Happy Anniversary M & D!

The other night I had a conference call with my sisters. It was our annual sibling meeting to decide how best to celebrate our parents on their (46th) wedding anniversary and X-mas. The tradition is that one of us starts it off with an e-mail to the other three siblings. This year it was Middle Sis who got the bowling ball rolling with an excellent idea on how to honor M&D (mom and dad). It continues with a brainstorm Dairy Queen Flurry as we all chime in and try to settle on the best gift(s). This year we decided to pretend it was the first Saturday in April and that we were on the Diag at the University of Michigan and just get on the phone to hash(ish) it out. I sat in my recliner chair with a cat on my lap, Middle Sis sat in the hairstylist’s chair with a kid on her lap and Baby Sis sat amid 40 sheets of drywall as we agreed upon what to purchase for the man and woman who raised us.

NOTE #1: It’s okay if M&D read this because I’m certain they’re aware of this yearly ritual. Plus, I’m not giving away any secrets – at least about the gifts anyway.

NOTE #2: Bro didn’t join us on this year’s call. So for those of you doing the math, yes, there are indeed four siblings. Knowing little brother’s demanding job, he was probably on a plane to Germany or researching left ventricular failure and survival in cardiomyopathic gerbils (just kidding if you are reading this bro or sis-in-law!)

We quickly determined the best gift options and then moved on to sister chatter. As we closed the conversation, someone randomly brought up 70’s music and how the three of us know it so well. Baby Sis suggested it was because our basement juke box was filled with it when we were growing up. Please mister please, don’t play B17, it was our song, it was his song, but it’s over. Yup, we were too young to know what the song meant but this oldie but goodie from Olivia Newton-John’s Have you Never been Mellow album was strategically placed in our juke box at, imagine that, B17.

If you’ve been reading this blog since its inception, you know that music has always been a part of my life. For my younger siblings, it may have begun with the juke box; but for me, it began in the early 1970’s with my Uncle Al’s album collection. I was 8 and he was 12, and I wanted to be cool like him and listen to Cheech and Chong’s Sister Mary Elephant as well as all of that country rock, like Lynard Skynyrd and The Allman Brothers. I remember the Eat a Peach album cover and thought it was so cool that I might live in Georgia one day. Little did I know that I would later (as in last weekend) have the opportunity to encounter the man who created the album cover art work – an amazing man named Flor Noi plays with a local band called the Flying Mystics. Doc B. and I heard him play last weekend.



By 1976, I was 12, going on 10. I thought it was pretty cool that our mom and dad let us listen to Rod Stewart’s Tonight’s the Night. We couldn’t figure out why our friends weren’t allowed to listen to it. My friend Julie said her parent’s didn’t like part of the lyrics, something about spread your wings and let me come inside. I just didn’t understand what was wrong with an angel wanting to come in from the cold? And then by the time we got to 1977, we were out skateboarding and I asked Julie if she wanted to join us. Julie’s mom was against it because it wasn't safe, AND her mom also wouldn’t let her listen to Peter Frampton’s I’m in You. I wonder why?

Anyway, the bottom line is that my sisters and I know and love 70’s music. And our very cool parents didn’t stifle or censor our enjoyment of it. They didn’t force us to love Peter, Paul, Mary or Johnny Mathis; they let us discover our love for them all on our own.

I love you M and D and I hope tomorrow is the best anniversary ever! Your 4 children and 5 grandchildren love you dearly…

Veterans Day 2009

Here are some special pictures sent from Viet Nam just for me - beer and chicken!





Veterans Day - 11/11/09. 12 days and blubbering, I mean counting, until Doc. B. returns from Viet Nam. Of all of the days since she’s been gone, this one has been the hardest – because it’s Veterans Day AND it’s the first day since she left that I didn't have the distraction of work AND it’s the first day that I’ve not made plans with anyone. Well, on second thought, I didn’t have to work this past Sunday but I did enjoy bright sunshine and Fat Tire beer at the U-Joint with D and K. Today I haven’t spoken to anyone (Facebook doesn’t count) other than the lady behind the dry cleaning counter. I told her Friday would be perfect for my new Squash Blossom pants to be hemmed. And maybe, since Doc. B. is gone, I’ll wear those new pants with some borrowed engineer boots that are looking grand yet lonely in the upstairs closet – don’t tell! If all of the stars are lined up just right, the only other person I’ll talk to today is Doc. B. – we’re going to see if we can get "Skype" to work!

The cat’s on my lap as I type. He’s been following me around all day wondering when I’m going to make up my mind and stick my butt in one chair. Of course this is long after he spent a good hour wondering when I was going to get up this morning. Apparently 6:30am on a non-work day wasn’t good enough for him. The Decatur Police department could pull a good set of paw prints off the bedroom door if they could work around the scratch marks. That’s how I started my day, with meowing and clawing at the bedroom door.

It’s exactly 12 hours ahead in Vietnam. So when I got up, my hope was that I could clean up the house (that Doc. B would have been embarrassed to see), swiff up all the cat hair, make some fresh ghee and set my mindspring account to check for new e-mail every 5 minutes in hopes of hearing from Doc. B. (before she and the other Viet Nam travelers tucked in for the night). I lucked out and got a quick e-mail at 9:00am, 9:00 pm, Hoi An time. I was now free of any responsibility for the remainder of the day. Unless you count feeding the cats, which I did.

My 40 minute jog this morning was at the gym. And since I wasn’t there at 5:30am like usual, I didn’t know anyone and didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t even see (Hanoi) Jane or any of the other famous people that go to the gym mid-day. It was one of those mornings where I could have gone on jogging forever. The rain was coming down outside, the iPhone was charged and humming one of my favorite playlists, there was hardly anyone in the cardio room to see my body jiggle, and the Fresh Prince of Bel Air was on one of the overhead televisions. What more could you ask for?

After the gym, my intention was to go to the Decatur cemetery for a Veterans Memorial Day service. Instead, as I watched the rain fall, I turned on CNN to watch our President lay a wreath at the tomb of the unknown. His speech made me think. He remembered a time when our nation betrayed a sacred trust with our warriors. He recalled that Viet Nam Vets had come home to no thanks or help but rather neglect (I’m taking liberties). But he did pledge that under his watch, this would "never happen again." He further promised to "take care of our own."

This then got me to thinking about the Fort Hood victims. All week, I’ve been wondering about that crazy shooter and when someone would "take him out." Would it happen by the hand of some hospital worker (like on that recent House episode)? Or would it have to wait until he went to prison (like Jeffrey Dahmer)?

Then I took a break from my thinking to eat a late lunch and look at Doc. B.’s upcoming itinerary. On Sunday, their group will be visiting the Thien Mu Pagoda, the home Pagoda of peace teacher Thich Nhat Hanh. And the pondering began again. As much as I despise what the shooter did, is he a victim too? Whether it was his religion, how he was raised, his ethnicity, harassment from other military personnel, or some other reason we’ll never know, isn’t he also a victim of sorts? From what I’ve read, he’d never been in combat, but I understand now that you don’t have to see battle in order to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. I don’t know the answer, but I do know that I’m seeing things from a very different perspective after witnessing Doc. B.’s preparations for this reconciliation journey to Viet Nam.

If the thought of considering the shooter a victim sickens you, like it did me earlier this week, consider these words of Thich Nhat Hanh who considers compassion a verb:

"When another person makes you suffer, it is because he suffers deeply within himself, and his suffering is spilling over. He does not need punishment; he needs help. That's the message he is sending."

Cheers to all of our Veterans...

What I Need

I'm 45 now...I don't need anyone telling me what I need. Yet at every turn, I'm being bombarded with just that. But you know what, my parents don't even tell me what I need anymore. They just support me in what I choose to need - and in the end, isn't that all we care about, what our parents think? Well, let's be truthful here, what our moms think?

I've been saving the below Wachovia letter for the perfect blog entry but I was just too pissed to write anything related to it. I had to wait for the anger to pass before I could attach any logical words. Whether or not the following is logical will have to be decided by my dear readers (or my dear reader, my mom, and that's okay since all that matters is what she thinks).

So I've gone ahead and let the straws build up on the camel's back. And now my ramblings are being book-ended by Wachovia and the Jehovah Witnesses... or is it Witnessea? (I never did get my Latin right, but I sure loved my Latin teacher). Either way, you can always count on either of these two organizations to drive you to blog...or consider forging narcotic pain medication prescriptions. Thankfully the former came first.

Wachovia had the nerve to tell me that they know what I need “in times like these.” And by “in times like these” did they mean “when another department within our company decides to reduce your home equity line to zilch”? Because that’s exactly what they had just done not two days prior.

Yup, that’s right. Just as we were about to sign on the dotted line to have a screened porch added to the back of our house, Wachovia decided that our casa was worth nada. And while our house was worth nothing and therefore had no equity, they could still offer us a credit card with a “generous credit line,” no annual fee and 0% APR. No thanks. We’ll just save up our own cash and reduce our need to use Wachovia as much as possible.

So when the below pamphlet fell out of the front door jam today, the need thing just blew up again. You see, the Jehovah Witnesses know how families can really be happy and they think you need to know.

Apparently, if you are a white heterosexual (assumedly) male, all you need in order to enjoy family life is a boy in queen-looking white overalls (preferably made by Oshkosh B’Gosh), a girl in a toile jumper, two white dogs, a cockatiel, a blue button-up shirt and a wife who likes to wear hoop earrings and sundresses while sitting at your feet and looking directly at your belt.

By the way, there is also a key to happiness needs assessment for black males and Asian males included in this publication. However, I thought that would be not only overkill but excessive advertising material for the JW’s if I were to post it here. However, feel free to drop by and review this publication yourself. It will be in a stack on the coffee table in the love pit, right between copies of the Yoga Sutras and Vegetarian Times right next to my edition of The Torah and my friend’s girlfriend’s recent book entitled Sin, Sex and Democracy.

Okay, so I don’t own a copy of The Torah...but I’ve always wanted to so just go with me on this one and pretend. Afterall, we all need to pretend now and again don't we?

Retox

Of all the things I missed during my detox, it was the salt shaker I craved the most. Not the alcohol. Not the coffee. Not the pizza. Not the diet coke. Not the popcorn. The dang salt shaker is apparently what rules my life. But you know what? If you cut out the pinches of salt for 10 days, you actually start to taste other flavors...and enjoy them.

And along that same pimento dotted line...I've been asking for green, salty balls, I mean olives, from Santa Claus since at least 2nd grade (and getting them in my stocking). But I didn't have a single juicy, mouthwatering, sumptuous olive for over two whole weeks. That's a damn long time without fulfilling my olive addiction. And then I promptly put them in an Aviation gin martini. Wait, maybe the gin is the addiction? Oh and did you know that you can spell "I love" with the word "Olive?"

Seriously though. It really wasn't as bad or as difficult as I thought it would be. Unlike other fasts or detoxes I've tried, I was actually permitted to eat food this time. Sure, it was a little bland at first, but I got used to using my new favorite condiment: Bragg's Liquid Aminos (like soy sauce but better for you).

I also had more energy than I expected and was able to do some form of exercise on 9 of the 10 days. The only day I skipped was a Saturday when I worked from 6am until 1pm and then had a hair appointment from 2pm until 5pm (yes, it takes 3 hours to cover up my gray hair). I for sure didn't want to sweat after spending three hours in the salon with Pam from Novi - my favorite hairdresser for the past ten years.

So when it was all said and done, I'd lost 13 pounds in 10 days. The science and math-type people in my life of course had to remind me that it was caloric-ly impossible for me to have actually lost that many pounds but what do they know? Just because they have Ph.D.'s and J.D.'s and such. Okay, so as of this morning, I had gained "a couple" of those pounds back. But heck, if I can keep even 5 of those pounds off, it would be something I hadn't been able to accomplish over the past year.

The other plus of the detox? I set foot into Kashi Atlanta for the first time ever and my feet didn't burn. And I got to see what all the fuss was about regarding Swami Jaya Devi. I was determined never to "go there" because it just "had to be a cult." But I said to myself "what the heck? I can resist the temptation to drink the Kool-Aid."

So what does Swami do the very first yoga class I attend? Yes, the one that is mat to mat packed with at least 45 people (the age I will attain tomorrow - in case you were wondering, in the social security world, one attains his/her age on the day before his/her birthday). So what does she do? She smiles at me. She talks directly to me. She says things like "take CARE of yourself...put down anything that is too heavy to CARRIE." And I'm hooked. I suddenly realize why it was such a big deal when Doc. B. was walking to a different yoga studio (Jai Shanti) and along the way passed Swami Jaya Devi who said "ah...I see you're going to yoga." And Doc. B was all a twitter wondering how the heck Swami knew the intended destination!? Okay, so then Doc. B remembered that the yoga mat bag over the shoulder may have been a dead giveaway. Oh well, it makes for a great story anyway.

The only disconcerting part of the 10 days was the discussion of bowel movements that seemed to follow me around like an annoying piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my flip flop. Why did everyone think I was the guru of gastrointestinology? Why was everyone compelled to tell me about the number of times they went number two or didn't go number two? I guess I have that non-judgmental look about me...if they only knew.

So here I am in our kitchen, at the culmination of the 10 days, pointing out to Doc. B (not Doc. BM) that I need something that is not beans, rice, cream of buckwheat, ghee, Castor oil or Kitchari. I wonder if I'll do this again? Anyone with me next time?

Happy first day of fall to one and all!

A Bit of a Headache

It's almost bedtime and the only negative sensation so far is a bit of a headache. Kali and I hit the Morningside Market this morning and on the trip there I told her I didn't think I'd miss having coffee. Well, I didn't miss it but apparently my body did. Other than that, so far...so good...

The picture above shows what came in the environmentally friendly bag of treats I received last night at Kashi Atlanta. And there was a very helpful packet of information that we all went over. I took the Dosha test and confirmed for the 18th time that I am, with extreme certainty, a Kapha body type. By the way, there's only one test I've taken more times than this Dosha test (the Myers-Briggs type indicator) and it always proves that I am an ISTJ.

After the Morningside Market, we went to a yoga class that was mat to mat crammed with at least 40 people. Then I went and got a pedicure before I hit Sevananda for the rest of the food I'll need for the 10 days. Kali volunteered to make the ghee (clarified butter) and I was lucky enough to get to see her boys when I went to her house to pick it up (her oldest now has a mustache and her youngest has mono - how cute!)



This picture includes some of the things I picked up at Sevananda. Quinoa, split yellow peas and creme of buckwheat.



Guess I can't make the recipe on the back of the creme of buckwheat box. Oh well...

Tox and Detox

It took me until I was 40 to be able to keep my weight in check while also feeling like I could enjoy life. Doc. B's been cooking us some really healthy meals and I've been working out almost every day and pouring the wine. I'm going to guess that I've not gone more than a week without having an adult beverage (and that might have been our yoga trip to Guatemala a year and a half ago). But I've also not gone more than two to three days without some type of exercise. And when I have a crappy day of eating, I don't stay in that mode (like I used to).

It's now my birthday month and in a few weeks, I'll hit 45. That "half way to 90" thing feels like a pretty big milestone. Seems like a good reason to do some diet and exercise tweaking. You know, to make sure the weight doesn't creep me up out of the size 12's I've been wearing for the past 5 years. Yeah, size 10 would be nice, but anytime I've been "that small," people tell me I look anorexic. I think I was a size 10 in 8th grade and then one more time again when I was in my late 20's...since then it's been size 12...14...or 16 (the above picture, taken in about 2000, was for sure at least pushing size 16 if not already there).

So with Doc. B. in San Francisco for a meditation retreat over labor day weekend, what better time for me to make a few changes? Kali suggested I do a 10 day detox with her...and I foolishly (?) agreed. She's had to hand-hold me a bit, but I'm in. It's now 10pm on the eve of the start. And here's the "advertisement" for the program:

"Feel refreshed, lose weight, boost your immune system, and have more energy while you learn about how yoga and nutrition clean and balance the body’s systems. Join Swami Jaya Devi and get your body back on track with a Ten Day Yoga Detox. Full package includes: mini workshops, daily yoga class, special 10-day healing meditation, breathwork, nutrition, semi-fast, herbal liver, kidney & colon cleanses,...and more!"

Here's what I'll be doing...

"Ten Day Program: September 4-14, 2009

Opening workshop (includes information for all ten days):
Friday, September 4 from 6:00-7:30pm
Mid-course workshop:
Thursday, September 10 from 6:00-7:30
Closing workshop:
Monday, September 14 from 7:30-9:00pm

Ten-Day Yoga Pass
Kidney Cleanse
Semi-Fast
Colon Cleanse
Liver Cleanse
Immune Boost
Hydrotherapy
Ten-Day Healing Meditation
Yoga Detox Sadhana Card
Detox Breathwork"

So as I head to bed with a belly full of wine and macaroni and cheese, wish me luck!

Self-Furloughed

Yeah, yeah. I've heard it all now:

"Are you doing your blog anymore?"

"I haven't seen anything on your blog recently; what's up with that?"

"You know, I'm going to lose interest and delete you from my favorites if you don't keep writing."

"WTF? Are you raising your rates on the blue mailbox, just like the United States Postal Service does every other day? Are we going to have to pay you to write funny, self-effacing, publication-worthy stories?"

Okay, so no one actually said that last one, unless you count me reading the cat's mind.

The truth is, I inadvertently took a self-imposed furlough for the summer. It all started back at the beginning of June with me going to my regularly scheduled therapy appointment. When I arrived at my usual every-other week 6pm time slot, I realized it was making me mentally sick to even think about the 50 minute sessions. The pressure of having to come up with something to talk about, and then realizing I had more than that hour's worth of discussion fodder, was starting to get to me...I decided, as I pulled up in front of the building, that I would take the summer off from therapy.

Thankfully, my therapist agreed that she supported this decision and then we both acknowledged that this was probably the most spontaneous I'd been in the past 16 years. Well, unless you count the time I almost called in sick to work because it was a nice day outside but then chickened out at the last minute and still got to work on time. Or the time I said I wanted pizza for dinner and then all of the sudden changed my mind and decided that I really wanted sushi.

So I made my next appointment for September, gave my therapist a hug, and walked out of her office carrying a huge, helium-filled ball of relief.

With this major decision behind me, I started randomly, and not too consciously, taking the summer off of other things too. If I didn't make it to the gym 6 days a week, 5 was okay. If I didn't get to work until after 8am, so what. If I wanted to buy Rosetta Stone and practice my Spanish, okay. If I decided to sit out on the back deck and watch the squirrels dangle upside down trying to get to the bird food, so be it. And if I felt compelled to read my friend's copy of Atlas Shrugged (the 1000+ page book by Ayn Rand), I'd do it (well, I'm only on page 608, but I'll get there!). In the midst of all of this vacationing from my normal routines in life, the blog got put on the back middle eye of the six burner stove - that's the one that only gets used at Thanksgiving. Does anyone really ever use all six burners unless it's a holiday?

So here I am, with no postings in June or July. This is the first time since Opening Day of the Blue Mailbox that there has been a month, let alone two, without a post. I just couldn't let it get to three. And my self-imposed furlough ends in a week anyway. The cool thing is that I'm writing because I want to, not just because I want there to be a post on the blog...

So here's to the end of summer vacation - cheers with a jaeger and a beer chaser!

Addendum to last post

Mom made a trip to the Log Cabin Animal Hospital today! They are still open and even have the same phone number that's on the health record of the last post (if you click on the photos/documents in the last post, you can see them better!)

The Vets who owned the place 21 years ago have retired. No one there now worked there 21 years ago...

Thanks Mom!

Mad Dog Slide Show

This little old cat, formally but rarely called Madison, just turned 21 on 5/12/09. What is that, about 125 in human years? She's been through heaven, hell, purgatory, and back again at least 8 times. And I'm only saying that because she's WAY outlived her allotted nine lives. And I’m also saying that because I’ve been telling Doc. B. since 1987 that Maddie is on her death bed. I guess it’s all that feeding, watering, pill jamming, petting, lovin', touchin' and squeezin'…Yes… Journey has been a part of her life.

The above vaccination record is hard to read, but trust me it begins with an office visit on 7/12/88 when she was just 8 weeks old. She was an addition to the family at the time. My friend Tina and I had already adopted Murphy a few weeks earlier (who lived to be a sweet old man of 17) and she was taking him in for a check-up. When Tina arrived at the vet's office - Log Cabin Animal Hospital in Battle Creek, MI - she discovered that the previous night, a litter of four kittens had been dropped off at their doorstep. Tina couldn't resist putting a hold on Maddie (whom she wanted to name Byron, but thank goodness Maddie turned out to be a girl). We brought her home when she was just four weeks old. Tina, to this day, continually repeats the statement "and I picked her out." And who wouldn’t want to claim credit for this cat that was so dang cute and lovable? She would amble up to just about anyone and always wanted to be in your face, literally. She would climb up your pant leg or even the drapes just to kiss, okay lick, your cheek. This was probably because the first 4 weeks of her life were spent with the happy women at the vet's office. These bubbly ladies must have loved and doted on the entire litter. Oh, and we figure they must have made coffee every morning too because, since she was a kitten, Maddie would come running to the kitchen every time she smelled mocha java brewing.

When she first came home to St. Mary's Lake, she had to get used to Papa Smurf (Murphy). And of course Murphy had to get used to her too. But eventually they developed a very loving and playful relationship, though it took some time, some fighting, some ground standing, some giving in and some posturing. Isn't that what we all hope for if we just hang in there long enough to make it work?

This is the first house that Maddie ever lived in, on St. Mary's Lake in Battle Creek, and the first house that I ever owned. I bought it for $12,000 and also got an $8000 home equity line so that I could do some upgrades. I think the house cost was exactly the same as the price tag on my very OWN first new car - a Pontiac Sunbird. I purchased that sporty red car (along with a “bra” for the front bumper) with money from my first job AND with money from the very bad deal I made on selling the Ford Pinto that my parents gave me. Okay, Dad...I know I made a bad deal, but thanks for not being too mad at me - it did help out a fellow employee at the Cristo Rey Community Center before he crashed it a few months after buying it.

Maddie’s had a number of nicknames over the years (Mad Dog, Madder, Maddie Maddie Kitty Catty, Toonces, Chicken, Tuna, Tuna Breath, and Sweet Feet to name a few). But in all of her 21 years, she’s only had one favorite toy. It's never been lost this whole entire time. Here’s a picture of Maddie with "Bag." This little yellow pin cushion was part of an old sewing kit that had been left at the St. Mary’s Lake house by the previous owner. When Maddie was younger, she would play fetch with it for hours. In her old age, she simply carries it around in her mouth, pretending she’s brought home a dead chipmunk (I can only guess), all while screaming out this awful howling noise. We have to hide it from her most of the time because it’s so loud and shrill. NOTE: sometimes I give Maddie her Bag Toy when Doc. B. isn’t looking just to see how long Doc. B. can stand it.

She’s also witnessed many personal events and milestones. All of my siblings have gotten hitched during Maddie’s life. All of my nieces and nephews have been born during Maddie’s life. My parents celebrated both their 30th and their 45th wedding anniversaries. And here I am with my grandma and grandpa O. after receiving my master’s degree. Maddie has been there through the passing of all four of my wonderful grandparents and even for the passing of my great grandma Edna. By the way, Maddie doesn’t even mind if you get tears on her fur so long as you continue to pet her while you cry.


Maddie’s lived with me in two states (Michigan and Georgia), five cities (Battle Creek, Atlanta, Norcross, Avondale Estates and Decatur), and eight houses/apartments (St. Mary’s Lake, Westminster Way, Briarcliff Rd., Peachtree St., Stratford Dr., Mimosa Place, 14th St. and 2nd Ave.). Here are two forced photos of Maddie, Murphy and me in two of our eight homes.

And while I’ve gone off to every one of the 12 jobs I’ve held during the course of Maddie’s life, she’s had no problem staying at home to keep the bed warm. And not that keeping the bed warm would/should remind me of all the dates and relationships I’ve had during Maddie’s life, but I guess it did. However, unlike the states, cities and houses, I decided not to count them all. Why? Two reasons: 1) it would go beyond my ten fingers to try, and 2) it’s the relationship that I’m in currently that counts the most at this point in my life. Yes, ALL of the others have had an impact, large or small, but I want to be in this one for the long haul (hint, hint Doc. B.).

Here is one of my favorite pictures of Maddie. It was taken by a great friend who not only pre-dates Doc. B., but also shares my love of basketball and Jagermeister. Oh wait, that could be almost any of my friends – well, you…taker of the photo… know who you are. So here’s to Maddie, with a shot of Jager and a beer chaser, who in her 21 years on this earth has never had any qualms about where I lived, where I worked, who I dated, how much I weighed, how much I drank, how I dressed, what my hair looked like, what people called me, how depressed I was, how happy I was, or how old I got.

three more beautiful things

1. sleeping in until 7am without a Maddie cat waking me up (wait, I like Maddie cat waking me up)

2. not having to share the popcorn with Doc. B. (wait, I like sharing the popcorn with Doc. B.)

3. taking my own lunch and beverage down to the Sea Crest Deck (wait, I like it when someone brings me lunch and a beverage).

Hmmm...I guess some beautiful things aren't always FULLY beautiful :)

three beautiful things

This is just a random post to counteract the negativity of yesterday's ridiculous things.

With a shout out to the blogsite "three beautiful things" here are mine for today:

1. taking a book to the laundry room to wait for the dryer and instead finding that someone had left a people magazine.

2. a glass of red wine while I read people magazine.

3. clean pajamas.

The Ridiculous Things

Now that I'm sober for the first time in 72 hours (no, not really mom), I can finally sit back and reflect on my first three days of vacationing all by my little, middle-aged, self. I started off with wonderful visions of reading, writing, sleeping in, exercising, basking in the sun, eating well, drinking low calorie beer during the day, drinking wine at night and just plain pampering myself. Most of those things have in fact been done, and even overdone, but this is my first time sitting down to write. And I'm only doing it because I thought the movie (Sunshine Cleaners) was at 4:30 - but when I got there I found out it started at 4:00 and they were already beyond the previews. Well, it's not that I haven't done ANY writing, I made a few notes in the very cool "reverse book" Doc. B. got me as a bon voyage gift but I hadn't done anything with the notes or written anything substantial.


Truth is, I've spent way too much time trying to get onto the internet. It's really almost sick. According to my statistical measurements, I can only get onto the web once every 18th attempt. Yeah, I'd say that qualifies as moderate to severe obsessive compulsive disorder complicated by generlized anxiety disorder and resulting in a major depressive disorder. It's again almost sick - the elated feeling I get when I am able to get onto the web. So this time, I decided I had to at least do something with all of the notes I'd made on the pages of my going away gift.


Interestingly, the notes had a common theme - ridiculous things. It all started because of the early Saturday Farmer's (Morningside) Market trip I made with Doc. B. before heading off on my vacation. I witnessed something I'd never seen before at a farmer's market - haggling. Doc. B. was chatting it up with one of the vendors about how to cook fiddlehead ferns while another customer was holding up a bag of beautiful field greens that were clearly marked $4.00. The customer had the nerve to say "Will you take $3.00 for these?" I looked at the vendor intently wondering what his response would be but instead I witnessed him become speechless. After a pause, the vendor said, "I guess so?" But then, the even more ridiculous thing was that the customer handed the vendor a ten dollar bill, collected his $7.00 in change and walked off with his chest high in air. I couldn't resist, I had to ask the vendor if he had ever experienced a bargaining customer before - he had to admit that he had not. But he brushed it off saying that he had 50 more of those bags in his truck and that he was hopeful that he'd sell them all that day. I just couldn't get past the fact that these are farmers who truck in their goods every weekend and may or may not make a decent living - depending on knowledge, mother nature, God, luck, or whatever/whomever they rely on to bring them a good crop. And of course, I didn't know anything about the customer, maybe he had just lost his job or was down on his luck - but come on, to haggle a farmer's market vendor out of a dollar? Ridiculous.



So here are more ridiculous things that I found in my notes::


That in 1983, a police officer tried to give me a speeding ticket for going 70 in a 55. At least he let me go when I said "Sir, I'm in a Ford Pinto, I don't think it even goes 55 let alone 70." I think I heard him chuckle as he was walking back to the cruiser. I guess he figured I might actually have a leg to stand on in court.



That it only took me 5 minutes of sitting down by the beachside pool to overhear the codes to every access gate in our complex, Sea Pines and Shipyard.



Reading a Nora Roberts book in your book club. Come on! Yes, I spent a joyous time down on the deck listening to the conversation of three women from Ohio and this was just one of the comments that made me almost want to laugh out loud. But I didn't because I wanted to keep eavesdropping - it was like watching a movie.



Talking louder to deaf people or foreign language speakers - like that's going to help. There were some French speakers in line in front of me at Subway and every time the sandwich maker didn't get a quick answer, she said it louder..."DO YOU WANT YOUR SANDWICH TOASTED?" If English were not my native language, I might know the words for subway toppings but I don't know if I would know the word for toasted?



That during my drive to Hilton Head, I listened to the entire length of a country song called "Tequila Makes her Clothes Fall off."



That Tiger Woods has to explain his losses to the media. Could you imagine if you had to justify your workday failures to the media?



Jogging in a Michigan State University t-shirt and saying good morning to two chatting walkers in UNC t-shirts and they don't even acknowledge me - sore winners!



That some old gas passing, cigar smoking, loud snoring man decided to sit on a beach chair right next to me when there were several other vacant options.



The beach deck chorus of the aforementioned snoring combined with cell phones ringing, messages texting, loud tallking, and bad singing (to whatever 80's song was playing on the iPod stuck in one woman's ear).




Thank goodness for the ocean breezes, the tree leaves blowing, the waves crashing and the kites flying! I hope you all are enjoying days filled with ridiculous things - like no power at our house in Atlanta :(

Everywhere a Sign

I've been collecting random photos on my phone and camera. You may recall that this all started with a picture I took of a sign that was posted at the Little 5 Points BP gas station advertising "free squeezes" (for a refresher, see my blog entry of 1/27/08). Since then, I've been snapping pictures, trying to figure out what to do with them. Here are just a few of those "signs" (and you may have to click on them to enlarge them so that you can see them better). I know, after 5 years of doing this blog, you'd think I'd know how to format the page and the pictures.



A SIGN YOU CAN SIT ON THE TOILET WITHOUT FEAR OF COOTIES:
This first one was outside of a restaurant. There was no advertising about the restaurant style or their food - only that the restrooms were sanitary. I thought this one was both funny and odd. And while I was curious, we didn't end up eating there.

A SIGN OF BALANCE... HAPPINESS, HARMONY AND CLOG-FREE DRAINS:
My camera phone didn't capture the full essence of this one. It's three, framed wall hangings that grace the unisex restroom at my hair salon. Because I'm at the beauty parlour once per month, I get to laugh at these regularly (and also get my People magazine fix). One has the Chinese character for harmony, another has the character for happiness, and the last one assumes you have no character at all by reminding you that there will be neither harmony nor happiness if you dare flush anything but toilet paper.




A SIGN YOU MAY NEED TO GO TO YOUR HAIR SALON MORE THAN ONCE PER MONTH:
My cashier at the downtown Decatur Kroger was OBVIOUSLY mistaken. I'm not even close to earning senior rewards am I? I mean, I'll take the discount and all, but is it going to mess up my Karma? Should I have told her I wasn't a senior? Would she have even believed me if my shopping spree happened to occur when I was in desperate need of a Miss Clairol appointment?



A SIGN YOU MIGHT DRINK TOO MUCH:
If your kitchen counter looks like this, you may have a problem. Oh wait, this was the New Year's eve aftermath so I think we can rule out a problem. Who's with me on this one? Probably the same people who have no problem implementing the "it's noon somewhere" rule on a regular basis.


A SIGN YOU MIGHT SMOKE TOO MUCH:
Or, "a sign you are trying to blow up yourself and your mother-in-law" - you be the judge. This is a photo I took while on a stop along the Blue Ridge Parkway. Yes, that's right - mountains, clean air, gentle breezes, a glass of pinot noir, a portable oxygen tank, and a cigarette. Sounds like a good combination to me.

A happy St. Patty's day to everyone and don't forget, the first day of spring is less than one week away!!!

Memories...like the coroners of my mind

As I wrap things up on the computer before meeting Doc. B. in the love pit for an episode of Grey's Anatomy, I'm realizing how much I still miss the HBO winner, "Six Feet Under." No t.v. show since has been able to replace the 6'U addiction I had. The photos alone speak for themselves. Don't tell me you can't physically feel the anguish and despair by simply glancing at that photo of Claire? And if you were going to live a life of social alienation, wouldn't you want to spend it driving around in a lime green hearse? It's just not the same with Meredith Grey and her ditzy Seattle Grace cohorts (Okay, it has a diffent appeal; I usually cry at the end of each episode, but it's still not the same).

So as is typical with this blog thing, it's just a big old stream of consciousness. Missing 6'U made me think of death. And death made me think of coroners. And since my mind won't stop with the plays on words, I went directly to "Memories, like the 'coroners' of my mind."

It's all because of that damn Facebook. Thanks a million ex-boyfriend for wanting to show me pictures of your new wife and making me sign up for Facebook just to see them. And thanks a lot baby sis for pushing me further into social networking darkness.

If you had asked me a couple of months ago to name 80 people that I know, I might have been able to come up with 35. But now, I have 80 friends ranging from Dolly Parton to two people I'd never heard of before they asked me to be their friend. It's a little unsettling.

But what's even more unsettling are the memories that get churned up each time I see the name of an old buddy or high school classmate pop up in a friend request. Some of the memories are pleasant and good, while others are not so palatable or totally gone. But either way the memories are there. There's a history with each and every facebook friend I have, well except for the two people I've never met. And yes, if you're wondering, I even have a history with Dolly Parton. She and I go way back and Pigeon Forge is on my "must visit" list. Who didn't love her in "9 to 5" and in the last season of "American Idol?" And who could forget that famous quote from Steel Magnolias: "Smile! It increases your face(book) value!"

If I were (subjunctively) worried about what people think, I guess I would have quickly undergone plastic surgery on my face(book) to remove the unwanted excess; or at least have had a little micro-derm abrasion. But since I'm not savvy enough to know how to limit what people can and can't read in my profile, I guess it's all out there. I'm figuring if someone wants to be my friend, they can handle my truths.

But that being said, its one thing to write "25 random things" about yourself for your true pals to read but it's another to have 80 of your "closest" friends read that stuff. Not that Dolly Parton cares about my 25 things, or that anyone does for that matter. But do I really want the high school boyfriend who dumped me over 20 years ago to read them? Or the friend who put me in my place when I called her "Carolyn" vs. "Carol" to read them (name changed to protect the innocent)? Or the high school classmate who I cheated off of in the 10th grade to read them? Or the high school classmate who I don't even remember and had to look up in the yearbook to read them?

It took me to age 44 to get here, but it has finally sunk in. It really doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. I can just be me and if others don't like it, I guess they can block me on facebook or give me the cold shoulder in real life...if I ever even see them again (perhaps at the Stagecoach in Marshall).

NOTE: If you are reading this by invite - it's all good. You are not the boyfriend that dumped me, you are not "carol," I did not cheat off of you and I remember you :)

I Was There! And I brought my cat!

I went to work yesterday morning and plopped my backpack in its usual spot on the side chair. There were so few people at work and it was so quiet that at around 9:30 I could hear my cell phone vibrating from inside my backpack. It was Baby Sis calling direct from the Washington, D.C. Mall. I was so excited to hear from her on inauguration day that as soon as I hung up, I called Doc. B. to share the news. Doc. B., in a classic channeling of Grandpa Albert, said "Why is she out shopping on such an important day?" I had to chuckle and pass out a big A+.

At about 10:00, I filled out my vacation leave slip and made my way to the inauguration. That's right, I was there! Right there cemented onto my very own comfortable couch, the one with my butt print solidly centered on the left cushion. The temperature was 68 degrees with no wind chill, but I kept a turtle neck on just so that I could better empathize with those that were standing in view of the Capitol. Rumi the cat also sat on my lap to keep me warm and witness history.

I saw Diane Feinstein introduce our new president:



It was nice to see Diane since I hadn't seen her since Christmas. That's when mom, dad, Doc. B. and I saw her in the Harvey Milk movie.

I saw Justice John Roberts feed Barack the wrong oath line:


Then I witnessed a great speech that included many favorite lines. From not apologizing for our way of life, to reaching out a hand to those who will unclench their fists. From proclaiming an end to petty grievances and false promises to picking ourselves up and dusting ourselves off (the latter is one of my favorite sayings from when Kali's boys were young!).




And I can't write this blog without a comment on Rick Warren's invocation. I thought it was going along well until he spoke the Obama kids' names in that weird way. It was just "icky" for lack of a better word.

And how cute was Reverend Lowery :) Did you see the cut to the president with a little smile on his face when the Reverend started talking about the colors of the rainbow?

The bottom line for me is "Happy New Year!" I felt like today was the start of a new year, a new era, a new everything. Or not? Because we still have Rush Limbaugh, hoping Barack will fail, to remind us that not everything is going to change with a new (p)resident in the White House.

Note: all photos courtesy of my AT&T, formerly Cingular, formerly Bell South cell phone and our 1995 Sony monster T.V. (who needs a flat screen plasma?!)