George W. reads me!!!

So, I got my first hate comment yesterday. I think it was George W. Bush who left the anonymous missive! I feel so special . . . that something I wrote could move someone to respond in anonymous finger-wagging. Does this mean I've arrived? I mean, they finger-wagged at a post from back in March about my WTF decision to read the b...b....bible, but just commented YESTERDAY! That would indicate that someone is reading not just the daily grind, but stuff outta the 'stale blog bin' and that even the old stuff has at least one person feeling some visceral palpitative response to my musings?

And I must've pissed 'em off good because their rant contained grammatical errors (enter my George W. theory). And those errors are really good ones, the kind that come from blindly rapping at a keyboard, all pissed off, mind racing, foam dripping from the chin and messing up the keys. Or if you're boozin' really hard and have an 8-ball of coke nearby? That'd cause some typing issues as well.

BULLSHIT it s exactly you are talking about. Dont be surprised if you havent received any comment. Just ask yourself: Who s the one who divided the history? ¨Before Christ, After Crist.¨ If the history doesnt denies the JesusCrist Majesty, you shouldnt be walking around saying such crappy things. Dont mess with him, you could be hurt. By the way God Bless you.

I like that George is worried about my eternal soul, but the whole "don't mess with him, you could be hurt" thing just doesn't hold water. If "God" created me with free will, my belief (flawed as it is) is that "God" would want me to flex some independent muscles and really put into thought why I believe what I believe, or even, why I DON'T believe. I grew up feeling the crazy-ass judgemental, fire-n-brimstone crappola from those crazy catholic priests (the ones who couldn't keep their hands off my friends) and have worked for years to rid myself of such programming. Spirituality is love. Not conditions, not rules, not condemnation, not retribution, just love. Which is why this cartoon is still one of the funniest, in my book.Thank you, George, for your concern, but christianity isn't for everyone, there's all sorts of great stuff out there (all really saying the same thing: love). "God" and I are just fine, and on good terms, I might add. "God's" totally cool with my questions and searching and doubting and irreverence. As best laid out by Herbert Spencer: "There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance--that principle is contempt prior to investigation."

So George, raise a glass to my attempt at resuming the bible read as well as the Tao Te Ching and possibly even the Torah! Let us all be investigators into our own spiritual journeys, and strengthen our capacity for love.

Namaste~

Monday

Capitol tidbits

As we depart from Capitol City today, I'll leave you with a few hits.

The Korean War Memorial was amazing. Not there 19 years ago when first/last visited the land. Viewing the Watergate (where I soooo wanted to stay) from the back of the Lincoln Memorial was a nice break from the crowds just feet away.

When I was 19 and here with my family, I don't remember so many geese and ducks and their little families, but at least the trash isn't overflowing from the reflecting pool.

With both the Ford Theater and the Smithsonian Museum of American History closed for renovation, I sought bummed out rest in a lovely little garden behind the Smithsonian Castle: the Enid A. Haupt Garden.

But before I left, I made sure to hiss at the Capitol ...

... and flip off the White House.

Whiny babies suck

Is anyone else tired of McCain's whining? He's like a little playground punk who's soooo not getting picked first for kickball despite his many decades in the playground trenches. It reminds of Bush's first debate with Kerry, anyone recall the huffy, stompy immaturity of his nationally broadcast bomb? Yeah, John Stewart covered that hellagood. How the bejeebus he still won after that, I'll nevah understand. Anyway, I lifted this funny pic at FranIAm who stole it from Pulp Friction (you gotta read today's funny fun fun)!

So who's luvin' the Obama tour? Check out today's Washington Post front page pic for some pre-nominal bliss that speaks of things to come. I luvs me some Obama crowd! And I also love it when leaders of foreign countries mistakenly (prophetically, to some) refer to Sen. Obama as President. Mmmmm. Sounds good.

Facial hair, scram!

For the entire time that I've graced this planet, I've had peach fuzz on my face. Nothing too thick, just blond and there. But a few years ago, I started to notice that the peach fuzz on my upper lip looked like a short, blond moustache. And on my lower lip? Like a short, blond goatee. And in the summer, that peach fuzz bleaches out, to almost white, and that just doesn't work for me.

I spend a lot of time avoiding mirrors because I just don't like seeing how the 23-year-old in my head sooooo doesn't look like the 37-year-old in the glass. But I pause, briefly, to insure things are (unfortunately) where they're supposed to be. And the peach fuzz is there, or was there...

Yesterday, my mate and I left for D.C. so I could freeload at his hard earned annual conference shindig. It's swank, and I'm not, so I always go a little mental before this thing. People all about the *Benjamins just unnerve me because I can neither relate nor wish to. It's just snobbish (but doesn't me labeling them snobs make me snobbish? Oh Gawd!). So, back to being mental, right? Ahem.

In my nutty state, the day before we leave, I found myself trapped at work 4 hours--FOUR HOURS--longer than normal, and I hadn't seen the kids and I wasn't packed and it was just a mess so rather than pack the night before, I climbed into bed between my spawn and slept, restlessly. Waking every hour, I finally got up and hit the couch at 4 a.m. and enjoyed watching "Singles" until I realized why my house was all Lord of the Flies. A screenless window had been opened. And not only had one of the inside cats bounded outside, but about 3 billion flies made it in. AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!! (Those buzzin' mofos make me all Rambo crazy with a swatter.)

So at 6 a.m., my husband finally woke, leaving me 2 hours to pack before we had to bounce. And I totally rocked my suitcase in, like, 35 minutes!!! Which left me more than an hour to do all sorts of stuff like shower, kill flies, drink coffee, kill flies, check email, kill flies, get dressed, kill flies, kiss the kids, kill flies, pack the luggage into the car, and kill flies. In fact, I had soooo much free time on my hands that (and here's my point) I decided to rid my face of my albino facial hair!

And all whacked out from no sleep, fly invasion, and snobbish insecurity, is no way to prepare for facial hair removal. I left the cream on too long and burned the shit outta my face! (I really am a tool.)

*My husband, a banker, read 'Benjamins' as ben-jam-ins. "Ben-jam-ins?" he asked. "What are ben-jam-ins?" To which I asked, "Dude? What the hell are you doing in finance?"

Quiet time? How 'bout some E! News?

So this, along with a bowl of Frosted Flakes, has been my morning routine. What had previously been a good 30 to 60 minutes of quiet contemplation filled with spiritual readings and meditation, has degenerated into a noisy, in-your-face, turbo-charged countdown rocketing me into the day. And how can I really expect to make any spiritual progress when I start it with Ryan Seacrest?

I used to be more disciplined. I used to search for zen and get all 'ohm' but now? I fake it. Sure, I download the latest Krista Tippett to my iPod, keep "Jesus for the Non-religious" and "Christ the Yogi" on my headboard, I even contemplate the spiders I've displaced with my weeding, but true silence? My teenage alter ego says, Fuck that!

I have to admit, I'm a little afraid of what will drive me back to such discipline. Normally, it's pain. And that just doesn't sound like a whole lotta fun. And that speaks to the core of my problem. I want to have fun, I want to be entertained, I want to live without cause or worry or responsibility. And then I have to wake up.

Damn alarm clock!

Maybe one day I'll make it back to my oatmeal with walnuts, my 24-Hours-A-Day book, my Daily Reflections, and my basic text. Maybe one day I'll simply decide, "You know, being all wacked out on sugar and caffeine really isn't helping me!"

But right now, for today? I'll watch with anticipation, waiting for Guiliana to stab Seacrest in the neck with the heal of her Monolo. Those flakes are GRRRREAT!

Oh God, I'm in trouble. . .

Cheers to the duck lovin Joel

I just couldn’t resist sharing this story. It was emailed to me and, with a little research, I learned this occurred in May of this year. It could be easily blown off as one of those warm, fuzzy forwards, but it struck a deeper cord with me. It tells of how precious life is and how far some of us are willing to go to sustain and protect it. Enjoy.

A man named Joel works at Sterling Bank in downtown Spokane, Washington. His office is on the second story of a building overlooking busy Riverside Avenue. Several weeks ago, he watched a mother duck choose the cement awning outside his window as the uncanny place to build a nest above the sidewalk. The mallard laid nine eggs in a nest in the corner of a planter perched more than 10 feet in the air. This mother dutifully kept the eggs warm for weeks and before long, all of her nine ducklings hatched.

Joel worried all night how the momma duck was going to get those babies safely off their perch in a busy, downtown, urban environment to take to water, which typically happens within the first 48 hours of a duck’s hatching. The next morning, Joel came to work and watched the mother duck encourage her babies to the edge of the perch, intent to show them how to jump off!

The mother flew down below and started quacking to her babies above. In disbelief, Joel watched the first fuzzy newborn toddle to the edge and, astonishingly enough, leap into thin air, crashing onto the cement below. Joel couldn't watch how this might play out. He dashed out of his office and ran down the stairs to the sidewalk where the first obedient duckling was shaking off the effects from the near fatal fall.

Joel looked up. The second duckling was getting ready to jump! So he quickly dodged under the awning while the mother duck quacked at him and the babies above. As the second one took the plunge, Joel jumped forward and caught it with his bare hands before it hit the cement. Safe and sound, he set it by the momma and the other stunned sibling, still recovering from its painful leap. One by one the babies continued to jump to join their anxious family below. Each time, Joel hid under the awning just to reach out in the nick of time as the duckling made its free fall. The activity on the downtown sidewalk came to a standstill. Time after time, Joel was able to catch the remaining seven and set them by their approving mother.

At this point Joel realized the duck family had made only part of its dangerous journey. They had 2 full blocks before reaching open water. They had to walk across traffic, crosswalks, curbs, and pedestrians to get to the Spokane River. The on looking secretaries from Joel’s office then joined in, and hurriedly brought an empty copy paper box to collect the babies. They carefully corralled them, with the mother's approval, and loaded them into the white cardboard container. Holding the box low enough for the mom to see her brood, Joel slowly navigated through the downtown streets toward the Spokane River. The mother waddled behind and kept her babies in sight.

As they reached the river, the mother took over and passed him, jumping into the river and quacking loudly. At the water's edge, members of the Sterling Bank staff then tipped the box and helped shepherd the babies toward the water’s edge and their mother.All nine darling ducklings safely made it into the water and paddled up snuggly to momma duck. Joel said the mom swam in circles, looking back toward the beaming bank workers, proudly quacking as if to say, “See, we did it! Thanks for all the help!”

That just warms the cockles of my cold, frigid heart. Sniff, sniff. I think I gotta speck of sumpin' in my eye . . .

Spiritus contra spiritum

Don't you hate oversleeping? It really sucks when such extended snoozing makes you late. Wednesdays are the day the kids and I sleep in, when nobody goes anywhere, and I only work a couple hours at night. Normally this means the coffee mug's in hand by 7 and Maclane's usually on my tail. But today? While Marty shoved off around 7, both kids and I didn't crack open the ol' eyelids until 9:30!!! And when I sleep that late, it's just too much! Unless I'm going to lag around in jammies all day and have only myself to be concerned with. But when I get that much sleep and I've got a couple of kids to man, it just blows. And what blows even worse? Dreaming about WORK! And not just a normal day at the office, but work involving a loved one.

Yesterday I received a phone call about getting a friend into alcohol detox. The previous evening I'd been with this person and was baffled by her behavior--uncontrollable tremors, nonsensical muttering, bizarro stuff that I assumed was some weird residual effect from a bout with cancer she'd had a few years earlier. The phone call told otherwise. By Tuesday, she'd been 3 days off the booze and the hallucinations were setting in. I didn't know she drank.

Despite my work in the field of drug addiction, I froze like a deer in headlights. WTF? I suddenly didn't know the protocol, my only thought was that she needed detox and NOW. Fortunately the caller, her sister, simply needed support and confirmation that what she was seeing was a medical emergency. She took the bold move and called 911. That was the absolute right decision, but not the popular one. Refusing visitors, my friend is sitting in a detox unit as family mulls over their options.

It made me think of a recent episode on This American Life where a man takes care of his mother and likens her alcoholism to that of the possession of Regan from The Exorcist. In our cups, we say and do ANYTHING to cover our ass and get what we want, which is usually 2 things: a) more booze and b) to be left alone. And when we don't get those 2 things, we're horrible to be around. And seeing my friend tonight, I could see the wear and tear. Guilt is setting in as her sister refuses to see her, accusing her of betrayal.

My heart aches for the family because this is nothing new. It was nearly 5 years ago that their brother was found dead in his car. He'd finally drank himself to death, having dragged the family through decades of his alcoholism. He'd had loads of opportunities to get well, but when the question was put to him: "How would you live?" He said, "I'll drink." And he died.

As my friend faces this question, my prayer is that she find a flicker of hope to take one big, giant leap and fathom a reality without booze. It's so scary, that fucking question. So stark. There's no running from it. And it's not answered just once, we must dig deep and answer it everyday, in all that we do.

In his writings to Bill Wilson, co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, psychologist Carl Jung wrote of the strange impact alcohol has on our spiritual core. He termed it "spiritus contra spiritum." Spirits (liquor) against Spirit (soul), a great window into why this is such an ass kicker. . .

The return of routine

With Dad settling into his routine, I'm thrilled to report we are all gaining our sea legs. (Saturday and Sunday nights, I slept in my own bed!!!) Dad's currently down at his farm working on 'the books' and life is quickly falling back to a somewhat normal pace. I look back on my last blog and hang my head in shame. Every time I felt that 'ick' begin to rise, I prayed. Which is not an easy thing for me. But I think I have finally found something to pray to! Something that is totally safe, non-threatening, and without judgement. My Poppy a.k.a. Grampa K.

Poppy died when I was about 6, but the few short years of memories I have of him leave me with an absolute faith that he's the one person I know who was about as wonderful as they come, completely loving, totally fun, and just amazing. So instead of God, I call on Poppy. And I think it's working.

So, back to that 'ick' from a few days ago? While perusing the blogosphere, I found this gem on the Yearning for God blog:

Is it just me or does that totally speak to the core of our Human Condition?

Missing the mundane

I'm tired in a really selfish way. I miss my kids, I miss my husband, I miss the smell of my own house (maybe I'm ill), I miss my bed, I miss everything that had been so mundane and dull and regular. But now that Dad's home from the hospital, staying with his mother, I'm finding Dad needs me more now than when he was in the hospital. With Gramma nearly 85, it's amazing she's still living on her own. So except for a quick run home to shower and a couple of hours with Marty and the kids in the evening, I'm at Dad's disposal. And I hate to sound so yucko, but I'm getting tired of it. One of his sisters is coming for a 2-week visit Tuesday, which means I'll be significantly more free to be with my family. But today is Friday . . . Tuesday is 3 days away!!!

Square & generous with all

Making the 4-hour trek to Rochester yesterday, I enjoyed the company of one of my favorite men. Kinda kitschy in my book, I never took him serious. How could I with those fruity trumpets tooting in the background as he sung of some blazing ring? But John has been a long-time friend to my husband (and I try to give my husband's friends a chance).

When Marty and I began dating, it was common for me to drive up to his cabin only to find John had beaten me to the party. Singing about bibles and rusty cages and Tennessee Studs, John's camp and silliness gave way to deeper meaning. Kinda like my interest in Marty. From some goofy RAGBRAIer, I began to glimpse the true depth of my future husband's character. The more I listened to Marty's friend, the more John's soul revealed itself, also revealing Marty's. I started to hear the raggedness of John's spirit, the longing for spiritual peace, and I slowly began to understand how medicinal such sharing was to my husband's love-torn soul. We met only months after his first marriage had ended.

Marty is a man of few words and amazing strength of character. Now before you go thinking he's some quiet sage all bearded and zen, know that he's not lost his wild, irreverent side. For instance, his favorite cuss? Jesus Fuck! Can you believe that?! (And people think I'm going to hell?)

Anyway, as I've journeyed with my dad through this cancer business, Marty, in a way all his own, has been with me, unswerving in his support. Two weeks ago, when I left to accompany Dad for his surgery, we had no idea it'd be 7 days before I'd return home, and without Dad! Could Marty have been a prick? Would he have been justified in being pissy? Hell yeah! But was he? Not only did he back me 100%, assuring me I was doing exactly the right thing, he even had the kids make get well cards for their grampa. And when I did get home, did he dump the kids on me and run for some Marty Time? Nope, he continued to man the home front while I bumbled around. Never once did I pick up even a whisper of exasperation. Amazing.

So where does 'John' fit into all this? Yesterday, when listening to his 1994 album American Recordings I found myself paying close attention to the song "Oh, Bury Me Not" and how much it personified the essence of my husband. Specifically, the following lines:

Just let me live my life as I've begun

And give me work that's open to the sky

Make me a partner of the wind and sun

And I won't ask a life that's soft or high

Let me be easy on the man that's down

Let me be square and generous with all

"Let me be square and generous with all" absolutely speaks of Marty. How I could ever warrant a 10th of this man's love, I'll never know. Back when we first met, Marty and I both agree there was something crazy spiritual about our connection. And yet I was still a drunk, always on the look out for something different, something better and I would pray at night, "Please God, don't let it be Marty. Please!" But God, Buddha, Allah, Vishnu, whatever the hell is out there, knew what they were doing. Where the reward is for poor Marty, I don't know. For me? It's him. And I love him somethin' fierce.

There's a boy in da' house

I've shared with a couple of friends how my dear son, my 5-year-old MacDaddy, has not only grown increasingly more aware of his own manhood, but how Mommy's body is sooooo much different from his. Remember a couple of months ago when he announced his first "chubby"? Yeah, I found it disturbing, too. And now he's starting to notice other things, which is...awkward.

Let me set the tone: My parents divorced when I was 5 and my sister and I moved out with our mom. Then she remarried a year later and Mom and Dad slowly grew our family from 4 to 6, me at the helm of their 4-daughter brood. So you see, I come from very female-oriented stock. In fact, my mother is the oldest of 5 girls. We talk boobies and bras and periods and bloating.

"Balls?"

"The ones you throw or bounce?"

"Boy balls? What the hell are those?"

Being the oldest child, and rather naive, I hadn't a clue about the 'junk' hidden in the pants of my male classmates. And really, even after college, singledom, and marriage, I still wasn't too concerned about the average, everyday bidness in the boxers. I even spent 2 years teaching sex education! Explaining the life of a sperm! Pretty uninteresting stuff for me, considering I was destined to have 3 daughters--Mom: oldest of 5, Me: of 4, Moira: 3, right?

But that Destiny, that willy minx, she just laughed. I had my beautiful Moira and then 3 years later, Maclane (and we ain't talkin' Shirley). I had birthed me a BOY. How the hell did that happen?! Was I disappointed? Not in the least, it just seemed soooo far from anything I'd imagined. I'd have been less surprised if Moira had ended up big sister to a baby chihuahua.

Suddenly we had to decide whether or not to circumcise--we chose NOT with the promise to pay for the procedure when he could choose for himself--and as he grew older, we had to decide whether or not to cut his gorgeous locks--we chose the scissors, sorry but I find long-haired little boys oddly creepy, not cute (Big Apple Housewife Alex may want to take note).

Anyway, we have continued to live the way we always have, nakedness is nothing big at our place and body parts are just parts. But lately . . . I'm unfortunately growing more aware of where and in front of whom I change my clothes because Maclane has taken to staring at a vicinity between my shoulders and belly button. I've tried to reason with him, "Dude, stop staring! These fed you when you were a baby!" To which he responds, "Ewwwwwww!" And then laughs. He thinks it's funny to shove them, like they're a couple of pillows that got in his way. Quite nervy, he is.

I'm troubled, though. Here he is, all of 5 and in his budding awareness of the differences between boys and girls, is a little disrespectful of the boobies. And yet he doesn't know he's being disrespectful, he's just being a kid, laughing at the jiggles and the wiggles. This is so weird! My sisters and I made fun of each others' flat butts, generous thighs, and crap perms. But our boobies? They were just there, like our elbows, and while there is a funny bone located in the region, I seldom found elbows particularly entertaining.

I don't want to be all paranoid and crazy and I don't want to raise my kids to feel weird about their temples. So if anyone's out there, anyone at all? Riddle me this: How can I continue to honor the body while maintaining an air of fun and nonsense? I'm up for any advice.

A Turbo by any other name

I think I'm more fish than kitty. Sure, there are loads of ways in which I am catlike: I'm moody, often aloof, and all full of attitude. And let's not forget my uncanny likeness to Ms. Kitty herself, Halle Berry. Yeah, I'm that hot.

But there's a confidence factor that eludes me. My calico, Turbo, my muse and the inspiration behind this blog, is all full of sass and spark, piss and vinegar. Whereas myself, I can be all hissy and scratchy about some things, but all wishy washy and flaccid about others. Like Wal-Mart. This chain is just plain evil, but have I banned it from my shopping repertoire? No, my grocery dollar stretches too damn far! And what about caffeine? I've got a palsy-like tremor in my right hand, but am I willing to forgo "the buzz"? Mmmm, me thinks not, maybe tomorrow.

So instead of "Turbo," I think the name "Flounder" would be so much more fitting, and I'm not talkin' the horse-killin' kind from Animal House
or the cute, gutless one from The Little Mermaid
or even the ugly, eyes-all-messed-up real one from the sea.

According to the online edition of Merriam-Webster, flounder has a few different meanings:
1) a marine fish of either of two families (Pleuronectidae and Bothidae) that include important food fishes;
2) to struggle to move or obtain footing, thrash about wildly;
3) to proceed or act clumsily or ineffectually.

I think that about sums me up. I'm clumsy, I've been known to occasionally thrash about wildly (usually when I'm night-owling as a feline superhero--meow), but I must say, I've been neither a marine nor a fish (though back in the day, my hang overs rendered me about as attractive).

So what's my point? I haven't a clue, maybe it's that "ineffectually" coming through . . .