The Library

A Calculated Fall

2008-03-04T05:21:00.000-08:00

I thought about love today, and
I pondered which is preferable . . .
Love by accident, or
Love on purpose?

When we fall in love, it feels as if we tripped
And unexpectedly came to rest in a lover's heart,
Like some shallow puddle of serendipity.
We can do little more than sit there, damp and flushed,
Almost embarrassed by the clumsiness of our affection;
After all, we had no choice in the matter, and are
Content to blame our condition on gravity and timing.
How many times can one trip into love in one's lifetime?
I suspect that each puddle conceals a breathless familiarity.

Yet when we decide to love, and to be loved in return,
And we choose a mate via natural selection, offering our
Heart as a precious thing to be treasured – an abstract dowry –
It feels far from accidental, and far more clinical.
However, in that choice rests a certain, solid comfort that
We cannot help but make the right decision, for we would
Prefer to be alone and defiantly happy in our own small way,
Than in haste, choose wrongly, and become entrapped,
Or worse, look a fool in the eyes of Mendel or Darwin.

In actuality, my preference is neither, or perhaps both;
Romantically clumsy according to plan, or scientifically careless.
Perhaps the best method of finding love is accidentally, on purpose,
By way of a calculated fall.

Reflections on Love and Sportsmanship

2008-02-17T02:01:00.000-08:00

I exchanged phone numbers with a girlfriend recently, prompting an amusing discussion about rules spurred by the following disclaimer, which I had attached to my digits:

"Now for the fine print: it's always on, I feel like I'm always on it, you're never interrupting, I'll always take the call if I'm able, my usual incoming call cutoff is midnight (after midnight is usually reserved for emergencies and what little sleep I can get), and if I miss the call for any reason I'll call you back as soon as I can."

I gave a hearty laugh when she volleyed with her own set of rules for contact, which meshed beautifully with mine: out-of-network limitations, calling hours, availability, texting. A girl after my own heart, to be sure.

Those who know me well, and who appreciate (okay, tolerate) my rather structuralist tendencies, know that I am all about rules. I think that rules serve a very useful purpose in our society, our work, our families, and our lives. I applaud rules that allow structure, guidance, personal growth, education, and empowerment; I scream at rules that move societal and personal development backwards, impeding the progress of people who want to better themselves and others, and make a positive contribution to society.

It is difficult for me to respect organizations and individuals that make exceptions to their rules for anyone who takes exception to them. Without rules (particularly in the area of relationships), chaos becomes the norm and exploitative, abusive, even violent behaviors accelerate unfettered as people compete to become the center of the universe. Over the years, I've observed that many of the same rules that apply to love and relationships also apply to sports, jobs, and family life, and on the heels of this year's Valentine's Day, I thought it appropriate to share my observations here.

1. Don't cheat.

When you cheat, you are diminishing the value and spirit of the game merely to gain something that is worthless to you but priceless to your opponent. A cheater's joy is not taken in winning; it is taken in depriving someone else of something that they are worthy and capable of earning. Cheaters only cheat against opponents they know are better than themselves to begin with; not only is it a tremendous sign of insecurity, but whether the cheaters out there want to admit it or not, it's stealing. And for anyone who may require clarification, lying (including lies of omission) constitutes cheating.

2. Don't whine.

When people whine, whatever they gained from whining is worthless to everyone but them, because they didn't earn it. Much like a small child, whiners thrive on the manipulation of others: if I whine, someone will give it to me, which means I don't have to work to earn it. I've had occasion to see the spoils of a known whiner, and frankly, I wasn't impressed. It is poor form to claim a victory that you didn't have an active part in, primarily because it cheapens it for those who played fairly and won.

3. You don't have to win every time.

When you are obsessively competitive, no one wants to play with you. Obsessively competitive people suck the fun right out of the game for their opponents and teammates. I am certainly not saying to let someone else win for a change, because that actually falls under item 1. What I'm proposing is not being a spoilsport if you do – on the rare occasion that the planets align – lose. Sportsmanship is about playing your best game; consequently, good sports can walk away from a loss with their heads held high because they played their best game.

4. Communicate and understand the rules clearly.

Don't wait until the last five seconds of the game or relationship to decide to share a rule your partner didn't know existed, or to modify an existing rule. It's unfair not to give your opponent a chance to adapt their play to the rule you're declaring. As an opponent or teammate, if you don't understand a stated rule, you have a responsibility to ask for clarification. Do your research. It's difficult and discouraging to try to play a game in which you don't know the rules, break one, and then are penalized for it.

5. Don't sabotage.

Sabotage is, without a doubt, the cruelest form of bad sportsmanship. To let your opponents or teammates believe they have a chance to play and win fairly, when they never really did, is deplorable. It is the equivalent of shooting at birds on a wire. While sabotage and cheating are not mutually exclusive, sabotage does not constitute a "back-up plan". It constitutes cowardice.

Just because I draw parallels between love and sports doesn't mean that I don't take love seriously. I don't think of love as a game with only one winner, or really, as a game at all. It's life. However, by losing in love, we learn what we need to do in order to become better partners. Consequently, I deal with bad behavior in relationships the same way I respond to bad sportsmanship: by explaining the negative effects of the offending actions on me and others, and if that is ineffective, then by permanently removing myself from the playing field.

In response to my girlfriend's query of "Tell me again why I have rules for my cell usage that I'm sharing? LOL Takes all the fun out of it!" I responded that I believe we have such rules in our lives to afford others the opportunity to not disappoint us. The trick is to build – as I have done with Rich, shetracy, and the rest of the Inner Circle – relationships with people whose rules can be interwoven with my own in a tapestry of mutual respect and love, echoing Walt Disney's sentiment: "People look at you and me to see what they are supposed to be. And, if we don't disappoint them, maybe, just maybe, they won't disappoint us."

Memorable Quotes of 2007

2007-12-21T15:50:00.000-08:00

Author's note: After reading this, I'm inclined to go home, diagram these sentences while chanting "Grammar and syntax are our friends," and then bang my head against my Oxford English Dictionary. Repeatedly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CORRECTED: "Don't Tase Me, Bro" tops '07 memorable quote list
Thu Dec 20, 2007 12:22 PM ET

(Corrects name of contest to Miss Teen USA from Miss Teen America in fourth paragraph)

By Arthur Spiegelman

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - "Don't Tase Me, Bro," a phrase that swept the nation after a college student used it seeking to stop campus police from throwing him out of a speech by Sen. John Kerry, was named on Wednesday as the most memorable quote of 2007.

Fred R. Shapiro, the editor of the Yale Book of Quotations, said the plea made by University of Florida student Andrew Meyer on September 17, accompanied by Meyer's screams as he was tased, beat out the racial slur that cost shock jock Don Imus his job and the Iranian president's declaration that his country does not have homosexuals.

Shapiro said Meyer's quote was a symbol of pop culture success. Within two days it was one of the most popular phrases on Google and one of the most viewed videos. It also showed up on ringtones and T-shirts.

Second on Shapiro's list was this tortuous answer by Lauren Upton, the South Carolina contestant in the Miss Teen USA contest in August:

"I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because some people out there in our nation don't have maps and I believe that our education like such as in South Africa and Iraq and everywhere like such as and I believe that they should our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S. or should help South Africa and should help Iraq and the Asian countries so we will be able to build up our future for us."

Upton had been asked why one-fifth of Americans are unable to locate the United States on a map and later apologized for her answer not making a lot of sense.

Third was Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's October comment at Columbia University in New York, "In Iran we don't have homosexuals like in your country."

Shock jock Don Imus comments about the Rutgers University women's basketball team: "That's some nappy-headed hos there," was fourth.

Imus created a national outcry and lost his job at CBS radio in April, but returned to the airwaves in December with Citadel Broadcasting.

Other phrases on the list:

5. "I don't recall." -- Former U.S. Attorney General Alberto Gonzales' repeated response to questioning at a congressional hearing about the firing of U.S. attorneys.

6. "There's only three things he (Republican presidential candidate and former New York City Mayor Rudy Giuliani) mentions in a sentence: a noun and a verb and 9/11." -- Sen. Joseph Biden, speaking at a Democratic presidential debate.

7. "I'm not going to get into a name-calling match with somebody (Vice President Dick Cheney) who has a 9 percent approval rating." -- Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, a Democrat.

8. "(I have) a wide stance when going to the bathroom." -- Idaho Republican Sen. Larry Craig's explanation of why his foot touched that of an undercover policeman in a men's room.

9. "I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy. I mean, that's a storybook, man." -- Biden describing rival Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama.

10. "I think as far as the adverse impact on the nation around the world, this administration has been the worst in history." -- Former President Jimmy Carter in an interview in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette newspaper.

(Editing by Jill Serjeant and Eric Beech)

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True North

2007-12-21T03:01:00.000-08:00

I rouse slowly, reluctant to depart
In the dim of the lamplight, I gaze upon you
In adoration
Admiration

Sculpted by the most talented of graces,
I gently touch your face, goodbye
And the softest of frowns creases your brow
Beneath luxe layers of sleep

The streets are wrapped in glassine
Reflections of the lights above on the below
The sharp pull and muted hiss of puddles
Keep my attention focused on the road

My compass has shifted
. . .Nearly imperceptibly
. . . . .And while home is still home
. . . . .Home is there, also
. . .My heart begs its return to your side
My North no longer true

. . . . .My compass has shifted
. . .And the question is no longer
Will I let you love me?
The needle points instead to
. . .Will I let myself be loved?
. . . . .My North no longer true

In this strange, rainy hour
I travel in the company of late lovers,
An infinite number of Seasons Greetings,
And a sad, solitary ice cream truck

I remember pouring love like a sieve
Into a broken vessel of a man
That kept none, wasted all
And yet, I find you fill my heart to overflowing

With admiration
Adoration
I set my broken compass aside and retire
Let these words be your kiss, good morning

The Alpha & Omega

2007-12-19T21:31:00.000-08:00

In a not-so-ancient blog, I discussed my predilection for intutive gift giving. This morning, I unexpectedly received just such a gift, and was so honored and moved by it that I would like to share it with you here, with heartfelt thanks to my friend and kindred spirit, Ian Ottaway.

As the following demonstrates, intuitive gifts don't have to be material in nature. Sometimes, words - kind words, right words - will serve.

For all these right words, Ian, Rich and I thank you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Alpha & Omega (for Southern Belle)"
Written by Ian Ottaway
December 18, 2007 - Tuesday

He tore the old heart off his shirt sleeve
and she dusted the ghost off her shelves and put on some new and beautiful clothing and jewelry
they dropped it all into a plot
planted a tree over it
buried it and moved forward
with smiles on their faces
and a new born joy in their hearts
a clean start
a fresh new life
they had both earned it
they had both been down the road of ruin and burn
and so they took up a new life
and the clouds
seemed fresher and whiter than ever before
they could actually see silver lining in them!

The grass was fresh and their hearts danced like they hadn't in so long
There was a sheen to their new found stride
Their smiles finally were true
they had waited for what seemed to be a life time
and this time they would not jeopardize a single thing
cutting no corners
over turning every leaf before they held hands
there was a whole world inside them to discover
and the slower the better
together they were clean
and their hearts lifted one another's heart
like two fat cushy pillows dreaming of fine chocolates
even cupid blushed and nearly shit his valentine diapers at such luck!

True love ebbs and stretches like a cat on it's back and upside down
true love like the aroma of herbs mingled with good cooking, floating into steam and mingling throughout the house as you sat by the fireplace.....

They finally had landed two sides of the right coin.
They finally found the light at the end of the exit
It was the road they had tried to walk before
but with the wrong vagabond by their side

You could see it in their eyes
4 rays of pure light and symphonique harmony

The kind of love that not even death can get in the way of
The kind of Love that's flame is made of water
The kind of love that never thirst
clean as organique mud
and engulfs space and time

When they met

it was Alpha & Omega

and there was nothing visible behind them
family beside them
walking slowly bright

into everywhere

A Very Special Invitation

2007-12-19T00:06:00.000-08:00

This was too funny not to post.

Standard Equipment

2007-12-17T21:57:00.000-08:00

Perhaps most commonly associated with automobiles, the term "standard equipment" usually identifies amenities that were once considered optional (e.g., luxuries), and which are now considered to be essential or expected components in a vehicle (i.e., factored into a value-added pricing structure, which is a nice way of saying "You're still paying for it, and it's no longer optional because it's included in the base price, so pffffft!").

Driving around recently, I contemplated what would qualify as standard equipment for my particular vehicle. Power steering. Air conditioning. Automatic transmission. Power locks and windows. Overdrive. Cruise Control. Anti-lock brakes. Owner's manual. CD player and radio. Airbags, concealed roll-bars, and crumple zones. (Heck, in the not-so-distant past, even safety belts were optional.)

But as I looked around the interior of my vehicle while waiting at a traffic light, I noticed a few things that were most assuredly not on the sticker when I bought the car, yet they have assumed a permanent place within it . . .

A box of Kleenex (should sneezies ensue)
An umbrella
Another umbrella (for passengers or pedestrians in need)
Cell phone charger
A scarf with matching hat and gloves (now that the weather has turned colder)
Another pair of gloves (for passengers with cold hands)
Sunglasses
A set of two-way radios
A first aid kit (replete with bee sting swabs)
A book of CD's (my radio is a wasted amenity)
A tire gauge
A half flat of bottled water
A small digital camera
A kite

Yes, a kite. The kite stays in the car for those rare days during which the planets align and I am faced with – simultaneously, miraculously – a few minutes of uncommitted time, a steady breeze, and a lonely green space in need of some personal attention. Temperature is not a factor when it comes to the kite. Simply put, if the first three conditions are met, I can't be deterred and everything else will need to wait. And frankly, every time I see the kite in the back seat, I succumb to a moment of hope that the planets will align that day.

I have other standard equipment in my life, in addition to what resides in my car. Things that I would sorely miss if they weren't around, but that again, probably weren't included on the original sticker:

Family
The Inner Circle
The three beasties
Books
Music
Art
Education

As with any value-added item, such relationships and material things require an investment on the front end – of time, money, love, and sometimes all three – as well as regular maintenance throughout our lives in order to keep things in good working order in the absence of a warranty.

When it's finally time to upgrade my vehicle, since I am confident that there isn't a car manufacturer in existence that can incorporate the latter list into its value-added pricing structure, I've decided to buy the first car on the market that includes a kite as standard equipment.

P. S. Put me on the waiting list, please.

The Back of the Bus

2007-10-23T12:39:00.000-07:00

A big yellow school bus
Trundles down the highway
In cautious, bright defiance
Of gray, early winter skies
Hovering at the rear window
A tiny moon of a face appears
Disembodied through tinted glass
It seems to bob and weave

Its narrow eyes scan the traffic
In the lanes behind the bus
Frantic in their search
For the most perfect victim
A second little face appears
Looming ominously by the first
Bolstering the search effort
With a second pair of tiny eyes

I engage the turn signal
As I begin to position myself
To pass this lumbering obstacle
This gargantuan lemon on wheels
I move around the back left corner
Of the big yellow school bus
And I think I have escaped the notice
Of the sentinels at the rear

Suddenly, I see lips begin to move
The second points in my direction
And the tiny moon face of the first
Comes out of eclipse towards me
Her gaze locks intently on mine
And she breaks out in a huge smile
Then she raises her little right hand
And proceeds to wave gleefully at me

A bit shocked, and a bit touched
I smiled and waved in return
I felt oddly humbled and honored
To have been chosen for this gift
Still innocent yet of the ways
Of the older, more cruel kids
Who follow a different agenda
When they meet in the back of the bus

A Perfect Date

2007-09-30T01:23:00.000-07:00

I arrived a little earlier than usual that Friday, collected my date, and immediately departed for the local Super Wally-Mart. With the hope of demonstrating my domestic prowess – Lists? We don't need no stinking lists – I'd memorized my shopping list:

Loaf of Nature's Own Honey Wheat Bread
Jif smooth peanut butter
Dole pineapple slices in syrup
Kraft Jet-Puffed marshmallow creme
Oscar Mayer beef bologna
Iceberg lettuce
Hellman's mayonnaise
Goulden's spicy mustard
Polander's All Fruit strawberry spread
Honey bear
Bananas

As we meandered with our cart up and down the aisles, in order and skipping none (yes, that's really how I shop), we people-watched and window shopped, talking about food likes and dislikes and an array of other culinary topics. Once all the items had been secured, we checked out and returned home with our provisions.

We'd had this date planned for some time. Funny, really, how it came about . . . he called while I was eating a sandwich for lunch one weekend, and when I described it to him, he became intrigued because the components were a little unusual. I then proposed that we have a "sammich date," one in which we each made for the other our favorite sandwiches from childhood. It would require more than one day, as no one in their right mind would try to eat four or five sandwiches at one sitting.

That first night for dinner, we each had a peanut butter and banana sammich. This sandwich is a classic and hard to mess up; however, it's nearly impossible to eat one without thinking of Elvis.

Saturday morning, we each had two pineapple sammiches. This sandwich was my Dad's favorite, and it's quite simple: a little mayonnaise on each slice of bread, and two opened rings of pineapple on each sandwich. By splitting the rings, and tucking one of the ends into each ring center, you can achieve maximum coverage. Tangy and sweet, it was a perfect choice to start the day.

For lunch, we each had one fluffernutter sammich, which was my favorite childhood sandwich. Fluffernutter (which, ironically, was mentioned in a friend's blog last spring as the name of a pet) is made of equal parts smooth peanut butter and marshmallow creme. Stir them up until fully blended and spread on one of the slices of bread, to be covered with another. Quite pleasant, filling, a little sticky, and impossible for me to eat without feeling like I'm five again.

For dinner on Saturday, I made my signature Perfect Bologna Sammich (capitalized because it has garnered marriage proposals in the past, along with my mashed potatoes), of which we each had two. This is a sandwich that I perfected in the early 90s. Construction: on one slice of bread, spread mayonnaise. On the second slice, spread spicy mustard. On each slice, place a slice of bologna, or two if you're feeling froggy. Now for the critical part – as the center layer of the sandwich, place several leaves of crisp, iceberg lettuce. Assemble the sandwich. The placement of the lettuce serves two purposes: first, it keeps the sandwich from sticking to the roof of your mouth, and second, it aerates the sandwich as you're eating it, allowing for maximum flavor. It will make your taste buds sing.

Sunday's breakfast consisted of a special peanut butter and honey sammich for each of us. They were special because they were prepared in advance, on lightly toasted bread, and placed in Ziplocs. They were then placed in the refrigerator for several hours; however, you can also leave them in overnight, if you prefer. The cold crystallizes the honey, and it makes an interesting, sweet and crunchy sandwich. I was happy to add this recipe to my sammich repertoire.

The PBH sammiches used the last of the loaf of bread, so we never made it to the classic PBJs. Fiscally speaking, we'd achieved five meals for what we might have spent on a single dinner out, so that made me happy. Romantically speaking, our sammich date afforded us the opportunity to spend quality time together, and learn even more about each others' tastes and histories. Admittedly, it was the simplest of dates, but undoubtedly, it was one of the most perfect I've ever had.

Long live the sammich.

Read To Me

2007-09-29T21:35:00.000-07:00

I read to you from The Kama Sutra
I giggle, I blush, not at the words that fall gently
From my tongue, but at how many
Tasks of love we've mastered without guidance;
Still, I demonstrate the lotus box for you

You read to me from An Incomplete Education
We are pleasantly surprised at each other's knowledge -
Some lacking - in broad subjects and cultures;
Of tricky words, phrases, and history
And at how often misspelled is mispelled

Our bodies still glisten from the day as
Your cheek rests gently against my lower belly
Fingertips tracing my navel, tender and electric
You gaze longingly across that flat plain,
Communicating your wish that I should carry

I softly ask if that is what you're thinking, and
With a timid smile, you ask if I've read your mind.
Our passion, urgent now but often lazy,
Engulfs us again before I can reply,
"Perhaps it is that you've read mine."

Where Does Time Live?

2007-09-10T01:15:00.000-07:00

This poem was written for my friend R's recent Poetry Challenge.

Where does time live? This abstract,
this phantom does not exist until we
become aware of it, either by accident
or because it is thrust upon us.

Does it live in an alarm clock?
A history book?
A crow's foot?
A family tree?
A pocket watch?

Does it live in an Autumn leaf?
A forgotten wall?
A mossy patina?
A missing stone?
A cherished memory?

We often stumble upon it, surprised,
because we've managed to lose track of it
somehow; yet, how does one misplace
a thing so big as time?

Still Life With A Grape

2007-09-08T23:25:00.000-07:00

A shallow bowl sits off-center on the table
Its antique porcelain painstakingly hand painted
Filled full with fruit just breaching over ripeness
A sunbeam pierces the slit between the gauzy drapes
Briefly brightening a worn tablecloth
Nearly divested of its white and yellow squares
The sunbeam finds in its narrow path
A solitary grape that has fallen to the table
A sacrificial offering, but by whose hand?
The grape is conspicuous in his exile
Bravely facing the sunbeam's embrace
Behind faded flowers and vines
Soft shadows lurk within the wallpaper
Ready to feast when the fruit begins to spoil
The sunbeam rests upon the grape
As his shadow grows to twice, thrice his size
Waiting to devour him on a faded tablecloth
He valiantly fights this battle every evening
While the rest of his kin are wasted
Always to the same end until he tires
His skin, much darker than his blood,
Splits under the crushing embrace of the beam
On a battlefield of white and yellow squares.

Fingerprints

2007-09-04T01:22:00.000-07:00

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Strange symbols placed upon a glass
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Once fogged by illicit, commingled breaths
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . These phantom fingerprints

. . Petite in their assault, they now speak loudly
Of a girl who didn't exist in her mind, or yours
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sad, long forgotten etchings

. . . . . . . . . . Their placement and fervor are no less telling
. . . . . . . . . . . Than a spent prophylactic or a rouged collar
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pitiable, fatuous love

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Leaving me with another unwanted souvenir
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . When the clime is right, your secrets do still
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Name you, and call you out

Another Day in Toadyland

2007-08-30T19:20:00.000-07:00

As I crested the driveway coming home last evening, I saw Mrs. Toady sitting smack-dab in the middle of the top of the drive, blocking the way. She looked like a miniature sentry as she faced my car, daring me to engage in some bizarre game of chicken. I halted the car, hesitant to try to maneuver over her to my parking spot, and she held her ground beneath my headlights. Thinking the whole world had gone mad, I put the idling car in park, yanked up the emergency brake, and exited the vehicle to approach her. It occurred to me that I had not seen her or her husband since my last Toady posting, and I admitted to myself that I had really missed them.

Mrs. Toady was looking very regal, indeed. She allowed me to approach within a foot of her without complaint. I asked her if she'd move out of the way, gesturing to the side of the driveway, but she wouldn't budge. A little exasperated, I explained that I couldn't move my car until she relocated, and I certainly couldn't leave it parked at such an awkward grade on the drive overnight. She listened politely, but remained quite indifferent. It took several minutes to coax her off the drive into the grassy area by our front walk, and to my dismay, she didn't appear to be in any great rush. As I shadow-stepped the Mrs. towards the yard, what I originally perceived to be a leaf, inconspicuously deposited on the drive some few feet away, scooted off in the opposite direction and into the dark.

This unexpected movement startled me, so I investigated. Lo and behold, our earlier suspicions were confirmed . . .

Meet the Toady Tot!

Junior was around an inch and a half long, and clearly had the jumping thing down pat already. He also allowed me to get very close to him, but after a moment was seized with an instinctive "Oh, crap!" paralysis, turning him into a tiny, toady tot statue. Stifling my giggles, I was able to persuade him to follow his mother into the side yard. One toad tragedy successfully forfended, much to my relief.

As I got back into my car, it dawned on me that the parking area at the top of the drive had once again been commandeered by the Toady family for its own personal use . . .

. . . as a nursery.

Electric Blue

2007-08-22T02:00:00.000-07:00

An afternoon storm
The air was warm
The rain was long past due
A lightning strike
The world went white
And all was lost to view

I blinked, I frowned
I stumbled 'round
Awaiting clarity
First white, then blue
Of perfect hue
Was all that I could see

Profound, pristine
So pure and clean
It burned into my brain
As wavelengths merged
And then diverged
I saw the colors twain

Blue warmth below
A cooler glow
The world did they imbue
Then two were one
Embracing, done
I'd seen Electric Blue

Should vision fail
As I grow frail
My memory will play
The rapture dealt
By a lightning bolt
One California day.

A Reluctant Ghost

2007-08-20T18:22:00.000-07:00

Your lies are not as sweet to me as they once were
The lips that once contrived to keep me close
Tenderly dropping candied deceits upon my tongue
Now speak far worse untruths to keep me away

They blow through me like a searing desert wind
Turning me into a reluctant ghost, and so they pass
Whilst I sit still, watching them swirl like devils
Leaving behind only empty words, finer than dust

But a ghost might yearn to haunt the former heart
Drifting, seeking out home or garden, long ago lost
Unless it finds what it haunts is a ghost unto itself . . .
Once loved, be soothed; if never so, enraged

Dissembling claims of virtue are for naught, for
Nary time enough exists amongst your deeds
For you to be as good and pure as you believe or
To wash another fool's kisses from your mask

Your truth is now the sweetest lie against new lips
Yet sweetest only to the first-time taster, but just once
My truth tastes acrid, bitter; I revel in my distance, as
I watch a cyclone of empty words embrace you.

I’m nobody! Who are you?

2007-08-11T16:15:00.000-07:00

I received a special invitation to attend a concert in Atlanta last Sunday night, when the Continuum Tour, featuring John Mayer and opening acts James Morrison and Ben Folds, hit the Phillips Arena downtown.

It was a fantastic show, and may well be the most memorable one I've attended in decades, albeit for an unexpected reason (which we'll get to in a moment). As I drove home from the concert, my giddy mind raced through all of the concerts I could remember attending, searching unsuccessfully for one that I recalled being as special as that night's. During my jaunt down memory lane and up the Connector, I discovered that my attitude towards concerts has really changed through the years, and not always for the better . . .

15-20

At this age, for some of us, concerts were the focal point of our existence, barring other teenage distractions (like hormones). Every available dollar was spent on tickets and merchandise. We camped out for hours, sometimes days, to be the first in line at the Turtle's record store so we could cast our lots for the coveted front row seats. We were early to the show, usually because someone else drove; sometimes that someone was a parent. We dressed fashionably, often in the same style as the musician or band. We were prone to lose things at concerts: a wallet, a bracelet, a boyfriend, a girlfriend. We could smoke at concerts then. And we didn't give a hoot about the comfort of the people around us as we became lost in the music and lights, paying homage to the musical demi-gods that we correctly believed would shape the rest of our lives. Their music spoke to us.

20-25

Music began to change when our demi-gods abandoned us. Ticket prices started to go up. Concerts became more about merchandising and pyrotechnics as the tour managers attempted to distract us from less substantive music and more expensive tickets. Our cigarette smoke started to be replaced by smoke from a machine. We no longer attended because we loved the music; it was all about being seen. The coveted front row seat was replaced by the elusive VIP backstage pass, which was just as well, because when TicketMaster was introduced, it drove the Turtle's record store out of business. We began driving to other states to catch what we thought might be worthwhile shows. Though not a groupie by any stretch of the imagination, I had my share of VIP passes, green rooms, and after parties.

25-30

As a young professional, I traded TicketMaster for ticket brokers. It was worth the money to let someone else track down the better seats at the shows I wanted to attend. Concert attire became a little more relaxed. We began to understand that we didn't have to buy a t-shirt for every concert we attended. We started showing up a little late to the show. VIP passes didn't mean so much anymore. Smoking was no longer permitted inside, and the use of smog machines was on the decline. I became hyper-critical of teenagers who thought nothing of ruining the show for me by standing and dancing around me, or bouncing the back of my chair. We felt we had paid so much for our tickets we had the right to enjoy the show in peace, and were quick to vocalize our displeasure with other audience members. When alcohol was thrown into the mix, hateful words and fisticuffs were not uncommon.

30-35

We didn't have time for concerts. Actually, we did, but few of us could justify paying the exorbitant ticket prices charged by the ancient demi-god groups from our youth and the up-and-coming musicians trying to secure their fortunes before the fickle audience abandoned them. We still really liked the music, but between concerts and the Napster debacle, we felt a bit exploited by the music industry. When we were able to attend, attire became even more casual, since we really didn't care who saw us; we were there once again for the music. We were not as willing to travel to see our favorite band. And while we still became really annoyed with the inconsideration demonstrated by other members of the audience, we weren't as vocal about it as we used to be, as we reluctantly remembered a time when we were young and silly.

35-40

Which brings us to last weekend.

I met my friends at their hotel downtown. K escorted me up to their room on the 25th floor, where C and I finished getting ready for the show. My attire was understated, at best: I wore a sleeveless black hoodie, jeans, my hair pulled loosely back, a few stretchy bracelets, and a pair of 4 ½ inch tall summer heels. C was über-cute with her long blonde hair, a strapless cream-colored top, jeans, and her own pair of really tall shoes. Side by side, we were blonde Amazon and brunette Amazon; I was Yin to her Yang, a cool moon to her warm sun. We were a formidable pair.

C and I left K at the hotel and took a quick cab ride to the Will Call window at Phillips, where we picked up our tickets and slapped our VIP stickers on our jeans. The bright orange sticker made me miss the old school lanyard-style passes, but once you got past people surreptitiously looking in the general area of your groin, it wasn't a big deal.

We made our way to our reserved seats on the floor of the Arena. It was dark, as James Morrison's session had just recently started. Fabulous talent that young man had, and I hope to hear more from him. Ben Folds was as engaging and animated as ever, and we enjoyed his session a great deal, as well.

During the two intermissions, C and I walked around the Arena to kill time and entertain ourselves. We ventured backstage to get our bearings for later in the evening. Once back in the Arena, people cleared a swath and allowed us to pass without crowding us. Many were fascinated by the strange orange stickers we were wearing, branding us as VIPs. Throughout the evening, a handful of people foolishly asked us how we obtained the passes; we were mum, but by the fourth or fifth one, it was all we could do not to say, "You know, we had to sleep with every member of all three bands to get these. We were naked for days. We're simply exhausted." Concert etiquette dictates that such a question is asked in extremely poor taste; there may actually be someone out there that did exactly that to earn their pass, but who would want to admit such a thing? Thank goodness we were actually expected backstage.

K met us at the stage and gave us a tour, introducing us to many members of the bands and staff. Everyone was so very nice, and I realized that I was seeing these entertainers in a new light – as professionals, doing their job and doing it very well. Their passion for their craft permeated the space around them, and it felt warm and colorful to me. I've always interacted well with celebrities, mostly because I don't gush and fawn. I don't objectify them. I just treat them as human beings. I recall C and I having a lovely conversation with one of Morrison's band members about how sad the state of tea (both the drink and the event) is in America versus England.

I settled in the stage right wing where I could observe Mayer, his band, and some of the audience members. I would occasionally glance up to the risers above us, only to make eye contact with a curious fan, and I would volley their smile. I observed that there were only a precious few of us backstage, and I fully appreciated the exclusivity of my magic sticker. We didn't clap with the audience, because, well, it's just not something one does while backstage. Visible in the ambient haze cast by the spotlights and stage lights, but still somewhat stealth in my darkened wing, I felt anonymous yet exotic. I was both somebody and nobody. I found myself, for the first time in a very long time, embracing the thought of being special, even if just for a few hours. And that was nice.

There was a playlist posted directly in front of us, and I informed C that the breaks in the list indicated the encore sequence. Already knowing that the bands had to be in Tampa, Florida the next day, we didn't anticipate there would be an after party; therefore, we elected to exit backstage halfway through the next to the last song. We unhurriedly said our goodbyes and departed the Arena amidst many wondering (and wandering) eyes. We easily found a cab and went back to the hotel, where we had a nightcap and a couple of hours' conversation of exceptionally high quality. A gentle bonding between the girlfriend and the best friend, still feeling Yin and Yang. And this is where you came in.

So, what made the night so memorable? Anyone who knows me well appreciates that I don't like attending large events any more. I don't enjoy noise disguised as music, and I don't enjoy throngs of inconsiderate and selfish people. I particularly don't enjoy said people invading my personal space, and worse, I despise mashers. I have an impossibly high standard of how I believe people should act in public places, and understandably, I'm always disappointed. I have very little patience for idiocy and silliness. It's just easier not to go.

But somehow, by some inexplicable and unexpected measure, I wasn't disappointed that night. I didn't get mad, or upset, or irritated, or even mildly annoyed. Not even once. This observation impacted me more than my budding friendship with C, the VIP pass and recalling the VIP days of my youth, and even my brief window of special-ness. Something's changing, but this change is good. I don't know when or how it happened (a la one of T's recent blogs) and I don't really care. All I know is that I had . . . dare I say it?

I had . . . fun.

K and C, I can't thank you enough for that.

Just Right

2007-08-10T01:28:00.000-07:00

If I hold my hand
Just right
I can cast secrets
Into the void

If I tilt my head
Just right
They'll look like
Pennies in a fountain

If I squint my eyes
Just right
They'll seem like
Fiery, shooting stars

And if I open my heart
Just right
I'll change my secrets
Gently into wishes.

A New Bird on the Stones

2007-07-30T17:15:00.000-07:00

A new bird on the stones
Weak and fading in the heat
Too young to know lost
Only just cognizant of alone

Strength enough to persevere
To make it to this hour
And yet unable to overcome
The elements of nature's plan

I consider moving it into shade
For a more comfortable death
But I concede all that will do
Is give a predator a cooler meal

Knowing it's too late to save it
I stanch a tear and turn away
Sometimes the hardest thing to do
Is nothing, and remain still.

Why I Don’t Live at the P. O.

2007-07-25T20:09:00.000-07:00

During my visit to the local post office today, I was reminded of a fabulous short story by Eudora Welty entitled "Why I Live at the P. O." (which happens to be a great study in linguistics, as it's written in the dialect of wartime Mississippi).

As I filled out my documentation with the oh-so-stylish tethered pen, I heard out of the corner of my right ear a woman's voice joking with someone else in line, apparently in response to their advancement in the line and a subsequent fake-out by a clerk, "Well good, I was afraid she was going on break."

The clerk scenery at the P. O. never really changes, so I find it much more entertaining to watch the customers. I initially deemed us to be a rather unexciting group as I moved into the lead spot in the line. We were just a handful of unremarkable customers, but one did catch my eye; perhaps it was the summer plaid blazer she was wearing, or her shock of pearl grey bisque hair. She was a little over five feet tall, with a wide, tanned leather face and narrow eyes, and an equally-wide, casually upswept hairdo. By all appearances, she was a seemingly unassuming octogenarian who stood poised before the female clerk second from the right, from whom she was attempting to purchase a book of stamps.

She asked for stamps. The clerk brought out a sheet. Then the world stopped for a few minutes.

The woman examined the stamps and frowned, while some invisible hand turned her volume knob up two clicks.

"Why, these aren't regular stamps! I don't want these! Give me some regular stamps, wouldya!" She waved the stamps in the air for emphasis. The customer had a surprisingly good natured lilt to her drawl, on the verge of a laugh or a chuckle. I narrowed my eyes and tilted my head a bit, studying the customer's body language. No hostility detected.

But the pretty female clerk didn't know whether to laugh or press the hidden alarm button. She smiled a waxy, vacant smile at the customer, and stepped away to try to find a different sheet. The second the clerk turned her back, the customer's volume shot up three more clicks.

"Excuse me. Excuse me! I didn't know you were going on break."

Where I stood, I felt my mouth drop open and my eyes widen in surprise. And then an uncontrollable smile started its tic at the corners of my mouth. I was transfixed.

The clerk immediately presented another selection. The customer presented another display of waving the stamps in her left hand, showing them to her clerk and the one to her left.

"Don't y'all have just plain ol' stamps? You know, the kind with the flags on them? I want the ones with the flags on them."

And silly me, here I was thinking she was referring to the licky kind of stamps when she called them "regular." The female clerk fought a smile. The male clerk next to her popped his head up over the divider and asked her what the customer needed, while the customer continued talking about regular stamps, and waving the obviously irregular stamps around.

The male clerk smiled at his peer and told her he had some flag stamps, and the female clerk looked relieved. But the customer heard him, and before he could hand the stamps over the divider, told her clerk she was going over there, because he had regular stamps, the ones with flags, and she immediately left her position and resumed it one station to her left. On cue, I left the line and went to the abandoned station with the female clerk.

The octogenarian chatted at the male clerk incessantly as I made my transaction. The elderly woman's volume knob had been turned down to its original position, so I didn't really pay attention to what she was saying. My clerk still looked a little frazzled, though, so I leaned down over the counter and whispered to her that I thought she could use a break. She cracked a smile and nodded.

As the male clerk was completing his customer's transaction, for some reason I couldn't ascertain, he had to get something from another counter which prompted an immediate

"Excuse me. Excuse me! I didn't know you were going on break!"

And not just once. Twice this time, with two more upward clicks each. When she spoke, I detected the subtle laugh under her words, and she was waving her empty right hand rapidly back and forth in the air. Her steamer-trunk-sized patchwork leather purse with its silver horseshoe buckle rested on the counter, rendered immobile by her left hand. The clerk hurried back to her.

As I stood one station to her right, I found myself giggling quietly, feeling something akin to admiration at her sheer brazenness. I completed my purchase, tapped the counter, and told the female clerk in my normal voice, "Okay, you can go on break now." She gave me a wide grin and thanked me, giving me a wave.

Leaving the P. O., still giggling, I thought about the silver-haired tornado I had just experienced. And I liked her. A lot. She communicated well, she was effective, and she kept us all on our toes. She got what she wanted and didn't have to be nasty to do it. In some weird way, she helped others meet her expectations. And she was a snappy dresser, too. That's the kind of woman I can only hope to be at that age: five feet of dynamite, with dentures made of brimstone.

As inexplicably tickled as I was, though, I realized she had a very valid point. As we age, our time becomes much more valuable to us. I imagine that at her age, every minute we spend on this side of the dirt counts. I think that's why I get so exasperated with self-centered people who thrive on wasting other people's time, particularly mine.

It's funny, but this encounter made me remember the exact moment I entered into adulthood.

It happened the first time I put on a watch.

Perspective

2007-07-21T08:33:00.000-07:00

I saw the most frightening beast today
The likes of which I've never seen
Outside of nightmares or horror films

Fascinated, I used a camera
To examine it without getting too close
Lest I be eviscerated

Its cruel claws and proboscis
Its wretched legs and indifferent eyes
A killing machine, to be sure

And then I changed perspectives
Only to learn that it wasn't real
It was simply the husk of something former

My trepidation turned to laughter
As I chided myself aloud
For being afeared of such a tiny ghost.

Mr. Toady Revisited

2007-07-20T00:15:00.000-07:00

When I arrived home this evening, I was quite surprised to see Mr. Toady sitting in my parking place. He's never done that before, and I was thinking he must have some big brass toadyballs to commandeer such a dangerous spot in which to enjoy his bug buffet. As I mentioned previously, we have a good rapport, so I'm always on the lookout for his safety and I parked well away from him.

I greeted him as I always do, he gave me a solemn look of "hmph" in reply, and I began carrying my parcels into the garage. On the second trip, I glanced to my right, and did a double-take. Mr. Toady had apparently sprinted the width of the driveway while my back was turned, and now sat serenely on the other side of the parking area. I shrugged and walked around the front of the car.

And there sat Mr. Toady.

But if Mr. Toady is over here . . .

then over there must be . . . could it be? A Mrs. Toady!

Now knowing that there is a Toady family, I of course had to see which one I had photographed in the drainpipe. I grabbed my camera and shot blindly in the dark, unconcerned about the flash since I had learned from a friend that amphibian retinas aren't damaged by bright lights; consequently, they are used in flash-type test scenarios quite a bit.

I photographed Mr. Toady first because he was closer. He was particularly active, and frankly, got a little peeved with me and the camera flash. I don't know if you've ever seen a miffed toad, but he was kind of funny. His front feet were on tiptoe and his elbows (do toads have elbows?) were pushed outwards from his body – like a little Mr. Toady Universe – thrusting him into a nearly vertical position. He shoved his head back into his neck, like a turtle. I guess this was his way of making himself appear bigger. He was probably chuckling to himself at his effectiveness as I drifted across the driveway to see Mrs. Toady.

She was a lovely specimen. A little more plump than her husband, and most accommodating of my photographic efforts. She sat patiently as I tried to capture her image in the dark.

By the time I finished with Mrs. Toady, Mr. Toady had decided he was within his rights to explore the confines of our garage, and I returned to find him perched on the concrete directly beneath the open garage door. With visions of frogs in blenders and miniature guillotines, I attempted to herd Mr. Toady out of the path of the door and back into the driveway. My gentle pleas for him to move were wasted . . . he wasn't having it.

I touched his back right leg and he jumped six inches away from the garage. I touched him again, and he jumped another six. Then he turned halfway towards me and just glared. I was confused, because just a few weeks ago I had touched him to make him get out of the way, and he didn't budge. In fact, he rather seemed to enjoy being petted, so this aggressive behavior didn't make sense. And then I realized I had most likely petted Mrs. Toady before, not Mr. Toady.

Hopeful that I had taken at least one usable shot of both the Mr. and the Mrs., I double checked Mr. Toady's location and closed the garage door so they could finish their bug buffet in peace.

No, it's not the Apocalypse. And, no, I still won't kiss him . . . after all, he's a married fellow. Oh, and lest I forget, it was Mr. in the drainpipe. I could tell by the markings on his chest.

Gimme Real

2007-07-10T22:04:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make.

I'm not really a blogger.

I despised the fundamental concept of blogging when its popularity surged years ago. What a ghastly display of narcissism and selfishness I perceived it to be! That anyone could deem themselves to be so special that others would seek them out and flock en masse to their site, just to read what they had for breakfast, was appalling to me. Even more mortifying was the lack of responsibility and accountability demonstrated by many in the blogosphere. The very word blog conjured up images of something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of my shoe: Hold up a minute, I stepped in some blog.
That said, however, I appreciated the innovation behind those formative weblogs that dealt with locus, more than focus. But online diaries? I found them to be highly offensive to my sensibilities, perhaps because I intimately knew someone who manipulated and abused the trust of his readers.

I have always argued against the ideal of "virtual community". I believe that real community can be enhanced by, but never replaced with, interactions available in the virtual world. The veiled anonymity afforded us within virtual communities spawns stunted social skills and the abandonment of social conscience. Real people, and real relationships, require face to face interaction: body language, discourse, honesty, and accountability.

I think many folks, as they slowly lose their grip on the real world at the hands of technology, substitute virtual interaction in its place, and are inclined to give too much – or the wrong kind of – information in an effort to validate their "real-ness" to people they don't even know, and probably never will. I'm observing that many people have evolved beyond mere co-dependency; rather, they have become universally-dependent, requiring the validation of strangers in order to determine their self-worth.

As I began to tentatively wiggle my toes in the blogosphere, I made a promise to myself that I would not become universally-dependant. I know my worth, and I know that it is ultimately determined by me and my actions, not what some anonymous person thinks or says, or whether I achieve a quota of views in any given day.

I began to write for me. I wrote to understand, more than to be understood. And after a while, I found my voice and adopted a surprisingly affectionate and somewhat tolerant view towards blogging. At the very least, I try to construct meaningful social commentary, and deconstruct changes like the migration to virtual community. As I mentioned in an ancient blog, if anyone else likes what they read here, I consider it a bonus. And if they don't, that's okay, too; they are under no contractual obligation to read what I write.

The contemplative comments spurred by my last post reminded me of a question posed by another friend in response to answers on a survey I posted recently. He wondered why I would consider walking down a street nude, yet not consider posing nude for a magazine.

My unequivocal response? Permanence.

It is a fairly safe bet that if you compromise yourself in a virtual community or relationship, at least one other person has captured the act. As a result, the one-night-stand writing exercise cybersex that so many people indulge in because it's not really cheating (pfffft), or the borderline-pornographic photos that some people like to share with the world, or the slam against a co-worker is on at least one other hard drive somewhere. Folks, that's permanence. The act of preserving something virtual makes it real. Real is truth. Truth doesn't go away when you log off of your computer. My personal rule of thumb is I will not post anything that I wouldn't say to someone's face, or stand up and defend in a court of law.

Meaningful.

Permanence.

Anything else is just virtual graffiti, bytes scratched out in thoughtless haste, verbal or visual spoor forever staining the cache of the virtual world. A caricature of who we really are.

I think of some of the profiles and blogs I have read, posted by females who don't comprehend that they are setting women back for decades for the sake of a little anonymous attention, or posted by males who are incapable of grasping the concept that yeah, it really is cheating. People who believe anything they read or hear, sometimes at the expense of someone they'll never know.

Meaningful permanence . . . the difference between graffiti and art.

Something to Consider

2007-07-10T06:14:00.000-07:00

From today's Wall Street Journal Online. Enjoy!
________________________________________________

"OMG -- My Boss Wants to 'Friend' Me On My Online Profile"
Cubicle Culture by Jared Sandberg
The Wall Street Journal
July 10, 2007; Page B1

Paul Dyer was always able to hold off his boss's invitations to party by employing that arms-length response: "We'll have to do that sometime," he'd say.

But when his boss, in his 30s, invited Mr. Dyer, 24 years old, to be friends on the social-networking sites MySpace and Facebook, dodging wasn't so easy. On the one hand, accepting a person's request to be friends online grants them access to the kind of intimacy never meant for office consumption, such as recent photos of keggers and jibes from friends. ("Still wearing that lampshade?")

But declining a "friend" request from a colleague or a boss is a slight. So, Mr. Dyer accepted the invitation, then removed any inappropriate or incriminating photos of himself -- "I'd rather speak vaguely about them," he says -- and accepted the boss's invitation.

Mr. Dyer, it turns out, wasn't the one who had to be embarrassed. His boss had photos of himself attempting to imbibe two drinks at once, ostensibly, Mr. Dyer ventures, to send the message: "I'm a crazy, young party guy." The boss also wore a denim suit ("I'd never seen anything like it," Mr. Dyer says) and posed in a photo flashing a hip-hop backhand peace sign.

It was painful to watch. "I hurt for him," says Mr. Dyer.

Like email and "buddy lists" before them, social networking sites such as Facebook and MySpace provide a definition of the word "friend" so expansive that it includes perfect strangers. Yet, strangers are the easy part. It can be a lot creepier to interact intimately with someone you sort of know than someone you don't know at all.

"Nothing changes when a stranger invites you to be a friend," says Nina Singh, a market-research consultant. But when one of her clients "friended" her, she saw a semierotic photo of him topless, posed and softly lit. "When you see your client's pubic bone, something has changed."

Victor Sanchez, 54, a senior development director, was once invited to join a site and was surprised to see a photograph of a younger colleague's seahorse tattoo. "Sometimes it's good to learn things about a colleague much later -- or never at all," he says.

These networking sites assist existing social relationships, letting people easily plan events, share pictures and keep up-to-date with far-flung friends. Once they penetrate the office, however, such sites can create awkward moments, particularly with colleagues who commit the social felony of attempted hipness. Dare I say, "Whatup, homey?"

When it comes to the boss, there is a real dilemma. You're caught between a career-limiting rejection of virtual friendship or a career-limiting access to photos of yourself glassy-eyed at a party. "All these social relationships -- apples and oranges -- are getting crammed into one category of friends," says Tom Boellstorff, associate professor of anthropology at the University of California, Irvine, who is writing a book on the virtual community Second Life.

After one senior marketing coordinator at a law firm was invited by one of the lawyers to be his friend, she felt compelled to accept the invitation, even though she had no intention of socializing with him outside the office. He remarked once after an office meeting that he noticed she had a boyfriend, as listed on her online profile.

"It was strange," she says. "I was like, 'Why are you on Facebook?'"

Once "friended" by a colleague, people feel compelled to employ privacy features -- which itself can be a snub -- or to sanitize their online profiles -- which is akin to hiding something under the bed. The same marketing coordinator removed college pictures of herself doing a keg stand -- a handstand on top of a beer keg for a direct mouth-to-tap connection.

Prospective employers also seem to have no compunction conducting searches on job applicants before they call them in for interviews. "We'll Google them and I know that we've done MySpace searches," says attorney Caroline Kert of prospective hires.

She's mostly looking for slams against a former employer or exposed proprietary information. She says she'd never hold against applicants something like, say, a photo of them wearing a fur bikini. Good thing. Ms. Kert, a regular at the Burning Man Festival, has pictures of herself sporting just that on MySpace.

J.D. Lloyd, a law student working at a firm, isn't taking any chances. At 6-foot-2 and 250 pounds, he removed a photo of himself in a Florida Marlins baseball jersey that was a mere "youth large." "It was tight," he says. "There may or may not have been midriff in some of those pictures."

It used to be that employees were told to keep their personal lives out of work. Now, some bosses beg for it. Data analyst Valerie Jewett, 23, accepted a boss as a friend even though she likes to keep her personal and professional lives separate.

He's a nice guy, she says, but his late-30s ungrooviness was evident when he wrote a message to her on the "wall" on her homepage. The message made her roll her eyes. "What a ko-wink-i-dink to find y'all on here! Yeehaw!!"

• Email me at Jared.Sandberg@wsj.com. For a discussion on today's column, go to WSJ.com/Forums. To see past columns, please go to CareerJournal.com.

Source: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB118401324654861242.html

Leading With My Left

2007-06-30T20:51:00.000-07:00

"What would you like for [insert special occasion here]?"

"I don't want anything."
Translation: "Use your imagination. I'll treasure anything you give me, if it's from your heart."

As you may have already discerned, I'm not big on receiving material gifts, at least of the store-bought variety. Over the years, I have learned that too many people just don't have the knack for gift giving.

My family always gave me incredibly thoughtful gifts, things that they had observed I needed throughout the year but would not acquire for myself, or accouterments that I would consider luxuries in my somewhat voluntarily minimalist existence. My dearest friends sometimes enjoy making gifts, original little works of art imbued with love. I treasure each of them, these gifts from the heart.

This kind of gift giving is intuitive. Being raised in an intuitively giving environment, I've become quite adept at it, and I strive to seek out the unusual, hard to find, and thoughtful gift when the need arises, and sometimes just for the fun of it. Not everyone can give intuitively, granted, but some people are just too lazy to do it.

A fellow I once dated asked what I wanted for my birthday. "I don't want anything." So what did he get me? A pair of hiking boots. Romantically challenged, perhaps, but it's the thought that counts.

A man I was engaged to, in response to "I don't want anything," liked to give me two pieces of very expensive jewelry for each special occasion, and I could choose and keep the one I liked best. Invariably, even without knowing how much he had spent on either of them, I selected the one that was less costly, and this amazed him. I explained that it was incidental; I chose the ones I did because he either had a hand in the piece's design, or he went to great lengths to obtain it. Simply put, there was more of him in it.

I knew a family whose practice it was for their son to submit a monumental list of material things he wanted for Christmas. It was not unusual to receive a list with 30 or more items on it, a majority of them quite expensive. The son, in accordance with his family's practice, would pester me for a list every year. "I don't want anything." His family would always persist until I relinquished a list, thereby absolving them of any creative responsibility.

One year, just to shut him up, I came up with the most outlandish gift idea I could muster under pressure: I told him I wanted a punching bag. So he immediately went out and bought me a punching bag. (Did I really want it? No.)

For several years it sat in my mother's basement, unused, serving as the butt of a different joke for each of us – for him, my recalcitrant reluctance to exercise with it, and for me, well, just the fact that he bought it in the first place.

After my return to Georgia, I actually did start using it a bit as my strength and schedule allowed. Today's workout prompted this post, in fact. I've observed that while I could inflict some serious damage with a right punch or kick, I'm still a little weak on my left side. I think if I continue leading with my left for a while, I can achieve a better balance of strength.

I think left is underrated. I contemplate some of the relevant lefts in my life: left brain, left eye, and left hand; direction, intellect, spirituality, and politics. I recognize that each of these serves as half of a micro-balance, and those balances, along with countless others, contribute to the macro-balance of being.

Balance is good, but it requires a lot of work. It doesn't just happen on its own. So, I'll start small, with the punching bag.

Hello, left.

Bone Tired

2007-06-15T02:17:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, you just can't sleep. Can't as in mustn't, not can't as in unable to. I think Lewis Grizzard would have referred to it as "cain't", as it connotes a certain sense of urgency (much like his definitions of naked and nekkid; naked means you aren't wearing any clothing, but nekkid means you're not wearing any clothing and you're up to something). Should necessity dictate that you juice every single minute of the day for every drop of time you can squeeze out of it, and though you'd love nothing more than to sit still or rest for a just a few minutes, you simply can't because you feel what you are tending to takes greater priority than your body's pitiful cries for mercy.

At the time of this writing (not posting, mind you, since I've yet to see an accurate timestamp on my blogs), I have been awake for almost seventy hours. Though I am still about a day away from my threshold for physical fatigue, it is starting to wear on me a bit. Second wind? Pffft. I'm probably on my twentieth or thirtieth by now.

I consider different things that might cause us to subject ourselves to such sleep deprivation. I think of new mothers with their new babies; new lovers as they explore, invade, and conquer each other; cross-country truckers eating Slim Jims and drinking scalding, black coffee (yes, it really does work; it has something to do with the meat arousing one's carnivorous instincts, combined with the hot coffee eroding the tender linings of your body); wrapping up a career maker or breaker project; holding vigil over a sick friend, loved one, or pet; journeying to a holy land, or even simply possessing a profound fear of the dark and its nether-realm monstrosities beneath one's bed.

I'm almost ashamed to say that I like this altered state. My brain expands, and with the extra room it seems, at least from this side, to be less cluttered. I think in simpler terms. I refocus myself. I'm balanced on an edge, somewhere between a complete physical shutdown and just barely containing a slightly-nervous energy within the confines of my skin. My hands don't tremble, but my fingertips are freezing. My eyes are clear, but they are so weary. My skin is flushed and slightly dehydrated, even though my ankles swell a bit. My mouth is dry, and sometimes my heart does loopty-loops until I pay attention to it. Otherwise, I'm feeling pretty good.

So why do I? My reason is much less glamorous than those I mentioned previously; it's simply a synapse misfire.

But I sure know the meaning of "bone tired". Bone tired occurs when you are so tired that everything hurts, all the way down to where your muscles are latched to your bones with creaky sinew, and then the hurt leaches into the bones themselves. For me, it's primarily my teeth. Just like I know it's really cold outside when it makes my teeth hurt, I know I'm really tired when they all growl in my jaw if I try to eat a candy bar.

I'll get all the sleep I need when I'm dead.

Interloper at the Cabaret

2007-06-10T09:33:00.000-07:00

I found a field of black-eyed susans today. They danced in the wind, as if in a cabaret, their seedheads in various states of undress and their petals blushing crimson. As I stood above them, I felt the cloud of humid heat they radiated, almost oppressive in the midst of our drought. The fearless flyers paid me no mind as I explored the immodest susans with them, while they all danced for the sun.

On the Subject of Floral Modesty

2007-06-03T16:31:00.000-07:00

The gardenias just bloomed, crisp and white like paper, with a gentle fragrance that wafts around on the breeze. I am learning that certain flowers simply seem more lustful than others, and that these seem quite demure when compared to the lilies of last week. I must remember that they aren't trying to be attractive to other flowers; rather, they seek out only those fearless flyers (and amateur photographers) that are enticed to molest them.

I ponder the subject of modesty among flowers. I, for one, am happy that they aren't.

Feeling a Bit Georgia O’Keeffeish

2007-05-31T09:28:00.000-07:00

I indulged today in a few minutes of one of my favorite hobbies – looking up Nature's skirt. With friends posting about watermelon patches and persimmon trees, I am inspired to take better stock of the beauty around me. This afternoon, I found a patch of gorgeous lemon-yellow day lilies that were peaking. I took a few photos only to find that, well, I can't help but think they're rather naughty. Pretty, but most assuredly naughty.

Ms. O'Keeffe said, "Nobody sees a flower really; it is so small. We haven't time, and to see takes time - like to have a friend takes time." So here is a spot of lemon-yellow happy for my friends. Thank you for brightening my days.

Mr. Toady

2007-05-29T22:34:00.000-07:00

Let me introduce you to an old friend of mine. He has lived at our house for at least three years, and every year he gets a little bigger. He never makes a sound, and this is the first time I've ever seen him outside of his usual hangout, which is next to our garage doors. I only see him at night, and I am always extra careful when I park so I don't smoosh him. I never go in without giving him a greeting when he's there.

I was getting something out of the car tonight, and his little nose gave away his location. I could not resist taking a picture. Hopefully, he can see again by now.

And no, I'm not going to kiss him.

Walt Twitman

2007-05-29T09:49:00.000-07:00

This series cracked me up, and I had to share. Enjoy!

In Memoriam

2007-05-28T23:46:00.000-07:00

The place has changed since my last visit. I must now travel through the main entrance because the surface streets that used to let out onto the main thoroughfare have been terminated. I wind my way through the maze, not entirely sure of the best route, but comfortable that I'm at least heading in the correct direction.

As I pull up to the lake, I see a few people and I slow my car down. To my right I observe a father in his mid-30s supervising his young daughter – I estimate her age at two years, and she has curls the color of powdered sugar – who is at the water's edge feeding bread to the geese and ducks. I stop to watch them for a moment, moved, and when the father turns to me and smiles, I roll down the car window and tell him I have something to share with him. He smiles and nods, encouraging me, and I clear my throat and say, "When I was a little girl, not much older than your daughter, my father would bring me to this lake to feed the geese. It was a very special time for us." His eyes widen in surprise, and he says, "Really? I guess I didn't know the lake had been here long." I laugh, overlooking his innocent comment, and say, "Yes, long before we put my father to rest here. I just wanted to say that I'm glad you are bringing your daughter here to do this. It touched me to see her there." He grins and tells me they love to come there, and when I wish them a good day, he waves and says, "Thank you for the story."

Wandering through the labyrinth, I marvel at how many new residents have settled in since my last visit. I notice many new trees dotting the landscape. I hope I can remember how to find him amidst the shifting landmarks.

I do find my way, and as I stop my car, I am greeted by a sea of small American flags, waving to and fro in the warm, soft breeze. I follow the signature line of birch trees to where they intersect with another line of trees, and this is where he rests. The trees are all so big now, which tells me it's been far too long since my last visit.

I sit on the ground, at his feet. This happens every time; I have so much to tell him, but when I'm with him, I forget, remembering only how to cry like a daughter. It amazes me that he can still touch my heart and soothe me, telling me my tears are wasted and that all is as it should be. I turn my face to the sun and let it dry my tears; a few escape the warmth and are carried away on the soft breeze, coming to rest on a blade or two of grass.

I close my eyes and I hear the whisper of the flags all around me, the chirping of a pinwheel on a nearby marker, the tender song of small windchimes that have been placed in the lower branches of the trees, the soft hiss of the fountain in the lake, and the birds singing in the surrounding woods. I do not hear the curse made by the ant as it bites me on my left index finger. I flick him away.

Sitting here instills a calm inside me. There is an ancient magnolia leaf near me at the foot of the grave, brown and fragile. I look around but there are no magnolia trees in sight. Where did it travel from? Most likely carried by the errant breeze, like a tear.

After a short, silent spell in the sunshine, I'm ready to exit the silk and plastic garden with all of its accouterments. I send kind thoughts to all of his neighbors, particularly those bearing the little flags. And I find myself making parting apologies to my father, something new for me:

I'm sorry I was not a better judge of character.
I'm sorry I let love blind me to the truth.
I'm sorry I let someone steal from our family.

Hush, he says. All is as it should be.

The tears are gone. Another ant bites me, this time on my left foot. This one I hear, however; he says, "Hurry up. You have a life to live."

The Power of the Smiley

2007-05-19T10:36:00.000-07:00

I love it when my family gets together.

As I get older, I find that each family meeting (in this case, a visit from my grandparents) grounds us firmly in the present, while allowing us to reminisce on events from our collective past. Getting together also lets us share by reaching back into our respective pasts, and offering forth things previously unknown by our loved ones. At such gatherings, I hear about and observe little superstitions, inside jokes, and rituals that serve to strengthen the bond between family members, and that unite them in solidarity against the negative. Family superstitions are not uncommon, and can even be replicated – perhaps through the collective unconscious – by multiple families from different locales.

My parents adopted one such superstition, and it's one that I will carry with me throughout my life. During their marriage, if either of my parents had occasion to spend the night in a hospital, the other would take a magic marker (felt tip, usually black) and draw a smiley face on the bottom of one of the patient's big toes. It was a particular smiley – two small circles for eyes (not darkened in) and a big, loopy, elongated smile that was proportionate to the pad of the toe.

I remember the first time I observed this ritual performed, and fascinated, I asked why my father was drawing a smiley on my mother's big toe, while Mother giggled away in the hospital bed. He just smiled and told me it was so she wouldn't be alone in the hospital. I learned that the smiley's job was to watch over her while she slept, and while she underwent surgery. It was a symbol of luck for us. It was also an effective non-verbal communication to the medical staff and surgeons that despite the circumstances, my parents could maintain a sense of humor.

I grew up knowing that if one of my parents was admitted to the hospital, a smiley would immediately follow. (I've not had occasion yet to wear the prestigious smiley, but I can't say I'm disappointed.) Smileys on toes don't seem to be proprietary to my family; several images of smileys on toes can be found on Google, PhotoBucket, and other sites. I don't know if any other families share our hospital tradition, however.

In 1993, when my father was admitted to the hospital for the last time, Mother confidently held the pen and administered the smiley. The smiley accompanied him from one hospital to another, and it stayed with him for the duration of his battle. In my mind, an eleven-day old smiley was an ancient fellow, as previously they'd only had a life span of a few days. Mother had instructed the staff to not wash the smiley off when they bathed my father, and I remember seeing it intact, on his left big toe, the very last time I was in his room.

Dad and his smiley fought the good fight together. When the time came for my dad to be buried, Mother's only special request was that the funeral staff allow the smiley to remain on Dad's big toe and not be disturbed. And that's how my Dad came to be buried with a smiley on his left big toe. It's funny to me how this little inside joke helped my mother and me through the process of putting Dad to his final rest; it was our small way of showing ourselves, and the powers that be, that we could maintain our sense of humor. I don't think my father would have settled for anything less from us.

I know that a smiley's power is definitely limited. Having a smiley on his big toe didn't save my dad's life, but it ensured he'd never be alone on his journey.

On Mother's Day

2007-05-13T09:08:00.000-07:00

This Mother's Day brings me mixed emotions, securing itself as the latest (yet most likely not final) link in a monumental chain reaction.

Last year, I almost lost my mother. (No, not like a child in a department store, or a french fry under the car seat.) This scare was brought about indirectly by someone who was close to us, someone that we trusted; all I will share here is that my Mother worked herself to the point of requiring open-heart surgery. Another link in this chain reaction was how wizened my soon-to-be ninety year old Grandmother became, caring for my Mother and supporting her through her recovery until I could get to Georgia and until my health improved enough to assume the role of caregiver. Mother survived, but with considerable difficulty; her body suffered, but both it and her spirit are on the mend.

My Grandmother, whose son had passed away just a year before, was deeply and understandably affected by my Mother's condition. She poured her life into her daughter, my Mother, during the recovery. This is the flow and ebb of love between a daughter and her Mother, a dynamic shifting of emotion and support between the two souls. As the women in my family say, "It all comes out in the wash." That is why I don't hesitate to care for Mother, as a small thank you for all she has done for me. Sadly, I sense that Grandmother feels there won't be many more trips to our home in Georgia, and as a result we are taking great care to see that her ninetieth birthday party next week is a memorable and special one.

It is hard to think of Mother's condition and not think of my mother-in-law, whom I flippantly refer to as Dr. Frankenstein. Her parenting skills are the equivalent of flushing a baby alligator down the toilet; the alligator, living unsupervised in the sewer, grows to Japanese-horror proportions and ends up decimating half the city. When I first met my MIL, I remember her making an odd excuse one day: "I wasn't a very good mother." My ass. Throughout his life, she has consistently rewarded her son for his bad behavior. Do I harbor hard feelings towards her? Hardly, because I know she fell into his trap of lies, just like the rest of us. For her, I just have pity because she is still swimming in the muck. Don't read this and label me a whiner – read this and label me empowered enough to walk away from such stupidity.

I think of my own possibilities for motherhood. It is hard for me not to feel real anger towards the man who stole by deceit the last of my natural childbearing years. It's easy for men to pshaw this statement, but I simply consider that to be callous ignorance. Yes, I know I can adopt. Yes, I know I can go through years of fertility treatment if necessary. That, however, is not the point. I chose someone to give this precious gift to, a man who thought it so worthless that he wrecked it, most likely beyond repair. And he doesn't care; he's too busy "getting on with his life." Sheah, some life 'ya got there, buddy.

I think of T's grandmother and mother. I think of my own. I think of the mothers of close friends; mothers who have been lost to time and sickness. These women worked hard their entire lives to rear families who might not change the world, but could hold their place in it without being mowed down by the more selfish among us, without becoming collateral damage. They taught us as women to respect ourselves and to see the good in other people. They taught us to embrace the differences that exist among us, and to one day rear our own families with love and respect. These women are the women we want to be, the women we will be one day.

I think of a mother who seems to think nothing of throwing her family over to be with a man who isn't even single yet, and I take sad comfort in knowing that one day she'll become all used up, like all of those before her. I think of Dr. Frankenstein. Considering these two women, I know that motherhood doesn't automatically make someone a good person; they treat motherhood as an entitlement, cheapening it for the rest of us. I can learn from a bad example just as well as I can a good one.

This Mother's Day, I will be washing clothes because it's so difficult for my mother to go up and down our stairs now. I will supervise her medication. We will be packing our clothes in the seasonal closet swap; the clothes being removed we'll never wear again because they are far too big. We'll balance our checkbooks and make sure we have enough money to throw my Grandmother's ninetieth birthday party next week. I'm about to give her a perfect Mother's Day card and a tiny gift. We'll probably have a good cry together, as we both are cognizant that her being here this year for me to adore is a gift beyond price. And we'll cry for joy that we are starting along the path to get back to where we need to be, despite the actions of one who would carelessly do us harm.

I love you, Mom.

Ex-Perience

2007-05-04T20:24:00.000-07:00

A nod to R for the title . . .

Fred

2007-04-18T09:27:00.000-07:00

The man next door has lost his mind.
I see him every day in his back yard
Walking slowly around his house
And looking for it upon the ground
As if it was a dropped quarter.

He does not recall me, or my name
Even though we have lived as neighbors
For over twenty years.
He does not realize that his mind is merely mislaid
Upon the mantle of his life,
Right next to his last moment of lucidity,
And behind his most comforting years.

When I was a child, his wife saved me
From certain, inescapable doom
By convincing me she did not have a stamp
That I could place upon the letter to my parents
Explaining, in my limited vocabulary,
My grievances that made me want to run away.

Instead, she offered me hot cocoa
And took my rucksack from me,
And gave me a cushion on her sofa
Where I could rest and share my troubles with her.
After we spent the afternoon in earnest conversation
Interspersed with tears and reassurances,
I forgot about the stamp, and my rucksack,
And made my way home, unburdened.

And again she is the caretaker –
Now looking after her husband.
With gentle discipline, as she would with a child;
Reminding him to come inside from his ceaseless searching
For his lost mind; something, which to others,
Might strongly resemble a quarter.

Spring Has Sprung

2007-04-17T20:34:00.000-07:00

Every Spring, I make time to venture into the wilds of my mother's yard to take photographs of her azaleas. As far as landscaping flowers go, I'm not a big fan of azaleas (I find them to be size-challenged, temperamental, and short-lived in our region), but I have an affection for hers as they seem to be determined enough to survive in our muddy terrain, and besides, I basically grew up with them.

The pinks always bloom before the whites. I've never been quick enough to capture the smaller pink blooms on film before they expire; however, I have learned over the years that I have a small window of opportunity in which to capture images of the whites. That window falls between the first wave of new blooms and the first rain. During this time, the blooms are full and clean. Yet once the first rain falls after the initial blooming, the petals shrink, "burn", and are no longer as appealing in appearance. One or two more rains, or one good frost, and the blooms will be lost for the season.

Whenever I travel, I try to photograph the local flora. Though I am not a huge supporter of the cut-flower trade, the beauty I find in any wildflower (or, heaven forbid, an entire field of them) brings to me a sense of indescribable joy. Upon reflection, though I may not have more images of flowers from different places in my photo boxes than of people or landmarks, I'll concede they probably run a close second.

When I photograph flowers, I seek what my mind perceives to be a perfect image. This entails visually evaluating almost every bloom, every cluster and arrangement, every blank; however, I feel that I should clarify that I am not searching for a conventionally "perfect" flower. I take many pictures throughout this process, knowing I will discard over half, possibly even two-thirds of them once I see them on a bigger screen. I usually end up with between six and twelve keepers, images that I feel are a good representation of my efforts and the flowers themselves. Sometimes, I will be rewarded with a single image that surpasses all the others I've taken during that session; this image will be one that literally takes my breath away.

It's this split second of disbelief and awe that prompts me to make this sojourn every Spring. I search for a split second of unity with nature in exchange for a fifty foot stroll into the back yard and thirty minutes' worth of discarded images. What I find instead is a split second of humility after looking up Nature's skirt and realizing what a clumsy, overcomplicated human being I am. Even so, it seems a pretty sweet deal to me.

With full knowledge and appreciation that everyone's perception of beauty is different, I'd like to show you what took my breath away this year.

Until next Spring, then.

The Art of Communication

2007-04-15T17:05:00.000-07:00

A nod of thanks to J for sharing this.

Miles of Thunder

2007-04-14T23:14:00.000-07:00

Usually, it takes between 48 and 72 hours for bad weather to travel from the Midwest to the southern states. The storm that T mentions in her last blog seems to have broken the land speed record, however; it arrived in less than 24 hours, on its way to meet the Atlantic for a hot date. We were alerted to this nasty storm's approach by T's blog and the inclement weather announcements that were interrupting the television shows that were on.

I ventured from home to get a bite to eat a little while ago, and I was astounded by the feeling of electricity coursing through the air, obviously a result of the repeated lightning strikes I was witnessing. Each barrage of strikes was punctuated by the sound of crisp, impatient thunder rolling across what sounded like five or ten miles. Though it had rained softly earlier in the evening, during my brief trip out it was not raining. Instead, the atmosphere was oppressive and I sensed the sky bearing down on the earth, pregnant with water and very angry about it.

After dinner, the sky decided it had carried its burden long enough, and poured its contents down on the earth as if from a bucket. The lightning and thunder abated. The interruptions on the television continued, though not as frequently. Thirty minutes later, the deluge ceased and the world resumed the quiet, damp stance it held prior the storm.

After a storm like this, I always make a point to call T and personally thank her for sending crappy weather my way. She's usually torn between telling me that despite her goddess status, she really doesn't have that kind of power, or simply saying "You're welcome. It's the least I can do." She's such a giver.

The Return of Artemis

2007-04-10T21:20:00.000-07:00

No, I wasn't abducted. No, I wasn't in traction. No, I didn't impose a moratorium on blogging.

I was on a really big boat in the Western Caribbean for eight days. Time came to a halt, and I felt as if I had dropped off the face of the earth save a fragile thread of reality provided by my traveling companion and a sporadic cell phone signal. I wondered if it was possible to surpass the quality of the four days I recently spent with my dearest T, but I found this cruise to be just as satisfying, albeit on different levels. For those who noticed my absence, I truly appreciate your comments and concern.

I was invited to go by my closest hometown girlfriend, who received the all-expenses-paid, seven night cruise as a gift from her employers. We haven't traveled together in years, so I was very excited about the opportunity to spend time with her and visit a new place together.

This wasn't my first cruise, but it was so much more fun than my first. In 1996 I traveled across the Atlantic from London to New York on the Queen Elizabeth II for eight days. Actually, it ended up being nine days, because of a pesky Nor'Eastern that traveled tenaciously with our ship. The ship itself was a masterpiece; the food was exquisite, the wine selection impressive, and the service impeccable. Those were the only things that made me suppress my seasickness long enough to leave my cabin. I recall spending only fifteen minutes on deck during nine days.

I would like to sum up that experience by sharing a story about beautiful bone-china bowls of lovely, apricot-colored, sugary candies that I observed had been placed throughout the boat. The candies were so enticing that one evening after dinner, I picked up a few and popped them in my mouth as a post-dessert dessert, if you will. As my mouth exploded into flames, tears welled in my eyes, and my exquisite dinner and impressive wine reconsidered their positions, a steward approached my companion to inform him I had just consumed a large amount of candied ginger (which, unbeknownst to me, was placed about the ship as an anti-seasickness remedy). As the two men stifled their giggles, I croaked with my seared vocal cords to ask yon steward if it would have been too much trouble to put a card in front of the bowl to identify its contents. I immediately retired to my cabin and refused to re-emerge for twenty-four hours.

This cruise, however, was everything it should have been. I ate three or four full meals a day (unheard of for me in the States); I enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine; I slept ten to twelve hours a night (also unheard of), and basked in the sun as I melded with the universe adrift on the open sea. I forgot about every little thing at home that made me tense, and acquired no new stresses (or stressors) during my trip.

Did I commune with nature? Absolutely. Belize afforded me an unforgettable underwater experience, during which I was entranced by dragons and stars, spiders and lace. The sun warmed my body and my soul. The winds caressed and cooled my skin. The waters were crystalline blues and greens, and the travelers and natives alike were warm and welcoming.

Did I exercise? I visited the ship's gymnasium every day. We used it as a shortcut to our favorite sunning deck. Other than walking through the shopping districts, we deliberately restricted our physical activity.

Frankly, we intentionally didn't do a doggone thing on this cruise (save the snuba excursion in Belize and a brief cab ride downtown in Cozumel). We didn't see any shows on the boat. We didn't go to any parties. We didn't set alarms and the only schedule we followed was breakfast by 10:00, lunch by 2:00, and dinner at 6:00. Like two little old ladies, we were usually in bed and asleep by 8:30 or 9:00 at night. And (I know T will be aghast), we didn't even read. We just relaxed and bonded in a tropical paradise.

But what I found to be the most pleasing about this trip, and most moving, was something completely unexpected. I wrote previously about how T and I spent so much of our visit talking and waxing poetic and philosophical, until we had analyzed the universe down to a subatomic level using enough words to fill a small library. Well, S and I barely exchanged a newspaper's worth of words during this entire trip. It was really an amazing thing. We didn't talk but a smidgen at meals, though we did converse with our dinner mates frequently; we didn't talk while we sunbathed; we talked a little while we explored the shopping districts, and we held brief but thoughtful conversations before retiring for the day. By spending only a few hours of the trip apart from one another, we reminded ourselves how much we enjoy each other's company, which is merely one reason we've been girlfriends for so long.

Now deposited once again on the shores of real life, I look back on the days at sea and am grateful. Where T helped to heal my soul and spirit, S helped to heal my body and mind.

Without a doubt, I have the best friends in the whole world, and that makes me the luckiest girl in the world.

No Step Aft

2007-03-12T23:14:00.000-07:00

Through the window, I see block lettering along fourteen slots in the top of the wing which read "No Step Aft". Same wing, same seat, opposite direction. Same person, made different by the hands and heart of an artist.

The late afternoon sun punishes me for leaving, and tries to burn a hole in the back of my right shoulder through the scratched plastic window. I grudgingly close the blinds. It was dark as pitch the first time, and the moon did not bother to seek me out so. The new dim and the hum of the engine behind me lure me into a light sleep.

Eventually, we outrace the sun's wicked beams – I will not meet Icarus today – and I rouse in response to the absence of heat. I slowly lift the blinds and look down upon the earth, and I see a familiar patchwork spread beneath me: lakes, structures, trees. The earth curves ever so gently along the horizon, deceptively infinite.

We begin a subtle descent, and the clouds appear to blow us kisses before they take us in their fleeting embrace. The patches below grow in size and detail: highways, schools, homes, shopping malls, swimming pools. The patchwork's palette has changed from terra cotta to a rainbow of pastels.

I watch the flaps on the wing rise and fall, coaxing Da Vinci's dream. The engine behind me begins to roar, but it does not stir my heart as much as what I see below. Churches, trains, signs, cars, people. Pastels become Crayolas. The surface features continue to grow in size, and their details sharpen and multiply until the once anonymous patches explode into . . . life . . . as the tires touch the tarmac, dancing en pointe while the flaps on the wings strain upwards and the brakes scream in protest – no, we never liked Da Vinci, it was a mistake, we changed our minds – and we conquer our momentum.

As I wait to deplane, I cast one last glance at the wing, and am reminded "No Step Aft". Repeating along its length, because there's no point in repeating across its depth.

I am not the same. There is no going backward; there is only forward. I am exploding into life.

No step aft.

Six Flavors of Pajamas

2007-03-10T14:18:00.000-08:00

Four days. Four nights. Four years' worth of catching up. Almost two decades of change.

I was asked what I packed for my trip. I replied, "Two weeks' worth of clothes. Five pairs of shoes. Ten sets of lingerie. Oh, and six flavors of pajamas."

Did I need two weeks' worth of clothes? Hardly, but I think it's important to have choices. I fully expected to spend 75% of the trip relaxing at home with her in our pajamas. And I've not been disappointed.

We talk at length about nothing and everything. We laugh at our foibles and express (for the most part) compassion towards those of others we know. We analyze, overanalyze, and dismiss an infinite number of topics. We attempt to evaluate the universe and our place in it; a futile effort, but entertaining nonetheless. We are ourselves, unselfconsciously and without fear of judgment. In this microcosm, we are the very essence of liberation, validation, and solidarity.

We contemplate our union and become aware that in our relationships with men, we are seeking not so much the individual qualities of each other; rather, we seek the feelings we invoke in each other. Our relationship is not a sexual one, but we recognize and respect each other as sexual beings. We marvel at the effect of our combined chemistries on the people around us. We are quietly amused when the other retreats for a few minutes of private time, and by the fact that we are uninhibited enough to do so comfortably.

We listen to music of the seventies. We drink, but not to excess. We smoke. We cook and bake. We play at working in the garden. We meet with the people in her world to give them a glimpse of a relationship that has helped shape us as women. We allow ourselves to be beautiful.

Our presence to the other has the effect of psychic valium. Loving words and thoughts soothe angst like a salve. As it has always been, our friendship is a precious balm, fragrant and healing. One weekend and we are rejuvenated.

While I write this, she sits in her favorite chair and reads. Even in my periphery, she is a magnificent creature, exuding an aura of quiet confidence and ultra-femininity. We bask in each others company, temporarily enveloped in a comfortable silence.

We try to define our friendship so that others can understand, but it is more ethereal than simple words convey. Oddly enough, despite my love of words, I'm okay with that.

For the Structuralist in You

2007-03-02T17:39:00.000-08:00

This is my second most favorite cartoon of all time.

My Life is Measured

2007-02-22T02:45:00.000-08:00

My life is measured
In heartbeats and skips
And the birthdays of my friends' children
By miles driven and turns made
And songs played on the radio

My life is measured
In chances taken
And opportunities missed
By trips to the mailbox
And the taking of pills

My life is measured
In books I've read
And bills I've paid
By secrets I've shared
And a few I've held close

My life is measured
In friends I've made
And those I left behind
By boxes I've packed
And lovers who have forgotten me

My life is measured
In vibrant dreams
And the writing of words
By minutes and hours and days
And the ticking of a clock I cannot see

A Very Merry Unbirthday

2007-02-21T21:50:00.000-08:00

As some of you are aware, I recently celebrated a birthday. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to send a happy thought or comment in my direction.

Birthdays serve to let me celebrate having had the opportunity to navigate my path for one more year. I rejoice in my friendships, and the encouragement and comfort each one provides. I have come to treasure the knowledge that all along this path, I have made the right choices (something that is made indubitably clear on an almost daily basis these days).

Each birthday, I take time to reflect on the near-misses in my life, or what I like to call "mulligans". Here are some of the most memorable, either from my personal recollection or from stories shared by my family:

- As a toddler, my first steps into the ocean during a visit to the beach immediately introduced me to the undertow. I was saved by my father, who grabbed the back of my diaper and lifted me out of the water.

- Still a toddler, I fell out of the door of a moving car as we traveled around a curve. Once again, I was saved by my father's quick thinking and, you guessed it, my diaper.

- As a pre-teen, I was rescued from drowning by my tri-athlete grandfather after I thought it would be clever to ride on top of an inflatable tube down a pool slide. Not so much.

- In the late 70s, my house was struck by a tornado in the wee hours while my parents and I were sleeping. It picked the house up and moved it, intact, three feet off the foundation. For those of you who don't know first hand, yes, it does sound like a train.

- During high school, I almost drove a moped off a cliff at the beach during Spring Break. I ended up flipping the bike to keep from going over the edge. The scenery I observed while the bike was airborne for those few seconds was spectacular. Then I had to drive the moped back to the rental shop while my newly-mangled knee, which strongly resembled shredded wheat, got sandblasted. My first and last time on a moped.

- After high school, I survived a freak, single-car accident that left the reporting State Trooper in awe. I clearly remember thinking, "I am not in an upright position," as my car did a nose over end flip and two side rolls down a 50 foot embankment. Mr. Trooper told my father he'd "never seen anyone walk away from a car that looked like that". It didn't really hit home until a few days later, when I went to collect some personal items from the car where it rested in the junkyard; I was reduced to tears when I saw the collapsed roof and the MacPherson struts poking through the hood of the car. This accident was a life changer.

- In the late 90s, my Mother was visiting me in California. We ordered in some Chinese food one evening, and during dinner (okay, fine, during laughing and talking while I was eating) I choked violently on a thin strip of beef when it draped over my epiglottis. I was unable to communicate or breathe. After a couple of minutes of near panic I realized that if I breathed very slowly through my nose, a little air could bypass the blockage. I forced myself to calm down, and then concentrated all of my will to locate and constrict the muscles that could shift the position of the obstruction. After an exhausting effort, I finally pushed the beef off of the tiny ledge and was able to breathe freely again.

Recent unpleasantries aside, there are lots more near-misses, but these are some of the most noteworthy. These experiences have made me cognizant of what a gift life is, and that with this many mulligans, I'm expected to do something really great with it.

So I am.

Score One for the Good Guys

2007-02-15T19:25:00.000-08:00

It seems to me that a majority of the populous thinks that rules are made simply to be broken; that they serve no useful purpose other than to inconvenience or to be manipulated in an effort to exploit those of us who are mature enough not only to understand the big picture of why rules and laws exist in the first place, but who actually like being held to a higher ethical standard. Case in point:

Mid-day today, I stopped by the Wally-Mart to run an errand. As I took my place in the express line, I observed two well dressed, attractive young women, aged 19 or 20, completing a purchase of what appeared to be a small DVD player and some incidentals (including a can of snuff; go figure). On the belt was a large stack of self-service kiosk photograph sheets. The cashier saw that they had not been scanned (i.e., priced) and called the photo department for instructions. She then directed the paying customer to complete the authorized portion of her purchase via the keypad, and then take her items and the photographs back to the photo desk to have them priced. The customer was informed that she would pay for them in Photo. Photo was expecting her.

I saw this train wreck coming from a mile away.

The girls sweetly thanked the cashier, gathered their bags, and departed the check-out. I looked at the cashier in awe, thinking, "Egad, but you are a trusting soul." I gently asked her if she truly believed the girls would do as she bid them, and she smiled and said she did. I scooted out to the end of the aisle and watched the girls meander towards the door. They had a 50% chance of doing the right thing: turning left and re-entering the store on their way to Photo. They turned right without a backward glance, on their way to the parking lot.

I informed the cashier that the photos just walked out the door. She didn't believe me. She looked around but didn't see the girls. She then told the senior cashier that the girls had stolen the pictures. The senior cashier didn't believe her. After a bit of coercing by the younger cashier, the senior cashier followed the girls, who I expected by this time to be halfway to Alabama.

While she searched, I gently recommended to the cashier that she should probably refrain from providing such an opportunity in the future. I suggested an easy way to prevent such an instance: by canceling the purchase in process and routing the customer back to Photo immediately. I also explained that they could very easily find out who the girl was by examining the credit card register, and that if they examined the printing record of the self-serve kiosk, they could recreate the purchase and debit her for the cost of the photos using the charge information already in the system. She admitted she hadn't even thought of that, and seemed hopeful that all would end well.

I departed with my purchase and passed the senior cashier, who was a little out of breath. I inquired "Any luck?" and she just shook her head. Gee, no real surprise there.

I scanned the parking lot briefly but didn't see the girls. I got into my car and made for the Parkway, when what to my wondering eyes should appear? Two little thieves in a Scion xA, sitting at the traffic light. I made note of the tag number as I pulled alongside, where I stopped and smiled at them.

Upon making the easily comprehended "Hey, roll down your window, I have something to impart" hand gesture, the passenger rolled down her window and smiled at me. I smiled back and asked, "Hi! Did you girls just leave the Wal-Mart?" They replied in the affirmative. Still holding a conversational, almost conspiratorial tone, I said, "Just so you know, the store has your information, about the pictures that you stole." And their pretty little faces blanched behind their now-faltering smiles. I then lowered my sunglasses a touch and said, not so conspiratorially, "I can't believe you just did that. That was just so . . . tacky." It is at this exact moment that I see the lower lip of the passenger begin to quiver, and the passenger-side window slowly begins to rise. The light changes and I nonchalantly drive off in a different direction from the girls.

Long story short, I then called the manager at the Wal-Mart and explained what transpired outside of the store, and told him that the girls were pretty much expecting to be charged for the photos at this point. I provided identifying details about the car. He obtained the time stamp from my receipt, took my phone number, and concurred that the store could recover the loss. Shoplifting charges might be pressed, but that is management's call. He thanked me profusely before saying goodbye to pull the videos and begin his investigation.

Now, that felt good.

A Cold is Borne Upon the Mist

2007-01-31T00:10:00.000-08:00

A cold is borne upon the mist,
my fingers, nose, and lips it kissed.
Each drop reflects a tiny moon, too small
for me to see, yet collectively,
they all take on a moonish hue.

The airborne dew begins to dance
as I intrude without a glance.
A lamp, diffused and haloed, glows
to guide the errant drops reposed
back to their partners.

My Funny Valentine

2007-01-25T10:23:00.000-08:00

I think Valentine's Day is one of the greatest holidays of the year. In fact, it's almost worthy of Federal Holiday status: if you have a love, you should get the day off to spend with him or her; if you don't have a love, you should get to spend the day looking for one. I think "My Funny Valentine" is one of the best songs ever written, and I even had a prestige license plate for years displaying my family's nickname for me when I was growing up: Lovie.

I remember the mystical Valentine's Day box from when I was a child. I think I made my first one in the first grade. After going through the ritual of pleading with my mother to give me her best shoe box, I spent what seemed like hours crafting it, making it artistic and enticing, gluing my tokens of hope for acceptance to the outside of the box, and carefully cutting a hole in the top to accommodate any size Valentine to ensure none would be missed.

I didn't get a single one. Instead, the recipients of those sentiments were the quintessential beauties, with big blue eyes and long blonde hair; the girls with ribbons, who wouldn't go home and sob over their mystical Valentine's Day box, because they had all the damn Valentines! Even at that age, I found this to be confusing, as I knew I had given every student in the class a Valentine and thought they would do the same.

The next time we had to make a box (I say "had to" because it wasn't really presented as a choice by the teacher) I approached the task with a new attitude: I would try finding my joy in giving Valentines, not receiving them, and maybe save a few hurt feelings. That year, when I took my empty box home, I didn't cry. I instead felt happy that I didn't have a single undistributed Valentine.

It wasn't until I became an adult that I realized, since I was a tomboy as a young girl, that my androgyny probably made the little boys a touch uncomfortable; they certainly couldn't give one of their own a Valentine, and counter the gender training their parents had so carefully nurtured. Girls had the freedom of giving Valentines to anybody, and still do.

Traditionally, I have given little Valentines (a la first grade) to classmates, friends, and co-workers every year save one or two. When I was around age 21, I gave them to everyone at the small law firm where I was employed. In fact, I'll bet T even got one or two during the time we worked together.

One of the senior partners, who had a reputation for being particularly gruff and who happened to be T's boss at the time, was not excluded from the barrage of warm fuzzies. Ten minutes after he found it on his desk, he stormed down the hall towards me, long strides, head down, with my Valentine clutched in his right hand. I steeled myself and silently promised that I wouldn't retreat under my desk should he raise his voice. He waved the Valentine in the air, his cheeks flushing, and demanded to know what it was. I calmly explained it was a Valentine, for him. I said nothing more. He paused, lowered his arm, and slowly looked down at the Valentine, which probably depicted a friendship sentiment with a fuzzy animal on it (if still visible beneath his fingertip impressions). He looked at me again with a softened gaze, and said, "Miss M, no one has ever given me a Valentine before. Thank you." He then spun on his heels and walked back to his office. We never mentioned it again, but I saw the Valentine on his desk some time afterwards, and was secretly tickled that he kept it. I always enjoyed working with him after that.

When I was around 24, I made a pact with a female friend that if we were ever unattached on Valentine's Day, we'd send each other a small floral arrangement, "anonymously." We did have an opportunity to do that one year, and it drove our co-workers crazy, trying to find out who sent us flowers. There is a certain fascination created by the romance, albeit contrived in this instance, associated with anonymous gifts.

Some of the best things about Valentine's Day are the cards. They can be perfectly (and acceptably) naughty. They can be flirty, playful, silly, or straightforward. They can communicate for people who are shy, or for anyone who can't find the perfect words to express their feelings. They can reinforce a declaration or a commitment. They are powerful creations, indeed.

Searching for that perfect card? Valentine's cards are designed to be universal sentiments; that's why a talented (but often anonymous) individual at the greeting card company can write a sentiment that you think is absolutely perfect for you and will seem heart-felt when you share it. Here's a simple guideline that I follow: if I feel compelled to put back too many Valentine's Day cards because something in them doesn't apply to my valentine, I recognize that I might possibly be with the wrong valentine. (Incidentally, I have found the same guidelines apply to card selections pertaining to anniversaries.)

Candy? Pffft. Flowers? Eh. Cards? Always my preference, because I know the giver took at least a few minutes and gave some thought to pick a card out for me. I like that.

Maybe I like Valentine's Day so much because I don't view it as a celebration of the love I get from others, I view it as a celebration of the love I have to give. I mentioned to a young friend the other day that the love we have within us is not contingent upon its being returned. Rather, it is a gift that can bring us joy by being given unconditionally.

Here's to my fellow year-round valentines, all over the world.

Filling the Void

2007-01-15T19:23:00.000-08:00

In my mother's backyard, there is a tall wooden post, upon which sits a bat house. For anyone not familiar with this particular habitat, a bat house is similar to a butterfly house or a bird house (for which I hold a particular affinity, anyway). Many years ago, my future ex-husband and I installed this residence with the hope of attracting some of the local flying fauna to our yard so that we could observe them. Our usual backyard Nature Channel includes chipmunks, lighting bugs in the fall, rambunctious squirrels, and a variety of birds, including a lone red-tailed hawk that flies through whenever the mood strikes him (e.g., whenever we have a surplus of the aforementioned chipmunks).

During the installation of the bat house, FEH decided to set the post in quick dry cement. He dug a large hole in the yard, mixed the cement, and set the four by four post. While the cement was drying, he took the opportunity to gather several small twigs from the yard and place them in such a fashion as to communicate a message to me and the world.

The post was actually never tall enough to entice the bats to roost, but it was a good effort. The bat house has finally fallen apart from years of disuse and abuse from the weather. I am now faced with the daunting task of removing the dilapidated house, the post, and the block of concrete (which I will joyously send to the local landfill, along with its sentiment). After that exercise, however, I will be faced with one more dilemma: how to fill the hole.

There is no loose dirt in the backyard. Of course, in my part of Georgia, it's extraordinarily difficult to find accessible loose dirt anywhere unless it's been hauled in from another location. No, our terra is primarily red mud based, quite fixed in its location, and permeated with small rocks.

If I use peat, there will be a large, soft, dark spot in the yard. If I use mulch, I will run the risk of our resident chipmunks carrying it off for nesting purposes, which they are prone to do; termites, ants, and other creepy-crawlies are also a concern.

I could dig a hole further back in the yard and use that mud to fill the first, more visible hole. But then all I've done is moved the hole, which doesn't make a lot of sense. Intuition tells me that I must fill in the hole or I will doom myself to step into it blindly one day and break an ankle.

I think what I will do is transplant a cutting from one of mother's hydrangeas and plant it in the hole in some good potting soil. It will take a few years to grow, but they are very hardy and will double in size each year thereafter. That way, I can turn the scarred earth into something beautiful.

I find this task to have many parallels with my current situation. We all have a void that we are trying to fill; some voids are just larger than others. Some people fill theirs with meaningless and rapidly deteriorating relationships (which must always be replenished); others fill theirs with sustainable friendships and enduring love. Some fill them with families, careers, hobbies, volunteerism, or social engagements. Some even go so far as to tell so many lies that it appears to others there isn't a void there at all – but the moment someone else steps into the camouflage, they fall into the hole and become trapped in deceit. I think this void is the most dangerous, because it consumes and consumes and can never be filled, but the imprisoned party never realizes it before a substantial investment, either emotional or pecuniary, is made.

We fill our voids not only because they can pose a danger to ourselves and others, but because they are generally indicative of a certain incompleteness. We use whatever materials we are comfortable with, or materials that are readily accessible; however, our selection may not always be the best alternative. Still, it's our choice how we fill them. I think I prefer to fill mine with hydrangeas.

As I begin to strategize the demolition of the bat house, I am learning that though nothing is permanent, everything has the capacity to leave a void, a scar, of some kind. I find myself wondering which is more meaningful . . . the scar itself, how it was earned, or how we wear it for the world.

In Defense of the Dinky Pinky

2006-12-10T14:12:00.000-08:00

So, my friends and I are having a philosophical debate about pinky length. One of us brought up the fact that the normal length of a human pinky finger is such that the tip of that digit falls at the line of the first knuckle of the ring finger, and that pinkies that are shorter or longer are considered by the medical profession to be a deformity.

We have all examined our pinky fingers and found that they all terminate approximately halfway between the first and second knuckles of our ring fingers. Intrigued by this discovery, I even went so far as to examine my mother's hands, only to find that her pinkies are also short. At least I have concluded that my digits and phalanges are genetically influenced.

We now think that this may be our lowest common denominator, and might be a contributing factor to our having been brought together in friendship, in the fashion of a cosmic, karmic clique, if you will.

Interestingly, according to the ancient art of palmistry, people who have this deformity supposedly have an inability to influence others, and are typically unable to communicate well through writing. Supposedly, short pinkies identify the frustrated, and those who are unable to express their talents and skills. In the sexual arena, we are supposedly more inhibited.

Sheah, right. I pppppffffftt at these labels. These profilers have obviously never met me or my friends.

On the plus side, during my research I learned that a person who sticks their pinky out when drinking tea (as I do) is an independent thinker, and a straight pinky finger (which I have) means a person is honest.

Diminutive pinkies of the world, unite!

The Thanksgiving Epiphany

2006-11-23T19:22:00.000-08:00

There is something special, empowering even, about a woman's first solo Thanksgiving dinner preparation. I wrote the following two years ago, when I still believed (i.e., when I didn't know the truth). Wait . . . who am I kidding; I already knew the truth, I just chose to have faith. And though I paid the price, I gained some hidden blessings in the process.

For example, I've been very blessed to spend this year's Thanksgiving with people who genuinely care about me, instead of merely acting. But, the nostalgia of the following Thanksgiving will never be lost, despite the fact that the effort was for a lost cause.

Best wishes for a safe and happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Thanksgiving Epiphany

It's one week before Thanksgiving. I sit on the sofa, looking anxiously at my mother, who sits in her chair across the living room. I'm scribbling furiously in a small, blue, spiral bound pad the family recipes she is firing at me, one after another. I review my notes, four pages of cooking instructions and one page long grocery list, and I must look perplexed because mother sighs and asks, "What's wrong?"

"The turkey cooks at 350º, too? Or should it be 375º?" I'm overwhelmed by the amount of ingredients on each page, the number of steps involved, and the cooking temperatures.

"Yes, 350º. Almost everything you'll cook will be in a 350º oven," she replies, only just showing her exasperation at my ineptness in kitchen-related matters.

She continues her dictation; I continue my shorthand. She repeats, and I erase and rewrite. She reminds me that since I'm going out of town for Thanksgiving, we need to make the cornbread for the dressing the night before I leave. I add self-rising yellow corn meal to the shopping list as my mother explains the difference between yellow and white. All the while, she reassures me that I can call her on the phone and she will offer guidance should I need it. We agree that my first call will be at 5:00 a.m., Thanksgiving morning, when it's time to begin cooking the turkey.

At the grocery store, I mistakenly pick up sweet yellow corn meal instead of plain, what our recipe calls for. It was the only yellow meal the store stocked, so I thought it was correct by default. When we make the cornbread that night, my mother is discouraged by the possibility that the recipe will fail, and gives me yet another page of notes on recipe repair.

The next day, with my faulty cornbread carefully wrapped and tucked next to my priceless notepad in a box of borrowed kitchen supplies, I journey from Georgia to Fort Campbell, Kentucky to begin my first "solo" Thanksgiving dinner.

"My mom's turkey is darker."

During the drive, I call and ask my husband to put the pumpkin pie in the oven. When I arrive late that evening, I lay out the cornbread and various other bread slices for drying. I notice that the turkey isn't quite thawed in the refrigerator, so I remove it and place it in the sink. It's too late to begin any other preparation for the next day, so I set the alarm for 5:00 a.m. and go to sleep. I fail to notice that the pumpkin pie was cooked and wrapped in foil, just as I had asked, and sitting on the counter, instead of in the refrigerator as the box suggests.

The alarm wakes me after what seems like only a few minutes. I stumble to the kitchen to check on the turkey, and make my first call to my mother. "Okay, you have to wash the turkey, inside and out. Take out the giblets and the neck." She waits as I juggle the phone to my ear and unwrap the turkey.

"Isn't he already clean?" I ask, swiftly losing the battle with the twelve-pound turkey. I find a large plastic bag of something in the bird's cavity and struggle to remove it. Then I find another large plastic bag of some other part lodged in the other end of the bird. "I can't get this bag out."

My mother, hearing the valiant thumping of the bird in the steel sink, tells me to unhook the legs so the bag will come out, and that the turkey is most likely a "her." I solve the leg puzzle only to find that the bag inside is still partly frozen, and it clearly doesn't want to fit through the hole in the cavity. "Wash the bird, and don't overanalyze." I realize I can't wash the bird and talk on the phone, so I call mother back in 30 minutes once the deed is done, and the bird is ready to be bagged. She walks me through buttering the turkey with strategically placed pats, but not before I try to cover the entire bird by rubbing it with the stick of butter. I cut the celery to place inside the bird without incident. Then I wrestle the turkey into a plastic bag that my husband suggested I use, since that's how his mother cooks hers.

The buttery bird awaits her fate as the oven finishes pre-heating. However, the directions for the cooking bag differ from my notes, and I am immediately confused. After a lengthy debate, my mother concedes that I should follow the bag's instructions. With the bird now in the oven, mother and I agree that we should get a couple of hours of sleep, since it's going to be a very long day.

At 9:00, I phone mom again. It's time to prepare the sweet potato soufflé, and to our surprise, the turkey is already done. After putting the giblets and the neck on to boil, I begin the task of assembling the dressing, with my mother's hands crumbling and mixing the bread vicariously through mine as her voice guides me over the phone. A quick taste test discloses that my faulty cornbread won't ruin the dressing after all. I chop onions and celery, with too much of the former, and arrange them neatly on a plate. Once again, my mother tells me to stop overanalyzing, and to call her when the soufflé and the dressing are done.

I use this downtime to set the table with coordinating linens and dinnerware. I'm secretly excited about this dinner, because it will be the first time every serving piece in my china service has been in use at one time. To celebrate my successful table setting, I pour a half-glass of cabernet, taking two sips before I remember that it's almost 2:00 and I've yet to eat anything. The wine goes straight to my head, and I feel a bit woozy. I put the wine aside, and slice the canned cranberry sauce to celebrate, instead.

As the dressing and sweet potatoes finish their stint in the oven, our guest Tristan volunteers to peel and boil several white potatoes for mashed potatoes. My husband A.J. begins to carve the turkey, a little nervous at his debut with the carving knife. He doesn't think the bird is done. "It's done," I say.

"My mom's turkey is darker. And this meat looks pink," he says as he hesitantly lifts one of the first slices.

"Your mom probably puts something on it, like paprika. And the meat is white," I reply, lifting up the kitchen blind to let in more light. Seeing that he's still hedging on his carving duties, I pull off a small piece of turkey and tear it in two, stuffing one bite in his mouth before he can mention his mother's turkey again. "Hey, that's really good," he responds. The second bite goes to our guest, who defends my claim that the turkey is indeed done.

"What's wrong with regular gravy?"

With the men occupied in the kitchen, I have a 30-minute window in which to shower and get ready for dinner. I return to the kitchen, fresh-faced and damp-haired, to mash the potatoes and put the marshmallow layer on the sweet potatoes. I put the courses in their serving dishes and place them on the table. I put the rolls in the oven. The moment of truth has finally arrived – it's gravy time. I call mother.

She patiently instructs me in the art of making giblet gravy. I boil two eggs. A.J. wanders into the kitchen to see what I'm working on, as I'm slicing the turkey giblets and stripping the neck. After I give him a tour of my neatly arranged giblet cubes (stop overanalyzing), he wrinkles his nose and asks, "What's wrong with regular gravy?"

I stare at him incredulously. On the phone, my mother tells me to tell him that giblet gravy is just better, that we've always made giblet gravy for Thanksgiving dinner, and that if he hadn't walked in while I was fixing the gravy, he'd love it and be none the wiser. He retreats to the living room, and I begin to prepare the flour slurry for the gravy. I am truly in unfamiliar territory now, and rely on my mother's wisdom to get me through this test.

Before I know it, the gravy is done, and it looks just like mom's gravy. A quick taste confirms the similarity. Standing still and alone in the kitchen for what seems like the first time that day, I feel as if that the temperature of the kitchen has nearly reached the internal temperature of the oven. I wonder, does it always get this hot? I pour the gravy into my never-before-used gravy boat, and whisk it and the rolls away to the table as my mother bids goodbye and her wishes for my success on the phone. Before I hang up, I ask, "Mom? Are you always this tired after cooking Thanksgiving dinner?"

She laughed and said, "Yes, as a matter of fact. And so is your grandmother."

I call the men to the table, with the lighthearted suggestion, "Just remember, any item that you complain about won't be on the table next year." A.J. considers my warning and then grins as he pulls out my chair for me. The men have two full plates of food each, much to my delight. A.J. even tries the giblet gravy. Their simple pleasure at a home-cooked Thanksgiving meal while away from their families makes all of my effort worth it.

There isn't much talking between the men as they eat, and I am afforded a few moments to reflect on the day, and to revel in my newfound respect for my mother and grandmother. I did it, but I couldn't have done it without my mother and Ma Bell. Our torch has been passed, and I have the confidence now to prepare Thanksgiving dinner on my own. At least as long as I have my spiral-bound pad of notes, and my mother has a telephone.

I find that I am too tired to lift my arms to the table, much less eat. But I think I've never seen a prettier Thanksgiving dinner.

My Favorite Comic

2006-11-14T00:26:00.000-08:00

This is my favorite comic strip of all time. I thought I would share it with you. (I know I'm probably breaking a million copyright laws by doing this, but I hope I'll be forgiven.)

My Dream Job

2006-11-02T15:54:00.000-08:00

As a follow up to Today's Theme Song, I thought I might share with you my career aspirations.

My Logical Job: Executive Assistant or Senior Administrator

This is the type of job is that I've held for the past fifteen or more years. Since I'm highly skilled, highly organized, and I am able to function in any environment from old-school, starched-shirt to business casual every single day of the week, I have never had a problem obtaining this kind of position. I thrive on making my boss(es) look great, and I enjoy being part of any corporate machine that generates a great product or service.

My Target Job: Writer

This is the job that I am aspiring to. I love language, and have a profound respect for the written word. I want to do this for a living, if for no other reason than to get these damned ideas for stories out of my head to make room for other things. This is the job I would hold if I could do it for myself and no one else, and if money was no object. I'll admit, however, that if someone enjoys reading what I've written, I'd consider it a bonus.

Now, I will take you on a sharp detour. Be prepared, and promise not to laugh.

My Dream Job: Radio Tower Light Bulb Changer

You probably weren't expecting that. Honestly, I have fantasized about this job for over a decade. Have you ever met someone who does this for a living? I haven't. But I know they are out there; someone is doing it. This job would be the epitome of being "highly specialized."

I wonder what the job description for this position would be?

"Individual needed to change light bulbs on radio towers. Candidate must not have a fear of heights. High physical stamina essential. Familiarity with electricity and electrical wiring is required. Candidate must be able to function for long periods of time in solitude, with minimal or no supervision. Must be willing to travel. Patience and high stress tolerance a plus.

Benefits include health insurance, life insurance, 401K, clothing and travel allowances, and paid vacations."

Wow, I am so there.

No Paraskevidekatriaphobia Here

2006-10-25T22:26:00.000-07:00

I would like to thank my dear friend T for her post on the recent familial losses suffered by a friend of hers. It prompted me to realize (with that universal "Oopshit" gasp that accompanies, for example, accidentally deleting a document you've worked on for days, with no chance of recovering it) that I unwittingly overlooked a date that is quite personal and very important to me.

I forgot my father's birthday. It was October 13th, a day gleefully prone to fall on that superstitious standard, Friday the 13th. All the moreso reprehensible that I forgot it this year, since it actually did fall on the Witches' Sabbath.

I should mention that my father passed away in 1993, at the tender age of 50. My mother and I were devastated, and we found that the dynamics of our relationship changed drastically, but to our benefit. My mother became the friend and mentor to me that she'd always tried to be when I was young. My father's passing made me grow up enough to recognize her for the incredible woman that she had always been, and will always be. And for that, I am a better person.

My father's birthday instilled a certain comfort within me concerning the number 13, and all things associated with it. I was comfortable enough with Friday the 13th, in fact, that I was married on that special day in the summer of 2003. In the rain. To a man I am now divorcing. Perhaps I should have been a little more respectful of this particular superstition.

Yet, my father still manages to comfort me and guide me, even though he isn't physically here. In a way, it's a good thing that I forgot his birthday this year. My forgetfulness tells me that I am maturing, and that my father trusts me to make the right decisions without deferring to his opinion first.

I miss you, Dad. Happy Birthday.

Through the Looking Glass

2006-08-12T01:10:00.000-07:00

We are reflected in our friends and loved ones. These priceless human mirrors are one of life's greatest gifts, allowing us to see ourselves through their eyes as they reveal our strengths and flaws with equal rectitude.

When those we hold dear suffer, we realize that our own trials and tribulations may not be as significant as they first appeared; certainly, our own situations seem lessened by the magnitude of what our loved ones are experiencing. "There but for the grace of God go I" does a fine job of helping us keep things in perspective. In exchange, our own situations help maintain the perspectives of those we love.

Perspective - in optics or life, it doesn't matter - is critical to the achievement of a clear view. We may discover the finest looking glass in the world, but what good does it do us when our vision is clouded, or obscured? When our perspective is skewed, from interference or positioning, we can't appreciate the full, unadulterated reflection of ourselves that our friends and loved ones provide.

Recently, I learned that my oldest mirror has fallen in love with someone that he expects to lose due to a terminal illness. I learned that my most precious mirror is transitioning to a new phase in her life, one in which she embraces change and the potential for personal growth. I learned that my most reliable mirror is awaiting the return of her own mirror, not with trepidation, but with quiet enthusiasm and hope. I learned that my most cherished mirror is beginning her delayed recovery from open-heart surgery after many months of struggling. I learned that my most beloved mirror offers a somewhat distorted reflection due to internal flaws. And I am reminded by these lessons that I am not, and will never be, the center of any universe.

I will be the first to say that these mirrors do not create identity, nor do they lend themselves to vanity. Rather, when we are encircled by them, forcing us to maintain an unobstructed perspective, we see our real selves - not the people we purport to be, or want to be, but simply the people we are.

Ode to the Hermit Crab

2006-07-20T22:38:00.000-07:00

There have been many times that I sat down to write since my last entry, but I decided that my content was getting to be depressing. Therefore, I promised myself that I would wait until I could be more positive in my writing to post again. And after seeing the number of views in the last few weeks, I thought I owed it to you to at least say hello, and to thank you for checking out my blog.

As some of you know, I recently completed yet another move. This one was the best yet, into a very special home that I supervised being built from the ground up. The inside of the house has become comfortably and efficiently appointed, but the garage is packed to the ceiling with stuff. I don't know what else to call it. If it's not useful enough or necessary for daily activity, it's not inside the house; it's in the garage, and immediately relegated to the status of stuff. Consequently, it is impossible to park a vehicle in there. And there's room for two. There's merely a two-foot-wide swath from the garage door to the interior door that I know so intimately I can navigate it in the dark.

On a whim, I counted up the number of times I have moved possessions, whether my own or on behalf of someone else, and I came up with a minimum of 14 moves, between four states, since 1993. Folks, that is a lot of stuff shuffling.

Most people hate to move. They become accustomed to having things a certain way, and become uncomfortable or resentful when their routine is disrupted, or when circumstances force them to locate new digs. I, on the other hand, find moving to be cathartic. Twisted, I know.

I try to look at moving from the hermit crab's perspective - as it grows, it casts off its old home once it has found a suitable replacement (condo to house); when times are good, and all his brethren are growing, too, he may have many different homes to choose from. Sometimes, however, its current shelter becomes damaged and the crab may be forced to move into a less accomodating shelter (house to studio apartment), if that's the only thing available to him at the time. The only thing missing from his moves is stuff.

Yet every time a move takes place, I find myself rediscovering the hidden pleasure of taking inventory of my stuff. Books I'd forgotten that I owned. Letters I'd forgotten I received. Gifts from loved ones that I was saving for a rainy day. Very few things of value, but countless things that hold within them a tiny joy simply by being possessed, rediscovered, and appreciated anew every time they are moved to a new location.

Perhaps that's the difference between a house and a home. Stuff.

Good Man, Good Woman . . .

2006-03-29T20:41:00.000-08:00

Every now and then I will post some reference to a piece of literature that I really like (or don't, for that matter).

Being a southern girl, I have a keen appreciation for regional authors like Eudora Welty and Flannery O'Connor. In "A Good Man is Hard to Find", FO writes, I believe, one of the best summations of human nature ever written:

"She would of been a good woman . . . if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life."

In other words, we shouldn't wait until the last possible minute to be, well, good. By then, it's usually too late.