Bread ~n~ Water

The Good, The Bad, and The Unclean

2011-07-11T15:16:00.000-07:00

Exercising in this heat (105 tomorrow!) has been a challenge. Exercising at all has been a challenge. If I'm in Kernersville, it almost doesn't get done. There, my OCD seems to spike in the direction of contamination obsessions and I can hardly move without wanting to scrub myself down. Let's admit it, the condo is dirty. Bottom line. And it isn't even my dirt. That somehow makes it worse. I wear flip flops to shower in, so that helps a little, but ick. I mean it. Ick; ick; ick.

But back to exercise. I get on the elliptical in my air conditioned office behind the house in La. About half an hour and then I'm so freakin' bored it hardly registers that I'm doing myself a favor. I walk at night when John is here. Still soupy even at 10 or 11 pm. I don't mind sweating as long as it's productive. But walking with John requires conversation and so, it isn't as rigorous as I know it needs to be. I do walking lunges through the house. (The fam thinks I'm weird. OK. I am weird. Get over it.) I do calf raises and squats while making dinner. I do push ups during commercials. At least I'm doing something. I tell myself this a lot.

On to other things. I took my cats to the condo with me last time we went. Both of them. Lucky is OK with it. If he has a pillow and Kate, he's good. George, on the other hand, was quite unhappy. He stood at the door meowing most of the time, wanting out. I don't know what he thought he'd do. Run home? Maybe. But chances are better that he'd be eaten by some of the big dogs in the area. No. They stayed inside. We did take them to a closed in court yard at the church. They didn't like it. Maybe they'll get used to it, though. Come on, it has to be better than the kennel!

On the way home, George indicated that he wanted to use the litter box. (Scratching on the bottom of his cat carrier and meowing pitifully were my clues.) We opened the carrier door.

HA! SUCKERS! He just wanted out. He was pretty good after he was released into the car, though. Sat still, hissed occasionally at Lucky (Look at me, you idiot. I'm friggin' OUT!), stuck his face in the air conditioning vent and sat in Evan's lap. Ordering take out was a little tough, but we did manage.

Home for now. Going back Thursday or Friday, I think. *Sigh* I wonder how much money we save doing this? The gas alone is eating up our free cash.

So, that's about it. For now. I need to go wash... or something.

The Plan

2011-05-26T09:56:00.000-07:00

The plan (as of now... for this changes with each day that ends with "y") is to live half in SC and half in NC this summer. Depending on how quickly we can be moved into a house, we'll be in a teeny tiny condo in Kernersville just W of Greensboro and NW of Jamestown.

I like Kernersville. Cute little town with plenty of ammenities. The more permanent move should be to Jamestown proper, though. And I like Jamestown too. It has an awesome little historic section. Loads to do and see, so we're good for the next year as far as exploration and culture are concerned.

As for teeny tiny condo, I hope we won't be there too long. End of summer tops. Looks like we have an advocate at the church who is looking out for us and this helps tremendously. It's his condo and he thinks he might have another house we could rent for very little. Sounds good to me.

I'm Trendy! Who Knew?

2011-05-19T18:07:00.000-07:00

It's off to The Goo tomorrow to continue the rental search. I understand this is the new American trend. Renting, not buying. The real estate agent with whom I spoke in The Goo assured me that I would be doing myself a favor to buy instead of rent. I couldn't go wrong with interest rates as low as they are now!

Why is it that I just don't believe that? Two mortgages. Maybe not.

I'll join the trendy and rent my squatting quarters.

Other trends... Home cooking! See, this surprises me. I heard one statistic (and please forgive me, but I'm definitely an number person) that said Americans eat out an average of four times a week! Four times! I'm lucky to eat out four times a quarter. The rest of the time, my butt's in the kitchen like every other poverty stricken schmuck who finds herself stuck in the 50s.

I do have a liberated hubby who, though he can't cook a wiener in a microwave, knows how to wash a dish. That makes it somehow bearable. But maybe I get the last laugh, right? Now, all those folks who never learned how to cook are feeling the pinch and having to dig out their old rice cookers and read instruction manuals on their toaster ovens.

Meanwhile, I'm making my own turkey freakin' sausage, frying it up with some scrambled eggs, popping home made biscuits in the oven and eating like a derned pauper... best stuff on planet Carolina!

See, when you know how to cook, you have mastered exactly one half of your world. I am not joking.

The Job Begins

2011-04-30T14:27:00.001-07:00

...and the adventure continues. For the next few days, the kids and I soldier on alone as John begins his job in Greensboro... The Goo. This weekend, we look for apartments and/or houses for rent. Several things have presented themselves as problematic. First, we have cats. What the hell are we going to do with our cats? Take them, of course. But they are used to playing outside, pooping outside, and generally being free to roam. Gulp! Yeah, this ought to be fun.

Then comes the question of how much of our crap do we want to move and how much do we want to leave? Is our house open for people who need a crash zone? If so, do we charge said crashers rent? If not, could we talk them into taking care of our cats?

Finally, what to do with all this sh... stuff. Yard sale? Sure. But when and how much do we put out and if it doesn't sell, what do we do with it then? 'Cause it ain't comin' back in the house.

No, that wasn't the final thing. There's more. Lots more. I'm too old for this. Too set in my ways. Adventures and interest are for the twenty somethings.

Yeah, yeah. Let me whine. It's my blog.

The Goo

2011-04-19T19:27:00.000-07:00

So, I finally feel I can write with abandon about the whole "find a job" journey my husband and I have been strapped to (well, the whole family, really) and now I'm too friggin' tired to write about it. Seems my stress has manifested itself in some ghastly menopausal hormonal imbalance (Estrogen Dominance to be specific) and, long story short, it has left me semi anemic. One day I was running 3.1 miles in just under 33 minutes and the next I could barely eek it out in 38. Not that 33 is stellar for me. I'd already slowed down a great deal because of winter deconditioning. But 38? Really? Another 2 minutes and I can walk it that fast.

So, here's the solution. Push it a little on the elliptical and take nice long walks with husband. No, it isn't really helping the running time, but it's better than quitting, which is what I feel like doing. And I can still weight train, which is something I may concentrate on a little more. It's easier on me all around and it gives me a focus.

Just to be clear on the job search story, we DO have a job to go to. It's just outside of The Goo (Greensboro, NC). My sister informs me that the proper abreviation for Greensboro is GSO. That may be, but I greatly favor The Goo. Not only is it my own wonderful invention, but I feel a bit stuck in the decision we've made, so Goo seems more apropeaux. I like Greensboro and all. It will certainly be nice to be closer to my sister. But moving anywhere was not going to be high on my list of OH-GOODY things I get to do, so I'm not really looking forward to dragging my anemic butt into the moving fray and getting things boxed and delivered.

Whatevah... Some people are just never satisfied. I'll get over it. We get to eat and that certainly makes up for the inconvenience.

Oh, God

2011-04-05T11:33:00.000-07:00

It got to me. I'm not proud of the fact, but it did.

She was just a naysayer. One of the "elite." Those whose superior intellect dictates that they "grow beyond" childhood belief systems. Like belief in God. (No, Chan. I'm not talking about you.) Recently, I had someone tell me that belief in God forces her to suspend disbelief, logic and reason. This is bull shit.

I said, "What defines life?"

She said, "Probability. Life was bound to happen within a universe of possibilities."

"And this disproves God?"

"It disproves that God had to create life."

"It doesn't prove or disprove anything." I said.

She looked at me as if I'd suddenly become retarded.

"If I want to make a cake," I said, "I would mix it together in a bowl using eggs and flour and milk and sugar. If I tried to mix it using saw dust and motor oil and bird shit and glue, it might look somewhat cake-like, but it wouldn't really be cake. If God were to create life, it would have to be done in a way that would truly fit the actually definition of life (or Life, if you want to see it as something sacred) and that is what science discovers. It discovers that God used flour and sugar and not bird shit and glue."

"But you're saying that the true definition of life stands outside of God. That means that God didn't create it. It already was."

"It means that God is Life and that explains why God has the last say in how things come about."

"Ah," she says, "but if God is truly all powerful, then God can use the bird shit and glue if God wishes and it will somehow become cake."

Now, that is magical thinking. Not to mention stupid. Why would God want a cake made of bird shit and glue only to then have to wave some sort of God-wand over it so that it becomes cake? Why not just use flour and sugar? God, if God exists, is (by definition) not stupid.

"All probability teaches us," I said, "is that God defines life within a universe of other possibilities, or it isn't life. It's something else. Most likely, a mess. There is no possible way to prove or disprove the existence of God by looking at the structure of the universe. Which is why faith is defined as belief in what we do not see rather than what we do see. The problem with God for most people isn't that God can only exists outside of reason, it's that they don't have faith."

At this point, she began some diatribe about how science explains everything and our brains have made God up so that we strive to live and therefore perpetuate the species and I was thinking... this only proves my point further. But I didn't say anything.

Normally, I don't go into things like that. Normally, I don't explain myself. People don't care. Either they want to believe or they don't. And it is that simple. Usually, it is religion they don't believe in. And this is because they are somehow embarrassed by it or feel above it or hurt by it or that they are further evolved than stupid religious people. The rest of us schmucks need something to cling to.

This doesn't actually insult me. I do indeed need something to cling to. But, I don't know. This time, it got under my skin.

So, that's my "God rant" for today.

I'll try not to rant about it again, but no guarantees. I do get tired of people trying to make me feel retarded because I believe in God. Grr.

Important Life Tip Number Two

2011-03-28T20:26:00.001-07:00

You can't get into the gym for free. Not ever. Quit trying.

Important Life Tip Number One

2011-03-26T19:48:00.001-07:00

Drinking a six ounce glass of water with 1/2 a tsp. of baking soda in it provides a satisfying carbon dioxide belch (one can imagine the neutralizing reaction going on in one's stomach and its carbonate bi-product, which is kind of cool) and is cheaper than Tums. AND it doesn't have the unfortunate side effect of constipation. (Some people can't take calcium, OK? It's a fact of life. Get over the 3rd grade potty humor for Pete's sake.)

Just letting people know these important little things is my life.

I Thought Exercise was GOOD for Stress!!

2011-03-22T18:39:00.000-07:00

I think it's a combination of things. I'm almost sure it isn't ONLY because I'm almost 50 years old. (OMG, just looking at that number makes me want to shriek!) But whatever the reason, I am not bouncing back into running like I used to. It's taking forever to progress back to 3.1 miles. And I'm s-l-o-w. Very.

A few days back, I ran maybe a mile on the road. Took about twelve minutes. The next day, I pushed it out a little further. Fourteen minutes. Today, I ran a mile and a half. Twenty minutes!! Grr! I need three miles in 35 minutes. At this rate, it's going to take me over 40 minutes to run just 3.1 miles. I have until April 9. Race day.

Right now, I'm just hoping I finish without having to walk part of it.

I've never felt this wiped out in all my life. I know that the uncertainty of the whole job thing and where will we be and what will we be doing is chewing on my life line. But I think it's interfering with exercise too.

I plod on, though. I will prevail. In fact, if we end up in Pensacola, I could return to SC in some of my previous awesomeness as I'd be able to run most of the winter. Unless... it really is that I'm almost 50 and...

Shhh. Hush now, other self. We are as young as we feel. Which right now is about 102.

Buuugger

2011-03-15T19:34:00.000-07:00

Have I recently said "Uncle?"

For the bo-billionth time, we have to reflect, to figure out, to budget and see what happens. For the bo-billionth time, we are looking at this and then at that, trying to weigh things. I just wonder if there is a time when you quit weighing things. Given that there are two jobs that look fairly similar, which do you choose?

OK. The one at the beach.

Bigger move, though. Hurricanes to concern oneself with. Homeschool laws change. (Did you know Florida doesn't issue diplomas to home schooled students? What kind of backwater ass-in-nine way to be is that?)

One year, John says. Well, one summer, one school season, and one more summer. Then ...? This again. I need to win a lottery somewhere. Soon.

And Then There Was One

2011-03-12T16:18:00.000-08:00

Well, OK, not just one. There's still Branson, MO. And there's still Mesa, AZ. Both are nice places. Both are installed positions. Which makes it just a little scarier to accept. The ONE, the position that is now dangling before us like a pretty sea foam green gem sparkling in a semi tropical sun... is Pensacola. The location is fabulous, there is affordable housing, there is an adequate pay package. If they offer, he'll accept. If...

Offers are like that. You have to go before every committee in the world. You have to at least appear to be enthusiastic and upbeat (even if you feel beaten up.) And we do. This has been a long and stressful and painful year. More than a year, to tell the truth. We saw it coming a long time ago.

To be honest, I didn't think God would do that to me, the whole wait-and-see thing. But that was just some small child that lives in my soul kicking up a tantrum. Life is life or it wouldn't be... well, life.

Yeah, right. You can say that now, Beth, when things are finally looking settled and are floating down softly, clicking into place, interlocking to create a smoother way. I'm aware that it doesn't always turn out that way. Over the past few months, I've felt like someone working a giant puzzle. You know that excited feeling when you get down to the last pieces and they fit! By God, that piece did go there! It looked so improbable!

Well, the final offer, the sign-on-the-dotted-line-congratulations-let's-shake-hands moment has yet to arrive. But we think it will. It must. Or I am going to BE the last piece of the puzzle. The one the dog ate. The one that disappears and leaves the picture wanting. This is it. Uncle already!

Being There

2011-03-08T07:13:00.000-08:00

We land at the brand spankin' new airport in S*********. Glorious! Everything is so clean! I am in a bit of a fog, to be honest, because the plane ride made me feel sick. Nevertheless, this is the sweetest, prettiest little airport I've ever seen. It smells new. People smile when they see us. We are greeted warmly. Even the rainy sky seems to send little drops splatting on the large picture windows to say, "Howdy!"

But I don't know. Something isn't right. Something.

Eh, it's just that weird afterqueeze you always feel from flying, Beth. Get over it.

We meet our hosts, Bill and Sissy and we head out into the rainy Missouri evening.

They are charming folks. Bill, a 50 something Texan with shoulder length hair and a greying beard greets us first. He walks with a heavy limp and he just looks like a cowboy. He is accompanied by Sissy, a 70 something woman with a warm smile and soft hands. I think she wants to hug us, but is holding back, trying to be formal. I don't think she's used to formal.

They begin the drive through S********* and Sissy comments as we go, telling us about the town and all of its ammenities. They are plentiful! Though we had done the whole Google Earth thing and taken a virtual tour of the town, we had not anticipated the size or the modernity of it. It's just so NEW! Everything. Churches, shopping centers, restaurants, government buildings. I'm impressed.

We laugh as Bill and Sissy snipe at each other over directions. Bill says Sissy can't find her way out of a box and Sissy says that if Bill would just stop talking for a few minutes she'd be able to give better directions. It's all in good humor and John and I are warming to these people fast.

We go to the new student center in a S********* mega church downtown so that John can meet the Committee on Ministry and talk turkey. Bill, Sissy and I sit outside of the meeting in the brand new center (new carpet smell, paint barely dry) and we talk. I learn that Bill is a gourmet chef and Sissy is the wife of a retired banker. I breathe in the newness, the sterility, perhaps. Across the hall is a glass room full of Asian and African students who are playing some sort of musical chairs game. They appear to be an international student's group from Missouri State University.

When John comes out of the meeting, we all go to find dinner, which ends up being Japanese cuisine. Nakatos, where a charming Japanese man wows the diners with his knife skills and juggling abilities. We are enjoying ourselves. Everyone looks so happy here. Everyone looks so clean and nice. You spill a little rice, they clean it right up.

After dinner, we stop by Wal Mart to pick up some things we left at home. Toothbrush, comb, etc. The place is immaculate. I'm beginning to feel like a soiled spot on the face of this town. Somehow, I don't smell good enough. I am struck by something being odd. Something not right. I can't put my finger on it, but it is the sameness somehow and ...

Oh my God! That's what it is! There is not one... NOT ONE... ethnic face in this crowd. Not one. There are white people. Only white people.

I look around. I look down isles and around corners in the Wal Mart. No color on a single face. Only the pasty Swiss/German visage, untouched by the sun, blue eyed and pig-mentally challenged. I look at John. Has he noticed? I nudge him.

He gives me a "what?" look. I lean in and whisper, "There are no black people here. No hispanic people. Look around you. They're all white!"

He looks around and his eyes grow large. We are wading through the bread basket of the Americas and it's all white bread!

I try to shake it off. Surely, there are some ethnic people who live here. Surely they aren't all kept in a little glass enclosure at MSU or in ethnic restaurants. You walk out on the street and they disappear. It's damn near creepy.

We go to the lodge and fall into bed. We sleep like the dead.

The next morning dawns slate grey and icy cold. We meet the church committee for breakfast. Bill brings Lemon Poppyseed and Banana Nut bread. He brings sausage balls. There's coffee. I am at ease.

It's not very memorable as interviews go. At least not at first. They're a nice group. Sweet, smiling Christians. They love the Lord. A lot. They expect everyone to.

"We've been referred to as 'oppressively Christian,' " says one of the younger men. "I mean, people get offended because there's even Christian music playing at McDonalds. Still, I'm not sure why they say it's oppressive," he says.

"I know why," I say. And I can't believe I said that. They look at me. "I just mean, people can't get away from church, right? It's all Jesus all the time?"

They look at one another. "I guess that's fair," the young man says.

"It's the patriotism too," says the youngest female member of the committee. "We're right up in your face with the flag waving and the gospel. It's God and country, you know? Veteran's Day is our biggest holiday. We prepare for it for weeks in advance."

I glance at John. We have nothing against patriotism. But 'in your face' does sound a little, well, Tea Party.

I let it go. We need a job.

Later the young woman (call her Betty) takes us around town. Billboards advertising different theaters and shows bloom like gargantuan daises along the roadside, bidding us to spend our vacation money HERE. The Presleys (No relation to Elvis), The Osmonds, Yakov, Tony Orlando (Really? Isn't he hispanic?), Andy Williams (I know... he lives) all have theaters here. And there are shops with signs in the shapes of beavers and bears in cowboy costumes advertising mountain/country souvenirs. Tourist trap is written all over this town.

Betty admits that the tourists are problematic. "In the summer, it takes about two hours to drive the one and a half miles of main street. There are millions of visitors who come through here."

Truly?

We drive out to one of the many colleges in the area. The College of the Ozarks. Once a Presbyterian college, it is now run by evengelicals.

"Anyone can come here," Betty boasts. "No is turned away for financial reasons."

What about racial reasons? I wonder. To myself.

"What would you get rejected for?" I actually ask.

"The president gave an address at the beginning of the school year," she tells us. "He told the kids that if they want to wear long hair, earrings or tattoos (I assume she means the boys.) they can just pack up and leave now. And chapel is mandatory. You have to go every day. The gates to the college close at eleven, so nobody is out past then."

"Ah," I say. I look around. There are no ethnic students.

The chapel looks like a miniature cathedral. Later, John tells me that architecturally, it reminded him of a mini version of every cathedral he's ever attended.

"Evangelicals have a lot more in common with the Catholic Church than they want to admit," he tells me. "Mostly to do with works righteousness. But try telling them that. They hate Catholics."

Our final meeting with this committee happens at one of the member's home. She is gracious and I am relieved that two of the committee members bring wine and discuss which would be better for the meal. We are both offered a glass of it. We take it. I throw mine back in a few gulps.

The dinner is delightful and the conversation is good. They are nice people. Germans and Scots, they tell us. And not all of them have the same evangelical-like views, I notice. There are some relatively open minded people here. Push come to shove, we'd be OK. We'd be a little challenged, trying to teach our kids to think for themselves in this atmosphere, but we could do it. Or so I think.

When we get back to the lodge that night, John says to me. "There has to be something else. There just has to be. I think I'd go crazy here."

I married the right man.

Next, we look at a couple of churches in Florida. I'm thinking that sounds more like it. But that's a story that doesn't seem to want to end. Great. More blogs for me.

Getting There

2011-03-07T10:47:00.000-08:00

First you have to get there. We flew, which beats two days in a car. Kind of.

Our destination was B******, MO. Hubby is looking at a permanent installed position there as the minister of one of their churches. It would give us the stability interim work* cannot offer. We were set on keeping open to the place and relying on God and our own good sense to make a final decision.

But, first, you have to get there.

Just for the record, I don't like to fly. Human beings are not meant to fly and that is that. Not only do I simply not enjoy it, it literally makes me sick. I take Dramamine and I'm OK, but drowsy. I didn't feel I could do drowsy on the way there. I needed to be perky and look together. I took the "less drowsy" formula. Didn't read the label.

The ascent is always fine. I'm not bothered by the little bumps or turns. Mid flight, I'm still OK. As long as it isn't storming, my stomach will behave. It's the descent. Landing. Coming down. If lifting off the ground is the high, then landing is definitely the hang over. The "less drowsy" formula is not working.

I recall the large number of people who have told me over the years, It's all in your head. How right they are. Somewhere in my inner ear, to be exact. Nonetheless, I try mind over matter, making up reverse haiku. 7-5-7 instead of 5-7-5.

I am perfectly calm now.

Still air surrounds me.

I am feeling good, peaceful.

I start to sweat. First the palms of my hands and then my face and then my body.

I will relax completely.

When the plane does land, (God, let it be soon!)

I will feel refreshed, rested.

By now, sweat is dripping down my back and my hands are tingling from hyperventilation and have formed useless crab claws that dangle off the ends of my arms. I can't feel them any more. I lift one arm and jab at the flight attendant button. The guy beside me is eyeing me with growing anxiety. She's gonna spew! The flight attendant wobbles down the isle.

"What can I do for you, dear?"

"I'm gonna..."

"What? Can I get you anything?"

"A barf bag!"

The guy beside me bolts. I know not where. The flight attendant wants to know if I'd like some soda. Is she kidding?

"A barf bag, dammit."

I am handed a plastic bag and the rest is a little too gruesome to relate at this time. But do continue to stay seated, seat belts buckled and trays in the forward and upright position. I ain't finished.

The plane landed. People exited. I felt John's hand on my back.

"Sorry," he said.

I nodded, my head still buried in the plastic bag. I alone was left to get off the plane. I lifted my head and looked around. John was still there. The flight attendant was anxious to get rid of me. My head wasn't swimming any more. I had hands again. I stood. OK. I could walk. I took a deep breath and we left the plane.

The thing about throwing up is that this was actually good to get it over with. Once it was done, I felt much better. I was able to continue the journey, meet the committee of people who were to pick us up and remain fairly together while this happened. It wasn't until later in the evening when I sat down and looked at the medicine I'd taken for the flight, that I recognized my mistake. The less drowsy formula is less drowsy because it has only half the medicine in it.

STUPID! STUPID! STUPID!

And WHY did I not read this before I took it? Because I like to sabotage things. That's why.

My first impressions of B****** were of throwing up. Maybe that was a sign.

No, not this again.

But, what if...

Shut up!

The thing is, I should have listened.

But that's another blog.

*An interim minister fills in when the regular pastor either retires of leaves for another position. The interim helps the members locate a good candidate for their next minister and in the meanwhile leads both the regular workings of the church and the search for the new minister. My husband is very good at this, but the work is sporadic and so he is considering an installed position again.

Uhhhhhgh!

2011-03-01T11:26:00.000-08:00

Just a quick note, a hint for all you fellow runners. If you haven't run distance for a while and you suddenly decide you're going to go for it again, go ahead and get your ice and your ibuprofen ready. You're gonna need it.

Weighing it All

2011-02-23T04:53:00.000-08:00

The pros and the cons. I list them endlessly in my head, trying to settle prematurely on one idea or one place or one community where I think my family will find happiness. (Here's a thought, find happiness and let it move with you.) Will I find friends there? Will I find a job? Will I need to find a job because the cost of living will be too high? Will I have to worry about snow storms (Branson, MO) or hurricanes (Pensacola, FL)? Will there be mosquitoes the size of my head carrying my children off to parts unknown (Cleveland, MS)? Will Evan find a place to play tennis and will Kate find a place to make her art? What matters and what doesn't?

Perhaps a more immediate question is what we'll do with the house. Rent? Sell? Find a house sitter?

And cats! They like being able to explore the great outdoors. What will they do when they can't just go outside any time they please?

Where will I go to get good exercise? Will it cost a fortune to get a gym membership? (Well, technically, I don't need one. I'm a personal trainer, dern it. I know how to exercise with very little equipment. Still, I like having that atmosphere sometimes.)

I get it now. I understand why moving is a heavy stressor. But if it doesn't kill us, might it also be incredibly fun? Might it be a wonderful adventure? Might we meet amazing people?

These and many other questions loop around. It becomes important to simply focus on what I know I can do right now. And it helps to have imaginary conversations with my therapist, whom I can't afford to actually see.

Therapist: You have to be in the moment. Don't try to live tomorrow before it comes. Live right now and find some way to enjoy it.

Me: Yes, well that doesn't always work.

Therapist: Why not?

Me: Ever had a colonoscopy?

Therapist: They drug you.

Me: Not enough. There are not enough drugs, Dr. R. Let me just assure you now.

Therapist: What's good about it is that you're learning something helpful about your health. You can learn to live in the best light of every situation.

Me: (Bull sh**) I guess you're right.

Therapist: You just said bull sh** in your brain, didn't you?

Me: It's one of those rituals I'm trying to break.

Therapist: (Nods)

Me: In the moment, huh?

Therapist: It's the only way.

Me: Or there's drugs.

Therapist: Beth...

Me: Fine.

One good thing about moving... I know Dr. R. will be there too. Always. He has taken up permanent residence in my brain. Like most things that take up permanent residence, there is no removing him. I hope he likes snow/hurricanes/mosquitoes/packing...

2011-02-12T16:52:00.001-08:00

After much sitting and sulking about having to possibly move, I finally branched out of my funk and stuck a pin in my own sulky and reluctant behind. This is still American, damn it. It's not like we're being held to one place or have to go where we don't want to be. We can move anywhere we please. We can focus in, get determined, wait like a family of cats gathered around a mole hole. I'm thinking we might collectively pounce on a job in the Charleston area. Or how about Greenville, the little UK of SC? I'd do Greensboro, be closer to my sister, bug the hell out of her just to get even.

There are opportunities in Phoenix (have a slew of cousins there), Branson, and Chapel Hill. Might one come through? What about Sarasota for a couple of years? Pensacola wants an interview. Life on the Gulf, a few hurricanes. But what the hell. I got some wind still left in me.

Let's do this gig before I start to creak when I stand up! (Too late!)

Just not before April. I have one last 5K to run in Lancaster with my best dude buddy. He's ahead of me in training. Already going the 3.1 miles required. My knees scream at me when I try, but try I will, and I will run it again. Then I'll go in peace.

Jeez, sounds like somebody's dying. No. And we could even be coming back here, so there's really nothing to cry about.

Tomorrow, elliptical and leg work. I will catch up with my buddy.

Suspended in Mid-Whatever

2011-02-12T15:13:00.000-08:00

Beating the cold has been tough. It makes exercise a drag since one has to more or less stay inside. Many will disagree. Get out no matter the weather. Don't be such a wimp. But for me, if it's under 40 or over 85, I'm indoors. My elliptical has been getting more of a workout than I have.

Still, now more than ever, it's been important to keep it up. It's one of those things I make myself do. Like drinking 8 glasses of water a day or brushing your teeth after breakfast. Maybe it seems like a drag, but in the end, I congratulate myself for doing it.

It's true that the higher the stress, the more you need exercise. But it's also true that it gets harder and harder to do. The truly tough minded will nod in agreement and then do a few more crunches.

Did you know that facing a move is one of the highest stressors known to humankind? Next to the death of a loved one. Amazing.

And it looks like a move is more eminent than ever. The hubby has to find a job. Trust me, he does. He doesn't want to move. None of us do, but that looks like our best bet right now.

A part of me is excited by the prospect. New city or town, new surroundings, maybe break out of old ruts. Not a bad way to look at it. I hope it's some place really cool. (Figuratively speaking. I like warm climates.)

My brain has officially settled down too. No more looking for signs. At least not for the time being. It's hard to know what's next for the OCD, but I know it will come. I can only be as ready as possible. If you're out there and you're reading this, my fellow OCDers, give me some hints. Is there a way to prepare or do you just hold your breath and enjoy the spooky calm before the storm? Was that lightning?

Just saying

2011-02-02T14:56:00.001-08:00

Oscar Wilde was weird.

For My Fellow OCDers

2011-01-29T14:52:00.000-08:00

For my fellow OCDers. (No one else will understand this post.)

There are no signs that things will be OK. There is only today. Today and what this moment brings is all there is. Or at the very least, it is all we can do anything about. Nothing will occur that will warn us of impending disaster. Nothing we will ever do will prevent it's onset except for those things that are available to everyone.

For me, it is reminding myself that ritualizing will not in any way alter my life except to take too much time away from it. The howling alarm in my brain will have to howl without ceasing if it must. It will send to me and to you the voices of many "demons." They are consummate liars and will send us signs of both relief and of panic. Ignore both.

How freeing it will be when we finally convince ourselves that no ritual is required to live in peace with ourselves and each other. That we may feel what we feel and be in every moment of our lives without being personally responsible for anything more than our own actions. The universe is not sending us messages. We are not receiving them. However much we may be convinced otherwise.

Many of you are religious. Even hyper religious. Some parts of our faith are tied in with the faith of the world and the people within it. Some parts of our faith reflect the truth. But no part of our faith that is dictated by mental illness is true or worthy of our attention.

I'm reminded of the movie, "A Beautiful Mind." Do you remember that Dr. Nash had to acknowledge his "voices" and even see the vision of them standing at all times within his reach? Yet he had to forgo answering them. Only then could he function. The same is true of the obsessive voice. It has to be acknowledged, even thanked for its efforts. But then soundly ignored.

I am a strong believer that perceived reality is not reality at all. But I have come to the conclusion that I am not privy to what lies beyond it. Nor can any reaching toward it give me a clear vision of it. I believe there is a reason for this. To see it would be to misjudge it and to fail to understand what it means. We (OCDers) have to embrace the mystery presented to us with each day, the unknown-ness of it. If we don't, we fall into ritualizing to give order what is merely perception in the first place. If that makes any sense at all. Placing trust in the Truth is the hardest thing anyone can do, and I realize that I am preaching to myself first.

But start.

I once went to a Native American Pow Wow where American Indians danced in colorful circles to rhythmic drums and wailing voices. Many of them looked whiter than I look, so compromised was their blood line. One fellow in particular danced in full costume, his receding hairline and his freshly shaved face revealing more white blood than native. But it was a dance reserved for American Indians who were the victims of alcoholism, so he took part. When he entered the dance, he made a motion with his hands, palms up, arms stretching out in front of him. Three times he widened his arms as if accepting whatever it was the universe was about to give him. Then he began to dance, the banker-come-native.

I want to learn from that. No ritual hand or arm gestures, mind you, but simply an entering into the dance come what may. That is a step of both fear and bravery. Let no non-OCDer tell you it isn't. They're scared too. And whether they know it or not, they're dancing like hell trying to save themselves.

We have the privileged view of people who have heard the voices of chaos and have confronted them head on, hands opened. To myself and to you, I say, don't back down now!

No.

2011-01-25T10:51:00.000-08:00

I imagine that in the kingdom of God, where the new heaven and earth reign, there will be no winter.

No. There will be winter. I will not feel the cold.

No. I will feel the cold. It will not be unpleasant.

I will know it. I will even feel it. But it will not make me shiver.

No. I will shiver. But it will be from pleasure, not to keep my core temperature from dropping.

Today, even with the heat on as high as I dare turn it (what with trying to save money and all) I can feel the outside air drawing the heat from by body, demanding the warmth of my blood as a sacrifice. Winter is a primitive warrior, using ice cycles for arrows.

No. He is the archbishop of the other hell. The one that does in fact freeze over.

Someday, I will walk its banks and feel the cold and marvel in its beauty and it will not phase me. Not at all.

Beside, Not In

2011-01-20T12:52:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, my life is too busy doing not much of anything. When this happens, there is nothing to show for the nothing I've been busy doing and I have to wonder if it's worth the effort at all.

I'm aware that OCD comes in at times like this with its quarter portion of depression and perhaps that's where I am, but the load of nothing I've accomplished is beginning to pile up and it's just a wee bit disheartening.

That and looking at the prospect of living off my savings while the hubby scrambles for a job has the anxiety spikes hitting a new high. Here's what the OCD does while that is happening:

First the internal warning.

"He won't get a job. You'll lose your house, your cars, the clothes off your back. What will you do then?"

And so, my insane brain decides to begin looking for signs. (Truly, it's an evil generation...) OK, if the next song I hear on the radio is upbeat, the hubs will find a job. ... OK, the next one. ... This is stupid. ... Think about something else. ... I didn't remember to drink all the water I wanted to drink today. ... Things aren't going well and that too is a sign. ... Oh, for Pete's sake, shut up. ... Just go to bed if you can't do anything else. ... Fine, then, if hubby doesn't toss and turn tonight, but sleeps well, then that will be a good sign and things will work out. ... Oh, no you don't. Don't start hanging your well being on some ridiculous superstitious.

So it goes with the OCD. It's one of those things everyone who obsesses understands. The search for the sign, the ritual that will put it all right, the positive thought that will turn karma your way.

Makes me think of the good ol' days. Remember those? When I had a therapist and my insurance would still pay for it? I can almost see him.

Dr. R leans back in his chair and smiles with his perfect white teeth behind that beard (what is he hiding?) and says, "What will the ritual of finding signs do for you?"

"Nothing," I say. I know the drill by now.

"Then how can you live beside the anxiety instead of in it?"

"I could just let it be there and go on with my life," I say.

He nods and sends me out into the world with this principle newly (once again) imprinted on my brain.

Beside, not in. Beside, not in. I think this over and over to myself. Maybe if I can say it exactly three times before this traffic light changes, that will be a good ... DOH!

So, I take my meds as well as remember the therapy. Meds for me are various forms of exercise. This, for now, consists primarily of cardio in an attempt to use up excess anxiety while pedaling madly on an elliptical, going absolutely nowhere. Well, it isn't my fault that it's winter and I can't run right now. Although that would be stupendous. I lift weights a little, too, proving that I can still carry it all. I have the muscle. Yes, I do.

Beside, not in. Beside, not in.

Morning or Afternoon?

2011-01-06T11:32:00.001-08:00

Morning. For me anyway. I can get my exercise done in the morning and feel so much better the entire day. This morning it was 30 rigorous minutes on the elliptical. Ahhh. Not quite the high I get from running, but it definitely elevates mood to some degree. I suppose if I went all out and hauled my hiney into a higher gear, I'd feel even better. My next task is to work just one muscle group before the day ends. Can do.

It's a Pleasure

2011-01-01T17:47:00.000-08:00

First, don't get all excited. Not that you will, but don't. I'm not going to post every day. In fact, I wish I had a side bar I could use just to report exercise success or (God forbid) failure. But I wanted to report this one.

New Year's Day is a holiday, so I don't do regular exercise. Sometimes I take holidays off all together and other times, I choose something purely fun. Tonight, my husband and I took a night walk. It's about 66 degrees outside even with the sun down and we took a long refreshing walk. This is an important thing to do. Exercise should be something you just do because it keeps your body working well. But working well for what? If you don't use your fitness on something you just enjoy now and then, there is no point in keeping fit. The activity doesn't have to be rigorous or get into your "fat burning zone." It just needs to be fun. It can be horseback riding or swimming or tennis or just a walk or hike. If it isn't enjoyable, don't do it.

Exercise is exercise, but it has to prepare your body for enjoying your favorite activities or I guarantee you won't keep it up.

I hope that's inspiring. It's meant to be. Happy exercising and remember... resolutions are for chumps. Do it because you want to feel awesome.

Endorphins are my drug

2010-12-31T13:05:00.001-08:00

Oh, yeah. Runner's high. I'm there, baby.

Self Talk and Exercise: Get Mad

2010-12-30T09:54:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I used my elliptical and put in 30 minutes. When I'm not in the mood to exercise (and yesterday I wasn't), I put on the angriest music I have and try to promote within myself the spirit of pissed-off-ed-ness that makes me ignore the fatigue. Angry people exercise harder. Bottom line.

So, after working up a good sweat, I did a few upper body exercises and called it. Time of death of workout, 8:15pm. Hit the shower. Purr -leeeease!

What was going through my quasi-angry mind as I pedaled the elliptical you ask? Since you are so interested:

"So, how long will I be able to keep exercising like this? Isn't it true that I'll have to slow down as I get older?"

"Well, yeah, but you've already slowed down, haven't you? Don't run 5 miles any more, right? A 10K? Forget it. Just keep doing what you're doing. Trust me."

When you feel so close to some resolve

And you write the words you were writing for

But your courage gets dissolved

Into what, I don’t know…

"But if I keep it up and don't give in to little aches and pains..."

"Pain schmain. Move."

"I am! Sheesh! All I have to do is motivate myself to keep it up."

When you feel that way again

You have to stop your thinking

And think of what you’re here for

And let the rest of your feelings go

"For the next 30 years."

"Ha! Shows you. I won't live for another 30 years."

"Excuse me? Who promoted you to God?"

You’ve got to find your balance

You’ve got to realize

You’ve got to try to find what’s right before your eyes

And if you find you’ve fallen

And all your grace is gone

Just scream for me and I’ll be what you’re falling on

"It's genetics, genius."

"Fine. Why don't you get down from here and have a nice, big, chewy, gooey, brownie sunday with extra hot fudge on it?"

"Because I'm obsessed with exercise. OCD does have it's advantages."

"So true."

When you feel so close to some resolve

And you say the things that you’re standing for

Don’t let your courage get dissolved

Cause it’s then that the fear grows

Just give me the word and I'll be there for you

"There for me? What?"

"That's just the lyrics of the music, dear."

"Oh. Yeah."

"Anyhow, keep pedaling. You're below 50 rpms. Pick it up."

"Bitch."

"Oh, now you're gonna get all ugly, are you? Whose keeping your butt under a size 10? Me."

"I need to change this CD. Maybe some nice Snow Patrol."

"You'll keep it right where it is. Good angry music. Keep it up."

"Yeah, yeah."

Kick in, kick in

I’m screaming from outside in

Tell me where I’ve been

There’s nowhere to return to out there

"Finger Eleven. Just pissed off enough..."

"Oh, look! Only two minutes left. I'm so glad I did this!"

"Told you so."

What? You don't have an inner voice that interplays with the music? Well, maybe you should get one.

Don't be rude.

Shut up.

New Year's Determination (resolutions are for suckers)

2010-12-28T15:12:00.000-08:00

A part of my blog for the new year is going to be about how I stay fit and manage to exercise most days. Much of the time, I can put my kids to a task and fit at least 30 minutes a day in. I used to do more like 1 and 1/2 hours. But that was when I didn't homeschool. I seriously doubt I'll report every day, but I'm going to do my best to do so as often as possible. What do you think? Am I good for it? We'll see!

This morning, I exercised in a tiny gym at the Fairfield Marriott in South Hill, VA. Treadmill. Mostly, I ran, but I did take a breather now and then and walk. I haven't been running lately because of my knees. The good thing about treadmill running is that you can run on an incline and save your knees the stress of pounding down steep hills. Plus, the incline makes for a very satisfying heart pounding aerobic experience. And, for me anyway, that wonderful endorphin high.

We stayed at the same hotel on the way up. If you know John, you can ask him about the runner's high I had on the way to Baltimore.

"My, you're talkative! I can tell you ran this morning."

It was a good Marriott. Lovely lobby with fireplace and comfy chairs. Not crowded and not attached to a loud restaurant. I sat for hours in the lobby by the fire reading "Room." (Which, by the way, is a really good book if you like to read.)

The manager, an evangelical, hit it off with John and gave him a good rate. John has a soft spot for evangelicals. "It's just that they try so hard." He took four different CDs off the manager, all with conservative, evangelical sermons on them. And he listened to all four. Then he didn't sleep well. Hmmm.

Me, not so much on the sympathy for the whole evangelical scene. They're a little too rule bound if you ask me. So, good thing he was the one who made the deal. Obviously, I'm not so snooty about it that I insisted on paying full price.

(There is something seriously wrong with my morals here, but John still doesn't have a job. Sue me.)

Baltimore with in-laws was interesting. But that's another blog.

Happy New Year and Happy Exercising. I'm gonna get mine!

Chicken and Porn

2010-12-12T18:32:00.001-08:00

Soon, we'll be traveling to Baltimore for the holidays. John's family lives there. Traveling with John is always an adventure. Nowadays, I have to warn him that if he gets too agitated, he'll be sedated for the remainder of the trip and we will refuse for an entire year to go anywhere else with him. This usually calms him a little and makes the ride a bit more pleasant. Threatening to withhold sex works sometimes too.

I have to admit, however, that traveling with him has afforded me some interesting moments. His quirky Freudian slips coupled with his intensity have made for memorable moments. Somehow, I don't think they're appropriate for Facebook reminiscing. So, I'm recording them here.

First story: We were going to the beach and had passed one of those signs erected by The Lion's Club during a barbecue fund raiser. John's reaction to the sign nearly caused an accident.

John: (Rubber necking as he's driving along) "Oh! Did I just... did that sign say...?"

Me: "What?"

(Hysterical laughter)

Me: "What?"

John: "It's just... that sign."

(More hysterical laughter)

Me: "What?"

John: "I thought it said, Chicken and Porn."

Me: (Looking to see the sign to which he's referring, but it being too far away now) "Well, what DID it say?"

John: "Chicken and Pork. Just part of the "k" was rubbed off or covered up."

Me: (Now laughing along) "Imagine going to the place and asking for some chicken and porn."

John: "No, imagine getting upset because there wasn't any porn with your chicken." (Now mimicking an irate customer) "Hey, where's my porn? I want my porn!"

Second story: Another journey, another day many years ago. We were on our way to Baltimore to see the Baltimorons. (His family.) It was soon after we'd married and staying in hotels still held a certain romantic attraction. We were driving by an Admiral Benbow's Inn.

John: "There's a hotel. You wanna stop?"

Me: "Which one?"

John: "That one back there. The Admiral Bendy ... begbud ... belb ... (under his breath) shit. Admiral Buttf**ks. You wanna stop at Admiral Buttf**ks?"

Me: "Uh. No."

Third story: After the kids were born, stopping at places with clean bathrooms became a "thing." At one rest stop, John and Evan came out of the men's bathroom looking disgusted.

John: "It's gross in there."

Evan: (About 5) "Yeah, too gross."

Me: "Women's side was OK. Besides, you can stand."

John: (Looking at Evan) "Trees?"

Evan: "Yeah. Trees."

Me: "You are NOT going to go behind trees!"

They went behind trees.

And people wonder why I get uptight about traveling.

Well, That's One Way To Do It

2010-10-17T19:23:00.000-07:00

It's a little different. But it's the only way I feel OK writing for the pulpit.

In case you didn't know, I'm an erstwhile preacher, pulpiteer, exegete. But I stumbled from the pulpit one day, realizing once and for all that I couldn't justify doing this sort of thing any more, and I haven't looked back. Until now.

First, why I couldn't justify it: It's too daunting. If you are a believer at all, you have to hold the Bible in some degree of awe. Whether you are a literalist (and shame on you if you are, you be-fouler of the Word) or a divine inspiration-ist (Is that even a word?), you have to see this task as one fit only for those who have some divine inspiration of their own. As it turns out, I feel that I either don't have divine inspiration, or I simply don't recognize it if I do.

So, second, why'd I quit: When I stand in a pulpit and look at the faces turned up to me, I leave it feeling a little dirty and unworthy. Did I please any divine being or did I just please myself? Just me, I'm thinking.

If you know anything about OCD, you know it has been nick named the "doubting disease." I came away from each Sunday with such overwhelming doubts about what I'd said that it always felt as if I needed to get up the next week and apologize.

Trust me, if a church senses that you feel that way, the vultures (antagonists) will begin picking at your flesh until you run screaming.

But here's the dilemma. I am still "called" to speak on this Word I've come to have such respect for. How, then?

I have reached back to a previous life. I once wanted to be a journalist. Wanted it very badly. But I wanted to write for a church publication, perhaps, or write inspirational types of stories. I wasn't sure how that would play out, so I went to seminary thinking it would help me form a good theological background for my writing. I'd feel more confident, thus write better articles and stores.

Instead, it was a bit like spending three years in an asylum. Ministers are crazy. I have yet to meet a normal one (including myself and my husband.) All it really did was lead me on a strange path that wasn't for me.

But now, I'm thinking that I might, if I play it right, be able to step back into the pulpit (and only the pulpit) if I write a different kind of "sermon." Which would be no sermon at all really, but a short story. The exegesis would not lead to the normal three-point-end-with-a-joke lesson, but it would merely reflect the message or even the message behind the message. If the passage is about forgiveness, then write a story about what it means to people to forgive. I wouldn't (usually) mention the scripture lesson directly.

This format puts me at ease because I am not quoting scripture and then telling people what it means. I'm reading scripture and then telling a story about people who are faced with the process of interpretation in their own lives. I do not interpret. You interpret. And this makes me feel much better.

But will it be acceptable to a congregation? Look, if you ask around, nobody is going to say that they like being told what to believe. But people do like that. They look for it. They long for it. And I have compassion for this longing. We may claim that we don't want to be told what to believe, but I'm sorry, I think that's bull. We all want to listen to someone who sounds very confident in his or her beliefs. If you give people something else to interpret, will they like it or will they resent it?

And should I find out?

Well, I'm about to. I'm putting my name in the hat to preach at a few churches where I've come to know the congregations. (Nope. Not First P. Church. That's a bit too close, thanks.) I'm hoping to discover whether this is a good way to do what I think I was called to do or if I need to find some other way.

I've finished six stories. Six that can be read in a series or individually. They involve two families that are intertwined by friendship and whose faith is often challenged by life's twists and turns. I personally like the characters and that's always a good sign. But will others? Will you should you be among the listeners?

The one I plan to do first is the most innocuous. It's just a tad cute and I think that will appeal to most people without offending. It's not my favorite, but then my favorite is fairly heavy and might cause some weightier emotions should anyone relate too closely. So, I'm saving that one for a congregation that I sense is willing to invest in the lives of these people.

So, here it is. A little too cute, but then it's only the appetizer. They're supposed to be both cute and edible. Let's hope it fills those roles.

Love of enemies

Matt. 5: 43"You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' 44But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, 45that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. 46If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? 47And if you greet only your brothers, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? 48Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.

Tyler watched his mother with great interest. She’d promised to make brownies for him if he made an “A” on his math test. This his he had done and with no small effort either. Fifth grade math was not a laughing matter. One had to find the value of x. If you have never had to find the value of x before, you have no idea what Tyler Faulk was up against.

He’d studied for days, practiced for days. And he had prevailed. Now, it was brownie time. He had no intention of letting his mother forget it.

But she was doing something strange, and he was on the verge of asking what when she read his mind, which she was amazingly good at doing. She could answer his questions before he could even ask them.

“Sugar water,” she said. “See those ants?”

He did indeed. There was a long regiment of them marching along the countertop in an undisciplined, wobbly line.

“They’re looking for water,” she said. “It hasn’t rained in a while and they’re coming in looking for a drink.”

“So, you’re going to give them some?”

Tyler had no idea that his mother was into something as cool as collecting ants.

“Yes,” she said. “But I’m going to give it to them outside in the hopes they’ll stay out there and not come in here.”

Tyler approved of this ingenious plan. In fact, he hoped it would work and he could use said project for science when the time came. He’d have to take pictures, of course. But it had all the makings of another “A.” Therefore, more brownies.

But he needed a hypothesis.

“So then, why do you put sugar in the water?”

“The sugar attracts the ants,” she said. “The ant’s go to the sugar water and leave my kitchen alone.”

Ah. This made sense. She wanted the ants, the enemy, to leave her kitchen alone. To get accomplish this, all she had to do was feed them.

Wait.

“Why don’t you just spray them with bug spray?” he asked.

His mother shrugged. “I could, I guess. But bug spray is also toxic to us humans and it doesn’t really solve the problem. The ants that aren’t killed will still be thirsty and they’ll still come in.”

This made sense.

“Don’t you have to keep enough sugar water in the pan though?”

“A small price to pay,” she said. “Especially when I have a ten year old slave boy to do it for me.”

Tyler would have laughed at the joke except for the fact that it was sometimes all too true. Make your bed, Tyler. Clean up your room, Tyler. Don’t leave the x-box on Tyler. His parents were always tremendously demanding!

“I should have done this a while back,” she admitted. “Do you know what a preemptive strike is?”

Tyler did not.

It’s when you anticipate a problem and you do something to prevent it from becoming a problem. I knew we were having a little bit of a draught and every time we do, we get ants in the kitchen. I should have put the sugar water out a while back as a preemptive strike.”

“So the ants wouldn’t come in in the first place,” Tyler said.

“Exactly.”

His mother handed him the pan of sugar water and directed him outside to the corner of the house where Tyler could see the ant mound and the line of ants, traveling to and fro into a crack in the brick foundation. He placed the pan of sugar water on the ground and squatted down to wait. It took a long time. By the time he could smell chocolate wafting around his head, warm, sweet fingers of temptation, only one or two of the ants had found the sugar water.

Drawn into the kitchen by the smell, he abandoned his watch.

The brownies had not come out of the oven yet and his mother was nowhere to be found. Instead, Tyler’s father, Tripp Faulk, was standing at the sink, elbow deep in soapy water.

“Where’s Mom?” Tyler demanded. No Mom. No brownies. It didn’t bode well.

“She’s taking a nap,” his father said. “I’ll get the brownies out when they’re done, Sport. Why don’t you help me dry dishes while we wait?”

Rats. Tyler hated being caught by parents who were doing chores. That meant that they would give part of the work to him.

He gave his father a dramatic sigh and grabbed a towel. He did a half-hearted job, and his father handed the pan back to him.

“One more go, Sport,” he said.

“Tyler,” Tyler grumbled.

“One more time, then Tyler.”

“When will the brownies be done?” Tyler demanded.

His father glanced at the timer. “About five minutes,” he said.

“Why are you doing the dishes, then? Why don’t you just wait until all the brownies are out of the pan?”

Tyler was thinking that if he could talk his father into waiting, he’d get off the hook too.

His father didn’t answer right away. He dug down into the water and produced a couple of plates and a fork. “I’m doing lunch dishes too,” he said.

“But you hate doing dishes,” Tyler protested.

“It’s not always about what you like or don’t like,” his father answered. He looked at Tyler as if trying to think of what to say. Tripp’s dark hair always stood straight up on his head and Tyler’s did the same. When either of them was thinking it appeared that their hair stood at attention.

“You see, Tyler, there’s something you should know about women.”

Tyler didn’t want to know anything about women.

Undaunted, his father continued. “These dishes were all sitting here in the sink when I came in, and your Mom said she was tired. And I’m sure she is. She’s had a long day. So I told her I’d do them and I sent her to take a nap. To tell you the truth, I didn’t want to do them either. But when I said I would, your mother was all, Oh, Tripp, you’re such a good husband and all that and now she’ll most likely get someone else to help her with the ones after dinner.” His father winked and tapped his wild hair as if this were the most ingenious plan ever cooked up by humankind. Maybe it was.

“A preemptive strike,” Tyler said. He handed the dish back to his father, who took it and inspected it.

“Exactly.”

Tyler was impressed, but cautious. “And you’ll tell her I already helped you with lunch?”

“You bet,” his father said. “We’ll saddle Cam with it.”

Cam was Tyler’s older brother and this made perfect sense. He hadn’t even been out of bed all day. Cam could do the dinner dishes!

“Where did you hear about preemptive strikes?” Tripp asked.

Tyler tapped his own wild head of hair and made his father laugh.

“You’re a pretty sharp little bean,” he said.

As promised, the buzzer finally sounded and the brownies came out of the hot oven, smelling like a pan full of heaven. Another fifteen minutes to let them cool. It was torture.

Except there was a diversion. Mitch drove up to the house no doubt looking for Cam. Mitch was Mike McRay’s oldest son. The McRay’s had been close family friends as long as Tyler could remember. He even called Mike “Uncle Mike.” Not because Mike was related, but because all the grown ups thought it was cute. Besides, when you called him “Uncle Mike,” he would let you sit up on his shoulders, and he’d sway around like a tall tree, a ride of dizzying heights.

But for a while, relations had been strained. Mitch and his sister Cathy seemed quiet and angry. Sullen. That’s what Tyler’s father said. They were sullen all the time.

So, it was a sullen faced Mitch who knocked on the front door and in an equally sullen voice asked for Cam.

“I’ll get him,” Tyler said. He turned his back to Mitch and yelled, “CAM! MITCH IS HERE!” Which, for some reason, made Mitch laugh.

“Thanks little buddy,” he said. “Do I smell brownies?”

Tyler nodded. “They have to cool,” he said. He was sort of hoping that Mitch would forget about the brownies. Between Mitch and Cam, there wouldn’t be much left if they got into them.

Cam came lumbering down the hall, still in his pajama pants, his mop of blond hair all tangles. There was a pillow tattoo on his right cheek.

Mitch looked from Cam to Tyler and back. “Some day,” he said, “I’m going to buy you guys a comb.”

But Cam’s hair was just bed head. It was usually straight like their mother’s hair.

Cam could sleep later than anyone Tyler knew, which had something to do with being a teenager and being cool. Tyler had tried sleeping late so he too could be cool, but it never worked out. There were too many interesting things to do. Besides, Cam was 15, which automatically made him the coolest guy in Tyler’s life. Except that Mitch was 16 and so maybe just a little cooler. Tyler wanted to hang out with them, but he knew he wouldn’t be welcomed if they started talking about girls or teenaged boy stuff. Unless . . .

Tyler hustled off to the kitchen. Brownies can get you in places you normally wouldn’t be allowed. He cut three extra large brownies out of the middle of the pan. He’d get yelled at about this later, but there was no time to delay or debate. One must strike while the brownies are hot.

Tyler approached the boys who had slumped down on the couch and were mumbling quietly to each other. They stopped talking on his approach and Tyler could sense that Cam was about to tell him to get lost when he produced the three brownies, still smoldering in the palms of his hands.

Not too big and manly to accept the brownies, were they? Tyler, reveling in his victory, sat down on the coffee table opposite Mitch and nibbled on the corner of his brownie.

“Anyhow,” Mitch continued, “if she thinks I’m going to cooperate, she has another thing coming. I can’t stand the b …” he glanced at Tyler. “…The witch,” he concluded.

Tyler knew better than to ask which witch. He was pretty sure he knew.

Mitch’s mom had died about a year ago and his dad had remarried before the year was up. Tyler’s father said Uncle Mike had lonely alcoholic bachelor syndrome. Whatever that meant. And he’d remarried to keep himself sober.

Mitch and his sister, Cathy, hated their stepmother’s guts (Mitch’s words) and had come fairly close to hating their father too. So Mitch came over periodically and, with Cam’s help, plotted how he was going to run away or burn the house down or blow up his step mother’s car or whatever gruesome demise he could concoct for her.

See, Tyler understood the hating of guts. There were several girls whose guts he hated plenty and he regularly let them know this obvious fact. Well, except for Lucy Prichard. She was kind of different, but he still told her he hated her guts. He wasn’t sure why. It was just sort of his default response to all girls.

Nonetheless, Tyler listened and pretended to sympathize as Mitch complained. It seemed that his stepmother was insisting that Mitch and Cathy attend her family reunion in Georgia. Mitch thought he and Cathy should be allowed to stay home, being almost adults, but this had not washed with either their stepmother nor Uncle Mike.

For this reason, Mitch was plotting yet another run for the border. This time, he’d take Cathy. They’d hide out in John Lawson’s barn way out at Madisonville Cross Roads. John Lawson had let him hide out there before and he was pretty sure he could do it again. “And you swear you aren’t going to say a word about this, Tyler,” Mitch said. “You could completely ruin it if you do.”

“Why don’t you just come here?” Tyler suggested.

“Because Dad wouldn’t be for hiding Mitch and Cathy from Uncle Mike, Ty,” Cam said. “Use your noodle.”

“Yeah, but if we invited them . . .”

Mitch shook his head at Tyler. “She wants us to be miserable, Ty. You have to understand that.”

Tyler gave this some thought while Cam and Mitch continued to plot.

“A preemptive strike,” he said rather suddenly, interrupting his brother.

Cam looked at him, annoyed.

“You have to give her what she wants,” Tyler said. “Like the ants looking for water. You have to give her what she wants and then she’ll maybe give you what you want.”

“Ants? Ty, what’d you put in these brownies?”

Mitch laughed, which made Tyler’s face burn and his hair stand straighter. Now he had to explain. He had to be understood.

“She wants you to go, right?”

Mitch nodded, still smiling.

“Then tell her you’ll go. Tell her you’ll do whatever she wants, but that you’ve also been invited to Cam’s house and you’d kind of like to go there instead.”

“There’s no way,” Mitch said. “I’m not giving her the satisfaction of thinking I’ll cooperate.”

“You don’t have to like her,” Tyler insisted. “You just have to give what she wants.”

Mitch started to protest again, but Cam cut him off.

“Might be worth trying, Mitch. I mean what’s the worst that can happen? If she says ‘no,’ then you go the Lawson’s barn and camp out for a few days.”

Tyler was thinking that it would be better just to go if he had to. If Mitch told her he’d go, he should keep his word. It might make for a lot more peace in the long run. Tyler, being the youngest, understood this concept better than either Cam or Mitch. But he also knew that the older boys were going to do whatever they pleased. He decided not to push it too far.

“What about Cathy?” Mitch said. Mitch was very protective of Cathy. He figured she didn’t have anybody else.

Tyler rolled his eyes. “Cathy could come too,” he conceded. Cathy was a couple of years ahead of Tyler at school, and she never even acknowledged him in the hallways. But if it was just Tyler and Cathy, she was OK. She could throw a fastball like nobody Tyler had ever known and she liked all the same TV shows he liked. It wouldn’t be too bad.

Mitch was thinking. “Preemptive strike, huh?”

Tyler shrugged and took a satisfied bite out of his brownie. Cam smiled the secret smile he shared with Tyler when he wanted to say, “Way to go, Ty,” but wasn’t at liberty to speak the words.

“Want me to go ask Dad if it’s OK?” Tyler offered.

“I’ll do it,” Cam said. He stood up. “Thanks for the brownies, Ty.”

______________

OK, so there it is. Story number one. Not chronologically, but this is the one I'll tell first. We'll see how it goes.

I'm the Expert Now

2010-09-27T19:34:00.000-07:00

Chemistry:

Binary molecular compounds have a language all their own. I hadn't known. This "H2Cl" is pronounced dihydrogen chloride. Just saying. I know that now.

There are noble gases. Do you know why they call them noble? They have 8 valence electrons which means they don't need any more. They don't like to mix with other elements. Therefore, they were named the "noble" gasses. Because they're stuck up bas*****. WHO KNEW that neon was stuck on itself?

Algebra:

Quadratic equations (x^2 - 10x + 24 = 0) must be solved in two steps. You will need the axis of symmetry, a formula that reads - b/2(a). In this case -[-10/2(1)] or 5. So, when x is 5, y is -1. No, it really is. See, 5^2 is 25. -10 * 5 is -50. That leaves you with -25, and when you add to that a positive 24, you get -1.

PLEASE NOTE:

The "-" in the formula - b/2(a) is really -1, so that when you get b/2(a), you have to multiply it all by -1. Don't forget that step, please. If you forget it, you are screwed. I know this.

After you have the axis of symmetry, you are ready to find the zeros. Or the roots if you prefer. To do this, you must use the property of zero to find the x intercepts. (x*x and -4*-6 in this case. x*-4=0, so x= 4 and x*-6=0, so x=6)

Or, if there are no real integral roots (this puzzled me for several minutes until I realized that "integral roots" meant roots that are integers. Please do not change the word on me mid problem!!!), you can graph it and visually see where the parabola crosses the x axis. To do this, you must substitute several different numbers for x. Then you graph the coordinated pairs and follow the parabola to the x axis where you will see the x intercepts for yourself. Because they will not fall exactly on an integral number, you will have to estimate.

Real Life:

This is a Mac Daddy, honkin' huge Garden Spider that lives just outside my kitchen window. It is having a fly for lunch. She's a girl. (The spider, not the fly. And yes, you can call a girl spider a Mac Daddy if her legs span more than 2 inches.) Her name is Stella Spider, for we named her. Her web probably has something to do with H2Cl (No, wait. Maybe it has to do with a carbon chain. She's organic after all.) and quadratic equations (see the parabolas she made with her web?). If I tried hard enough, I could figure that out. But I'll just say that I think it's really pretty in a very creepy way. That's as scientific as I want to get right now.

Thanks. I just had to write that down to prove to myself that I really know it. Really do. 'Cause tomorrow, I really won't.

Coffee Dragons

2010-09-24T19:29:00.000-07:00

The thing is,when I'm overwhelmed with too much to do, I tend to do just the opposite and occupy myself with things that have no value whatsoever except that they amuse me. Which is no small feat, if you want the truth.

I have GOBS to do right now. So, I've been taking pictures of coffee dragons. It's like looking at clouds. Only it's coffee.

To me, the one pictured above is a dragon embryo. Actually, lots of them are dragon embryos. Maybe I should say this one is a dragon with wings. Albeit short wings.

Here's the skull of an eagle. Raptors are dragons sort of.

Here's one blowing smoke out of his snout.

This one's "The Wizard" dragon. I like the bubble eye

and the fact that he looks like he's wearing a robe.

There are more, but the photos are not loading the

way I want them to. Anyhow, I hope you too enjoy

the coffee dragons. What do you do with your "free"

time?

(And btw, this is not the best thing for a person with

OCD to do. I now feel I MUST have my camera at the

ready when I make my coffee. I have let my coffee

get cold looking for my camera. I discovered that cold

coffee makes better dragons!)

What works

2010-09-09T06:05:00.000-07:00

Long friggin' post . . . maybe even sermon. Sorry.

I hate to get all serious. Nobody likes me that way. Maybe it's the frown I put on (automatic, sorry) when asked a serious question. People think I don't want to be asked. It's not that. It's a pathological fear of being set up like straw man so someone else can knock me down. This seems to happen frequently. Perhaps I invite it. I'm not sure.

Anyhow, someone asked me about faith a little while back and I stumbled over my words because faith makes sense to me, yet it's nearly impossible to clarify why that is. But writing it out, that's my forte'. Can do.

I have two reasons for being a person of faith (within the parameters of Christianity.) First, I like the message. It's generous and it seeks to do good for those who are on earth right now. It isn't aimed at preserving what people leave behind or at getting to some personal state of perfection that, frankly, doesn't do anyone any good except the seeker. It ignores no one. It forgets no one. It leaves out no one. There are none who are uninvited or turned away or forgotten. And I like that.

My second reason (and really, the best one) is that it is the only religion I've come upon that makes sense. Granted, I haven't made a passionate study of other religions, but as I have studied this one, I have also learned about others. They have much to offer. Almost all of them are based on keeping peace between people. Almost all of them emphasize a charitable spirit. Just about every religion pushes it's adherents to be mindful of people down on their luck. So, it isn't that. It makes sense philosophically, or I wouldn't believe the way I do.

Christianity works because fairness and justice never will. What is fair for one cheats another. What is just for me is unjust for you. What is good for me is bad for someone else. Every step I take, every word I say, every decision I make, every purchase, every effort. Someone benefits and someone loses. Always.

Last night I ate a pork chop. Good for me. Not so good for the pig. Today, I plan to dig up some weeds in my garden. The garden will look better. The weeds will be dead. Every act has both it's good side and it's bad side. This is not evil. This is life. But it isn't just and it isn't fair. If I were the pig, I'd not want to be killed and cut up into pork chops. If I were the weed, I'd prefer to flower just like all those pretty mums that get so much attention. It isn't fair.

I don't think anyone who gets what's fair would be too happy about it.

No, the only thing that works is grace. Ridiculous, extravagant, purposeful grace. And grace like that goes against human nature. I'll not be giving my life away for you any time soon. Sorry if you thought otherwise. It isn't in my nature. Yet, I've learned that when I do make sacrifices (and by this I mean life altering sacrifices, not putting a few bucks in an offering plate or giving an hour of my Saturday to work in a soup kitchen) I find life. There is no way to quantify that. There is no way to prove that. It just happens that way.

If grace were a naturally occurring phenomenon . . . well, but it isn't. There are imitations of it all over the place. People waiting at four way stop signs for another person to go first. People forgiving debts. People offering up kidneys to someone who will die without one. These imitations of grace are what keep the world from falling into chaos. Yet they are never ever enough. They aren't enough to stop wars and hunger and plagues of all sorts. I can't even fathom thinking about it as natural! People must muster the nerve to be gracious. People must have help, some higher power guiding them. Grace isn't something I can do without tremendous effort. Even then, I don't do a good job of it and there is always something in it for me. True grace offers up it's own life. I don't think I'll ever ever do that. Yet, I believe that grace is the foundation of Christianity and without it, Christianity is just another religion. The Beattles, God bless them, were wrong. Love is not all you need. Grace is all you need. Everything else is ordinary. EVERYTHING.

There are loads of things that I think are natural that my fellow Christians believe are mystical experiences. Healings for example. I think healing is a gift. A human gift. Does it come from God? Certainly. But anyone with the gift can do it and has. It is a phenomenon that does not belong exclusively to Christianity. Yet we talk about this as a mystical experience, one that cannot be explained. And I'm not trying to explain it either. I just think it's something that happens in every sector of life. In this natural world, some diseases can be healed and some cannot. You can never grow a limb back. It doesn't happen. It never will. Why? Because that's just the way it is. Healing, as a natural occurrence, doesn't cover that. But people do experience healing of many diseases because, for reasons science may never be able to explain, it lies within human capacity to do so. I actually think it's wrong to spiritualize it. Attribute it to God, yes. In the same way we attribute to God all of the gifts we have. The gift of art and music and the ability to sing or cook delicious meals or listen to friends. Everyone has a gift. Some have the gift of healing. Why does that need to be mystical?

As a naturally occurring phenomenon, things have to be right for it to happen. Rain doesn't happen without clouds. We don't have droughts because we have some hidden sin standing between ourselves and the process of evaporation. When people do not experience healing, it has nothing to do with, I must not have been good enough. Sometimes things line up and sometimes they don't. Sometimes a really good musician gets a recording contract. Sometimes she doesn't. Is that fair? Nope. Remember, I said fair doesn't work.

Nor does healing negate death. You die whether you've been healed or not. It's why Jesus kept begging people not to believe him because of what he could do, but because of who he was. OK. Enough of that.

Wow. Totally didn't mean to go on and on about that. My point is, grace is the only truly mystical experience. All that other stuff we put faith in will not hold water. Only this. Only grace. And grace does not occur naturally. Grace goes well beyond reason. Grace appears to be the most unfair of all practices. It appears to take the life of the giver (though Jesus assured us that this was only apparent.) Grace is not economical or fair or just. Grace requires real sacrifice in the form of a life altering forfeiture of rights and freedom. Grace is incredibly expensive. Were it not so, it would not be grace. It would be justice. At which point, it would cease to work!

Well, I suppose that exhausts it. I mean, it really doesn't come close to exhausting it, but that's about all I have. Why do I believe in Jesus, crucified and risen? Why do I have faith? Why do I agree with certain "fairy tale" aspects of faith? Because it's what works. I'm a very practical person. I want what works. End of story.

The Sleepover Fiasco and Why I'm a Dunderhead

2010-09-07T09:59:00.000-07:00

My daughter has two sets of friends. One set she knows from the swimming pool, our noisy, splashy neighbor across the street, and one set she knows from church. Each set is of equal importance to her, and she wants to spend time connecting with both. But because summer is ending and the swimming pool is coming to a close, she is eager to include these friends in her every day activities so she doesn't lose touch. She planned and (expertly, if I say so myself) executed a sleepover for said friends. (Let's call them Diane, Kerry and Cristy.)

She called each on the phone. She told each the time her party would start. She made arrangements to have snacks and activities. She chose a night that would not be too painful for her parents and she cleaned her room to insure her friends would not have to see a mess.

I also spoke to all but one parent (and perhaps this was my mistake) about their arrival times and who would be late and who would have to leave early. That sort of thing. All was set.

Kerry, we learned, could come, but would not be able to stay the night. Cristy would attend a concert with her family before the party and would be very late arriving. Diane said she'd come on time.

Then, the night of the party, Kerry came early and spent some time with Kate. No problem. They get along fairly well and Kate was pleased to have her even if it was a bit early. The other two came together and were a little late. We expected Cristy to be late but were surprised that Diane was late too. No problem, really. At least they were both here and Kate was really beginning to have a good time.

Kerry's mother retrieved her as she said she would, and Kate continued to play with the other two girls. They were giggling and being appropriately silly, so I stepped out back to sit in my office and practice my guitar for about fifteen minutes. When I came back in, my daughter was sitting on the couch sobbing into her hands, looking as if she had been told that she had five minutes to live.

"They all left," she declared, and flopped over onto her side. "Cristy's mother came and got them. They said they might be back, but they might not."

WHAT?

Both Cristy and Diane had gone to the concert we'd been told Cristy would attend with her family before she came. We were not told what kind of concert or where it would be. We only knew that both girls were gone and Kate was devastated.

"They told me I could come too, but I didn't want to go to a big, loud concert and be back really late. I just wanted a sleepover!" More crying and flopping.

My first inclination was to call Diane's parents and inform them that Diane was no longer in my care, but had apparently left with Cristy's mother to go to a concert. Diane's father said he certainly had not authorized her to do that and he would go and get her. Then I called Cristy's mother.

Here's where it gets a little strange.

Cristy's mother wanted to know where I got off calling around like that and ruining her daughter's good time when Kate had been previously informed about the concert. Out of the goodness of Cristy's heart, she told me, Cristy had come early to spend time with Kate. Did I not have any understanding this sacrifice?

Sacrifice?

"Yes," I said. "We understood that Cristy would be attending the concert before the party but I didn't hear anything about Diane being with her." (As for the rest, my inclination was to tell her not to let Cristy do Kate any more charitable favors Kate might regret later, but I held my tongue.)

"We told Kate," she insisted. "We were very clear."

She came back to my house, picked up her daughter's belongings and left in a rage.

I asked Kate about this. "What exactly did Cristy's mother tell you?"

"That Cristy was going to a concert before she came. That's all."

"And did they tell you they'd be right back or where the concert was?"

"No. They said they'd probably come back, but that concerts were really long sometimes and maybe they wouldn't be able to."

"Yet they left their things here?"

Kate shrugged.

Hmm. Two adults and one child heard that Cristy (not Diane) would be attending a concert before the party. But from that, we were supposed to glean that it was OK for two girls under my care to disappear after they came to my house. (And do I really want two little girls ringing my doorbell at one or two in the morning?)

As it turned out, no one stayed with Kate and she cried herself to sleep.

Moral of the story. Sleepovers for middle school girls are disasters waiting to happen. Think twice, my friends. Think twice.

And yet. And YET! We plan to try this again. With the church friends, who are more predictable and just a little kinder. (OK, way kinder.) Why, you ask? Why the HELL would you do that again? Because a little freckled face looked up into mine, eyes brimming with tears and asked, "Please?"

I. Am. A. Total. Dunderhead.

Ponderings

2010-09-03T08:35:00.000-07:00

Today is my mother's birthday. She'd have been 82, but as it is, she died at 67. Cancer. We don't know what kind. By the time it was discovered, it was past fixing.

She died on Christmas Eve, which gave me a succession of rotten Christmases for a while. People who wore bright Christmasy sweat shirts and ornament-bobble earrings made me want to lunge. At them. People who told me I had no Christmas spirit or called me Scrooge earned my contempt. Let's be honest about Christmas. It's a consumer holiday. We try to make it religious, but we are pathetic failures at doing so.

Am I right? I said, Am I right?

Maybe time has healed that wound a little. I really am much less cynical about the holidays now. I no longer grumble at people who are humming about snow men and mistletoe and chestnuts. I simply view it from above, like torture victims who have learned to separate themselves from their pain. Mostly, I don't think about it. Therefore, I hardly ever send Christmas cards or buy gifts for friends. Sometimes this makes me feel like a jerk, but it's how I deal, so there.

I do the Ho-ho-ho thing with my kids and put on the happy face. (Even though it is really someone else's face I'm wearing.) I think I've been a fairly good sport.

Then I heard, just yesterday, that someone from my church, whom I always thought of as a sweet and warm person, has been moved to the Hospice House in a neighboring town. That and my mother's birthday sort of bring it back. Much like acid reflux. In a painful way.

I'm happy that my friend will be at a Hospice house. Hospice houses are wonderful. I've been in plenty of them. I used to work for Hospice, and I know what the staff at these houses do for people who are dying.

I could tell stories about rallies and shock and denial and acceptance. I could tell stories about the tasteless jokes told my staff members for whom death was getting a little too close. I could tell you about last meals and music playing and the wrong time of year to die. I could tell you about youth and age and confusion and motivation and strength. Life, basically.

Not long ago, I prayed for some clarity on the subject. (I do this a great deal.) It all seems to be a jumble of possibilities ranging from illogical theology to sappy motivational sympathy cards. I didn't expect an answer.

I've been accused of magical thinking, which is true. So, I really try not to look for answers so much as I let answers happen. Here's what happened.

After spending an hour or so letting myself think about the subject of faith, death and how these two things are related . . . and if they are, or if life is really just useless and there is nothing more to it than that, I decided to prepare the Sunday School lesson I had for that week. Right. I was feeling ironic.

The lesson was on some cryptic subject I was not really into teaching or thinking about. Why couldn't we concentrate on what really mattered?

I started flipping through the New Testament, looking for the passage I needed to exegete and the word "dies" caught my eye. Couldn't help it. I read that part.

"I tell you the truth, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds." (John 12:24)

I know. Jesus was talking about himself, and I tend to make more of things than I should. You have every right to say what you're thinking.

Goody friggin' gum drops for you. When I try that, I get, "And while the flesh was yet between their teeth, ere it was chewed, the wrath of the Lord was kindled against the people, and the Lord smote the people with a very great plague." So, please don't give me some sh** about God always answering your prayers.

I won't. I mean, at the moment I wasn't praying. It's just that, this happened, and it felt like something. It felt like something I shouldn't ignore. Someone from beyond said to me, "Shh. Death is what is perceived and not at all what it seems. Not much is, really. So, shh."

I saw that passage as if it reached up and poked me in the eye.

I still think of death as something evil. It's hard not to. But intellectually at least, I can now say to myself, 'But if we never go there, we will never know what could come of it. Besides, truth will out. We all go there.'

I don't really think I want to be Tuck Everlasting. I don't really want to live here forever trapped in life's illusions. I go toward death. It's a given. Some days I can handle that and some days I can't. But still, I go. No choice.

Then just keep walking, I guess. Or crawling or rolling. Whatever I can manage today.

Happy Birthday to my Mom. Happiness and peace to my friend. Is that possible? I kind of think it is.

Definitions

2010-08-28T19:22:00.000-07:00

The definition of social anxiety: People have to die before I feel comfortable with them.

Consider the following. When my mother died, one of the first things that went through my head was, "Well, at least now there's no one left who remembers all the weird stuff I've done in my life." I seriously had this thought. Then I realized that she'd probably told my father all of the weird stuff, so when HE died, I thought, "Now, there's really nobody left to remember it." And in such thoughts, I found some comfort. But did I really? Did I really feel relieved? How ass holy is that?

But, of course, life goes on, and I've done more embarrassing things, so now there are very many more people who are going to have to die before I can actually feel at ease showing my face in public.

The definition of paranoia: Men can read women's minds.

This obsessive thought makes its round in my head with some frequency. Pass a dude in a grocery store and he looks at me, smiles, and walks on. I think, What if men really aren't humans after all, and they can somehow know when we (women) are thinking about them? And WHAT we are thinking about them? How about dead people? Can dead people see what you do? Can they look down from heaven (or, er, look up from . . . ) and watch you pee? Or have sex? Or sing really badly when you think no one is at home?

The definition of OCD: If you don't do what I tell you to do, someone will die.

Well, isn't that a good thing? Then nobody will be alive to remember what stupid things I used to do. Which must mean that I want people to die, which must mean I'm a bad person, which must mean I am definitely going to hell.

The definition of OCPD: You don't TELL me what to do, Bub! You seriously don't. I will soooo take my ball and go home and then you will be sorry!

Anger comes from fear which comes from inadequate experience which leads to social anxiety which makes one paranoid and can ultimately feed OCD.

I hope you have enjoyed this blog. It, along with your own computer, will nook-i-fry itself in exactly 5 seconds, thus killing all the people who might possibly remember that I wrote this piece of weirdness. 4... 3... 2...

Writing about . . . You Know

2010-08-02T19:29:00.000-07:00

Sex.

I have to say, I sort of wish one didn't have to have an obligatory sex scene in every best selling novel one endeavors to write. It's all been said, hasn't it? I mean, really. All.

It's like, what if everybody decided it would be great to describe how it feels to pick their nose. While there may be a myriad of ways it can be done, (from the front, the side if you're a cocaine addict, or through the ear canal if you're kinky) there are only so many ways that are practical. I mean, face it. You would never pick your nose while standing on your head, would you? Yet, this seems to be a position that is acceptable when it comes to sex.

In addition, one can add the odd toy, though it can't be something so large and ungainly that you lodge it in your nostril and then can't remove it.

And should there be pain? Everyone wants to know, "Did it hurt, darling?" I mean, this is THE question, isn't it? Like if it didn't hurt, it wasn't a good pickin'.

"Of course it hurt, you noink. You don't go 'round picking someone else's nose with that thing."

I'm getting confused.

And should there be guilt? I m know that nobody feels guilty any more. It's not even P.C. Unless of course, one is feeling guilt about feeling guilty. But no, that won't work. Women especially are NOT to feel remorse about sex. (Nose picking, maybe.) Have we not been oppressed by the rules and laws of doctrinal establishments long enough?! (Raises fist in defiance.)

So, if you are a person with some moral convictions and a few really outdated ideas about sex, what exactly do you do? How do you write a sex scene into your story without making it something lurid? And anyway, lurid sells. Anatomical detail sells. Don't know the right word, make one up. All the better.

As long as the female character is not too clingy and the male character not too domineering (with the exception of the villain) you can pretty much just get out your sexual thesaurus and try out a few adjectives, add hints at size (the hero always has good genes) and be certain to let everyone know how much it hurt and TAH DAH! Sex scene done.

But if you don't want to be cheap, well, that's a different story. It takes time to be something other than cheap. And it takes some (dare I say it?) balls to write something that isn't about "heaving" and "pinnacles" and "spasms."

I thought spasms were for the spastic. No longer.

So, I'm stuck. What to do; what to do? I have a female. I have a male. He has good genes. And I'm stuck. Story of my life, folks. But that's another blog.

That's Not All

2010-07-22T10:00:00.000-07:00

From the looks of things on the reality television scene, OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) could very well be the new bipolar. Let me explain.

Mental health issues have become sexy. Books about bipolar disorder like An Unquiet Mind and Girl Interrupted gave us a glimpse into the wild and often tragic lives of people with bipolar disorder. Movies like A Beautiful Mind and The Soloist even made us wonder if schizophrenia didn't have a lovely side. Americans were hooked on mental illness.

Let's face it, crazy people do wild and impetuous things that make for a good story. They are angry one minute, charming the next. They are dark, even suicidal and then turn around and become so high on their own brain chemicals that they take tremendous risks, romantic leaps. It makes for dazzling screen plays and interesting novels.

For a while, everybody with a mental disorder wanted to be bipolar! (I don't think schizophrenia got quite the romantic press that bipolar disorder has, but I will consent that this is a matter of opinion.) New standards were set for the disorder. Now one could have rapid cycling bipolar, cyclothymia (a milder form of the disorder . . . very popular), bipolar type one complete with psychosis, and bipolar type two with the less damaging hypomania. There is even the highly controversial ultra rapid cycling bipolar in which a person can experience up and down moods within a single day. For about a decade, psychiatrists diagnosed people with bipolar disorder at younger and younger ages. Everybody who had ever had a bad day followed by a good one got to be bipolar for five minutes. (A shame since the real disease is a devastating disorder that rips apart the lives of thousands of people. It isn't about having a bad day.)

But now, it appears that OCD may be usurping the scene. Television shows like "Obsessed," and "Hoarders," and "The OCD Project," are just the tip of the iceberg. We should have known when Monk came on the scene. OCD is the place to be!

People love to watch while OCDers repeatedly check their ovens, click lights on and off five, ten, twenty times trying to "get it right." They love to look at the piles of junk in people's homes, often making their houses unlivable, even dangerous. (Maybe this is interesting because we can look at it and say, 'Well, at least I'm not that bad!') It's a little like looking at a train wreck. Fascinating in a gruesome sort of way.

And how about those hand washers? They have crazy contamination issues, thinking that everything they touch will give them some deadly disease. Their cracked hands are probably twice as susceptible to infection than normal people's hands, we reason. Very interesting.

And exposure therapy! Oh, my God, it's so weird. People having to touch toilet seats and then lick their fingers. People having to run over rubber babies with their cars while picturing real infants. People having to hold religious icons and then keep themselves from doing some ritualistic tap dance they are convinced will keep them out of hell. The idea is that if they expose themselves to the things they fear, their brains will register the absurdity and begin to relax. But it's just so freaky!

I have to admit I'm glad people are getting a closer look at this disorder, which has, up to now, been an enigma in most people's minds. We don't have anything else quite like it to which we can make a comparison. The only one I can think of is the theory that OCD is much like addiction. On one level, this is true. It's like an addiction because the victim can't stop doing the rituals that bring relief. It's also like an addiction in that the victim ultimately has to take responsibility for his actions and stop the rituals on his own. It is unlike addiction because there is nothing that is put into the body to make this happen. There is nothing anyone has "done" so to speak. It's just there.

So, I guess I'm glad people are interested. Maybe a greater understanding of OCD will come out of it. But ultimately, I'm a little nervous about relying on the media to educate. It tends to focus in on the dramatic and peculiar, things that can be filmed and then pointed at by a public that loves to ogle.

Besides, there's another side to OCD. One TV cameras can't really pick up on. A lot of people with OCD have no visible rituals. Yours truly is one of these. We have repetitive, dark, and - let's be honest - Satanic thoughts. We're convinced we will kill someone we love. We fear losing control and running over pedestrians. We see children and fear our inner pedophile. We see some attractive person of the same gender and panic. We must be homosexual (not homophobic, by the way) because we noticed this person's appealing appearance. We think that love is slipping away in our relationships, even when there's no one else on earth we'd ever want to be with. We can't stop thinking about some random person we met thirty years ago on a bus. What would have happened if...? We obsess over God and issues of morality and wether or not we are ever going to be good enough to measure up to our own ridiculously high standards. And when we aren't obsessing over anything else, we obsess over the fact that we aren't obsessing. (Disclaimer, here. People who have OCD are not really pedophiles or perverts. In fact, the disease tends to pick the very things we would NEVER consider doing. Then it torments us into thinking we are possessed of these very traits.)

Try getting all that on camera.

I mean, go ahead. Watch the shows. Just be aware that television is portraying OCDers as modern day circus freaks. Mutants. Maybe it's up to people like me to do a better job giving a more rounded picture of the disease. I use humor, of course. I doubt that will change. But there's a serious side. Decidedly unromantic and a little morose. But if you're interested . . . .

A Good Sh**

2010-05-11T18:42:00.000-07:00

I know. I know. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is incredibly romantic and kind of dangerous and glamourous. But really, there are some things about it not many people know. The unromantic side, damn it. I hate to burst bubbles, but here goes.

Ever hear of something called psychosomatic constipation? Monk has it, I am convinced. Can't have a good poop if his life depends on it. It's the parasympathetic nervous system, see. That's what allows most folk to have a really satisfying experience on the crapper. One must ultimately be relaxed. The parasympathetic nervous system allows this state of relaxation. It also allows for a good night's sleep and a personality that doesn't need to self medicate. But I digress.

Taking a good sh** is one of those things in life most of us take for granted. Unless, of course, it's on a rare occasion when we have failed to take care of ourselves. Then all that is needed are a couple of chocolate covered cherry bombs and bam! No more problem. (I'm referring to Exlax, but I was afraid to say the name because it's a brand name. So, shhhh. Don't tell on me.)

But people with anxiety do not take pooping for granted. Trust me on this. Don't ask me when you see me, just trust me. We have weak parasympathetic nervous systems. Instead of sitting on the crapper with a newspaper and relaxing until . . . it . . . happens, we sit there thinking, Oh, God, it has to work this time! Really, really, really just has to work! How long has it been? Three days? NO! Not an uneven number! This will be the death of me, I swear!

And then you over think the whole thing and even if you can manage one small, hard, little turd, you can't enjoy the experience because you were expecting more . . . so much more from your stupid intestines!

So, there you have it. I burst your bubble, didn't I? Don't worry, there are still plenty of really sexy things about OCD. And I'm certainly going to get to those.

Dammit, Frank Part II

2010-04-14T10:35:00.000-07:00

Well, that was interesting! Not only do I not really do mysteries, but I gave myself the further challenge of ending it with the sentence fragment and subsequent complete sentence, "Dammit, Frank. That was my coffee." It also had to be set in the Baskerville Hall Hotel in Wales. Yeah, go ahead. Try to figure that one out! It took a while, but this is the somewhat strange result. It doesn't suck, but I think that if I'd given myself fewer limitations, I could have done better. I mean, there's almost no description whatsoever of the main character. Given the 1500 word limit, it just didn't fit.
The thing is, I'm hoping the guy who is judging the writing thinks it's pretty damn OK, because the prize for this one is the first three modules of his "writing course" for free. The plan is to send in some stuff I've already written and get him to edit it. Sneaky, yes. But he says that is OK and he would look it over if I were taking the course.
Enough. Here it is.

(I have no title. Care to suggest one?)

Greg has seen the old place in his dreams. Now here it is on the Internet. A real place. It popped up when he searched Hound of the Baskervilles on his computer. It is a fortress of a building, all gray stone and ivy. He thinks it's too symmetrical, its windows evenly spaced and its false dormers rising like little domes, suggesting a pseudo elegance. Too dark.

The Baskerville Hall Hotel in Wales is said to have been the inspiration for Sir Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes mystery. This intrigues Greg in the way the word "hounds" has intrigued him for months now, for he hears them, hounds baying as if on some far off mountain pass. Greg lives in Chicago. There are no mountain passes. There are no hounds. Yet everywhere he goes, he hears them or sees references to the sleek hunting dogs of England, their lustrous brown, black and white coats, their long snouts eternally sniffing the wind. Baying, baying. He dreams about them. They are in magazines, newspapers, television commercials.

It is possible he is going mad. Either that, or he is being pursued by the beasts in earnest and his dreams are a warning. Emily is in the dreams. She is so real that he wakes up grieving, wishing he could stay with her a little longer. She is beautiful again, opening her arms to him. He approaches her ready to embrace her, but then the tracks appear on her arms and she disappears. At this point in his dream, he feels the need to run.

But run where? There? To that place? Is she prompting him to go there? The question will not leave him alone. He would be wise to leave the country anyway. His crimes follow him and this is perhaps his best move. Go to meet the Hell-Hounds that want his soul. If they are after him, he has to admit, if only to himself, that he may deserve as much. He has not always been a good man. If this is his fate, then he will meet it no matter what. Why not on his terms?

He books the flight and makes plans. He will stay at the Baskerville Hotel in the Welsh countryside. Five days and nights. He packs his camera, three changes of clothes, a credit card with a $20,000.00 limit. He may want to stay longer and he should use some of the money he has creatively transferred to his many and various bogus accounts, let it disappear into the hands of the Welsh.

He should not leave a trail, so he travels under one of his many identities. Frank Cushing, says the passport. A man recently deceased, Frank will not begrudge the desperate use of his identity for just a little while longer.

Greg remembers little about the flight. He mostly sleeps. Even the crisp Welsh air and the lush, green, checkerboard farmland does not impress him. His mind is filled with howling dogs. A train takes him to the small town of Hay-on-Wye where he rents a car to drive the rest of the way. He does not ask directions. He seems to know how to get there.

It should be a warning sign to him, this instinctive, magnetic knowledge, but he cannot manage to turn around or think better of his plan. He hears the baying again as he nears the hotel at dusk, the air infused pink with sunset light. It gives the mansion a ghostly glow.

"Frank Cushing," he tells the proprietor who thumbs through a notebook, draws his finger down the page, nods his approval. "Five nights, five days," he says. "Welcome, Mr. Cushing."

Greg takes the key and smiles. "Nice place," he says. He means it. The exterior doesn't prepare the eye for the rich golds and reds of the lobby and main floor. Victorian furnishings, dark wood and glowing fireplaces give it a deep sense of history Greg is not used to.

In his part of Chicago, everything looks new. Or if it's old, it's crumbling and seedy. His is a culture that reveres what is novel and tears down what is established to make room for each new generation of buzzing, bright neons, flavored liquors and dazzling drugs. An every youthful, ever wasted generation. He should know. He has pushed it down the throats of everyone around him. He has used more people than he can count and he is rich because of it. Rich, but troubled. It is a combination he knows how to play. The poor rich man. People are suckers for it.

He lugs his suitcase up the carpeted stairs to a cool, dimly lit room with a four poster bed, a wash stand he assumes is for looks only and a bureau all made of deep, lustrous woods. The window looks out on green lawns, looming trees, garden paths. If the Hell Hound resides nearby, it has a lovely home.

Greg has not made plans to have supper, but he is too tired to go searching. Breakfast isn't that far away. Food will wait. He undresses, then stores his money, identification, and credit cards in a locked zippered pouch in his suit case. He falls into bed, his dreams already howling.

In the morning, Greg is aware that he has dreamed of Emily again. He also remembers that the hound was there. No, several hounds, circling him, menacing. One in particular sat quietly at her feet. The dis-ease of the dream has walked with him to breakfast where he asks for cereal and toast. He is also given bacon done the English way, limp and a little soggy, and coffee. His hands are shaking, and it is difficult to keep the cereal on the spoon. He eats alone. It is as if none of the other guests can see him.

Greg is good at being invisible until he is ready to be seen. He tries to imagine how he will play the part of Mr. Cushing, but his mind is circling to the dogs and to Emily. He cannot concentrate.

Someone at the next table is laughing. The laugh is startlingly like Emily's. Greg turns quickly and stares, but the woman who is laughing has her back to him. How stupid. "Way to lie low," he mumbles to himself and returns to his breakfast. Emily is dead. He will not be hearing her laughter again.

A man walks into the dining room and whistles as if whistling to a dog. Greg chokes on his toast and someone behind him slaps his back.

"All right, then?" comes the voice from behind.

Greg nods and waves off the attention.

A dog begins to bark and Greg can hear it running, toe nails against hardwood floors. It lets out a long and lingering howl just outside the room.

He stands and looks desperately around for an exit. The place is too much. The dream, the laughter, the dog. It was a mistake to come here. He is hallucinating. He is still asleep perhaps.

He turns, looking for the door through which he came, and there is no one left in the dining room but Greg and the woman who had laughed. There are no others. The man who just slapped his back, the man who had whistled for the dog, they are gone.

Greg takes a quiet step toward the woman, whose back is to him. She might know what is happening. It is crucial that he either wake up or come to his senses.

"Excuse me," he says. She turns her head slowly.

"Emily!" The same Emily he saw lying in her coffin, wasted from heroin. The same Emily he had loved in the only way that Greg knows how to love. A brutal, savage longing he uses to consume the very ones he hopes to possess. But she is here.

"Frank Cushing," she says. "Fancy seeing you here."

His mind cannot hold what it sees and hears. He makes a run for the door and almost slides into the largest, blackest hound he has ever seen. The thing bares it's teeth and Greg stops short, moving back into the room toward Emily. His heart is beating wildly and he cannot breathe.

"Looks like we aren't leaving," Emily says and sighs. "The puppy wants us to stay." She smiles beautifully.

Greg turns toward her, arms flinging out as if to push her and the scene before him out of his visual range. He upsets her coffee cup and the black liquid spills slowly across the table, thick as blood. His blood. Whether nightmare or reality, Greg understands that the hound has come for him, and Emily is here to see to it that the hound collects.

She runs her finger through the reddish brown liquid and licks it.

"Dammit, Frank. That was my coffee," she moans.

Dammit, Frank.

2010-04-06T13:02:00.001-07:00

What I have written so far given the prompt... Write a mystery. 1500 words, no more. Doesn't have to have a polished ending. A friend told me that if she had to write a mystery, she'd start at the end and work backward. So, here's what I have so far...

"Dammit, Frank. That was my coffee."

On hoping I don't suck...

2010-03-17T08:12:00.000-07:00

The thing about writing... I've done it all of my life and yet haven't done it for public consumption in many, many years. By the look of things on this blog, I'm still not writing for anyone's consumption, but that's just a whine. I've come to a conclusion about my writing, though. Maybe one that I can live with.

Most creative writers who are published these days are people who are commissioned ahead of time to write. Or they are people who have connections with the publishing world. Or they are people who know people who have connections with the publishing world. And this, friends, is not such a bad thing. That we who struggle to write good prose are often overlooked is not a personal affront. It is survival. Publishing companies are hit with novel after novel (thousands of them, I understand) written by people who, let's face it, write as if they just graduated with honors... from the third grade. Most of us who think we can write most assuredly cannot. I lie awake nights hoping that if I am one of these, no one will ever read a single word I've ever written. I sincerely hope that I won't be laughed out of the business before I ever get into it.

I am aware that my writing is not literature. Not foie gras, but french onion dip. Not filet mignon, but meat loaf and mashed potatoes. What I hope is that it is GOOD meat loaf and mashed potatoes. That Guy Fieri would take a bite of my fare and say, "Damn, that's good meat loaf and mashed potatoes! Not too much garlic. I'd eat it again!"

Love Story???

2010-02-08T05:48:00.001-08:00

This time, because it's February, the assignment was to write a love story. I don't do well with love stories. Can't really make mush work for me. So, I wrote this. It may be just a little shy of a real love story, but there's a girl and there's a boy and there's a decision. Maybe it will do.

Motorcycle

by Beth Muse

He almost passed her by. Hitch hikers were discouraged around here, especially those sporting worn leather jackets and long braids. A young boy, that's what he'd thought. And he'd almost driven on. But in the end, it was the hips that made him change his mind.

She was walking away from what appeared to be a broken down motorcycle, a Honda with bright yellow trim. Her legs made long strides like a man, but her hips swayed in a rhythm that was unmistakable.

He pulled the truck over to the side of the road and she took several running steps to catch up. She poked her head in the passenger's side window.

"Broke down," she said. And that was all.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Hop in."

"I, uh." She glanced back at her bike. "I really hate to leave it here."

He put the truck in park and together they wrestled the sleek little bike into the bed of his sky blue 1972 Ford pickup, a farm vehicle with plenty of miles and dirt on it. Still ran like a charm. He always felt like a character in a country music video when he drove it.

"Just me and my Daddy and that old truck..." Lyrics like that.

She climbed in and stuck her feet fearlessly into the pile of trash that had accumulated on the floor board. Her presence made him self conscious and he flipped frantically through his brain for something to say that would put them both at ease.

He came up with nothing. Women made him nervous and overly polite, which made him all the more self conscious and fed his natural awkwardness.

The girl told him her name and wiped her hands on her jeans, stuck out the right one. He shook it and told her his.

"I can't thank you enough for the ride. Is there a mechanic in town who can work on a bike?"

Not that he knew of, but it didn't matter. He knew exactly where to take her. "More or less," he said, then changed the subject. "Where you have to get to?"

"I'm making my way to Phoenix," she said.

"Aren't you a little off course?"

"I'll find my way."

He gave her a dubious glance. Recklessness had never been a thing he admired.

"Do you live near here?" She gazed at the wads of paper at her feet and picked up an old newspaper. "The Copperfield Gazette?"

"Copperfield's the next town over," he explained. "I live between Copperfield and Jonesboro. That's the only paper, though."

"You live on one of the farms?"

"Yes."

She looked ahead at the straight road, the endless flat fields of milo and soy beans. How long she'd been traveling down this road, he didn't know, but the scenery had likely been exactly this bland for hours. The occasional silo or barn broke the horizon. Nothing else but endless sky and field after field. Sometimes he dreamed of driving the old truck until the flat lands buckled into forests, hills or mountains.

The long driveway that led to his family's farm house appeared on the right and he turned in. She jerked a quick glance at him and stiffened a little. "We're not going into town?"

"Not if you want that bike fixed," he said. "My Dad can fix pretty much anything. Farm equipment, cars, motorcycles. Anything."

He could see her relax in the seat beside him. Trusting.

The drive way curled around and the house came into view. It was a white clapboard farmhouse with a long porch across the front, symmetrical windows on either side of the front door. If you took a picture of it and then compared it to every other farm house in the area, you'd lose track of which was which. Only the people who lived out here would know the difference. Simple, unadorned, practical. That was their way of life. He took pride in the fact that he had chosen to hold onto it, champion the small farmer, reject corporate farming, conserve the traditions of his parents and their parents and so on. Let his younger sister and brother find their way in corporate America, struggling with the isolation of city life. He had responsibilities they couldn't understand.

He gripped the wheel of the truck, felt his neck tense and rubbed the back of it with his left hand as he put the truck in park.

"Home, sweet home," he said and tried to smile.

She unbuckled herself and jumped out of the truck like a cat. Together, they unloaded the bike and rolled it around to the back yard where several old cars, a tractor, and a partial engine decorated the shade of an oak. 'Yard ornaments' he called them. Everybody around here knew how to fix an engine. Everybody but him. It was the one thing he'd refused to learn about farming. I'm not mechanical, he'd told his father. Then how you plan to keep the farm going? his father had retorted. Every time something breaks down, you'll have to have help.

Having to get help said something about your manhood, he supposed. All he knew was that he hated mechanical work, and in this way alone he rebelled.

No one came out of the house to meet them and his father was likely still in the fields.

"We'll have to leave it here until my Dad gets back," he said. "I'm afraid I'm no good with this kind of thing."

She nodded and gave a grunt of agreement. "Me neither. Guess I should have learned a little something about them before I bought one. I needed wheels and I needed something it wouldn't cost a lot to drive."

"You want to come in?" he asked. He held up his hand toward the back of the house and a simple door with cinder block steps leading up to it. No porch, no railing. She started toward it without further conversation. He had to reach around her to push the door open.

In comparison to the bright sunlight outside, the room was dark, light filtering weakly through venetian blinds. She stood by the dinner table and looked around, letting her eyes adjust.

The entire scene was very simple. Red checked oil cloth on the table, white chairs with chipped paint tucked neatly under, a bouquet of artificial daisies as a center piece. They'd been there since he was a kid. A rag rug spun in spiraling circles centered the living room floor with faded blue couch and chairs surrounding it. A floor lamp, a recliner, a coffee table. That's it. All very neat and clean, though showing it's age. The kind of stuff you'd expect to see in a farmhouse. He felt like a cliche.

He stepped around her. "So, would you like some tea or something? A soda maybe?"

"Sure." She ran a finger along the oil cloth as she walked slowly toward one of the blue chairs. "You mind if I sit? When you've been riding all day, you just want to be still for a while."

"Be my guest," he said and backed through the kitchen door.

Now in the quiet of the kitchen, he wasn't quite certain what he was doing. Who, exactly, was this girl? He hadn't even taken a good look at her yet. She might be some sixteen year old run away and he was offering to fix her bike so she could continue on her merry way. Or she might be much older than that. Was this some con she pulled? Was she casing the house so she could come back later and... .

What an idiot, he thought. Her bike broke down, she needed a little help, that's it. Hell, she was probably a lot more nervous about him than he was about her. In fact, what she was doing was dangerous. She'd gotten lucky, finding him. Anybody else and...

He decided to concentrate on the drinks and he popped open a couple of soda cans and took them to the living room where she was propped on the arm of one of the chairs, her booted feet barely scraping the rug. His mother had always told him not to sit there.

He handed her the soda and warm moist fingers brushed his hand. He looked at her with a more discerning eye. If he ever needed a description, he should have one.

Long face, nose slightly bent like maybe it had once been broken, teeth all in a perfect row, eyes large and round, a light honey-brown. Hair straight with wisps of it falling into her face. Sienna. Pretty. Her face was dirty from road dust, but he could see the color in her cheeks and her lips, the glow of youth under the dust.

"How old are you?" he asked, not sure why it mattered.

She looked up at him and took a sip. "Guess."

"Games," he said.

"Fine. I'm twenty three. How about you?"

"Reverse that."

"You don't look like you're thirty two."

He said, "Good clean living," and she laughed. Maybe she thought that was a joke.

"Why are you headed to Phoenix? In the wrong direction, I might add."

She shrugged. "Friends there. I used to live there when I was a kid. I graduated from college last year and decided I wanted to take a road trip cross country. Just letting the bike choose where it wants to go. I'll eventually get to Phoenix."

He nodded. "That explains a lot." He walked around to the couch and sank into it, propped his feet on the coffee table. "Wish I could tell you what's wrong with your bike. My Dad should be home in a bit and he'll know right away."

"Will he?"

"With any luck."

"Can't thank you enough," she said.

"If you need a part, you know, you could have to stay here for a day or two."

"Is there a hotel in town?" she asked. She got up and walked around to the seat of the chair and sat in it, leaning back, looking for all the world like a woman making herself at home.

"Nothing good. You could stay here, I guess," he offered. His father wouldn't bat an eye. His mother would have a nervous break down. He was fairly certain he didn't care.

"I couldn't intrude like that." She played with the sweat on her soda can.

"No problem, then," he said. "Whatever you want to do. You'll be welcomed, though." (Partially true.)

She looked up at the ceiling as if making up her mind. She took her time.

"I guess I could at least help you get dinner together. Earn my keep."

"Well," he said.
It turned into more of a holiday feast than a dinner. He wasn't sure what was keeping his mother and his father was almost always home by now. But what the hell, it was time well spent and the girl was charming to say the least.

They dragged from the refrigerator a large chicken and he watched while she lifted the skin and stuffed it with pats of butter and sprigs of rosemary he harvested from his mother's herb garden. He put new potatoes in a pot to boil and freshly picked green beans in a steamer. He thawed a loaf of banana nut bread in the microwave and sliced it thick, slathered it with butter and put it under the broiler. He ground coffee beans by hand and showed her how to make coffee in a French press, his only snobbish habit.

It didn't occur to him until he heard the engine from his mother's car that this might look a little over zealous. He'd never really cooked before and here he was, setting the table for what might have passed as Sunday dinner with the preacher. He felt foolish, but giddy too. What did it matter what anyone else might think?

The back door flew open and he could hear his mother from the other side of the kitchen door, approaching fast. "Well, gracious!" she began. "I could smell that dinner all the way from the... " She stopped short at the sight of the girl. "The yard," she finished. "What's all this?" She wasn't talking about the dinner.

He ducked his head a little. I'm thirty two years old, he told himself, though not out loud. Definitely not out loud. If I have a woman here helping me with dinner, mother, what is that to you?

"Her motorcycle broke down," he said. "We're waiting on Dad to see if he can fix it."

"A motorcycle?" It was a foreign word in her mouth. She looked at the girl and shook her head. "Young lady like you?"

The girl smiled and looked around at the messy kitchen. "We promise to clean it up," she said.

It gave him a small thrill to hear her say the word "we."

His mother was not one to be impolite and she nodded her agreement. "Certainly smells delicious," she conceded and walked out without another word.

He walked out after her.

"She was broken down." He tried to get up close so the girl wouldn't overhear in the next room. "She's just making her way across country, you know? Just enjoying herself. She's OK."

His mother took him in. "I'd expect it from your brother, but not from you. You don't pick up road strays and bring them home."

He knew this. He knew the rule.

"I had plans for that chicken, you know," she said. "You'll have to get me another."

"I will."

"And what if your father can't fix the bike this evening? He's going to be too tired to do work for some stranger. He's over helping at the Adams' farm right now. Won't be home until late. Sometimes you have to think of somebody other than yourself."

"Other than myself?" He made no more attempt at lowering his voice. "She's was broken down."

"And where will she bed down for the night?" his mother hissed.

He bristled and stepped away from her. "We do have a spare room. I've already invited her to stay."

His mother pursed her lips. "That so?"

They stared at each other. Usually, he gave in. She was old fashioned after all, of another generation. A stranger in her home might indeed feel uncomfortable to her. But in all of his life, he had never felt more desperate for anyone to remain a guest in his home. And it was his home too, wasn't it? Had he not earned the right to have a guest? It wasn't that he was falling for a girl nine years his junior. He was attracted to her. That was all. Something about her. Something about what she was doing and where she was going and how she was going there. Something.

His mother cocked her head to one side. "I'll be," she said. She turned on her heal and walked slowly to her bedroom.

He hustled back into the kitchen. The girl's back was to him and she was filling the sink with soapy water. "I'll find a hotel or something," she told him. "If you could maybe just drive me into town."

He walked toward her slowly and touched the small of her back with his fingertips. "Here's just fine."

His father was not home when dinner was ready. They ate in the tense air speaking cautiously of the girl's history, her plans, her life's dreams. Now, while she was single and young, she hoped to travel the country, see every part she could see, find odd jobs and work her way from one coast to the next.

"Your parents agree with you doing this?" his mother asked. She had barely touched her meal, though she'd given it a glowing review out of courtesy.

"They don't mind," she said. "I do as I please."

"I've always gone by the commandments myself," his mother said, a false cheeriness in her voice. " 'Honor thy father and mother so that thy days may be long in the land.' That's how farmers live," she said. "We live Godly lives, simple lives. We take responsibility seriously. You have to when you have animals to feed and land to work. People don't know how to live simply any more. It's a tradition we hope our son will carry on."

She stole a glance at him and he nodded his assent.

The girl looked at him. "You like to farm?"

He shrugged. "I don't guess liking it is as important as doing it. I mean, of course, I love the land and I want to farm it." He considered his words. "I've thought about other things, I guess. I've always wanted to-"

"He's the future of farming," his mother interrupted. "So few young people today want to keep this alive. We've always been proud that he stayed and didn't go flying off to parts unknown trying to be someone he could never feel good about. He feels good about this, about his home, about this land and what it does for our country. If it weren't for farmers, America would be-"

"Mom, I'm sure she's heard this argument before."

The girl smiled at them both. "I think it's great," she said. "If this is your... calling, then it's great you can stay and keep the tradition going."

The tip of her boot brushed his knee under the table as she uncrossed her legs.

It was close to ten when his father returned to a cold plate and watered down tea. He was a quiet man and nodded solemnly to the girl when his son introduced her. He promised to look at her bike first thing in the morning and he tucked into his meal.

Maybe his father was too tired to react or maybe he didn't care. Either way, he was glad that he hadn't had to justify the girl's presence. He set up the guest room with a towel and a fresh bar of soap. He showed her where the extra blankets were. He helped her bring her things in from the bag she'd left on her bike.

Then he went to bed.

He could not sleep.

He could feel her palpable presence in the house. He wondered what might have happened between them had the house already been his. His alone. Alone.

Thirty two, he thought, and sleeping in my childhood bedroom. Parents. Farm. All the responsibility. I have to take it seriously. And I do. Like a vow. I've made this vow. I've made it to the land as if the land were a living being. It is alive. Like a child I have to care for. Like a child that isn't mine. But it is mine.

His thoughts kept on like this until he heard a faint creak in the floor boards of the living room. She was up and wandering the house. Of course, she might not sleep as early as farmers. She probably wasn't tired yet. He got up and walked quietly to his door, listening.

The next footstep was much closer to his room. Perhaps she was going to come in. It would look strange for him to be standing here at the door, wouldn't it? He backed away and hovered near the edge of his bed, but the door never opened.

Morning came earlier than he'd wanted it to. He got up and took care of the animals, made preparations to spend his day in the back fields tilling between crop rows, getting the irrigation system ready to be used in the evening. His guest would have to fin for herself after breakfast.

When he came back in the house she was already up drinking a cup of coffee, her face shining and clean and her hair loose around her shoulders. His father sat at the table with her reading the Copperfield Gazette. They both looked up when he came in.

"Bike's good," she said and she held up her jingling keys.

He stared at her, unwilling to hear the news. "So, no parts? No wait?"

"It wasn't hard to fix," his father said and glanced up. "I imagine even you could have handled this one."

It was a direct insult, but he let it pass. He let it go. He always let things go. It was his nature, and it had served him well. Yet standing here right now, watching the girl twirl her keys on her finger and smile at her freedom, he felt... nothing. He searched again. Nothing at all.

"That's good," he said. "I'm glad you don't have to hang around here and be bored."

"I haven't been bored," she asserted. "Your father is very kind and your mom... she made me a bowl of cereal. She's in the kitchen, I think."

His father put down his paper and looked at his son. "The part I asked you to get yesterday. I didn't see it in the truck anywhere."

"Because I didn't get it," he said. "I picked up a hitch hiker instead."

She giggled.

"I'll need it this morning. It'll put me a full day behind if you don't get it now. Your mother's chicken too, while you're at it."

He nodded.

His mother came through the kitchen door. "Coffee's still hot," she told him. She looked at the smiling girl. "She's leaving this morning, son. You can quit procrastinating now."

He felt his face burning. He felt his nothingness bubbling under the surface, warming to a new name. Anger or loneliness maybe. Or it could have been the impenetrable responsibilities of farm and parents, of animal and land, of sky and water and wind and sea and forest and earth and all that laid itself in front of him telling him that he must take care. He must maintain. He must resist. He must be this forever and champion these causes and these alone. Just exactly how much was he responsible for? Just exactly how much?

The girl was inches from him and he could not remember her moving at all. His parents were statues in a scene that was happening in someone else's dream and the girl was really all there was.

She took his arm in her hand and pulled him toward her face. "You'll be fine," she whispered, but not so quietly that the entire universe with all it's demands couldn't hear. The words of the goddess cannot be ignored. "Anywhere away from here."

She kissed him with a soft wet mouth that tasted of coffee and cream. The kiss infused him with her words.

Then she was gone. He heard the motorcycle roar to life and he heard it fade. He did not know how long he stood there or when his parents came back to life or even if they did. They were plastic figures speaking without meaning.

"Gave her a good lecture on being responsible with a bike like that," his father was saying.

"Was the dumbest thing in the world," his mother was adding, clucking her tongue in her mouth.

"Can't believe she didn't notice," one of them told him.

"Just ran out of gas," the other one said.

"Out of gas?" He might have been the one speaking.

His mother spoke. "Not the brightest bulb in the pack if you ask me."

"No one asked you," he said.

He walked slowly to his room and shut the door. He could hear the tense silence and then he could hear them talking to each other in quick clipped phrases, anxious chatter.

"Don't worry, mother," his father said. "Just a pretty face. He ain't goin' anywhere. Got a good head on his shoulders. She was too young and reckless. That little kiss... just gratitude. He ain't goin' anywhere."

"Well, not before he gets me another chicken anyhow," his mother said and they laughed the nervous laughter of people who have almost lost everything and know it.

"Never mind, mother," his father said. "He had to be tested, didn't he? He'll stay and keep the farm going. Doesn't this prove it?"

In his room, he sat at his computer and pulled up a search engine. He typed in the word "motorcycle."

Next Competition

2010-01-22T17:08:00.000-08:00

This is for the next contest. We'll see how I do.

WRITING COMPETITION

Place a character in a setting that is

very familiar to you. Use your

local knowledge to re-create that

place for your reader. Character

must interact with setting, not just

describe it. Write no more than 1

page /300 words.

Kate was familiar with the creek but had forgotten how steep it’s banks could be. She stood on the edge of it clutching the trunk of a great poplar tree to keep from falling. She would have to slide down on her backside. Her yellow linen shorts would bear two perfect rust red circles where the clay would surely deposit its telltale color. What would Kate’s mother have to say about that?

Ah, but that was the wonder of this perfect Carolina summer’s day. That was the beauty of her escape. No mother. No father. No brother. Today it was just Kate and the giant tilting boulders of Hanging Rock, listing dizzily on the steep hill above her head.

“Snakes in the cracks and hidey holes,” brother had said. “Ticks in the pine needles,” mother always warned. “Leeches in the still part of the water,” father told her.

Kate was not afraid. Today, she was Katherine the Great. She was a queen gliding effortlessly through the green forests of Arden. Even the light around her was emerald and blue. Let the snakes and the ticks and the leeches do their worst. Nothing ever bites a queen.

She slid confidently down the bank and landed in powdery white sand, the detritus wash of this past spring’s deluges. It made a shady beach beside the gurgling rush of water. She glanced behind herself at her rump and smiled appreciatively. She’d wash the shorts in the creek before she went home like a pioneer making do. But for now, there were errant knights to find, perhaps head hunters to avoid or maybe a lion just behind the next boulder.

Her entire body tensed and she waited.

Writing Contest Entry

2010-01-21T13:05:00.000-08:00

The following was my submission to a writing contest which gave a photo prompt and instructed me to write the opening lines of a short story. Here is my entry. Oh, I won!

The couple looks out of place. They're dressed in antique brown vests and peasant shirts as if they might be going to a costume party. They are not.

The woman takes the man's hat off his head and places it on her own. A single feather stands erect in the back and she looks absurd. The man sneers as if tasting bile but otherwise pays no attention to her. Instead, he gazes fixedly at the bartender, a new boy we hired only a few weeks earlier. The old man smooths his hair back and then rests against the bar on his elbows. The woman whispers something in his ear.

He'll sit forward now and he'll address the bartender. I know this because he always does. It's always the same. He'll say, "Me name's Seamus."

He sits forward. "Me name's Seamus," he says.

Told you.

I have to give it to our new hire, Jason. He's a friendly sort, an American kid trying to earn enough money to slowly make his way across the European continent. England is his first stop and my pub his first real job.

"Nice to meet you," he says. "Get something for you?"

"Haven't finished me ale, have I?" the old man says.

"Suit yourself." Jason goes back to filling a mug.

He'll tell the woman she looks ridiculous in the hat.

"Gimme back me hat, Agnes," he says. "You look ridiculous."

"No more than you," she retorts. Her brogue is different. She isn't Irish. I've never been able to figure out where she's from. Maybe she's Welsh, but I haven't decided. She doesn't say much.

"I'll thank ye to give it back," the old man insists. "If I have to die tonight, I'll do so wearing me hat."

Agnes pulls it down harder over her head.

I smile at Jason's reaction. This is the first time he's heard this conversation and it's startling. He glares in the man's direction but then shakes his head and wipes up a spill on the bar's surface.

Me, I've heard this conversation every year for the past fifty two years. That's how old I am. My father owned this pub before me and I've spent every Christmas Eve of my life here. They have always appeared. I'm used to them, if one can get used to such things as ghosts.

The Good Run, The Bad Withdrawal and The Hurl That Ended It All

2009-11-04T18:04:00.000-08:00

Only a few steps in and I began to feel the euphoria. I hadn't run in days... maybe weeks. I keep my aerobic capacity up in other ways now since my knees complain when I run more than once every couple of weeks. Still, there is just no comparison. If you want to get high naturally, run.

And I needed to get high. I've been depressed like nobody's business over the last few weeks. The kind that makes you wake up wishing you didn't have to wake up. The kind that makes you think of death as cool instead of cold. The OCD acts up when I'm like this too. All of my thoughts eventually heading in a downward spiral of either some act of violence I'd never even consider doing or some strange feeling that everything I touch leaves it's residue on my skin, seeking magically to infect it. I don't mean to be macabre.

So, you see how much I needed the whole runner's high thing to happen.

It didn't take long. Within the distance of maybe a quarter of a mile, the world took on a fresh, beautiful, sunlicious quality. The air smelled exactly like fresh pumpkin pie. Every step was lighter and lighter. The music on my iPod was perfect. The light reflected off the leaves infused me with gold. My body was a rush of inertia moving in a straight line then accelerating around the curves. Everything was velocity.

When I got home, I began to sing. I danced. Think Snoopy on top of Schroder's piano. I took a long shower and each drop of water did a changement de pied off my back into the tub. I went to work, not giving the ice box conditions of the gym a second thought. I shmoozed the patrons, I waved at people whose names I didn't know. I made new friends. I was the sun.

And then it began. A small but noticable gripping of the back of the neck. Honestly! Shake it off. It grew. Talons reaching into the muscles, sharp, deep pains. I took two Advil gel caps. Nothing. I took another. It began to grow over my head like a cap that is on too tight, shrinking with every passing minute. My head would be crushed. I stood up and the light that had once infused me now struck at my eyes and made everything tilt. The music I'd been humming to became obnoxiously loud. I no longer moved; I swam. I dog paddled out the office door, down the hall. I pushed through the fog into the lady's locker room. I knelt by the toilet and ... you really want to read this? What's the medical term? I hurled.

A migraine. Quick and nasty. Just as quick as the high had been and every bit as intense. Whatever brain chemical had made me high was just toxic enough to now make me sick. Or, as John suggested, perhaps the euphoric brain chemicals also unlocked some toxins and that's what made me sick. Hard to tell.

Why do I write this? Because I still can't really believe it. Running has occasionally given me headaches before, but this one was unique. A spoiler slinking around behind the few hours of euphoria I enjoyed. It pissed me off.

But, ah! The euphoria! I wonder if the weather will be good enough to run tomorrow.

What I Don't Believe

2009-10-27T19:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I think about how fragile people are. Life is so tenuous. I can hardly believe sometimes that any of us live beyond the birth canal. On the other hand, life seems tenacious. Our bodies are made to repair themselves, to ward off disease, to find a way to live until usefulness is gone.

I'm not sure which I believe in more. That life is tenuous or tenacious. Death wins out, that is certain. But is life more than just what we see and can prove?

I don't know how often or how close I personally have come to dying. I don't know if some invisible hand holds back the scythe and whispers, "Not yet. It isn't time." But I suspect the possibility of the end presents itself again and again.

Do we prevent it with our own wills? Is it someone else who prevents it? Is it random? I do not believe in chaos.

Nor do I believe people who say they are not afraid of this great unknown. I do not believe even one of them when they say they are at peace.

It would give me great comfort to know beyond doubt that heaven exists. I would gladly watch ghosts flit through my room at night if they could tell me. Even the bland golden roads and ugly gates of pearl would be better than the nothingness my friends sometimes talk about.

"Accept your place in the universe," they say. "We are here and we are gone and that's all." I have tried this empty theory on for size many times. It swallows me in a vacuum I can't embrace without desperation.

So, I don't embrace it. It lacks color and imagination anyway. It lacks the positive force of life. It lacks art and music. It clings only to the visible spectrum and turns away and away and willfully away from something other than what microscopes and telescopes can prove with their fuzzy distance.

I do not believe in the fuzzy distance.

I do not believe that faith is for children. If it is, then I do not believe in adults at all.

I'm still not sure what I believe about this life and why it holds on or why it lets go. But I'm willing to acknowledge that there are things I do not believe. Maybe that's a step in the right direction.

The nature of it...

2009-10-16T17:34:00.000-07:00

When anxiety hits, it comes in waves. Tonight, I cannot stop moving. I am moving even as I write on my computer because there is a rather weighty boulder dangling directly over my head. It is held aloft by the thin strings of my will.

My family does not believe in the boulder. They do not see it. They do see me moving, however. Why am I moving? So that when the boulder falls, it might possibly miss my cranium.

Vegetable Crack

2009-10-16T17:25:00.000-07:00

The following is a recipe for black bean and corn salsa. My brother-in-law, Erich, gave it to me. He said, "Beth, you have to try this. It's vegetable crack."

It is.

So, the recipe is called "Black Bean and Corn Salsa." But it's really "Vegetable Crack."

I am not responsible for your weight gain.

2 cans black beans, rinsed and drained

2 cans shoepeg corn, drained

8 oz. feta cheese, crumbled

2-3 green onions, chopped

Toss together with dressing.

Dressing:

1/2 cup olive oil

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 cup apple cider vinegar

Garlic powder, salt, pepper to taste

Algebra One Again

2009-09-30T11:54:00.000-07:00

Do you know the difference between a linear equation that has a constant variable and passes through the origin and a linear equation that has a y intercept which does not equal zero? I do. I know what ordered pairs are and I know an arithmetic pattern when I see it.

And do you know why? G-head. Guess.

Because I spend about three, maybe four, hours DAILY figuring out my son's algebra.

I just want to say this to all the people who have lauded my efforts to homeschool my children. Thank you, but you are mistaken. I am not brave or courageous or loving. I'm crazy.

And to the people who decided that y, K, m and f(x) are all basically saying the same thing but in endlessly confusing ways, I say, @#%* you!

The Fearlessly Insane

2009-08-08T10:49:00.000-07:00

When there isn't that much going on, the small things become the big things and your brain starts looking for excitement wherever you can get it. For someone with OCD, that's never a good thing. When I get bored, I begin to cook up all sorts of phantasmagorical scenarios that resemble actual life less and less. If people wouldn't think I was a complete freak, I'd list some of them. (Dare I? All of the gory ways a person could be murdered loop endlessly through my head. That's one of the mild ones, so I guess that's where I'll stop.) It's when they begin to take on an air of reality in your own psyche that you feel just a little left of sane.

My therapist, God bless him, described it like this. "You know the thing that tells your brain you can stop being anxious and alarmed now? You don't have that."

Here's what you do. You send your brain the suggestion that everything is OK by concentrating on the small things. The bigger the vision, the stranger the urge or compulsion, the smaller your focus has to become. Scenes of being murdered filling your head? Make your bed with military corners. Be exceedingly careful about it. No one about to be murdered would do something like that. The brain slowly gets the idea. Nothing bad is happening.

Ideation about your children being slowly tortured complete with stark visuals? Practice an E phrygian scale unto perfection. No one whose children are about to be tortured would sit and practice a scale. Oh! says your brain, It must be a false alarm.

Thoughts that I'm definitely going to Hell for every minor infraction I've ever committed? Remember the infractions of others and ask yourself if you think they're going to hell. Well, that only works sometimes. I'm reminded of one kid who, though he claims all the "right" things about faith, has a bold defiance about it that eludes me and makes me just a little envious.

This kid I work with is... how to put it?... loony. In a good way, though. The other night while I was sneaking a few minutes to write, he asked me what I was working on. I told him I was working on a column based on the lectionary.

"A column?" (Which is a funny question because I expected him to say, "The lectionary?")

"Yeah, you know, like writing for a publication or something. I'm just messing around with the idea."

What I didn't tell him is that I think maybe if I write a religious column, God will not punish me until I'm done with it because I'll be doing someone some good. Therefore, I'll have a temporary reprieve, see. So, the plan is... I will never be done!

"You should write one on Joseph," he says.

"Joseph? Why?"

"Because he's interesting. I mean, look, if I were Joseph, when I died, I'd no doubt go to heaven and when I did, I'd have some choice words for God."

"Such as?" (This thrilled me. Someone else had choice words for God rambling around in his head. Maybe I wasn't alone. Oh, yeah. He's crazy too. But still...)

"Such as 'I mean no disrespect, God, but you got my wife pregnant and I'd kind of like to know how you did it. You know, I'd just like to know how exactly it happened. 'Cause, see, I'm not supposed to complain about this fact. I actually have to pretend I'm all happy about it. So, how about you just give me a little feedback.' "

By now I'm smiling but considering shielding myself from lightning.

He, on the other hand, is on a roll, standing up now and pacing. "And then, you know, you saddle me with this kid who isn't even mine so every time he comes home from school with purple hair and I tell him to go wash that out, he gives me the old, 'You're not my Dad. You can't tell me what to do,' routine. "

Pay no attention to me, God! I'm not laughing at you... directly.

"And then... let's just assume the whole ever-virgin thing is right. If I'm Joseph, not only does God do my wife, but I don't get to! I'd say that's something to have words with God about." By now, he's quite agitated.

I'm laughing until I'm crying, which seems to calm his nervous excitement. "I guess you have a point," I tell him with that voice you have when you've finally gotten control of hysterical laughter. But I'm thinking, I'm so glad you're the one who said that and not me.

Unfortunately, though I've tried to distract myself with that story, things continue to ramble through my mind, tumbling over one another like stones in a current, rounded and smooth from the wear I've put on them. It's tremendously tedious. So, right now, I'm going to practice a scale or something. And I'm going to relax a little too. If I have to go to hell, then the kid I work with will most assuredly be there with me and maybe we'll just sit around swapping stories and have a great time!

My Nephew's Wedding/Closure On My Own

2009-07-12T09:49:00.000-07:00

I've always thought it's a bad idea to have a wedding outdoors. I suppose it's beautiful and easy to decorate. (I mean, what do you really have to do? A few flowers here and there, a gazebo, and you're done.) But everything else under the sun could go wrong. Crows could decide to gather in the surrounding trees and add to the musical arrangements. A dog chasing a cat followed by ten screaming children could break up the ceremony. It could be 100 degrees in the shade. And there is the inevitable weather problem.

But this is what they wanted. An outdoor wedding.

My nephew busied himself pacing between friends, waiting for his bride. He stood in the shade, he consulted with the sound man, he spoke to his father, he fidgeted.

I had nothing better to do, so I handed out cold water bottles they'd provided for the crowd waiting in the hot sun. It was important for me to keep myself busy and I was grateful for the job.

See, for my own selfish reasons, I hate weddings. I have to make myself smile and act nice, but what I really want to do is slink out, go to a movie theater, watch a horror flick and stuff myself with extra butter popcorn.

Why? So glad you asked. My own wedding was a total disaster and I'm chewing on sour grapes. Can't be more honest than that. I acquired food poisoning at the rehearsal dinner and I threw up the entire night previous to my nuptials. Then, when the morning came, I got up, feverish and still sick to my stomach, put on my wedding gown and stumbled down the isle only to faint halfway through the "I do's."

One of my mother's friends likes to describe it like this: "She was standing there one minute and the next she just (whistles the sound of something dropping) fell right over."

My entire small town still talks about it. Every time there's a wedding, they remind me of it. So, I hate them. Weddings. (OK, and the people who remind me of my own. I hate them too.)

We were instructed to gather round the gazebo and we took our places. I could catch glimpses of the bride floating through the trees of the park as she made her way to the aisle, a perfect white cloud of chiffon. She was so sure of her step, so light and easy. My nephew stiffened his back and watched her levitate across the lawn until, by some miracle of buoyancy she settled softly onto the floor of the gazebo beside him. The rest was ordinary enough. Vows, rings, I do. Pictures, waiting, greeting, cake. Leaving, hugs, well wishes.

Can someone else's happiness finally, finally, take the bitter dryness of the past from your mouth? I still don't like weddings. But I liked THAT wedding. If that counts for resolution and closure, then I'll take it.

Liberator

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

I found a web site that does free writer's workshops. It isn't much about mechanics and grammar, though I'm guessing that it's mentioned. It's more about getting in touch with your inner writer and putting ideas, thoughts, moods, whatever, into words. The topic I chose was, "Yesterday she lost her ______________." I chose first person. Don't know why.

This is a first and possibly last draft. I was aware of the fact that this is something that has been written about before. Maybe way too often. But it's what came to mind. I have not tried to go over it and figure out how to say it better. I was curious if anyone else ever did these exercises.

Anyhow, here it is. I'm loosely naming it "Liberator."

Yesterday, I lost my identity. I mean, not WHO I was, exactly, just all of the things that make me recognizable to the world. My license, my social security card, my checks, credit cards, cell phone. I set my purse down beside the register in a restaurant and walked out without it. When I got in my car and realized I didn't have my keys, I went back inside. It was gone. Three minutes. Maybe two. And it was gone.

The restaurant manager offered to call the police, but I shook my head, no. I wasn't quite sure why.

"Let us call you a cab, then," he offered. He looked so sincere and concerned. His round face and balding head reminded me of my grandfather and I was touched by his desire to help.

"That won't be necessary," I said.

"Then how will you get home, Miss..."

"I'm Candy," I lied. "That's my name. I guess I'll walk."

I left the restaurant and began to walk down the street. Not toward my little town's shops and offices. Not toward my job or my home or my unpaid bills. Not toward my parents and their expectations. I walked in the opposite direction instead, past the park, the school, the town limits.

Looking back, I may have just been stunned by the abrupt violation one feels when personal possessions are stolen. I recall searching my mind, thinking I'd find indignation and anger, but if they were there, they were not coming out. At least not yet.

I walked for hours. It felt like hours. I came to a small gas station I've stopped at a hundred times, maybe more. It looked cool inside and I was beginning to feel a little hungry. But then, I had no money. Maybe I'd ask... maybe I'd just take something. Something had been taken from me, yes? And the taking wasn't so bad, really. Maybe taking isn't as bad as all that.

I went in the station, a dingy place with unswept floors, old cans of beans and wieners, packages of cheese crackers and crumpled bags of chips. The place smelled like a toilet. At least it was cool.

"Help you, miss?"

I turned to the cashier who was eyeing me suspiciously.

That's when I saw it. My purse. It was sitting behind the shelf, half concealed. I looked at the boy behind the cash register. He did not know me. He did not recognize me. Maybe he wasn't the one who stole it. Maybe it was someone else who worked here.

I pointed in the direction of my purse. "That's my..." I began. But I couldn't form the words. I didn't form the words. I wouldn't form the words.

"I guess not. I just need to use your restroom."

"Out back," he said and wagged his greasy head in the direction of the door.

"Good. Thanks." I stood there looking at him another moment. It was possible he was my liberator. It was possible I owed everything I had at that moment to this oily countenance. I turned to leave.

"Miss," he said. "You forgot your crackers."

"What?"

He pulled a package of crackers out from under the counter. "Your crackers," he said.

I took them. "Thanks."

"No problem. Take care of yourself."

I left the gas station and just kept walking.

A Cacophony of Muse Music

2009-07-01T12:30:00.000-07:00

Music is exploding in my house! An upheaval of strumming, plinking, and pounding.

When we returned from Maryland where John's family resides, we had two additions. A keyboard and a snare drum. Both belonged to their cousin, Christopher, whose mellifluous rendition of Clair de lune gave rise to the hope that musical genes might exist in the backwash of John's ancestry. (Nah. Had to have come from Chris' mother.)

The snare drum just never really appealed to Chris, so he handed it off to Evan, who began tapping out military marches as if he'd done so all of his life. Even the rapid drum roll seemed to be a part of his brain's hard drive.

If I've never said this before, I'll say it now. I knew it! Something told me he could do that.

Kate, on the other hand is in love with the piano. She wanted so much to just sit down and play the thing. So she did. With one or two fingers, she managed to find all the notes for the first few measures of the Charlie Brown Theme (or Linus and Lucy as it is sometimes called.) Melody only, of course, but she was thrilled.

Guess what cousin Chris had. A keyboard! And he didn't want that either.

So now, the rush is to help her play the thing with some integrity so she doesn't develop bad habits.

Me, I'm trying to learn the guitar. A little. But I want to play it right, so I'm trying some online lessons that are forcing me to do such boring things as scales and picking techniques. I'm OK, but it's slow going. I don't mind, really. I don't want to be limited to tab or strumming chords, so I'll take my time.

Who knows, maybe we're the next Partridge Family. Maybe Evan's the next David Cassidy and Kate's the next Susan Dey (only she could actually play the keyboard.) Maybe I'll be Shirley Jones and John can be... hmm. What was the guy's name who was such an ass? Reuben? There you go. He can be Reuben. Oh, my God. Is anybody else laughing at that picture?

Or maybe I should get a life and go practice my scales again. Yeah.

Strawberries!

2009-06-06T14:26:00.001-07:00

Maybe just maybe just MAYBE I'm gonna get some more strawberries and these look really nice and plump and pretty! We'll see.

Major clinical funk

2009-05-26T18:17:00.000-07:00

I had this debate with a friend a few weeks back. Why it struck me, I don't know.

Him: Do you ever get depressed?

Me: Yeah, now and then.

Him: Like really depressed?

Me: I guess it depends on what you mean?

Him: Like you want to jump?

Me: Nah. More like... I-wish-someone-would-tie-me-to-a-hospital-bed-and-bring-me-my-meals-and-I'd-never-have-to-be-responsible-for-anything-ever-again... depressed. But ready to jump? Too messy.

Him: So, you'd call it major clinical depression, then?

Me: No. More like major clinical funk.

Him: Oh.

Me: Do I need to call 911?

Him: No. I was just wondering.

Me: Right. Should I put you on speed dial?

Him: That might be a good idea.

It was just an interesting conversation. Wondering if anyone else I know has ever had major clinical funk. The fantasy is to check out, but only in so much as you get to observe other people living your life for you. Something about that is just... it's a weird kind of voyeurism. Voyeurism in the sense of: a person who enjoys seeing the pain or distress of others. Anyone living my life would automatically experience pain and distress. I mean, I homeschool. It would just be nice to watch someone else deal with it now and then.

CPR

2009-05-12T19:02:00.000-07:00

Thursday of this week, I have to renew my CPR certification. This is such a farce. You don't actually administer CPR unless the person you're giving it to is dead. No pulse, no breathing = dead. I mean, if it's me, I'm calling the time of death. "This man (woman, child, infant) died at exactly 3:39 on Saturday, May the 16th and is now drifting slowly to the bottom of the pool. Make a note, would you?"
Instead, we have to act the hero. Two rescue breaths. Oh, God, I don't want to put my lips on someone who's dead! But here goes. 1,2. Just two? FREAK! I'd want to breathe a little more than that if I were this poor guy having to suck in my backwash. Now, compress the chest, 1,2,3,4,5,...30. Again, check for breathing and pulse. But no more than 10 seconds because seconds count when you're already dead. NO BREATHING! NO PULSE! So, here we go again. Two more rescue breaths. And so on.
It almost never works. Mainly because... did I mention this person is dead?
The AED, now there is a neat trick. Automated External Defibrillator. Well, OK. It's something like that anyway. You slap a couple of pads on the person's chest and the machine listens for a heartbeat and then it tells you to stand back. At this time, you dramatically sweep your arm over the body (the dead body) so that everyone will get back. It looks so professional and heroic. Then the AED gives the person a shock.
This actually works sometimes! People have been known to come back from their ... well, I almost said "near death experience" but it would be more like "real death experience" ... from the dead... and tell about it. Without too much brain damage, one hopes.
I hope I get the whole thing right the first time. I hate having to repeat myself. Especially to someone who ... you know.

Writing the Wrongs

2009-05-04T13:39:00.000-07:00

I hate being edited. Let's face it, I'm an egomaniac and my feelings are as easily bruised as a ripe banana. Indeed, my ego is a tropical fruit. One moment it's ripe and delicious, even sweet, sending me to the heights of narcissistic admiration. The next it has become all brown and slimy, making me I wish I could slink under my bed where no one would ever find my disgusting bruised carcass... or read anything else I have written.

Here's the basic criticism.

I don't use "he said" and "she said" enough and my writing lacks emotive leads. I too often leave my reader to figure out on his own what my characters are feeling.

It's true. I use as few adverbs as possible and sometimes I skimp on the adjectives as well. But the real culprit, is the adverb. I dislike them. I find that, unless used by an expert, a master of the word game, adverbs tend to weaken instead of strengthen verbs. How often can one use the word "suddenly" before it begins to rot sentences from the inside out? How about once per 1,000 pages. Maybe.

I mean, what's better?

Jane openly despised him. She felt thoroughly disgusted with his advances, candidly refusing even to look at him.

How about: Jane despised him. She felt disgusted with his advances and refused even to look at him.

My inner reader, that voice I use when I'm reading to myself, just said, "Ahhh!" (Besides, I left "even" in there for those who must have an adverb! I am not unreasonable! I do think it might read better without it, though.)

As for "he said/she said", I never deny my reader the reference when there are more than two people talking. But if after every line of dialogue I told the reader who was talking, wouldn't that become a little... I don't know ... tedious?

Here's a conversation between two people on an airplane flying from Charlotte to Mexico complete with "he said/she said" inserted.

She’s looking out the window. “The Gulf of Mexico,” she says.

It’s true. It’s an unnatural blue/green. I look at it and believe I can feel the plane plunging toward it. I close my eyes. I ask her, “Can you swim?”

She laughs and pats my shoulder. “We aren’t going down,” she says.

“But can you?” I ask.

“Yes,” she assures me.

“Not me," I tell her. "I don’t like the water. I don’t even wade in the ocean. I guess if someone was drowning, they’d be out of luck.”

“I doubt that,” she says.

“I don’t,” I reply.

“You should learn to swim, then. You know, conquer your fears,” she tells me.

Here it is without "he said/she said."

She’s looking out the window. “The Gulf of Mexico.”

It’s true. It’s an unnatural blue/green. I believe I am feeling the plane plunging toward it and I close my eyes.

I ask her, “Can you swim?”

She laughs and pats my shoulder. “We aren’t going down.”

“But can you?”

“Yes.”

“Not me. I don’t like the water. I don’t even wade in the ocean. I guess if someone was drowning, they’d be out of luck.”

“I doubt that.”

“I don’t.”

“You should learn to swim, then. You know, conquer your fears.”

OK, could you follow? I mean, there are only two people talking, right? I guess it's possible that I could direct the reader a little more, but only a little. I loathe being directed as I read or told what emotion to feel or which way the character cocked her stupid head, etc. Let me paint that picture for myself. Otherwise, isn't it just like standing beside a painting and interpreting it to everyone who passes? How annoying!

I think I'm done. I think. Maybe. I might have some more rant in me about this later. But for now, I'm going to go give my inner narcissist an ice cream cone.

Garden Update

2009-04-30T12:39:00.000-07:00

This is nothing more than a quick update on my gardening quest. I have lost the contest with Jen because I am GROWING THNGS. (I have just knocked on my own head because I needed a wooden thing on which to knock.) The pictures to prove that I am growing things are right here. Beside this brief entry.

Of course, you have to understand that everything I grow is for very tiny people. The strawberries were for Lilliputians and the only thing that is gigantic are the weeds, but hell, I don't care. I grew something. That tasted good. That didn't hurt anyone. I'm so proud.

The rest are pics of my herbs. These do fairly well if simply left alone.

I thought I had killed my palm tree, a windmill, the most cold hardy of all the specimens available. I cut it back, sorry to have to be so harsh as it had already suffered the indignity of freezing it's little fronds off. And low and behold, a new frond started sticking up! IT'S ALIIIIIIIVE!!!

I love Spring. It gives me hope in things like resurrection and new life and other philosophical conundrums that just seem more viable when things are green and the air is warm.

I'm off to sacrifice some small animals.

Therapy for Nothing

2009-04-24T10:48:00.001-07:00

I go to therapy for my OCD. No need to hide it. My doctor is a patient man who often very gently guides me back from some anxiety ridden huddled mess to a more coherent state. The strangest thing about therapy has been that I can now recognize the strange voices in my head for what they are. Well, most of the time. And they are demons.

Hang with me on this.

I haven't actually said to my doctor, "My demons told me... (whatever)." No. I say, "My OCD seems to be telling me... (whatever)." Note the word "seems." This word is important. The thoughts, he says, are not real.

I can agree with that. I seriously doubt that I'll be run through with gardening tools any time soon. Yet every time I go outside to garden, that's the image that springs into my head. In graphic detail. To the point of a physical reaction to said thought.

Nor will I be eaten alive by fire ants. A vision I entertained as I was drifting off to sleep the other day. This one made me get up and check the bed... just in case.

Sometimes these "seemingly" real thoughts involve my children being taken from me and tortured. I see it happening. No. Not a hallucination. But vivid enough.

Or I might be driving along and have the urge to drive right off the edge of a steep embankment. Only if the kids are in the back seat, though. Apparently my own death no longer upsets me that much. Unless it's by means of torture.

So, why should I ever think any of this is real? I don't. Or, I wouldn't. It's just that... they are so very clever, these thoughts. They know what will hurt the most at any given moment. They circle back and revisit me even when I practice my best techniques. They know what will get me going. I repeat. They know.

So, yes. Demons. The demonic. Satan's minions.

It used to really bother me. I was terrified of the dark until I was like ... I don't remember... 25 maybe. Maybe beyond that. I'm still afraid of it sometimes, though other times, I actually find it comforting now. Nevertheless, I firmly believed my demons lived in the dark corners of my room. Under my bed. In the bathtub behind the curtain. In the toe of a dusty shoe. And they were horrifying creatures.

Now. Hmm. I'm still irritated by them. I mean, please. Must they keep trying even after I'm wise to their games? I guess the answer to that question is, yes, yes, YES! But you know, if you look at them long enough, they become a little pathetic. Not to say that we don't take them seriously... but, well, no. We don't take them seriously.

(Here's where it gets all preachy.) I think life, the Giver of Life, is so much bigger than they are that, really, they are nothing at all. I get worked up over what then? Nothing. Right. So, when I see my therapist, and he asks me what I've been troubled by over the past couple of weeks, I will probably tell him my thoughts. But will I say that the demons put them there? Nah. When he asks, I'll say, "It was nothing."

He's Doing Fine.

2009-04-18T17:20:00.000-07:00

My son played in a tennis tournament today which I didn't get to see because I was at work. The entire time I was there, I was horribly nervous and anxious.

He's doing fine. He's doing fine. He's doing fine. Please, God, let him do fine and let him not think that he has a lot of pressure on him and decide that he never ever wants to pick up a tennis racket again and thus destroys all of his chances of getting a college scholarship in tennis which is the only way he is ever going to go to college because his parents have absolutely no money to send him. He's doing fine. He's doing fine. He's doing fine. I should send him some positive energy. No, wait. I should ask God to send him some because I honestly don't have any. Oh, God! He's doing fine.

Let the thought come and then let it just sit there. Yes, there it is. A thought. I notice it is unpleasant. Now, let's go back to what we were doing before we had this unpleasant thought.

Right. I was begging.

He's doing fine. He's doing fine. He's doing fine. Please let him do fine.

So, then I call my husband, John, and I say really casual like: "So, how's he doing?"

"He fell on that weak knee and he's out of the tournament."

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! He's not fine!

"But he's doing fine."

"He is?"

"Yeah. Even the kid he played said he'd quit now if he were Evan and all the parents agreed. So, no failure, no foul. I'm just gonna bring him home."

His coach called me later and said that if it hadn't been for the knee, he felt Ev could have made a really good show of it. He had to play the state's 3rd seed and frankly, I thought he'd get trounced. But even with a bum knee, he won two of the games. John concurred and thinks he could have easily held his own. Evan isn't upset about it.

My liver is jelly, but it will coagulate into a functioning organ sooner or later and I will go on my merry way. Until the next tourney.

Gardening... Again

2009-04-11T18:48:00.000-07:00

I'm gardening. Again. Oh, my God.

I get the fever every Spring. I just have to plant something. This year, it's lettuce, snow peas, herbs and strawberries. Yes, strawberries.

Actually, it's kind of cool. I bought this burlap which cost around twelve bucks a roll. I cut a small square out of it and placed it on the prepared plot. I cut cross shaped openings in the burlap and carefully folded it back so I could dig out enough dirt from each opening to accommodate one strawberry plant. Then I folded the burlap back toward the stem of the plant so that you have to look really carefully to see that the strawberries didn't just magically grow up through the burlap. It looks so professional. No kidding.

I'm told that the burlap will keep the strawberries from sitting on the dirt and getting eaten by ground pests and the like. But I think I'd do it just for the aesthetics.

I planted each three dollar container of strawberry plants in short rows. There are eight plants all together. Each strawberry plant promises at least a few juicy berries because they already have little green knobs hanging from the end of the stems. I'm so excited.

But then I started calculating. Twelve dollars for the burlap, three dollars for each plant, about six strawberries per plant. I can buy a pint of strawberries when they're in season for about $2.50. Dern it. What was I thinking?

That it would be fun to grow strawberries, says my wise mind. That you would get joy from watching them grow and you would feel proud to eat the fruits of your labors. (My therapist is probably getting a very warm feeling right now.)

Really? I say back. And you're my freakin' wise mind? You must understand, I have never successfully grown anything except oregano. That, I can't kill.

Anyway, I plan to go and stare at those suckers as they ripen. I'll try to get as much joy out of them as I can. If I've calculated right, each strawberry will cost me about a dollar. What do you think of that, Little Miss Wise?

I also planted carrots. Carrots have never worked for me. But maybe they will this year. Maybe the tomatoes will ripen. Maybe the peas will be plump and sweet. Maybe the lettuce won't get slugs (thanks for that image, Jennifer... you get to pick 'em off.) Maybe I can be a gardener this year. My wise mind says go for it.

(I'll try to post some pictures soon. Oh, and I'm planting flowers. May God be merciful and take them quickly.)

Tortillas Are Bread Too!

2009-03-31T19:26:00.000-07:00

Bread is not the enemy. No. It is your friend. Only, not the whole loaf.

Have I mentioned my particularly complicated relationship with food? On a regular basis, I freak out over my food. But lately, I've been craving simple. Simple everything. This includes my bread.

Bread takes many forms. There's quick bread... I am really good with this kind. You can do almost anything with it. Irish soda bread. Biscuits. Pumpkin bread with big beautiful southern pecans. Pancakes. (I make the best pancakes on planet Beth... just ask me.) And now, tortillas.

"Tortillas," you exclaim, astonished.

"Why yes. They are a kind of bread."

I make my own now since buying for myself one of those amazing tortilla presses. I make them perfectly round, lightly salted, and flawlessly singed on an iron skillet. I just walk around eating them plain. I pretend I'm on a journey of sorts and I must have foods that sustain me without spoiling quickly, for the expedition is fraught with danger and much moiling and toiling. Yet, I trek fearlessly across the desert of my den into the hostile bogs of the kitchen and I am saved by the little tortilla in my fist, for it's sustenance is enough to nourish my inner hunger for simplicity and perfection and keep me from bingeing on Oreos.

And it's fried corn. I mean, who doesn't love fried corn?

I guess the purpose of writing this has been to more or less pat myself on the back for my cleverness, but if the narcissism fits, wear it. I do make good bread. Even if it's a tortilla.

Death by Moonlight

2009-03-19T12:27:00.000-07:00

A slip of moonlight finds it's way through black curtains and moves stealthily across the room to the foot of her bed. It creeps over blanket mountains and is lost in the dark mounds and valleys of her body until a pale finger of it strokes softly at her eye lids, playing at waking her. But she is sound in her sleep, untouchable in her dream.

She walks but does not feel the earth. She sees but can not view what is below. The frustration of it is making her strain to open eyes shut tight.

A shift in her body and the bedscape changes the fall of the moon's ray, now illuminating matted bits of fine silver threads on her head, woven into a mass, wet with sweat that stick to her forehead. It plays off gleaming bits of moisture composed of the elements of a Cambrian sea, the original salts of creation.

She is in this sea now, with the creatures that first blessed the earth. They levitate before her and she can sense their shapes rather than see them. She senses their presence and scans their sleek bodies with the radar of dream. Not monsters. Not this time. The largest creature, a platypus with fangs smiles and she cannot see it but knows it and moves with it to the surface, hoping to drink the night air, but at the sea's surface is no atmosphere, only space. Dark except for the moon.

Her hand wards off the creature and the the suffocation of her death and a bit of moonlight illumines her palm, the life line of which is long and deep. For a moment, the moonlight forgets her age, that tonight is her last, and mistakes her for someone youthful and bright. Bright like it is.

She opens her mouth, a cave without stone, black and stale of air. She is lifted above the level of the sea, unmindful now of any void and looks down on the mountains and valleys of the sea scape, of salt and bone and fang and hair, of blanket and body. The moon guides her and she closes her hand on the beam, capturing it in the dark of her fist. It pulls her along, a silver rope taking her home.

Purgatory... OK?

2009-03-10T20:05:00.000-07:00

You'd think that at midnight on the dais there'd be something more than a mint julep just sitting in the middle of the floor. It's not even on a plinth or anything. No napkin. A place of honor deserves more than a stupid drink and I am definitely not in the mood for mint. For honor, yes. Because I so richly deserve it. But this is all that I get and so I think I will try to slog it down.

Where's the dais? At the end of this God forsaken medieval hall. In which I'm stuck. In which I'm locked in. A gremlin comes and serves me and offers very little praise. I'm here because I think I deserve more and God is not one to play with children who think they are at least as good as HE is.

Purgatory, OK?

For the love of Pete, I didn't think it existed. I'm Presbyterian. We don't do purgatory. Well, God didn't get the memo.

I offed myself and ended up here. That's what they do with you when you do something permanent like that. I didn't even get to attend the funeral. Which is fucked since I went to all that trouble. All those wretched people finally sorry for the way they treated me and here I am stuck in this medieval hall standing on the dais, speech in hand, with no audience and only a mint julep to keep me company. At least there's that.

Even the goblins won't speak to me or clap at my cleverness. Which also sucks. Like this horrible drink. Which I don't think I'll finish.

The rest of my time is supposed to be spent "thinking about what you did." It hurts my brain to think about it.

After all, I really was spectacular in life. I mean, so many things were wrong with me, I had to be interesting. Perfect people aren't interesting. They live these quiet lives, never offending anyone and never getting any attention, which is what it's all about. Let's just be frank about that.

Right now, I'm tap dancing on this dais. The hall makes it echo beautifully and if you want to know the truth, I have the feet of Ginger Rogers. I mean I can flat out dance. I used to dance for people all the time. They loved it. They really did. I'd wear those tappy hard soled shoes and I'd dance everywhere I went. Isn't that what we're supposed to do? But dance in the wrong setting and... OH NO! Everybody gets all upset.

I ended my dance myself. What's wrong with that? Apparently, it isn't enough to send you ALL the way to hell. I'm only here. With no one to watch me. Which sucks.

The drink isn't that bad.

Anyway, if anyone can hear me at all, I'd like some response now. Someone tell me I'm unique and special. I know I am, but if you tell me, I'm sure you'll win points with God and perhaps even avoid this very hall and this stupid dais on which you really should be honored. Just take it from me, you want to please the Big Guy because he can bump your ass right down here. And you'll have to drink mint juleps until you've learned your lesson. Solitary confinement.

Is... not... fun.

2009-03-08T19:38:00.000-07:00

I found this when googling bread and water pictures for my site. I thought it was pretty funny.

1. BREAD IS DANGEROUS

Why? Judge for yourself:
Research on bread indicates that

1. More than 98 percent of convicted felons are bread users.

2. Fully HALF of all children who grow up in bread-consuming households score below average on standardized tests.

3. In the 18th century, when virtually all bread was baked in the home, the average life expectancy was less than 50 years; infant mortality rates were unacceptably high; many women died in childbirth; and diseases such as typhoid, yellow fever, and influenza ravaged whole nations.

4. More than 90 percent of violent crimes are committed within 24 hours of eating bread.
5. Bread is made from a substance called "dough." It has been proven that as little as one pound of dough can be used to suffocate a mouse. The average American eats more bread than that in one month!

6. Primitive tribal societies that have no bread exhibit a low incidence of cancer, Alzheimer's, Parkinson's disease, and osteoporosis.

7. Bread has been proven to be addictive. Subjects deprived of bread and given only water to eat begged for bread after as little as two days.

8. Bread is often a "gateway" food item, leading the user to "harder" items such as butter, jelly, peanut butter, and even cold cuts.

9. Bread has been proven to absorb water. Since the human body is more than 90 percent water, it follows that eating bread could lead to your body being taken over by this absorptive food product, turning you into a soggy, gooey bread-pudding person.

10. Newborn babies can choke on bread.

11. Bread is baked at temperatures as high as 400 degrees Fahrenheit! That kind of heat can kill an adult in less than one minute.

12. Most American bread eaters are utterly unable to distinguish between significant scientific fact and meaningless statistical babbling.

In light of these frightening statistics, it has been proposed that the following bread restrictions be made:

1. No sale of bread to minors.

2. A nationwide "Just Say No To Toast" campaign, complete celebrity TV spots and bumper stickers.

3. A 300 percent federal tax on all bread to pay for all the societal ills we might associate with bread.

4. No animal or human images, nor any primary colors (which may appeal to children) may be used to promote bread usage.

5. The establishment of "Bread-free" zones around schools.

(painting by Duane Keiser)

2. WATER IS DANGEROUS

A student at Eagle Rock Junior High won first prize at the Greater Idaho Falls Science Fair, April 26. He was attempting to show how conditioned we have become to alarmists practicing junk science and spreading fear of everything in our environment. In his project he urged people to sign a petition demanding strict control or total elimination of the chemical "dihydrogen monoxide."

And for plenty of good reasons, since:

* it can cause excessive sweating and vomiting
* it is a major component in acid rain
* it can cause severe burns in its gaseous state
* accidental inhalation can kill you
* it contributes to erosion
* it decreases effectiveness of automobile brakes
* it has been found in tumors of terminal cancer patients

He asked 50 people if they supported a ban of the chemical.

* Forty-three (43) said yes,
* six (6) were undecided,
* and only one (1) knew that the chemical was water.

The title of his prize winning project was, "How Gullible Are We?"
He feels the conclusion is obvious.

Source: Jaegers.net
(This site is hilarious... Check it out.
For example, "Cartoon Laws of Physics")

2009-03-07T17:51:00.000-08:00

Bread ~n~ Water are necessary elements to life. It's interesting that I use a cliche about food for the title of my blog. No, it really is. Food and I have issues, but I do make incredible bread. And I do love a cool glass of water. So, I'm hoping this blog will be like that. Plain, but necessary. Dare I say, I hope it gives you sustenance? Sus - ten - ance. Yeah. I spelled that right. Wait. Looked it up. Yeah. Right.

I also have OCD, so things get interesting. And I'm kind of crazy sometimes. (My son just walked into the room and is acing all psycho to get me to laugh. It's working. He's kind of crazy too.) We're a crazy family. Such fun. For us.

Anyway, if you're reading this, you should put it on your bookmarks because it's important. You could be blown away by it someday. You just never know. So check it frequently for the sake of your blown away-ness. And here's my best recipe for bread. It's awesome if you have the patience. Peace.

Oatmeal Bread

2 package active dry yeast

1/2 cup warm water (110 degrees)

1/2 cup shortening

1/2 cup honey

2 eggs

1 cup quick cooking oats

1 tablespoon salt

6 cups bread flour

1 Tablespoon butter melted

Directions:

In a large mixing bowl, dissolve yeast in warm water; set aside. In another bowl, stir boiling water and shortening until shortening is melted. Add honey; cool to 110 degrees F. Add eggs, oats, salt and shortening mixture to yeast mixture. Add 3 cups flour; stir until smooth. Stir in enough of the flour to form a soft dough. Turn onto a floured surface; kneed until smooth and elastic, about 6-8 minutes. Place in a greased bowl, turning once to grease the top. Cover

and let rise in a warm place until doubled, about 1 hour. Punch dough down. Turn onto a lightly floured surface; divide in half. Shape each portion into a loaf. Place in two greased 9-in. x 5-in. x 3-in. loaf pans. Prick tops with a fork. Brush with butter. cover and let rise until doubled, about 40 more minutes. Patience, my little gobblin. Patience! Bake at 350 degrees for 30-35 minutes or until golden brown. Remove from pans to cool on wire racks.

I got it off allrecipes.com. I should give them credit. It really is awesome.