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?