Fast Food Leftovers, Huh?

First of all, thanks to all of you for the very loving cards, e-mails, calls, facebook comments and hugs about the passing of my Grandpa. And I'm so thankful for the family members that helped me get to, from, through and around Michigan (worldperks miles, chauffeur services, bed and breakfast, popcorn, etc...).

Trips to Michigan never fail to bring back damn-breaking floods of memories...both good and bad. But either way, they're typically connected to food in some seemingly obscure, but ultimately blatant, way. After all, what else are you going to do when the temperature is a balmy 12 degrees and you've just shoveled the driveway for the third time while the snow continues to fall? That's right, you're going to eat. And when it's colder than a well-digger’s butt (I heard that one at my grandfather’s funeral), what better thing to eat than a casserole? You can put it in the oven while (well) digging your car out of the snow and then come inside to something as delicious, yet unappealing looking, as my adored tater tot casserole (pictured above). This is a congealed concoction of ground beef, green beans and tater tots with Campbell's "cream of whatever" soup poured over it (note: because of its unattractive appearance, I used to insist that my mother make tater tot casserole for ALL potlucks...because I would be guaranteed at least half of the pan simply on looks alone - the casserole's looks that is, not mine). Other favorites were of course the ubiquitous green bean casserole, chicken divan, and "chili rice skillet dinner." In fact, I think my first ever taco was filled with chili rice skillet dinner. I remember it had tomatoes, dried onions and that essential ingredient…"Minute Rice." So I made it through childhood on the beloved casserole, a staple in the well-planned menus of my "BA in home economics" mother.

But when my friends and I became teenagers, casseroles were no longer fashionable (dare I use the word passé?); all we wanted was Taco Bell. For you southerner’s, keep in mind that Chick-fil-A has STILL NOT made it to Michigan. I know people that would drive to South Bend, Indiana or Toledo, Ohio to satisfy that craving – but this teenager’s budget wouldn’t accommodate a trip like that. For chicken, all we had was "Speedy Chick" which is good but doesn’t compare to a Chick-fil-A sandwich. Other than the Speedy Chick, we had a McDonalds (where I made my first payments into Social Security), a Hardees’, a Big Boy, the Stagecoach, the Highlight Drive-In, and the region-renowned Schuler’s. But there was no Taco Bell fix to be had in our small town. To quench our Taco Bell desires, we had to drive all the way to Battle Creek, a 15 minute drive in good weather. Notice I said "good weather." We made this trek year-round and in conditions a mail carrier would be impressed with. We made the trip at midnight if we had the hankering. And if it was so late that the drive-thru was all that was open, we would eat those tostados and tacos in the car with our ski gloves on if we had to. I’m sure I only took the gloves off long enough to turn up Bob Segar on the AM/FM, rip open the "fire" sauce, and slather it over my entire order. Back in the day, there was no such thing as fast food leftovers, let alone Taco Bell leftovers. Taco Bell delicacies were gone before you left the grimy, greasy building or at the latest, before you got out of your car. And the only evidence left for Sherlock Holmes (Mom) and Dr. Watson (Dad) were the taco sauce drips on your down jacket and the burrito supreme wrappers layering the floor boards of the van like those auto repair shop papers they put down to make you think they didn’t get their oil-encrusted boots all over your car mats.

So where was I going with this? Oh yeah, Baby Sis and I made a pit stop at Mom and Dad’s house on our way from Detroit Metro Airport to Grandpa’s funeral in his hometown of Pullman. Mom and Dad had already headed over to Pullman and told us to make ourselves at home in their house. I instinctively, like a robot, made my way to the upstairs fridge where they stash the adult beverages. I was pleased to find a very nicely chilled Sam Adams (probably that nicely chilled because it had been in there since my last visit in September). Then I went back downstairs to see what they had in the main fridge. Would you believe there were Taco Bell leftovers? Baby Sis and I were dying laughing at the site of two lonely soft tacos huddled together on the middle shelf of the refrigerator. These poor tacos had not only made it out of the car, but they also made it beyond the dining room table. I wanted to preserve their historic significance, but I’d never had Taco Bell leftovers...so of course we each ate one. For those of you out there wondering what a leftover Taco Bell taco tastes like…it wasn’t half bad (but you know what that means, it wasn’t half good either!) Mom and Dad say that they regularly go to My Taco Bell and print off coupons for Taco Bell. I guess the coupons include just a few too many tacos for my healthy, skinny parents to eat. Perhaps I should be following their lead….

Love ya' Grandpa O.

Just a short note to all of my friends that I'm going to Michigan momentarily to attend my grandpa's funeral. He passed away on Tuesday at just a couple of weeks shy of 92. He was a wonderful man with clever sayings, a twinkle in his blue eyes, and a grin that I will never forget.

My favorite saying was: "you should have called to tell me you were coming so that I could be gone." Well, I talked to Grandpa on Thanksgiving day but I didn't tell him I was coming...but he's gone...and I will remember him with a huge smile in my heart. Cheers (with a sprite) to my last grandparent passing on...

At a Loss due to the Win?

I've always found it easier to write during a period of angst. Come on now you psychology majors, say it with me like Carl Jung would, with an umlaut over the "a"...ah-ngst....

Well, 138 blog entries and 17 full journals later, I can officially confirm that for the past 8 years, I've been in a long, drawn out, down to my stem cells, period of ANGST....

I NEVER wrote during the Clinton years unless it was checks, love letters, birthday cards, or loan applications. On the other hand, for the past 8 years I've written like a newspaper gossip columnist covering the lives of Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Aniston. And now it seems I have nothing of any substance to share other than the "what are you doing now" statements on Facebook.

My days since the election have been filled with work that I love SO much more knowing that I'll have a new boss as of 1/20/09. So since I only have the exasperation, I mean inspiration, of George for 55 more days, I thought I better at least jot down some thoughts/questions. Perhaps they'll become full blown blog entry topics at a later date. Like when I become depressed and inconsolable because John Lewis won't send me VIP inauguration tickets.

1. Why is there always one person within a couple who is in charge of blattodea and rodentia?

2. Why does that one person in charge use a trash bag, turned inside out (like the people who pick up their dog's poop) to remove the deceased rodentia (mouse) from the basement?

3. Is a Kroger bag, turned inside out, just as safe as one of those red hazardous material bags?

4. How is it that two of my facebook friends, who don't know each other, both posted that they made pot roasts on Sunday?

5. Aren't olfactory memories cool? I have them when I open the spice cabinet, when I'm at the Candler Park MARTA station and Edward's Baking Company is in full swing, and when I'm out in a woodsy area after a rainfall.

6. To avoid traffic on the perimeter today, I took back roads home from the dentist. How is it that I just randomly passed the new Drepung Loseling Monastery, Center for Tibetan Buddhist Studies, when I'd always wondered where it was?

7. How can I have had the same routine with the same cat for over 20 years?

8. How did I get suckered into taking care of the chickens over Thanksgiving? What happened to "cluck out of luck?"

If you have the answers to any of these questions, please share them with me. In the meantime, I hope you all have a memorable thanksgiving.

A Mark on, I mean in, the "W" column...

Courtesy of The Sun


At 11:00 pm on Tuesday, November 4th I awoke to the sounds of gun shots and fireworks. That's what our neighborhood typically reserves for New Year's Eve and the 4th of July. Well it certainly was an evening worthy of the bubbly and even more so, an independence day, an American revolution, worthy of excessive and over the top celebration.

As John Adams wrote to his wife, Abigail, July 4th "...ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more."

I think this moment in America is just as deserving...

It's still sinking in that on 1/20/09, I'll have a new boss. A boss I can already be proud of. A boss who won't speak in malapropisms. A boss who will support the things I feel strongly about. A boss who won't make us look bad to the rest of the world. A boss who will have some very high expectations placed on him but who will be able to handle them. A boss who will inspire vs. conspire. A boss who will consider the options vs. ignore them. Obama is the boss I've been waiting for since I became a federal employee and the President I've been waiting for since Clinton.

Maya Angelou said Obama is a clear and clean wind, a breeze. ... There is some poetry in him, yes. Who could say it better than that?

Okay, enough of my sap. You get the point. at this point, I'm either preaching to the choir or rubbing it in.

What I really wanted to write about was my conversation with Mrs. Jones, our next door neighbor. Mrs. Jones is a black woman who has lived in Atlanta all of her life. She moved next door in the early 1960's, after divorcing her 1st and only husband, and proceeded to raise her 4 children as a single mother. I stopped to chat with her on Thursday afternoon as she was tending to her beloved rose bush, a shrub rose that is the centerpiece of her front yard and that was started from a cutting of a plant that belonged to her mother.

I said to her, "it's a great day in Atlanta, don't you think?" And she replied "honey, it's a great day in America." As I almost choked up at hearing that, she went on to say that she just knew this day was coming and that she didn't even watch the returns on Tuesday night. She felt it in her heart that the right man would win the Presidency and that she would just wake up Wednesday morning and confirm what she already knew to be true.

She went on to reminisce about when she was taking her practical nursing training at "the old Grady Hospital." She commented on how the black students were separated from the white students and the black patients were separated from the white patients. To support herself through school, she did "domestic work" for a woman in town. She recalled being sent to the Atlanta downtown shopping area to pick up a hat for her boss and having to state, out loud, that the hat was not for herself, but for Miss so and so (she wouldn't tell me the woman's name). In other words, she would not have been able to buy a hat for herself, it had to be for her "employer."

And God forbid if she had to use the restroom while she was shopping for her boss. The stores wouldn't let black people use their facilities, she'd have to go to the bus station or the train station down at what's now called Five Points.

I asked Mrs. Jones if she'd seen the acceptance speech and she replied that she didn't need to. She already knew that the Obama family was a sight to behold and that they would do our nation proud. She noted how she saw Barack as a role model for our young black men (and white men too) in that he wasn't a thug; he was educated, smart, eloquent, and handsome. She kept commenting on how pretty the whole family was; almost as if she saw her own family in that light but would never say it out loud (they are, by the way, quite an attractive family).

We talked for a long time about how she'd been waiting for a role model like Obama. And she closed by saying she had mentioned to her grandson that our new President was a "Real Man." She told her son's son that she hoped that all "them kids" would finally "buy belts and jack them drawers up off their butts."

Can't think of a better closing than that...

So what'd you have for dinner?

Only two days left until the election and what was I doing last night? I was at home alone trying to decide what to watch on television. Doc. B. is cat sitting at our friends’ "OTP" house (FYI, OTP stands for "outside the perimeter" and is also now known as Palin-Ville). So I was home all by myself, responsible only for me. Here’s how the evening went...

I said to myself, "what will it be?" CNN? A Fox election special with Brit Hume (to keep up with the other side)? Larry King? Hardball with Chris Matthews? 60 Minutes? No, somehow those shows just weren’t up my alley last night. It’s not like I was trying to impress anyone; it was just me and the cats… so who would have known what I watched on TV let alone that I had popcorn and red licorice for dinner?

So as I scrolled through the Dish menu, here’s what really caught my eye: Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, Harold and Kumar go to White Castle, the E! True Hollywood Story of Star Jones, Sex Change Soldier on BBCA, Fun with Dick and Jane, and last but by no means least I didn’t know I was pregnant on TLC. As I was in the midst of this major decision-making process, up pops a commercial for stuffed crust Pizza Hut pizza. Normally, this wouldn’t even faze me, but after my carb-fest of a dinner, that bread stuffed with cheese was sounding really tasty for dessert. But you’ll be glad (and so am I) to know that I resisted and did not go into the light of Pizzahut.com to place an order.

Instead, I decided to hit the DVR to watch the most recent episode of Saturday Night Live. You have to give the old guy, I mean John McCain, credit with the whole QVC spoof thing he participated in. And then when he went on the "Weekend Edition" segment and explained his last ditch fallback efforts… well, that was just priceless. My personal favorites were the "Double Maverick" where he goes totally berserk and freaks everybody out and the "Sad Grandpa" where he reminds us that Obama is young, will have many chances to run for president and to take pity on McCain.

As I was L’ing OL at the TV, the robocalls continued to come in. Even at 9:15pm, the caller ID was displaying "Unavailable." I was thinking to myself, “Hmm… I’m really busy right now and also unavailable” but, having not had any human interaction in just over 4 hours, I decided to pick up the phone so that I could tell them I had already voted. But my speaking didn’t make a difference to that pre-recorded message – it just kept on playing. So I hung up, angry that those robots couldn't carry on a conversation and that they were calling so late (after all, with the time change, it was really 10:15 and it felt like it!).

I eventually finished watching TV and decided to check my e-mail one last time before hitting the sack. If the robocalls weren’t enough, I was surprised to see that I had about 10 new incoming messages. They included e-mails from Al Gore, Hillary Clinton, Bill Clinton, Michelle Obama, Joe Biden, Joe Solmonese (HRC President), and Barack himself. Like the robots, I guess they too wanted to make sure that I had already voted, but didn't really want to have a conversation with me. Can you believe that every single one of those e-mails said "do not reply to this message." Thank goodness for Facebook where you can hold real conversations with people you haven't talked to in 25 years.

Well, in about 24 hours, we should know who will take over the reins in 2009. I hope the person you want to win, wins (unless that person is John McCain, Ralph Nader, Bob Barr, Cynthia McKinney or any of the other write-in candidates…).

In Your Face(book)

About a year ago, one of my old BF's e-mailed me that he'd gotten married and did I want to see the pictures. I of course wanted to see what his wife looked like so I replied in the affirmative. He responded that the pictures were on "Facebook" and that I could join this social networking website to view the photos. I signed up, approved of his lovely wife, and never logged back on again.

But then last month, baby sis tracked down my unusual name in the Facebook search engine and viola, I'm now a full-fledged active member of this phenomenon. So instead of being outside working in the yard during these beautiful October southern days, I'm on the computer checking to see who wrote on my wall, who's doing what right now, who joined what group, who became a fan of what, who became friends with whom, who posted pictures, and who's sending virtual mojitos to whom. I haven't quite figured out how it all works out, but I'm guessing that will come with practice.

Facebook is somewhat addictive for no real apparent reason but it has saved me money, weight gain and relationship strain. How you might ask? No yard work = no acquisition of my annual bout of poison ivy = no co-pay for a trip to the dermatologist = no shot of prednisone that causes weight gain and mood swings = no fights with Doc. B.

Facebook also brings out two potentially stressful things though:
1. people from your past
2. a bunch of insecurities

Once people find you on Facebook, they send you a "friend request" that you can then accept or reject. So far I've heard from and/or connected with people I went to high school with, sisters of people I went to high school with, people from my home town, and of course current friends and acquaintances. I haven't rejected a single friend request and can't imagine why I would - it's not hurting anything to say hi to a high school classmate that I haven't seen since then. But what if I were to send a friend request and NOT get a response or get rejected - yikes! That would suck! It would be like being the new kid at school all over again! Or what if you had no friends at all on Facebook? That would be like sitting in the lonely chair (that one's for you Leona).

Oh what the heck, I've made it through worse periods of my life, I guess I can handle a friend request rejection at age 44.

Oh, and if you know my full, one-of-a-kind name, and want to send me a friend request on Facebook, you don't have to be worried about rejection. You can be assured that I will accept your offer :)

Okay, Doc. B. and I are off to find a Vietnamese restaurant on Buford Highway. I guess I should write that on "my wall."

Sometimes you want ear plugs (or, you just want the election to be over)

So I was dazing off (NOT dozing off) at work today while waiting for the computer to catch up with me, when the fire alarm went off. A co-worker came by to assure me that it was just a drill and to tell me to put on my tennis shoes and prepare to endure the painfully slow process of being herded down the stairs from the 21st floor. The drill was annoying enough but to make it a triple whammy, I had already started off the day with a pretty hard leg work-out at the gym AND I left my tennis shoes at home this morning (I usually wear them to walk to and from MARTA and then change out when I get to work, but this morning, I drove to the station).


When I walk the stairs at work for exercise, it takes me 5 minutes to get down and ten to get back up. Today it took 15 minutes to get down the stairs and you better believe I took the elevator back up after standing outside in the heat waiting for the all clear signal that we could return to the building.

That 15 minute march down the stairs allowed my mind to pick up where my dazing left off: wandering (or as I see in disability applications as a reason someone can't work: "my mind wonders"). As I was daydreaming, my brain of course went directly to the questionnaire invented by Bernard Pevo that includes "what sound or noise do you hate?" and I quickly added "fire alarms" to my list.

Then I made up my own question: "what words or phrases are you totally over, besides 'totally'?" (note, I'll never be over "over")
Here's my list, feel free to add to it:
Maverick
Joe Six Pack
Joe the Plumber (that one only took 24 hours to make my list)
Darn right
That one
and of course the one that makes me want to imitate Maddie coughing up a hairball every time I hear it: my friends

My friends, on a brighter note (add that phrase to the above list too), here is a photo of Doc B. (that one) and me (joe six pack) walking the labyrinth (darn right!) on our (maverick) yoga retreat this past weekend. I couldn't figure out how to get Joe the plumber into that sentence... Namaste Y'all...

Happy 44th Birthday to me :)

It’s my birthday and I’ll whine if I want to…and then I’ll drink wine later I’m sure!

That was it for my pleasantries so here’s your warning: stop reading now if you’re not up for politicking…

I’ve always been a bleeding heart and that’s usually followed by the word liberal. Since I can remember, I’ve had the unpleasant ability to physically feel the pain of animals who are being abandoned or abused, kids who are being bullied or teased, elderly people who are struggling to make ends meet, homeless wanting money, alcoholics who can't stop drinking, veterans who come home from war and are treated like crap, women with difficult choices to make, men who cry (because I figure it's for a damn good reason), and people who are sick and disabled. I can’t help but put myself in their shoes – no matter how hard I try not to. It’s one of the reasons I’ve never wanted children. As cute as I know my kid would be (smile), I just don’t know that I could deal with the cruelty of children let alone the world he or she’d be stuck in as an adult. And the thought of having an 18 year old son (not to mention my nephews) going to sign up for the selective service makes me sick to my stomach. And it’s also why, after going into social work as a profession, I tried every aspect of it and then wanted out of it. I learned very quickly that I couldn’t handle being so close to the people or animals that trigger all this anger and sadness in me. I guess it’s selfish, but it’s how I’m taking care of myself. I examine the life stories of people with disabilities all day long and then, if they meet the criteria, I make sure they get a disability check. But I never see them in person and that works best for me at this point in my life.

So, if you didn’t already know it or figure it out, I’m a pro-gay rights, pro-choice (and that, by the way, does NOT translate to pro-abortion), pro-stem cell research, pro-health care for all, pro-non-privatized Social Security, pro-save Social Security, peacenik, public servant, Democrat. I’ll answer to any of those.

But if I really took some time to research it and think about it, I’d probably discover that I’m more of a fiscal conservative which would, I guess, be a Republican "trait." I like the thought of earning your own way and paying less in taxes to a big old government system. But I’ve become one of those government workers and I've had it made easy for me in life. My parents helped prepare me for this world while others haven’t had that kind of assistance. And I can’t ignore that. It’s why I find some merit in the whole fair tax movement. I guess I could go ahead and call myself an Independent who thinks regressive taxes are just plain ridiculous. Why should people with a higher ability to pay taxes pay less?

Bottom line, I’m not afraid to agree with other party platforms, but it’s not enough. As long as women risk the chance of losing their right to choose, as long as Doc. B. can’t collect on some of my benefits when I die but three-time divorced straight couples can collect on all of their ex-spouse’s benefits, as long as children are still being neglected and abused while the children’s protective services workers who protect them are barely getting by on their rinky-dink salaries, and as long as there are schizophrenic homeless diabetic amputees living under the overpass just a mile from the Carter Center, I’ll be voting Democratic.

If you’re a Republican and have always been one – I don’t understand you and I know I can’t convert you - just like you can’t convert me. But what I REALLY don’t understand are the so-called "undecided" and the lifelong democrats who "aren’t sure" who they’re voting for. After 8 years of George Bush, what decision is left? And if you’ve been a Democrat all your life, how can you be unsure…unless it’s pure racism and you just can’t bring yourself to vote for a black man. Either you believe in the Democratic Party or you don’t – period. Like what’s up with Lynn Forester de Rothschild? How can you be an over-the-top, passionate Hillary Clinton for president supporter and then, just because Hillary loses the nomination, decide you’re voting for McCain/Palin? Oh yeah, it’s because you just don’t like Obama and think he’s an elitist. Well, I haven’t been all that wild about some of my Democratic voting options both nationally and locally but it doesn’t mean I’m going to change what I believe in. So what if the candidate isn’t exactly who you want, so what if he’s not the color you’d like him to be, so what…ever. But at least Lynn admits what she’s doing. Because apparently there’s yet another group of voters that I just don’t get – those who lie to the pollsters by saying they’re going to vote for Obama but once they go into the polling booth they’ll select McCain. The theory is that they want to "look good" to the pollsters and their friends by saying they’re "advanced" and cool enough to vote for a black candidate, but that racism will rear its unattractive cranium once a ballot’s in their hand.

One of my buds suggested I’d been living in Atlanta too long and that perhaps I’d forgotten how white the rest of America really is. And other buds have called me out for making racist-like comments throughout my life. Well, I won’t deny that I’ve had my moments when I’ve been pissed off or frustrated at the actions of a person of some "other race." But more often than not, I tend to be just as angry with the actions of people in my own race. So, if being angry at the actions of others, regardless of their race, makes you racist, I’m guilty.

But more than guilt, I feel embarrassed. How can it be 2008, in the hometown of Martin Luther King, Jr., and there still be such obvious dividing lines between the races? Atlanta is made up of over 5 million people, more than half of whom are black (and 13% of whom are gay, by the way). The U.S. of A. has 300 million people and only 13% are black (oh, and about 2% are gay). So clearly I live in a skewed section of America. But it’s just painful to witness sometimes. It puts me right back in that place I don’t want to be, in the midst of an anger trigger.

So, I’ll be sad, disgusted, embarrassed and angry if McCain and Palin win. But, as you can probably tell by now, I won’t be surprised. I know my influence on the way others vote is nil and that most of the time I'm preaching to the converted anyway. But I just hope that everyone thinks about what’s important to them and that then they actually go vote. I’ve thought about it and I know what’s important to me. I hate that we’re in the midst of a war. And I hate that topics like gay rights and abortion have become part of politics at all. But those are the things I feel most strongly about. The man who voted against the war, supports civil unions and won’t nominate a supreme court justice that will screw up Roe v. Wade is getting my vote.

Synchronicity Update

I've got several synchronicities to document so indulge me please (or move on to your next e-mail that is likely much less interesting than this one!).

Before I left for work travel last month, I had been arguing with Emory Animal Hospital about Maddie's thyroid pills. All I wanted was a simple refill of her medication so that I could leave Doc. B. with plenty while I was away. But they insisted that I bring Maddie in for blood work AND that we wait for the results BEFORE they would release a refill. This was despite the fact that I'd had multiple conversations with the Vets about why the heck, other than for $$$$ sake, do we keep poking a 6 pound kitty for blood, AND stressing me out, just to learn that her thyroid levels aren't right? I finally convinced (read: begged) them to at least GIVE me the medication when I brought little Maddie in for the blood work so that I (read: Doc. B.) wouldn't have to go back a second time just to pick up the same medication they've been giving me for the last 5 years. When I finally got home, with the meds in my hot little hand, next door neighbor (affectionately now known as "Chicken Lady") reported that her kitty had just passed away (rest her soul) and did I want the kittie's left over thyroid medicine? ERGHHHHHHHH! Oh, and did I want to come in and see the new baby chickens she'd adopted before I headed off on my trip (thus the new nickname)? I passed on the latter but took the former.

So the next morning, I get on a Delta flight and open up the Sky Magazine only to discover that New Mexico is the main topic. And New Mexico's state flag, the Zuni Sun Symbol (that is now part of the new tattoo on my ankle), is all over the magazine (as shown above).

Then later last month I traveled to Michigan where one of my mom's friend's talked about having a relative that was a glass blower by trade. When I got home, Doc. B. described a dream about being a glass blower. Mind you, I hadn't mentioned the glass blowing profession....

The next day, Doc. B. and I were chatting in front of the t.v. when the topic of heart defibrillators randomly came up. I kid you not, as soon as we ended the discussion, a commercial came on television about heart defibrillators....

Also while in Michigan, I apparently made a comment to another one of my mom's friends about wishing we'd had a woman (read: Hillary) in the white house. And what happened when I came home - John McCain added a woman to his ticket. And his "crook" decision (as one of my co-worker's so eloquently put it) has now cost me therapy money. Yes, I spent 45 of my 55 minute therapy session last night expressing my disgust. My therapist and I decided that I needed to write about it. Synchronicitously, when I got home from therapy, I found an e-mail from my favorite male yoga instructor about that very subject. He expressed that Palin was the wrong choice to be the second in command of our country and that he felt led to express that in writing.

So my next entry will be about my strong feelings related to the upcoming election. I'll give you fair warning so that if you think you'll be offended, you can burn before reading, or burn after reading if curiosity gets to you first...

August 2008

I've received a couple thousand e-mails imploring me to get back on the horse, or in this case the slow pony, and get some blogging done. Okay, so it wasn't a couple thousand, but it was a couple.

I must admit, I did miss my writing during the entire month of August. I didn't even write in my journal. But I can say I was lovin' life, doing the following: watching the Olympics; trying to pick my jaw up off the floor after finding out about John Edwards' affair; traveling to Baltimore for work; visiting my baby sis and the Postmaster General's significant other in D.C.; sending kisses over the phone to the Casio Camera customer service department; visiting middle sis, M&D (that's Mom and Dad), gramps, and tons of other friends and family in Michigan; watching the democratic national convention; noticing synchronicities; wondering when Kwame Kilpatrick would plead guilty; having a funeral for Dwight the fish; adopting two little turtles; trying to pick my jaw up off the floor after finding out about Sarah Palin being nominated for republican VP; refelcting on my responsibilites as a community organizer; questioning my high school basketball nickname of "sweet shot" (would we still have lost the 1981 Girls Michigan State Basketball Championship if it were "baracuda"?); and sending Doc B. off on a meditation retreat in Massachusetts after 45th birthday festivities.

Let me expand on just a couple of these activities, since a couple of you want to know...

First, props to my Dad for not only letting me watch the democratic convention in his house, but for making me popcorn during Hillary's sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits night. And when we drove for a couple of hours to go visit gramps, he didn't even press the pre-set radio station button for the Rush Limbaugh show. Oh, and he took photos of the whole trip for me since Casio was sending me a replacement part for my camera. Now there's a Dad who loves his daughter despite her political faults. (Dad, call me when you get a chance, like maybe later this month on my birthday, and I'll explain the word "props" - don't worry, it's a good thing).

Second - What happened to Dwight and what's the scoop with turtles you might ask? Turns out that, unlike Twinkies (nutrayami loafasami for CEL's benefit), Beta fish have a "shelf life." Mr. Dwight was with us for almost two years and it was his time. As for the turtles, it was one of those synchronicities I was monitoring. Remember the last blog topic about my turtle tattoo? Well, shortly after I got the tattoo, a co-worker of Doc B.'s decided she was going to get some real turtles for her aquarium. If she ordered 6, it would be cheaper, but she only wanted two. So we got talked into taking two and another co-worker took two. We'll likely try to convince Doc B.'s co-worker to take them back at some point, but in the meantime, they ARE kinda fun. The best part was naming them. Doc B. let me have that responsibilty and I took it very seriously. In a truely sexist fashion, I decided that the smaller of the two turtles was a female and that we'd call her "Christy" - short for "Christy Turtleington". The larger one, an assumed male, would be called "Jethro" short for "Jethro Turtull." Dad, or anyone else for that matter, you can call or e-mail me about this and I'll explain why this is supposed to be funny. Or wait, better yet, you can click on these links:

Christy
Jethro

Okay, so that's only a couple of updates about the month of August, but I've got to go watch John McCampaign accept the nomination for president....

More Tat Stories

I was thinking this morning it had been a while since I tapped the keyboard for a blog entry. Sure enough, it's the last day of July and this will be my only post for the month. It's not like I haven't had anything to say, it's just that the evening time gets away from me and we all know that I would never ever think of writing during the work day - I'm a dedicated public servant who wouldn't think of such a thing...

Okay, now that you've stopped laughing, on to the topic of the day: More tattoos.

When we were in Guatemala, a few of us walked to a small village called Santa Cruz. While there, we were pleasantly accosted by three young boys playing up their financial plight. "Estamos pobre" (we're poor) they kept saying as they worked to conjure up frowns and hide the joy that had been on their faces (from the fun they'd been having playing soccer). After they conned us out of a breakfast bar, one pointed down at the dolphin tattoo on my left ankle and said "pescado...es final, es final" (the fish, it's final, it's final). It was his way of saying "that thing is going to be on you for life - even when you get old and your ankles swell up so much that the dolphin looks more like a whale."

So what did I decide to do? Get a tattoo on my other ankle. After all, I don't want my dolphin/whale to be lonely in its old age. I got the dolphin when I was 30 so I'm surprised I waited this long to add to my body art. But I really wanted another tattoo to commemorate the 44th anniversary of my birth so I made an appointment with our favorite tattoo artist, Malia, for Thursday of this past week. July 24th was exactly 2 months before the big birthday and Malia had an opening, so I put my name on her calendar. Sadly, we actually had to get in the car and drive to the appointment. She used to work out of Ink and Dagger tattoo just around the corner from us, but I got to be one her first customers in her new location, Memorial Tattoo, about 5 miles away.

I had previously decided that I wanted a turtle as part of my tattoo and already had the design in mind. The turtle has significance for me in many ways: longevity, wisdom, land and water, protection, move at your own pace, and lounge lazily in the sun alongside the lagoons of Hilton Head Island but also co-habitate nicely with the alligators (don't take that the wrong way Doc. B.!).

In addition to the turtle, I wanted a nod to the number four. So after much research, I decided on a Zia Pueblo sun symbol. "Zia" means sun and to the Zia Indians, the number four is sacred. It represents the four seasons, the four directions and it's all bound together by a never-ending circle. Perfect.

Here are some photos from my experience. Oh, and speaking of birthdays, Doc. B. will turn 45 in 20 days - 08/20/2008 - say it with me like this: "oh eight, two oh, two oh, oh eight."

The Power of Suggestion

Photo courtesy of Craig Blankenhorn, New Line Cinema

Do you ever have those times in your life when just the suggestion of something causes you to HAVE to do it? You know, like when you first saw "An Inconvenient Truth" and you ran right home to change your light bulbs from the regular Thomas Edison kind to the compact fluorescent kind (or did Edison invent those too?). And while we’re on the subject of Al Gore, once you saw his movie, did you also begin taking public transportation, catching your shower water in a plastic bucket to later water your plants, brushing your teeth with the water turned off, and setting your heating and air to a temperature just a few degrees above or below what it is outside?

We did, and is it ever inconvenient – check this out:

1. MARTA public transportation is now my BFF, second only to my heavily scented, deodorant. Ever since the temperatures hit the 80’s, I role it on thicker than Chicago style pizza in an attempt to outdo the nostril shattering aromatics on the train.

2. Doc B. and I have plastic buckets everywhere, advertising everything from Home Depot to Ace Hardware to Lowes. To tell you the truth, some are in very inconvenient places, like hanging from the shower caddy, while others are simply not our preferred décor.

3. And the brushing your teeth with the water turned off really messes up my 40 year old routine – that’s a hard habit to break I tell you. At least I got some practice with this while in Guatemala since there were some not-so-pleasant repercussions if you accidentally brushed your teeth con Agua de Lake Atitlan.

4. And finally, the air conditioning. It’s so dang hot in our house that the cat has taken to sleeping on the cooling granite kitchen counter tops and, from shear heat exhaustion (or is it pure laziness?), even lays down to eat from his food dish (see photo for proof). But don’t worry, if you come to our house for dinner, we’ll wipe down the counter and feign a scolding if the cat happens to jump up there right in front of your face.



So, would you believe that this blog was going to be about the new "SITC" (Sex in the City) movie and "BRAG" (Bike Ride across Georgia)? Yes, I’m sure you knew that’s where I was headed when you read the title of this blog entry.

What I was going to write about is how the power of suggestion can really make some changes in your life if you let the idea sink in. For example, baby sis and I recently went to see SITC on the big screen. There’s a scene (pictured above) where Carrie Bradshaw is in bed with Mr. Big and is reading him love poetry from a New York City Public Library book. She’s reminding him of how cool it is to check out books for free and then of course there’s that familiar smell of a library book that just adds to the experience. I’ve spent a ton of money in our local Barnes and Noble bookstore (managed by our good friend "Davemus") and I know he’s appreciated our business. But after seeing SITC, the library was calling to me…

A few days after seeing SITC, Doc. B. and I went to pick up Kali and Tequila in St. Simons Island, the finish line for BRAG. This was the culmination of a week-long bike ride that covered about 400 miles during a week’s time. It was so cool seeing all those people of diverse backgrounds cross the finish line on bicycles of all different cost categories. Pretty much every age, race, body shape, fitness level, and sex (I’m not certain if there were any transgendered but I bet there were!) was represented in the group. We stayed at a hotel for the night so we could rest up for the drive home the next day and spent some time at the pool. I could easily tell by the tan lines who had participated in BRAG and who had not. And some of those tan lines were on people that you’d think hadn’t ridden a bike since 8th grade. Witnessing all of this made me want to get on my bike.

So the day after we got back to Atlanta, I put the power of suggestion under my bike helmet. I rebuffed the car and MARTA, emptied the water-catching buckets into the plants, swished my mouth with Listerine and headed out into the Atlanta heat on my 20-year old bicycle. Destination: the DeKalb County Public Library where I renewed my library card that had been deleted from the system for non-use. And as soon as I finish the last two books I purchased at Barnes and Noble, I’ll be riding my bike back to the library to stand in line with all of the other women who saw SITC and check out some musty-smelling books wrapped in plastic.

Conversations You Don't Hear Every Day

Ram Dass(in the blue shirt), Bhagavan Das and Krishna Das (all photos from their respective websites)




Doc B. came home from yoga the other day all excited that Krishna Das was going to be performing at The Variety Playhouse at the end of June. I said, "oh, isn’t that the guy you went to see at Kashi (a local yoga studio) last year?" And Doc. B. said, "no, that was Bhagavan Das." Then I said "oh, well is it that guy that we watched the movie about who did drugs back in the 60’s to try to reach enlightenment before he turned to yoga and meditation and wrote the book Be Here Now?" And Doc B. said "no, that was Ram Dass." And I said, "well which Das is this???" And Doc. B. said "Krishna Das is the one that's well known for his Kirtans".

A year ago, I would have been feeling like this conversation was truly a comedy since I would have been without a clue as to what a kirtan was. Thankfully, through my yoga education, I know that kirtans are Indian devotional chants. This was my only saving grace since I certainly couldn't keep my Das’s straight. For sure a Blue Mailbox moment

So I dispensed with the Das talk until later in the evening when Rumi the cat walked up and meowed hello. I responded "hi Rum Das" - and so now the cat has yet another nickname.

Oh, and here's a moving Haiku recently composed by Doc. B. while still in her post-Guatemalan afterglow:

"Being, not doing
has taught my heart a new song
I will live here now"

Or, you can make it much less moving with my altered version:

"Being, not doing
has taught my heart a new song
zippadeedoda"

P.S. Happy Birthday tomorrow RWO!!!

Back to Life

It's been two weeks now since Doc. B. and I returned from Guatemala. During the yoga retreat, and since then, my throat chakra has been hard at work trying to find the right words to give the trip justice. Not much luck on that while I was in Guatemala and still not much luck since returning home. But because I want to at least get something down in print, including a couple of photos, I’m going ahead with what I’ve got – my "closing circle" thoughts, with a slight detour as usual.

For any of you who have ever participated in a retreat, a support group, a group therapy session or a 28-day drug and alcohol treatment center, you know there’s always a "closing circle." Wait, before I go any further, I should remind my faithful readers and qualify for my new readers that I’ve never been a patient at a substance abuse treatment center. But for a short (witch’s) spell I was in the employ of one. I guess you could call it my 270 day treatment program (270 days in that I barely made it 9 months on the j-o-b, and treatment in that that I was treated like dirt). But it did conclude with a closing circle on my last day of work. By the way, I think I’ve experienced more closing circles in departing jobs than I have in the therapeutic, more typical way.

Here’s the scene of the closing circle at the culmination of my first "real" job (not counting McDonald's where I worked during high school and not counting the Hispanic Community Center where I did my Social Work internship). Seated, in the round, on card-table chairs (the kind my parents set up for their bridge parties), on my last day of work at the treatment center, were:
1) the Director who hired me and that I later learned only did so because she mistakenly thought I would fill her lacking Hispanic quota,
2) a holier-than-thou family therapist,
3) several impatient in-patients, and
4) little old me at age 22.

They each went around the circle and said (i.e., made up) something nice about me or about working with me. Then I closed the circle by graciously (Huh?) receiving my "never alone again" AA chip followed by a recitation of some drivel that I concocted, on the spot, about how much I would miss each and every one of them and how much I appreciated what they had taught me during my stint on the second shift. there really was SO MUCH that I learned, including:
1) learning how to drive the big van full of self-admitted and court-ordered treatment participants to the Friday AA meeting;
2) memorizing the first five of the 12 steps, since that’s all you really have time for in a 28-day program; and
3) perfecting how to avoid "Jim", one of the other second-shifters who kept asking me out.

Oh, and I of course learned the serenity prayer and several other AA sayings that have helped me make it this far in life by taking it one day at a time and keeping it simple, bitch, I mean stupid, since "KISS" makes more sense than "KISB".

So if you didn’t know what a closing circle was, you should now have a good idea of what they involve. But more importantly, I'm hoping you can also imagine how moving a closing circle could actually be if you were even slightly interested in the people sitting in the circle with you. And that’s how I felt with the yoga retreaters. I honestly had no difficulty coming up with at least one thing (or more) that I liked and/or appreciated about each and every person sitting cross-legged on those yoga mats and cushions. During the closing circle, our yogini leader gave us the option of making a closing statement of our choice or reciting a haiku. A couple of people actually did the haiku and I was able to add yet another admirable quality to the list of things I appreciated about those particular participants. Here’s one example:

“Mystical mountains
Sacred energy rising
A lone man fishes”

I thought at first of reciting a haiku since I do enjoy coming up with them. But I decided that would require too much thinking and memorizing while I was simultaneously trying to hear what others had to say. I don’t do well in creating poetry in my head; I need paper. So I quickly lined through that option and decided to go off the cuff. I pared down what I wanted to say into three main memory mementos that I planned to take away with me as I went back to life in the ATL (or the "404", or "Hotlanta", or "that big metro area of 5 million plus that doesn’t fit with the rest of the State of Georgia").

The first "memento" was a reminder statement that the general manager shared with us during our orientation to the retreat center: "go with the flow and remember that the flow isn't yours." She was essentially telling us to just calm down, allow the staff to do their thing and let the retreat happen. In other words, so what if coffee and fruit have not yet been set out before your 7am yoga class, you won’t die of caffeine withdrawal or starve to death either. And so what if the hot tub isn't heated up when it's supposed to be; it'll get hot or the sauna will get heated up instead. The bottom line was that everything would happen in its own time and in the meantime, you’d live (and in fact probably learn from the whole thing).

The second was something our yoga teacher quoted (though I can't remember who said it first) and that is to "speak with one mouth and listen with two ears". One of the things I’m very much aware of lately is how much I just automatically react (verbally) without really listening. It’s habit. And the other thing I do is think about what I’m going to say next while the other person is still talking. Time to work on that; I miss out on a lot and/or don’t remember things I’m told. "Deep listening" is what my therapist calls it and she’s damn good at it. She remembers things I’ve told her that I don’t even remember telling her. And she remembers people’s names and scenarios too. Yes, I’ve probably talked about YO U in my therapy session and my therapist remembers you 

And finally was simply, but not so simply, the word gratitude. It kept coming up during the trip. Words like gracious, thank you, appreciation, etc… were common during the week and you could feel the depth of it when someone said it – it was right from the heart and true rather than a meaningless string of words. Maybe it was how grateful we all felt to be on the retreat or how much "more" we all "had" compared to the Guatemalan villagers with whom we came in contact. Whatever the case, everyone we ran into "had" so much in their hearts...

As always, after a trip away from home, I'm glad to be back...back to life...but I'll be adding a few Guatemalan jewels to my life...

The Little Mugger

Doc. B. and I had only a few days left on Hilton Head Island. We had plans to fill every waking hour and weren’t interested in sleeping the days away. Our plan was to get up early each remaining morning and get in some exercise – a long walk on the beach, a bike ride, some yoga or a jog. My intention was to actually set the alarm to ensure that we kept to this schedule. So when the phone rang on Thursday morning at about 7:20 a.m., I was looking to smack the snooze button. But in fact, I had forgotten to set the alarm. When I finally realized it was my cell phone ringing, I couldn’t imagine who would be calling. It was my friend the "Post Master General" calling from Washington, D.C. (We’ll call her PMG going forward).

I couldn’t imagine why PMG would be calling me at that hour, but it turns out she needed to report a synchronicity that had just occurred. And if she was calling me before 8 a.m., I figured it must be a good one. PMG did not disappoint. Here’s the tale…

PMG had been planning lunch that day with friends. So rather than taking the METRO as she does every other day, she was going to drive her car to work, feed the meter all morning, go pick up her friends for lunch, dine, drop her friends back off, and then feed the meter all afternoon. As she was going to her car that morning, she got to thinking about what a hassle it would be to leave her desk every hour to go give quarters to the parking meter Gods. So at the very last minute, she put her car keys away and walked to the METRO. After much thought, she decided that at lunch time, she’d simply hail a cab and pick up her friends to go eat lunch. Sure, it would be a little more money, but also less of a pain in the gluteus maximus.

So PMG headed down the street, the same old route she takes each day. Within minutes, she was approached by a young boy, of maybe 12 or 13, wearing a hoodie sweatshirt. He had his hands in his pockets and made one of them look like he had a gun. PMG had no idea if it really was a weapon, but he sure wanted it to look that way. The kid said to PMG, "Give me your money." PMG said "NO!" So he said it again, "Give me your money!" She said, "I’m an angry white woman and I’ll kick your ass, now leave me alone!" But he persisted so she made her way toward the street, banging on car windows trying to get the attention of a driver who might be a Good Samaritan and either intervene or at least call the police. No one seemed to be responding so she kept moving quickly toward the METRO station along the side of the street where she could at least be seen. The kid continued to follow her. PMG then got her wits about her and realized that she should be calling the police on her own cell phone.

So she got herself to a point where more people could see her, across from the entrance to the METRO station. The kid must have seen her pull out her cell phone because he promptly headed toward the elevator to go down into the METRO station to catch his get-away train. As the elevator doors closed, that little mugger smiled and waved at PMG. Well, PMG quickly described her location, and the kid, to the police who must have immediately contacted the METRO police because shortly thereafter, up the escalator they came with the kid in tow. The police must have been standing there waiting for him as the elevator doors opened up onto the METRO platform. She identified the kid and they took him away.

And there she was - all alone to go on to work as though it were a morning just like every other morning. But it wasn’t. PMG had almost been robbed. Can you imagine the adrenaline that must have been so obvious in PMG’s body after she knew she was safe from harm? PMG went on to work, trying to decide what her fate was for this day - a day that she was supposed to have driven to work. And had she driven, would something worse have happened? Or was this an open door to something else that was to be? Did she NOT drive her car that morning so that this kid could be caught before he committed a truly serious crime? What did this mean? Was it a higher calling for PMG in some way? Would this kid be forever changed? Would PMG be forever changed?

I suggested to PMG that perhaps she had saved someone else from being robbed or hurt that morning. Some elderly woman who wouldn’t have handled things the same way that PMG had? But PMG couldn’t go for that idea. She’s too concrete. It had to be something that was either going to save that kid from a life of crime or something that would happen to PMG; something not yet known. I thought for a moment and came up with another suggestion. Could it be that all of this happened just so that PMG would call me at 7:20 and wake me up since I forgot to set the alarm? Hmm… Can a synchronicity really be that simple?

UPDATE: That little mugger will have a court date in June at which time he may be able to plead to a misdemeanor charge and be sentenced the same day without need for a trial. The prosecutor asked PMG to prepare a statement about how this has affected her so that it can be read in court, before the sentencing. This way, the kid will hear from PMG that there was more harm done than simply ruining this little thug’s reputation as a tough guy.

Steve Winwood Anyone?

Long time no blog. Okay, that's trite and all. But for the record, I've never used that statement in any of my postings to date.

My reasons for not blogging in almost a month have to do with work and play. I've been working extra so that I can play more. Normally I try to work an 8 to 8 1/2 hour day, earning comp time at a very slow rate. But since Doc. B. and I have uncharacteristically had two week-long trips planned within a month of each other, I've had to step up the extra credit at work.

Hilton Head was the first trip and it was wonderful. It was with my mom, dad, sister and her three kids - my very cute nephew and nieces (For the record, I have two more nephews in New Jersey but they were not in attendance). We all had fun flying kites on the beach and enjoying a Japanese "cook in front of you" meal. And I do have one synchronicity from the trip that I plan to publish at a later date, once I get permission from the Blue Mailbox Post Master General. So look for that in the coming days once the editing and approval process has occurred (NOTE TO POST MASTER GENERAL: keep an eye on your e-mail, I'll be sending it to you within the week).

The next trip is to Guatemala. I've been brewing Guatemalan coffee, conversing with Guatemalan-baby-adopting females, and brushing up on my Spanish slang ever since we knew we were going. So when we return from that trip, expect a blog post for sure - it's coming up in May.

In the meantime, back to Steve Winwood. First, let me say that Steve has been in my life since he was with "Traffic" and "Blind Faith." And to be honest with you, I hadn't thought about him in a while and hadn't heard his music in months. But Friday night, as Doc. B. and I were listening to "The Coffee House" on Dish Network, Allison Krauss came on to sing her rendition of "Can't Find My Way Home." Doc. B. said "I like this song." I said, "well, it's a Steve Winwood song but I don't have this version on iTunes. I think I may have some other artist singing it so I'll download it for you when I make you another 'mixed CD.'" For those of you who spent time listening to music in the 80's, you know that making a "mixed tape" for a friend or potential girlfriend/boyfriend was a pretty cool thing to do. So I made note of it, and moved on to other things.

Then this morning we went to the gym together (since we're trying to be in at least moderately good shape for our trip to Central America). We got on matching eliptical trainers and tuned our headphones in to the music and t.v. choices. About half way through the workout, Doc. B. motioned to switch to channel one on my headset. She mouthed to me "I like this song; who is it?" It was Steve Winwood singing "The Finer Things." I told Doc. B. that I had this song on cassette tape, but not on iTunes. Doc. B. reminded me that this was okay because there is, believe it or not, still a cassette player in one of our two vehicles.

So when we got home, I ventured upstairs to find my box of old cassette tapes that hadn't been touched since a few years after I tossed all of my 8-track tapes. And sure enough, right on top of the stack, was the above pictured "mixed tape." It was recorded over 20 years ago (on 10/18/86) by my friend Tina. What an awesome gift that rarely sees the light of day anymore. Oh and props to Leona since I'm sure she let Tina use her massive 1980's stereo system to create the mixed tape!

So I set the tape out on the kitchen counter for Doc. B. to play on the way to work tomorrow. Then it was time to finish up the laundry so I turned on Dish Network's "Sirius Spectrum" to listen to some music while I folded clothes. I couldn't believe it. Guess what? The entire weekend on Sirius Spectrum was a tribute to Steve Winwood. Apparently he has a new album out called "Nine Lives" and the weekend was dedicated to playing some of his old music "mixed" in with some of his new tunes.

Side Note: does it count that there's a really nice guy at the gym that I finally introduced myself to who told me his name is Steve?

I think I'll count it...more synchronicity to add to the list...

Economic Indicators

I'm pretty sure we're headed out of the recession, or "economic slowdown," that we're reportedly not in. How do I, a failure in finance 101, know this? Because of three very important fiscal discoveries I made this past week. And if you're reading this and you live below the Mason-Dixon Line, read that "physical" discoveries.

As I've previously mentioned on my blog, I usually stumble upon at least a penny a day. Somebodies spare change falls out of their car, purse or pocket and I find it. This has been the case ever since I stopped driving to work and started riding MARTA and walking/jogging more. Sometimes I find nickels and dimes, rarely a quarter, and once I found a 20 dollar bill. But until a few days ago, it had been over a week since I found any money at all. I figured that people were being more cautious with their cash and acting more carefully when pulling their hands out of their pockets. I was beginning to feel the pinch and was somewhat stressed about it too. I kept saying to myself, in true obsessive-compulsive fashion, "it's been days since I've picked up any cash on the street." So you can imagine my joy when, after days without finding a single cent, I jogged across a dime! This was my first sign that the economy was headed in the right direction.

The second economic indicator was an empty zip-lock drug baggie. For those of you who don't live in or around a "hood," the picture above includes the said bag for educational purposes. I photographed it, next to the precious dime I found, with my camera phone since my new Casio digital camera's supposed rechargeable battery died. It's not a very clear photo, but Casio says they intend to make this up to me. I called them on Sunday morning and a very nice gentleman assured me that this was a common problem with my camera's battery and that they would be sending me out a replacement battery post-haste. When I asked him if post-haste meant that the battery would arrive before my vacation next week, he told me he wasn't sure. but anyway, back to the drug bag. I decided that this was a pretty good economic indicator that people were again spending good hard earned/begged cash on dope. I plan to place the baggie in our recycling container and see if they'll take it.

And the final thing I noticed is that our government is now getting savvy in its hiring practices. Look at this. USA Jobs, a federal employment website, has an opening for an Innovative Finance Specialist. Clearly the government has realized that we need innovation when it comes to our nation's finances. Either they lost an innovative finance specialist and are trying desperately to fill those shoes/pumps OR they've just now created this new position and are looking for just the right person who perhaps recently lost his or her job on Wall Street.

By my accounts, if Al Gore had been in office for the past 8 years, our economy wouldn't have been a problem because he would have made use of "fuzzy math" and "lock boxes."

P.S.
Happy B-day to all of you with April B-days including Mrs. T, Kali, Tequila and of course Mimi!

Mail Carrie(r)

Haiku of the day:

Blue mailbox has been
empty going postal no
option blog alive

I know...it's been a long time since your e-mail was cluttered with a "you've got mail" notification from the blue mailbox. Your mail carrier has been preoccupied and distracted. Things going on in life just seem to get in the way of consistently posting witty blog entries (loved ones passing, sisters moving, storms rolling, overtime working, project finishing, political commentary watching, vacation planning, Chastain ticket selling, birthday celebrating, NetFlix movie selecting, and just plain dreaming). But the writing, synchronicities, general observations, interactions and impressions don't stop. They just get redirected to other writing venues, held in my head, discussed in person or shared with the head shrinker. And since this blog has become a venue for my own style of self-effacing humor, I certainly wouldn't want to disappoint anyone, or myself, by writing anything too serious. I do, after all, want you to look forward to reading this blog. There are plenty of other things you can dread all you want.

Lately, the only thing in our mailboxes (e-mail and the USPS real thing) are the standard advertisements for stuff we don't want. Despite this, I still slowly open my laptop computer and physically, with determination, walk out to the street-side mailbox with hopefulness and excited anticipation. Maybe today there will be something special, something unexpected. It doesn't have to be the winning lottery ticket, just let it put a smile on my face.... A thank you card, a birthday card, a holiday card, a party invite, a monthly statement from Edward Jones telling me my mutual funds are doing well (ha!).

Any of that would have been great. But when I went to the real mailbox yesterday, I pulled out two, yes, count 'em two, (one for me and one for Doc. B) presorted, first class mailers from the Department of the Treasury - The IRS with a capital "T". On it was stamped, in bold red print: "ENCLOSED IS AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM THE IRS ON THE ECONOMIC STIMULUS ACT OF 2008. DO NOT THROW AWAY!"

My tax dollars, that are paying for this economic stimulus payment, just paid for every taxpayer to receive a notification about the money I might could (southern for "may") receive. This information has been on every single news station in the entire U.S. and I'm sure world-wide. I'm already peeved about how much coin it's costing to send these stimulus checks in the first place so I was really irked when I got a postage-paid notice telling me about it. Who is the IRS trying to reach by doing this? The 1% who may not have heard about it? And if they hadn't heard about it, do you think they would be arguing if they "randomly" received a check in the mail? No, they'd be going down to the local check-cashing kiosk the very next morning - no questions asked - yet another form of "don't ask, don't tell".

Guess what I did? I threw it away. Well, I had to pull it out of the recycling container to write this blog, then I disregarded the bold, caps, red, "DO NOT THROW AWAY" directive...

Okay, you can go back to American Idol now. Prediction: Carly Smithson wins.

Four Things

Graphic courtesy of Sesame Street


Several of you have forwarded me an e-mail over the recent weeks entitled "4 things about me." In it, you've told me four things about yourself that I may or may not have known. Since I so enjoyed learning new things about those of you who sent me this e-mail, I thought it might make for a good blog entry if I were to post a few of my responses. Plus, the number 4 has had great significance to me ever since a wise sage (redundant?) once told Doc. B and me that four is the number of "wholeness." It’s the east, west, north and south of a compass. It’s the fire, water, air and earth of the elements. It's the four phases of the moon. There are four letters in the number 4. And there are four states of matter (solid, liquid, gas and plasma) – that last one is for Doc. B.

Okay, I know, get on with the blog. Oh, but wait, here are the biggies: In September of this year I will turn 44 and less than two months later, our country will elect the 44th president of the United States. Perhaps I should have waited until 4/4/08 (Kali’s b-day) to post this? Well, now that I look at the date, I'd say 2/24/08 works quite nicely!

As always, feel free to post a comment or send me your own four things!

Four jobs I’ve had in my life:
1. Cashier at McDonald's (my very first "real" job with a pay check and my first contributions to Social Security).
2. Counselor at a 21 day in-patient Drug/Alcohol treatment center (should have been a patient!).
3. PEACH Program Supervisor ("Positive Employment and Community Help" - catchy name, eh?).
4. Food Kiosk Supervisor at the Georgia Dome during the 1996 Summer Olympic Games.

Four movies I’ve watched more than once:
1. The Wizard of Oz - "I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too."
2. Pulp Fiction - "Hamburgers. The corner-stone of any nutritious breakfast."
3. Sleepless in Seattle - "A ho, A ho, my dad's been captured by a ho!"
4. Pecker - "Full of Grace."

Four places I’ve lived:
1. Ann Arbor, Michigan (where my very first basketball team, coached by my dad, went winless during the 5th grade season).
2. Wayzata, Minnesota (where I had my first and only fist fight with Cole Lindberg as his mother cheered him on from their back porch deck).
3. Washington, D.C. (corner of 18th and R at the International Student House).
4. Norcross, Georgia (where the house I lived in was used in the filming of a 1984 B horror movie called "Mutant", yes, you can rent it from NetFlix!).

Four TV Shows I Watch Regularly:
1. House.
2. The L Word (from NetFlix because we’re too cheap to pay for the movie channel it’s on – Showtime).
3. Grey's Anatomy.
4. Anything on HGTV.

Four Books that have changed my life (not necessarily because I personally have read them):
1. Our Bodies Ourselves.
2. The Bible.
3. Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.
4. Diet For a New America.

Four Musical Groups/Artists That I enjoy:
1. Seal.
2. Everything but the Girl.
3. Celine Dion (Yes, really – she’s the greatest singer in the world!).
4. Shawn Mullins.

Four Places I've been:
1. Toronto (many times before the age of 21, not so much thereafter).
2. The Virgin Islands (thanks mom and dad – this was for science credit while I was at Michigan State University).
3. The Adirondack Mountains in upstate NY (where mom’s parents had the coolest camp on Stoner Lake).
4. Amsterdam (My first big trip with Doc. B. about ten years ago).

Four people who email me regularly:
1. Doc. B.
2. My family.
3. Mindspring Spam Blocker.
4. Hillary Clinton, oh, and now Chelsea too.

Four of my favorite foods:
1. Pizza with extra cheese and green olives, with a Sweetwater 420 of course.
2. Universal Joint's buffalo chicken quesadilla, with a
Sweetwater 420 of course.
3. Mom’s tater tot casserole, that I'm certain would go quite well with a Sweetwater 420.
4. Anything Doc. B. cooks, with a glass of wine of course.

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. On Rachel's massage table.
2. Reading a good book on a lounge chair by the ocean.
3. In the love pit watching The Oscars with Doc. B. (I'll be doing that later this evening!)
4. Sitting by a roaring (contained) fire with a glass of wine (I did that earlier today!)


Four things I am looking forward to this year:
1. Hilton Head in April
2. A newly-elected democratic POTUS
3. A yoga trip to Guatemala in May - details to come!!
4. Petting Maddie into her 20th year.

Valentine's Day

Some of my friends (and you know who you are) view Valentine's day as just another Hallmark Holiday, one that promotes the sale of cards, flowers and expensive - reservations only - meals. One of the local radio stations even sponsors a "Bitter Ball" for all those people who are single and hate being around happy couples on this particular night of the year. It's almost as bad as being single at a New Year’s Eve party - no one to smooch at the stroke of midnight. Unless of course you're at home with your dog.

As much as I enjoy celebrating Valentine's Day, it does bring back a number of kid fears. Who do you give a card to? Who's going to give you one? What if no one gives you a card? What if someone thinks you really like them just because you give them a card? It's no wonder I'm a worrier. Yes, I have issues.

Doc. B. and I did the "cards, flowers and expensive meals" thing for the first year (maybe the second?) and then we mutually decided it was a pain in the butt. We now still acknowledge the day, but it's toned down. There's perhaps a homemade card, some peanut M&M's, and our tradition of going out for dinner at a Chinese restaurant. You never have to wait for a table, let alone make reservations, when you're dining out for Chinese on Valentine's Day. This year we went to Pyng Ho for an early dinner and then came home to watch a NetFlix movie ("Fur" with Nicole Kidman and Robert Downey, Jr.).

The meal at Pyng Ho was good, as it is every time we go there. Doc. B. always picks us out something unusual and it comes out nicely done. A meal at Pyng Ho is not necessarily anything special, but it's consistently good and is more than just your typical Americanized Chinese food. But the fun part about Pyng Ho is that it's very easy to eavesdrop on other people's dinner conversations. And Valentine's Day didn't disappoint.

We were seated in a booth behind two elderly women; I'm guessing one was in her late 70's and the other was easily well into her 80's. I was bummed at first because I thought they might speak too quietly for me to overhear any enjoyable tidbits. But I soon learned that at least one of them was hard of hearing. Their voices carried so well, they could have been Aimee Mann's grandmothers.

There were several jewels I gathered while Doc. B's eyes rolled in my general direction. At first it was how these women were talking about their difficulty "logging in" to the Emory University e-mail system. I couldn't believe how computer literate they were. Then they moved on to complimenting each other's (very gray and brittle) hair.

But the best one liner of the evening almost made me fall out of our booth hunched over with laughter. It was when the younger one said to the older one:

"I love your nails that length; the salon did a great job on the color too. But I think you might want to go a little bit shorter next time - you don't want people thinking you're a crackhead. You know some people use their long fingernails to snort drugs."

The younger one said it so matter of factly that I'm not sure the older one knew what to make of the comment. I couldn't see their faces so I imagined the older one smiling and nodding, as if to say, "yeah, you're right," like she fully understood what the younger one meant. Like she'd actually been a crackhead back in the day.

I can only hope I'm as hip when I'm their age. Because that's certainly not how I typically use the word "crack" or "hip" when I'm discussing elderly women - "cracked hip," yes. "Crack" and "Hip," no.

Hope you each spent V-day in the way that pleased you most!

Super Twos-day Finally Arrives!

We are certainly down to Two Super candidates right now! No Dad, I don't mean John McCain and Mitt Romney :)

I’ve been torn about the vote tomorrow and had no idea it would be this difficult. It wasn’t until John Edwards dropped out and we had the opportunity to see Hillary and Barack "debate" that I finalized my decision. Can it even be called a "debate?" They were so nice to each other I didn’t know whether to well up with tears or stick my fingers down my throat. When Barack pulled out Hillary’s chair for her at the onset, I knew I was in for a treat. I quickly knew that I would actually get to hear from them about their respective plans rather than listen to them bicker.

And that’s what I got – no bashing each other and a good discussion of what they stand for. I think I finally understand the differences between the two and I will be very happy with either candidate as our next president.

But what’s emerging for me now is a bit of personal history. Right now, I can’t shake the feelings associated with the very first time I could vote in a presidential election. It was 1984 and I was a 20 year old senior at Michigan State University. I had just completed a four month internship with the National Association of Social Workers in Washington, D.C. and was all hyped up on our political process and the little baby democrat that I was becoming. I was initially all set to vote for Gary Hart – but then he had to withdraw from the race because he was accused of having an affair (of course in hindsight we now know that you can still be one of the best presidents of all time despite that). After he dropped out, I wasn’t sure who would get my first ever vote.

Then Walter Mondale picked Geraldine Ferraro to be his running mate. The two of them made an appearance on our university campus and I was mesmerized by their campaign speeches. I couldn’t believe I was going to get to cast my vote for a woman…and I did. Sadly, the team of Regan and Bush ate Mondale and Ferraro for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert. I think they even washed them down with after-dinner drinks. It was probably the biggest landslide in history (I’ll have to check that out to see if it’s true - so don’t quote me on that!).

And worse than that loss is that fact that my very first presidential election was to be number one of five times I would find myself casting a vote against a Bush.

I just knew that if there was ever a woman candidate again in my lifetime, she would get serious consideration and likely get my vote. Shoot, back then, I even thought I might give my vote to a republican woman. I don’t know if I could ever really do that now that I’ve lived the life I’ve lived and watched the republicans do the things they’ve done.

I’m more than disappointed that it’s taken 24 years for another woman to even have a shot at being on the presidential ticket. So, since the candidates are generally equal (in my opinion), the vote goes to the woman. Let the matriarchy begin and let her offer the VP job to Barack. Even if he declines, that could get Hillary some extra credit points for at least trying to give the Democrats what we all really want - the dream team.

SIDE NOTE: If Barack does win the nomination, I feel certain he won’t pick Hillary as his running mate. There will be no dream team. But maybe he’ll pick Geraldine Ferraro? After all, she’s only 72, just a year older than John McCain.