ergonomic chair from the other office and maybe hook up one of those keyboard trays so I can put my mouse on it.

I'm thinking about going to The Big City this weekend for a writers' group meeting. They're going to do a panel on the YA market, something I'm interested in. Plus it's an excuse to go up to the city. ;) It would just make for a short weekend.

I think a long soak in the tub is on the ticket for tonight.

e.e. cumming for bedtime:

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in

my heart) i am never without it (anywhere

i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear

no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want

no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which grows

higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

What's One More Blog?

2008-02-03T18:03:00.000-08:00

Is there a 12-step program for blogging? I'm thinking I might need one.

As 2007 wound down, I told myself 2008 would be different. 2008 would be the year I would make the changes I've wanted to make but haven't had the courage to do so. I don't like doing what everyone else does, so I pretty much skipped the whole new year's resolution shtick. Instead, I found a list of mistakes to avoid in my local newspaper. I printed out the list and stuck it on my desk at work and read it every day.

So here we are at the start of the second month of the year. I've lost 13 pounds in a little over 2 weeks thanks to the South Beach plan. Losing weight---for good---was high on my list of changes. I've been an emotional eater all of my life. I'm built like my father; we're both apple shaped, which means we're at the top of the death-by-cardiac-event list. He loses weight by limiting carbs, so I assumed the same would work for me. Boy howdy, does it. Bad carbs out, good carbs in, and I keep tightening my belt and hitching up my pants and wondering if I should go ahead and buy new lingerie now or wait a little longer. Wonders never cease.

I start a new job tomorrow. A new job was also high on the list of changes. Since I work for the government, I'm pretty much at the mercy of many layers of management, myriad processes, and boatloads of roadblocks. Yet the opportunity came, and instead of shying away from it because of my idiotic loyalty and my fear of the unknown, I took it. I'll miss the people on my old team, but I won't miss the constant crisis-mode style of management.

It's after 9 pm, so I'll stop here. Early bedtimes are another change; I spent most of 2007 severely sleep deprived, and it took a toll on my body.

I'll close with some beautiful lines from "Nobody's Cryin'," one of my favorite Patty Griffin songs:

May you dream you are dreaming in a warm soft bed
And may the voices inside you that fill you with dread
Make the sound of thousands of angels instead
Tonight where you might be laying your head...