Christmas Past, Christmas Present, Christmas Future?

Two years ago, Honey gave me my first digital camera for Christmas, a Cannon SD800 Elph, and I've run with it. I was never much of a photographer, but thanks to the miracle of digital photography, it's rapidly becoming a hobby of mine. I'm teaching myself how to compose shots. I have a photographer friend with whom, some afternoon I'm going to go on a photo safari, and at some point, I'd like to get a consumer copy of Photoshop so I can edit my work. Thanks to my new hobby, I've begun looking at the mundane with fresher, more curious eyes. It feels good.

One of the gifts I got for Christmas this year was an all-in-one printer/scanner/photo printer. I've taken all these wonderful photos, but they still live on my laptop, or in some cases, cyberspace. It would be fantastic to finally start framing some of them and dressing the very naked walls of our house. Yesterday, I spent about an hour and a half scanning old photos from my childhood. There are hundreds more to go, but I knocked out quite a few. Including some from Christmases past. The image on the right is one such photo. It's from 1988. (I'm the amber-mopped tomboy in the orange tie-dye shirt, near the center.) Our family flew down to Mexico City to spend the holiday with our many cousins there. It was the first time I'd been on a plane since I was pre-literate, and I remember being afriad to fly. Then the downing of PanAm 103 a day or two before our departure convinced me that our deaths were imminent.

It's inevitable this time of year that my thoughts turn to past Christmases and reviewing old pictures certainly aid the nostalgia. Christmas isn't as fantastical for me as it once was, and I'm trying to figure out why. It's not the Santa thing. I never believed in Santa. If not yet the why, I can at least pin down when Christmas started losing some of its pixie dust. Junior high.

1988 was probably the last truly exciting Christmas for me. I was 12. Before we flew to Mexico City, we stopped in Dallas to spend Christmas Eve with my mom's side of the family, like we did virtually every Christmas Eve. I played with my cousins, we ate the tamale dinner Grandma fixed us, watched whatever Christmas special was on TV, played board games, unwrapped presents ... Christmassy stuff. When we got to Mexico, the party really began. At my cousin Carlos' church, we played with no-bullshit pinatas; no papier mache Sesame Street characters. These pinatas were star-shaped, with shells made of terra-cotta and filled with sugar cane and peanuts. And they were massive. And there were many. When a piece of pinata pottery fell on my brother's head, he sought my mom's arms for comfort until he realized that every other kid was getting beaned by breaking pinatas, and went back in. Pinatas are not for the permission-slip happy American weak in Mexico. For days we were surrounded by family. We ate good meals every night. There was laughter everywhere. The gifts we got were either homemade - like the crocheted clown doll my aunt made me - or typically Mexican-craft like the leather purse I got. I was introduced to new traditions like Dia de los Tres Reyes and la rosca. The former is also known as Epiphany or Three Kings Day, the traditional 12th day of Christmas when the wisemen's visit is celebrated. La Rosca is the bundt-like cake served on January 6, though we did ours early, on the first (we ate several, come to think of it); a baby charm is placed in the cake and whoever gets it has good luck. In Mexico City, I was tickled to discover that for every kiosk set up on the city square with Santa offering to listen to Christmas wishes, there were two or three kiosks of the magi offering to do the same. Christmas is when you get your little gifts, there; Epiphany is when you get your "real" gifts. It's something we kind of adopted when my family went broke. Our gifts were never huge to begin with - a cassette from a band I liked was usually the extent of it - but extending the gift-giving until Epiphany bought my family a little time time to buy on sale. 1988 was a Christmas brimming with non-stop celebration. It was the last one I can remember like that.

Within a month, we'd moved across the state; Dad had entered the ministry full-time (an overall great move for him, but a damper on Christmas from then out) and there was no doubt about it: puberty had completed its angsty takeover of my body. From a celestial high to a rocky low. There are many things I like about Dad being a minister: he's a good preacher; he's a great listener and a wonderfully sympathetic man; it's his passion; he's knowledgable about context (and thus not literalist). However, the one thing I really don't like about him being a minister is that he's tied to whatever church he's serving for Christmas Eve.

When I was 13, I was devastated to learn that we would not get to drive up to the panhandle or to Dallas to spend the evening with mom's entire family as I had every Christmas Eve of my life until that point. We had to stay put for our church's candlelight service. I love Chistmas Eve candlelight services. After all the happy songs, the readings and prayers, when the lights go down and the sanctuary is filled with scores of tiny flickering flames and we're all singing "Silent Night" and then the accompanist stops so that we're all just singing a capella ... damn, there are few things finer. But to be compelled to stay? Couldn't this church just wing it without a minister for Christmas? Come ON! Christmas EVE! WTF?

From then on, Christmas became less magical. The songs in school, the games and the family hoopla began disappearing. We had to stay put, so Dad could preside over Christmas Eve services and we lived in such a remote part of the state that no one ever came to visit us for the holiday. (Which made me mad, as we often piled into the car on Christmas morning to drive 10 hours across the state to Dallas. Only to miss half the cousins, as they'd all returned home; and to miss the tamales, as they'd all been eaten. Why couldn't they reciprocate?) Christmas 1993 was a lovely anomaly, however, because 8 or 9 of our Mexican cousins came up and partied with us in our burg. They visited for a week. We spoke so much Spanish in the house that I actually dreamt in Spanish. (Era fantastico!)

These days, we have no set family gatherings with our extended families. His sister lives nearby, so we often visit her family. But I often feel something just one-off is missing. Our nephews have no cousins with which to play, so they either disappear to play on the computer or whine for attention. We adults don't play board games; we just talk about work and life and it's just ... a visit. My family lives in Texas, and with Dad unable to travel due to ecclesiastical duties, it's incumbent upon us to visit if we're to celebrate Christmas together - which we've only done once in the 10 years Honey and I've been Christmassing together. But even there, my brother just watches football and we just ... visit. No music and merriment. Honey's parents live on the West Coast. Sometimes they come out for Christmas or we go there, but it's just ... a visit. Once we played poker with his dad and nephews, and frankly that afternoon saved Christmas for me. It was so good to play something. My brother is marrying a girl from Wisconsin. He's up there now. She wants to never spend Christmas away from her family, so I have no idea if we'll ever get to see him for the holiday again. Which sucks. The older I get, the more disconnected I feel from family fun. Even when we see family, it seems so chaotic and not as cheerful as it used to be. I really, really miss playing boardgames with aunts and uncles. I miss the tamale buffet. I miss the cheesy holiday TV shows playing in the room where the kids are (ahem, please not around the adults). I miss poorly banging out "Joy to the World" on whosever piano is available. I think it's time to start some new more mobile Christmas traditions that bind us together. But I don't quite know which or how.

Honey and I have an accidental tradition of listening to David Sedaris read his "Santaland Diaries," either as we trim the tree or on Christmas Eve. Maybe I'll learn to make tamales like Grandma and insist on that wherever we go. Or maybe insist on more boardgames or puzzles. I love boardgames at Christmas. Christmas, for me, is about three big things: glittery cultural accoutrement, the breathless anticipation leading up to Christmas morning, and cozying up to family and enjoying eachother. Each feels like they're falling shorter as I grow older. I want to learn how to get the magic back.

I'm a Wreck Because of a Stupid Wreck

Right now would be a good time for a cry, but I can't quite bring myself to do it. Today sucked. I wish I could say it was a bunch of big, consequential things, but really, it was a bunch of little things that all revolved around a medium-sized thing and aggravated by some other things. Things! Things! Things! ARGH!

To begin with, it was rainy all day. Rain in the winter rarely inspires happiness. I began my day with a visit to my therapist for the first time in months. It was good catching up with her, but visiting reminded me of how in limbo I feel right now and I've got elephants in my room to deal with and the biggest one I really have very little control over and the other two I'm not sure I'm managing well. Basically, it sucked having to confront the uglies.

After therapy, and a light lunch, I headed to an exurb of the city to buy cheap liquor for my husbands' employees. He's a really good boss (IMHO) and gives his employees rum for the holidays each year. I'm happy to play Santa. But it was raining, and though I'm familiar with the route to this banal bedroom community, I hydroplaned instead of turning with the curve of the highway and crashed up on the median, head-on, driving over the reflector. I really think this threw me off all fucking day.
A stupid hydroplaning wreck.

I was rattled and humiliated. As soon as my car came to a stop - which it wasn't doing AT ALL as I applied the brakes - I called Honey. Don't know why; I probably should've called 911, but I was unhurt, the car was out of harms' way of other cars and the airbag didn't even deploy. I was bracing for it to, but it didn't. Fucking wreck. I could see it coming and I tried to stop it and there was little I could do. (How much of a metaphor for my health concerns these days is this, by the way??) I'm just glad I was in the outer lane that bordered the median, otherwise I would've almost certainly hit another car.

I called 411, since I wasn't hurt, but was placed on hold and as soon as I ... wait a second, I should've called 311 in a non-emergency. Shit. I couldn't even remember that. Anyway, as soon as I was hanging up with them to call 911, a fire engine pulled up behind me. The fireguy who looked like a short Dennis Quaid walked me through getting unstuck from the median, inspecting the underside of my car for damage, and refilling oil. I felt like such a dolt. Yeah, I was going too fast in the rain and I've not checked my oil level in months. Ugh. Driving off, I felt a mild tug on the driver's side front wheel, so Honey called to tell me about a nearby garage which was a few blocks from the liquor store.

But still, my plans were thrown off. Instead of getting to the liquor store, getting the rum and returning to do some shopping for Honey and family, as well as some much-needed proofreading, I had to take my car to the shop to make sure I'd survive the ride home. As it was near a mall, I decided to walk up to the mall, in the cold winter rain that turned my umbrella inside out at one point, and do a little shopping there. But I hate shopping malls, as a rule, and particularly during Christmas. I bought a few things for Honey, and then started looking for a new bra for me, but didn't find any in my fantastic new fit-just-for-me size. And I really hate that exurb and that mall. And it blew having to be stuck here when I knew the store I wanted to visit today was no where near this bloody leech-town.

The good news is that, though my front end was indeed thrown significantly out of alignment, the repair was manageable. Less than $100, which I guess is all I can ask for. The liquor store had all the rum I needed and gave me a discount. And I still had time to make more truffles when I got home tonight to bring with me to my show. And Honey, dear, sweet Honey, cleared his schedule for the afternoon and came home early to make sure I was alright.

But this stupid wreck threw off my groove for the whole bloody day. It began to feel like everything I touched broke. Seriously: two items I handled at the mall either broke or somehow didn't work right afterward; as I left for the show tonight, I dropped a glass bottle of tea on the floor as if it were a water wiener(almost shattered, but not quite); and during warm up, I screwed up a song for the team. Yea, me! I was going to have a good show, though. I could feel it. However ... As a whole, our show went well, but I wasn't pleased with my performance. My contribution was good, objectively speaking, but it just didn't feel good to me at all. What sucked worst was that after the show, people were so happy with how well it went and I just felt like I was was this side of awful. Frankly, I fell quickly into Debbie Downer mode and knew I needed to extract myself from people before I could really be a pain in the ass and they'd seek to drown me. So I fled. Not before feeding a few other people some chocolates.

It was such a minor wreck. The kind of thing people would normally blow off after the even. But it jarred me for the entire day. And I really wish I could just cry right now and have it done with, so I can have a good day and a good show tomorrow. Blech! Maybe I'll watch that video on YouTube about the British guys and their pet lion. That makes me cry.

3BT: avocation, aspiration, admiration

It was cold and alternately weeping rain today and into tonight. So, it feels like a good time to sit back and reflect a la Clare, on three beautiful things that popped out at me, today.

1. After an aggravating morning, I decided to call one of my best girlfriends, who lives a good 4 or 5 hours away, on my ride into work. She'd just loaded her kids in the car and was driving the 4 year old to preschool. I vented and ranted and she chimed in and offered her ear. We had a good visit, and we said our goodbyes as I pulled into my office driveway. Moments later she called me back. Her daughter had apparently asked who she was on the phone with, "Aunt Molly," she'd replied. "I want to go to Aunt Molly's house after school!" That turned my morning around

2.
I came across this today. A cousin of mine died almost 13 years ago from MD. This young man (who's already survived my cousin by 4 years) looks physically very similar to my cousin, though he has more use of his upper body, and more muscle mass, than my cousin did. Though I don't know if my cousin ever felt suicidal, there's no doubt in my mind that the mental anguish he carried must've been intense. However, like this young man, my cousin pursued all that his financial and physical resources allowed during his short time here. Seeing this interview reminded me of S and that being blessed is really a state of mind.

3. At a party tonight, a colleague told me that she loved some sweeping dance move that I and another performer improvised in a show a few weeks ago. Apparently, she's a ballet nerd and thought that we looked graceful and that I looked like I knew what I was doing and it just took her breath away. We didn't, of course. But I love that for once gravity was not my nemesis and I was evidently, if even accidentally, swanlike!

Chocolate Nutballs - The Recipe

Apparently, I made a few mouths drool with the talk of my chocolate nutballs and their picture. I've gotten requests for the treats themselves - only one of which I honored, because she happened to be in my kitchen and knows I'm easily overpowered - but I think Joe had the best idea: post the recipe.

For the last 5 or 6 years, I've been on Texas Monthly's weekly recipe list. Of the scores, if not hundreds of recipes I've gotten in that time, I think I've attempted only two or three. This recipe is one of them, reprinted here, complete with the text from the email, but the links are not hot:

You’ll find more recipes online at texasmonthly.com. You can also share recipes and food questions with other TEXAS MONTHLY readers at the Recipe Swap.

Chocolate-Grand Marnier Truffles

Recipe from Sierra Grill, Houston.

1 1/4 cups heavy cream
16 ounces Nestlé semisweet chocolate chips
1/2 cup unsalted butter
1/4 cup Grand Marnier or Bailey’s Irish Cream
Zest of 1/2 orange 1 1/2 cups pecans, ground or finely chopped

In a heavy, nonreactive pan bring cream to a boil. Immediately remove from heat and stir in chocolate and butter until smooth. Add liqueur and orange zest and chill overnight. Shape into 3/4-inch balls and roll in pecans. Makes 6 dozen.

****************

After my first attempt, I hesitate to call what I made truffles. Hence, labeling them chocolate nutballs (because I am nothing if not mature and referential). The consummate engineer, Honey had a good idea to help me create more attractive treats that I'd be proud to call truffles and not "nutballs." He suggested that instead of rolling them between my palms like I'd do modeling clay, that instead I seek some silicon mold of half-spheres - like a novelty ice-tray - and let the chocolate chill in that. Then when it's all chilled, marry the spheres together, maybe with a little water at the seam. Since I'll be out and about today, maybe I'll swing by Sur la Table and see what they've got in that vein.

With only half the chocolate mix, I believe I made about 55 balls, following the 3/4-inch ball rule. After Darla made off like a bandit with about two dozen of them, Honey decided we needed to make them bigger and rolled the rest of the chocolate into balls about 1.5" to 2" in diameter, mixing them not only with nuts, but with confectioners sugar. Good idea. Since these balls are bigger, they're more satisfying and I, for one, am less tempted to mindlessly pop one in my mouth as I am when they're smaller.

Though we had Bailey's at home, I opted to use Grand Marnier because it gave me an excuse to buy it. Insted of Nestle, I used Ghirardelli 60% cocoa, because we had a few bags of that lying around. I grabbed another bag of the Ghirardelli 60% bittersweet and a bag of their milk chocolate when I was at the grocery store Wednesday. I'll try those next. When I feel like I've gotten the process down pat, I'll try darker cocoa, white chocolate, fair trade chocolate, rum, kahlua, cordials that a friend brought me from the Caribbean: all sorts of variations until I'm known as the truffle-lady .... not just a little nuts.

Chocolate Nutballs - Tunes for Tuesday

Inspired by Virginia Gal's post of favorite Christmas songs, I decided to create my own list of some of my favorite Christmas songs. Not included are some favorite carols like "O Come All ye Faithful" or "Hark the Herald," mostly because I love singing those with a full congregation, or a group of people in the cold, holding candles. Better sung together than heard recorded.

I must admit that I don't have very many favorite Hanukkah tunes, mostly because I don't know many. Five maybe. I do like Woody Guthrie's Hanukkah songs. If anyone knows a bunch and wants to introduce me to them, I'd love to learn. I love singing songs of joy and happiness in the cold, bleak time that is winter. Makes it bearable. (This is why January and February suck: no good happy-fun-shiny songs to get us through.)

As for the chocolate nutballs? I tried my hand at Grand Marinier truffles this afternoon. I still have a few dozen left to make, but thought I'd share a photo with you good folk. It'll follow after my music summary.

1. Happy Christmas - John Lennon. "Let's hope it's a good one, without any fear ... War is over." What more do we want out of Christmas and the new year?

2. Baby, It's Cold Outside - Leon Redbone/Zooey Deschanel. Wanted the Ella Fitzgerald version, but decided on this. I love the seduction of this song - he gently begs; she's coy. And you know they're gonna do it all night long! Plus, I think her voice - which I find both fascinating and irritating - works well in this.

3. Mary's Boy Child/Oh My Lord - Boney M. This is just a great, jubilant carol to begin with, but I'm drawn to the Carribean disco.

4. Fairytale of New York - The Pogues. Aww. Angry Irish at Christmas. How adorable!

5. Christmas Wrapping - The Waitresses. Lonely hearts re-connecting to save Christmas? Yea!

6. Christmas is All Around - Bill Nighy (as "Billy Mack"). From "Love Actually." It's a dumb re-imagining of an already silly song. Which is why I enjoy it.

7. Santa Claus Got Stuck in My Chimney - Ella Fitzgerald. Oops!

8. Christmas is the Time to Say I Love You - Billy Squier. Like Christmas Wrapping, fun to bop along to.

9. Baby, It's Cold Outside - Ray Charles/Betty Carter. I enjoy that his begging is more overt. And I really love this song. In the search feature, Mixwit misguided me and said this was Nina Simone singing with him. Not the case, apparently. D'oh!

10. Do They Know it's Christmas? - BandAid. One reason, and one reason only: Bono singing, "Tonight be glad it's them, instead of you!" I thrill on the guilting. Who better to deliver that line than Bono? HY-larious! The reminder to consider the less fortunate during the season is fine, but being told this by a bevy overpaid egomaniacs is so wonderfully 1980s. 1980s!!

11. Merry Christmas from the Family - Robert Earl Keen. Everyone in Texas is related in some way or another to this family. If you can't identify a relative that would fit in this song, you ARE that relative.

12. The Christians and the Pagans - Dar Williams. The first song I ever heard from Dar Williams and ended up turning me on to her. I like that people try to find a away to relate through whatever commonalities they can.

13. Elf's Lament - Barenaked Ladies. Union now! Hermione Granger would love this!

14. Baby It's Cold Outside - Tom Jones/Cerys Matthews. Did I mention I REALLY love this song. (When I'm a megastar, I want to record this, not sure with who yet.) I like the disparity in their voices. He's so lecherous and she sounds not only juvenile, but mentally unstable. It's so predatory!

15. Happy Christmas - Polyphonic Spree. Just a cover of the first song. It's overly orchestrated and the end cacophonous, but who cares? I like this band.

16. Six to Eight Black Men - David Sedaris. Not a song, but a great story. Go ahead. Give yourself 15 minutes and give it a listen.

Here are the long-awaited chocolate nutballs!

Black Friday can bite me

Recently, two different friends emailed me a "get to know you" questionnaire with a Christmas theme. Since I'm a sucker for those time-killing, ego-stroking surveys, I set to work.

One of the questions in the survey asked what my least favorite part of Christmas was. That's easy: rampant, insidious consumerism! Obscene consumerism. You MUST spend lots of money on your loved ones. WANT! WANT! WANT! GET! GET! GET! CONSUME NOW! The spend-and-purchase messaging we're inundated with is repugnant and profane. Today, I can add to those adjectives, murderous. Come along ...

Black Friday, as the day after Thanksgiving day has become known, has long been the start of the holiday shopping season in the U.S. It's called Black Friday because this is the day when most retailers make enough money to move out of the "red," into solvency. This was something I learned a few years ago. Before, I thought "Black" Friday referred to the abyss of our souls; how else to explain how a nation can move from day of humble gratitude to harried greed in less than 24 hours?

Each year, stories of incivility in retail shops surface by the time the evening's news rolls around. Soccer moms getting into fist-fights over Chicken Dance Elmo, store clerks being berated by customers because an item has been sold out, the occasional shooting in the parking lot. It's shameful. This year a WalMart employee was crushed to death after he opened the doors of the store to let shoppers in. So eager to get a Wii or a Numi or whateverthefuck people are cravenly drooling over these days, were these shoppers that even as other co-workers tried to move to this poor man's aid, they had to fight to stay standing. The metal frame doorways of the WalMart were actually bent by the crush of the crowd. People wanted so badly to spend their hard-earned dollars on paltry shit at 5AM that they wouldn't even stop to help this man stand up. Who the hell are we? Frankly, that story makes me ashamed of my countrymen. Clearly, our desire to consume supercedes our desire for patience and our capacity for mercy.

Consumer spending is probably good for the economy, in general. But when are we going to recognize that rampant, careless consumption is baaaddd for our souls?

Christmas consumerism is particularly offensive because, the ostensible reason we're supposed to sate our bottomless greed is to celebrate the birth of the holy man who told us the meek would inherit the Earth, that it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter Heaven and that God was most pleased when we clothed the naked, fed the poor, visited the prisoner and generally tended to the "least" of those among us. Even if one celebrates Christmas in a purely secular fashion - which I suppose most do since it is more a cultural holiday than a religious one - it seems we can all agree that the assumed point of Christmas is to celebrate our loved ones and our time with our loved ones.

Gift-giving is fine. Good, actually. But how does it genuinely benefit anyone for one's kid or spouse or partner to get $1,000 worth of toys and goods on Christmas day? That there are wise shoppers out there who may spend that amount on gifts that will have a long lifespan, I do not doubt. But most gifts bought are simply upgraded the next year and disposed of. We are a nation disposed to the disposable goods. I, too, am a less thoughtful consumer than I should be. Can't and won't deny it. But I'm trying to improve. I'm taking baby steps to be more mindful of what I spend my money on and my motivations behind spending it in the first place.

The image at the top is from a documentary titled What Would Jesus Buy? The premise is that a performer named Reverend Billy visits temples of Mammon to exorcise them and call people's attention to their spending habits. I think I'll bump it to the top of my Netflix list. Something we can all do, next year anyway, is join the folks who choose to spend Thanksgiving Friday at home, doing a puzzle, reading a book, hanging with family and otherwise observing Buy Nothing Day. It seems the least we can do to honor the memory of Jdimytai Damour is to not be a part of the insanity that killed him in the first place.

Everything's Coming Up Milhouse!

Last month, I said that something had to change in my job situation and I'm happy to report that the change is now in progress.

Starting soon, possibly as early as the beginning of next month, I will be scaling back my hours to work part-time. I detested going back to my boss with my tail between my legs, after having asked for a promotion during the heat of the monster project, and after he'd moved the discussion along, the week prior, about moving me up the ladder. However, I can't deny the fact that my entire attitude about my job has changed. I'm not inspired, I'm strained and a zombie lately. I do want to progress my career, but I think, for my own sanity, I might have to do it at a slower pace than I'd originally liked. Additionally, I genuinely do want to foster some side sub-careers, if you will, because I'm not a person who is laser-focused on one interest. I'm a more ADD version of Ben Franklin, not a John Nash. I always struggle with maintaining interest in any one job or place of employment when winter rolls in. I am sunk by the cold and dark. It seriously affects me. I'm a solar-powered person; 5PM darkness and overcast days are not my friends. This, of course, affects my productivity. (Apparently, I'm not the only one.)

But the main reason I've wanted to scale back is make myself more available to my family and take care of my general and specific health. As it is now, I have to make an appointment any day I want to leave work on time. Not early. On time. Have to give everyone a big heads up that I might want to go home at the time we say we're going home. Even now, in the down season. If I were a Secret Service Agent, I'd understand that my job is not a job, it's a life. But I'm not. Even when I don't have massive deadlines hanging over my head, that kind of tyranny over my time is stressful. After visiting Dad for his second open heart surgery, I've pretty much decided I need to slow the frak down. He had his first heart attack at 38. 38! Not the road I want, and the highway traffic of genetics is already going against me. I don't want to be on the chopping block. No job is worth that to me. Honey has already weathered two very stressful surgeries with me in the last year, I don't need to add more for him to worry about.

I'm hoping to work 2 1/2 to 3 days a week, when I begin this new regimen. So what am I going to do with the extra time? So many things I can do! Look for other 3/4 to full-time jobs that either a) I can work from home and aren't as driven by deadlines (currently pursuing one), b) speak to my creative side, but I can leave directly at 5PM, so I can eat dinner with my husband more regularly and pursue performing without feeling like a jerk; bonus points if the job is in my industry or c) both. I also plan on writing more; getting my personal website to look more presentable and profitable would be a plus; start working with a voice-coach and start pushing for paying voice-over jobs; avail myself to the rent-an-actor company I signed up with but have yet had time to pursue; sell the shit on eBay that I set aside last month; paint the basement; actually exercise again; go back to my thesis and figure out what I want to do with it; spend more time at the doctors' office, which is why one of my supervisors thinks I'm doing this anyway, which is about 20% true ... so many things I could do!

My only reservation about this is, of course, the current economy. I am worried about scaling back while jobs are hemorrhaging throughout every market. But Honey is supportive and isn't panicking, and since he speaks math better than I do - were I single, I'd live in a rattrap, even if I made a gazillion dollars a month, just because I'm terrified of spending a dime on anything - I take my cues from him the way I do from a flight attendant. We hit a bump. Is the flight attendant scared? No? Okay, I won't panic then. Incidentally, this is also why I'd be a bad flight attendant. Though I'm a pretty good host, I can't gauge normal from "holy shit" turbulence. Just like I can't gauge sufficient money from excess money. No money? That, I know. And right now, it looks like stepping back from my table for a while isn't going to leave us in trouble. It's going to mend more problems than it causes.

A trunk full of Shiner Bock and Lone Star

I had the pleasure this week of finally seeing a musician I really, really love and have been meaning to see live, play live. That would be the ever-lovin' Robert Earl Keen.

Having grown up in Texas, I was somewhat familiar with him - more his name than his music. Just a few songs here and there. I knew he was on Austin City Limits a lot, but as I hadn't really watched that show since the mid-80s, he didn't really resonate with me. It wasn't until the summer before my senior year in college that I picked him up. I was apartment-sitting for some friends who were doing summer stock shows around the country. One of my friends had REK's Picnic in his CD collection. As I love raiding other people's music, I made my way through his CaseLogic binder and got hooked. This really surprised me for two reasons: 1) my friend didn't seem the country music type; his collection was typified by Elliot Smith, Dave Matthews and Jamiroquai and 2) I, as a rule, don't really like country music, but Picnic was just that - a fun, tasty, "comfort-food" feast. I burned myself a copy (Shh! This was 1998, so it was okay.) and went on my merry way.

But it wasn't really until we moved to the East Coast that we slowly started collecting his albums. This is when I really started to appreciate him. Keen's voice is gravelly, nasal, a little higher register than you'd expect from a country singer and painted thick with a drawl more reminiscent of West Texas than his native Houston. More importantly, he captures the Texas experience - at least the middle, and I presume, lower class Texas experience - so bloody well. He sings the low-brow Texas fantasies (as in his signature The Road Goes on Forever, which I want played at my wake, btw), redneck realities like those in Merry Christmas from the Family (every Texan has at least one relative like those), sweet, simple pleasures as in Gringo Honeymoon and just general appreciations for the land that bore him (and me), all its people (Mariano) and all its beauty and flaws (Levelland). He's a troubadour that sings about Texas sometimes adoringly, sometimes sharply tongue in cheek, and when he's great, he accomplishes both, simultaneously. He doesn't sing only about Texas, but life in Texas inspires about 90% of his music.

Honey isn't much for him, so I talked a college girlfriend of mine, with whom I'm reconnecting, into joining me. She's a trooper. I wouldn't've been cajoled into spending $45 on a ticket to an unknown commodity the way she was by me. I'm far too cheap! But she did it and she had a blast, so I was happy, and I owe her. (As I do virtually everyone I know.)

When I saw him, he performed against black duvatene curtains. No flashy backdrop, not even a banner with his name on it, like his opener had. Just the man, his band and the music. Even the lighting was simple. It had motion, but the lighting was made up entirely of simple gelled lamps. Something I'd expect for a brand new musician playing his first "for real" gig, not for a man who has a following. And he rocked the joint! I really, really wish there had been space to dance, because there were moments when I just really wanted to two-step. My girlfriend two-stepped in place with me for a bit, but complained that I moved too much from my hips. If I don't use my hips, I betray the only Latina-seeming part of me. Plus, it's the only part of me that has any grace; I'm fairly uncoordinated and my legs often move like those of a foal when I dance. The crowd was among the whitest I'd seen in this area in quite a while, but I suppose that's to be expected. It wasn't Texas, but it was a close enough facsimile, that I felt really at ease. My girlfriend said she felt like we were back in college in Texas, what with the frat boys and country music.

Aside from dancing like a fiend in a crowd with a red solo cup full of beer and discovering I'm really, really shitty at remembering lyrics of even some of my most favorite songs, I think the most amusing part of the evening was the "cowboys." My brother sees Robert Earl Keen live every year or so. He plays Texas a LOT. He's huge; a legend, approaching the status of Stevie Ray Vaughn, there. Bro said the crowd he usually draws is a mixture of cowboys and hippies, which in some parts of Texas (Travis Co., I'm looking at you) are not mutually exclusive categories. Our East Coast crowd was mostly transplanted Texas and southern professionals, and New Englanders who let their hair down. But we did have some cowboy-hatted guys show up. They offered my friend and me Rebel Yell. (Uh, no thanks.) They were at the foot of the stage and occasionally waved their hats around. Had I actually been in Texas, there wouldn't've been a group of 5 or 6 hatted guys in the front; there'd've been a sea of hats, and boots. All fine. What bugged me was that their hats were funny looking. By no means do I claim to be an expert on western wear, but the material looked a little cheaper and the hats overall more colonial-flavored. Like someone took the material for a tri-corn hat, began making a bowler and then decided to give it a cowboy brim. They loved the show, but I think they loved the opportunity to wear their hats in public, just as much. It reminded me of a second-hand anecdote my dad told us in the late 80s. A friend of his was visiting her daughter in New York City. They decided to go to a country western bar in Manhattan to see how the locals did it. Apparently, all the guys in Manhattan were happy to two step with the ladies and did alright, but they tucked their jeans into their boots! (This is apalling, if you missed the subtlety of the italics and exclamation mark. You don't tuck into boots unless you're a dancing extra from the cast of Oklahoma!) But really, even if people don't pull off the dress with authenticity, I suppose the attempt is evidence of the appreciation. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, even if the imitation is off. Heavens knows if I tried to emulate the fashion of subcultures I admire, I'd fall way short. I can barely keep up with the subculture I'm a part of! (Bad yuppie!)

My only complaint about the show was that he was not as talkative as I'd hoped he'd be. I like singer/songwriters who spin short yarns and give us background. I was told by a friend of a friend that REK was, indeed, chatty. However, he didn't really engage until almost the end of the concert, which was too bad. My only other complaint is that we didn't stick around for him to sign merch. I got a shot glass, 'cause I'm classy like that, but I was thinking about getting a signed t-shirt for my brother. He'd love that. But alas, I am no longer a lass, nor is my friend, and we were tired, and had work the next morning. So we ducked out during the second encore song. Next time, I'm staying for the whole megillah. And I want some talk, Robert!

Yes We Can! Yes We Did! Yes We Will!

I've been running a mile a minute since election night, so I haven't had time yet to post since the United States made history Tuesday night. I am out of town, currently and will be returning within the hour, so I have to make this post brief, which is unfortunate, as I have so many thoughts and emotions. However, I will say this: I spent a large portion of yesterday grinning like a goofball and another portion of yesterday crying. Particularly since it seemed every song on the radio was speaking to my hope. ("Imagine" started the instant I turned on my car to drive home; cue the waterworks!) Not incidentally, Honey and I began listening to the Audacity of Hope in the car, yesterday, making me even more confident that we made the right choice and we've elected a man who chooses to build bridges.

So, instead of writing a well thought-out post expressing my joy and hope, I figure I'll just cut and paste from emails and direct you to other blogs. When I have time later this week (tomorrow night or Saturday), I'll sit down collect and go at it. Just suffice it to say: I am thrilled and proud of my country and hopeful for the man who will lead us for at least the next 4 years.

I emailed a bunch of friends and family yesterday expressing my joy and hope. Here are some (or portions thereof) of their responses - all misspellings, etc, theirs:

It is a great day! I also thought that I would be glad that anybody other than GW would be a breath of fresh air, but seeing Obama win gave me more confidence in our country and in our future than I ever could have imagined. It is a great thing that happened historically because of his race, but it is also a great thing that happened because he knows that people are going to help change this country and he can get us reved up to do so.
- from a cherished cousin in Texas

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My vote was based on Scarlett Johansen's endorsement of Obama. She is an avid Obama supporter and her shit don't stink. Serioulsy though, it was based on the belief that we needed a change. We needed someone (anyone) who could give us a different face to the world. As romantic as it seems to say "we don't care what the rest of the world thinks about us, we Americans!" As bold and patriotic as it sounds to say "stay the course". As proud as is sounds to say "we don't need their approval" it simply isn't the case. we live in this world, we use more of it's oil than anybody else, we owe trillions of dollars to other countries, we affect its finanical market as they affect ours. it is time for us to have a slice of humble pie and say "okay what can we do to be part of the solution?" There are some epiphanies you have that change the way you think for the rest of your life (I guess that's why it's called an epiphany). But I recall listening to NPR several years ago just after Arnold was elected as the Governor of California when I had an epiphany. I remember listening to a speech he made about "terminating high taxes" and getting the "girlymen out of the Senate". I laughed and thought very realistically that every citizen of California was an idiot for electing him. I had never been to California at the time, but all the stereotypes of how "hollywood" and "soft" they were came to fruition in my mind. Then a ton of bricks hit me and I realized "Holy Shit! that is what the rest of the world thinks of us when they hear Bush speak." Then it got even worse when I thought "Hoy Shit! that is what people think of Texans when they hear Bush speak." I went out and got a Natalie Maines tattoo that afternoon.

I will take a Jr. Senator from Illinois over the Governor of the greatest State in the Union who doesn't know his ass from a whole in the ground any day of the week.
- Bro

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Aside from the potty mouth, I am delighted that both my kids are thinkers with their heads on straight and their hearts in the right place. We do not really know what coming years hold or what President Obama can or will do to correct our course, but, like both of you, I am very hopeful - and very encouraged that this generation has made a powerful statement against apathy and cynicism.
- Dad

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I agree! I, too, cried tears of elation and felt a deep sense of empowerment both as a black woman and as an American. I am proud to be an American. ALL men are truly created equal. We have overcome. I'm glad my grandparents and parents were alive to bear witness. Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, we're free at last!!!
- a friend

Lastly, PLEASE visit my friend's blog here. She's an African-American woman currently teaching English in Japan and that's interesting enough. However, her reaction to the Obama win is cathartic just to read! (And she's got an awesome graphic included.)

Happy new day, America!!

Good Election Morrow!

I'm in a line spiralling around the local school's blacktop right now, waiting to cast my ballot for president, senator and congressperson. Anticipating a multi hour wait, I downloaded this blog app to my iPhone, so I could stay productive. However, it looks like I may be in and out in an hour or less!

Got seriously little sleep last night. Maybe 2.5 hours tops. Schlepped down to Manassas, Va last night to see Obama. The return drive was just as hellish as the outgoing. The rally was very energizing. Tried to coordinate with VA Gal to meet up, but with tens of thousands of people, it was a futile effort. Fate being who she is though, we did run into eachother. The good folks of Manassas, Va provided the worst crowd control I'd ever seen in my life. Seriously worried we might have a Who concert crush on our way out; exits weren't marked and we parting attendants were like the Hebrew children without Moses trying to find their way out of the mess. The friends who joined me last night and I grumbled, but no one else was moaning. Then I heard a familiar raspy voice complaining a familiar, "aye chihuahua! You'd think ... Come ON, people!" And of course it was VirginiaGal. We got to chat briefly before scattering to the winds again, but I was so thrilled we got to meet up. Thanks Manassas fairgrounds for having so crappy a crowd control that 100,000 people had to bottleneck through a single ten foot space!

Well, I'm impressed. Been here about 20 minutes, and already about halfway closer than I was when I arrived. Not bad at all. Thanks early voters!

If you haven't already, to do your civic duty. Stand in the rain if you must. Your forebears didn't suffer for you to sit on your ass. Rock the vote! (or Barack it! ... but that's just my preference.)

***************************************************************************************

Update: I was in and out in less than an hour. When I got up to the check-in, I was given the option of a paper ballot or digital voting. While touchscreen might be easier, I'm still wary. There's no paper trail to verify how I voted, if there was ever any kind of repeat of Florida 2000. So, I opted for the optical scan paper ballot. Luckily, voting was so quick and easy this morning that I was able to get home in time to do other stuff before work. Think I might take a brief nap and try to catch up on a little of that sleep I lost last night.

Culture Wars

Nothing of import to write today. Just wanted to share this video from The Onion which cracked me up. Tomorrow's election day. GO VOTE! (Even if it means you vote for McCain.)


In The Know: Has Halloween Become Overcommercialized?

Fare thee well, flightless friend

Last Sunday morning, after a night of heavy drinking and little sleep - so worthless there was no veritas which I could type in vino-ed - I was hanging out with a friend of mine when my foggy brain realized that, in his aviator sunglasses, he looked like Steve ... Austin. No. Steve Tyler. Not it either. Steve ... city in Texas; he's a Bloom County character ... Steve Dallas! Compare, here. As he likes the work of Berkeley Breathed, I believe he took the comparison as a compliment. I meant it as a complimentary observation, at least. Then I remembered, "Holy shit. We only have one week until Opus leaves the pages of the comic section, forever." I need to take the little bird out. I need to show him some love. I need to get caught up!

That week has passed, and Opus departed today.



When Breathed announced he'd return to comics, he struck a deal that Opus would be a half-page, front page, one-week only strip. Honey and I were thrilled. Who else but Breathed deserved such an honor? Like Postsecret, it became a Sunday ritual for me. What did Opus have to offer this Sunday morning? This week, I read the preceding four strips only, but I don't feel caught up at all. I had fallen behind in the last year or so. During that time, our paper moved it from the front page of the funnies to the second, then later the third page. Bastards. Also somewhere during that time, my thesis and performing and my job became all-consuming and taking an hour on Sunday to read through the paper became a luxury I didn't afford myself as often as I should have. I needed sleep. Or a drink. Or a Tylenol PM with a benadryl chaser and post-it note reminder to spend 5 minutes with my dear, suffering husband and dog.

Bloom County is the first comic I remember following. (Not that I'm a big comic follower.) It was such a fun world for me. The first time I remember noticing it was when my dad received a copy of Loose Tails for his 40th birthday, from a friend. A wheelchair-bound man bedecked with nerdy kids and wierdo animals? Something about the wheelchair attracted me. Was this about a guy in a wheelchair? What a wonderful country we live in, where one who can't walk can be the hero! And all the little critters and kids riding on him: it's like when my brother and cousins and I used to take turns riding on the back of my cousin S's chair! Awesome!

As I dug into it, it seemed to be less about Cutter John alone, as it was all the awkward misfits who inhabited Bloom County. It was smart and dorky. Kinda like I was when I was 10. Some days I was Milo, principled and precocious, others I was Binkley, clueless and a vegetable resemblant. Incidentally, when I learned that New Orleans' newspaper was called the Times-Picayune, I had a hard time believing that they didn't swipe the name from Bloom County's rag. As a teenager, I decided I should grow up to be Lola Granola; I'm wearing overalls as I type this, ready to garden a bit this afternoon, so maybe that's the connection anymore. I learned what a vegan was from Bloom County. After the aliens swapped Steve Dallas' brain, he ditched Republicanism, got a perm, gave up smoking and eschewed ingesting any animal products. And yes, even though I've been a Democrat since I was a kiddo, I loved Steve, as well. How can you not love a character so sexistly clueless - or cluelessly sexist? He was kind of the antithesis of Cutter John: strapping and healthy, selfish and a defendant of the status quo.

I loved how Bloom County celebrated our hopes and fears, our flaws and fantasies, our accomplishments and mistakes. It's the fault of cockroaches that Bush the elder chose Dan Quayle - I laminated that one, as it was from the last strip received at the doorstep of my native home before our big move downstate; a souvenir. Don't we all need a field of dandelions to escape to to ponder the meaning of life? And of course, there was Opus to love the most. I think I like him - and identify with him - because he's always a little out of place, but wide-eyed, receptive and hopeful. He, like me, suffers from foot-in-mouth disease ("Hare Krishnas = Hairy Fishnuts"). He's both a progressive and a traditionalist. He's a romantic at heart, but also a thinker - for real, he is. And he's got a penchant for silly hats. I don't have that penchant, but I have a deep admiration for it. In recent years, I've assumed that if I ever got a tattoo, it would probably be of Opus; maybe of him looking chastened. Of course, I'm not so sure that pudgy, perplexed penguin anywhere on my body would entice my husband's amourous fingertips to continue their tradition of tracing my curves. (That's for you, VirginiaGal ... you can open your eyes, now, or clean up the puke on your chin, depending on your reaction.)

Now he's gone to live in his fantasy. Even with being so far behind in reading the latest strip as to feel estranged, I can't help but feel loss. My pudgy penguin friend won't be there anymore to greet me on Sundays. My Steve-Dallas-doppelganger pal doesn't think this is the last from Breathed. He's sure he'll pull a Michael Jordan in a couple of years and resurrect something from Bloom County to run for a few years again. I'm not as convinced. Though, I'd be thrilled if he did. Certainly, I'll have the books to keep me company (note to self: ask for entire collection for Christmas?), he'll no longer be part of my Sunday. Who'll fill that gap? Boondocks? Our paper hasn't run that strip in about 2 years. Bastards. Doonesbury? Too overtly political - excellent, but I prefer foibled accessibility. Foxtrot? Puh-leeze. Maybe Pearls Before Swine or Non Sequitir. Apparently, Berkeley Breathed is going to focus on writing childrens' books. I guess if/when Honey and I have kids, I can use those as a starter drug to lure the bairn into the church of Bloom County. Our favorite Homer Simpson quote is, "Raising kids is easy. You teach them to hate the things you hate, and what with the internet and all, they practically raise themselves." I don't hate much, but I do hope I can inculcate them to appreciate the pen of Berke Breathed.

3BT: Early "Voting," Soundtrack, Complacent Canine

In the spirit of Clare; some things that I noticed yesterday:

1. On a mid-day trip to 7-11, I caught a cardboard merchandise stand near the door. "Cast Your Vote '08," it pitches. I can choose to buy non-campaign endorsed keychains, buttons, bumperstickers and the like for either Obama or McCain. As you can see from the photo on the right, Obama's merchandise was all sold out. McCain's merchandise still had plenty to offer. It re-affirms my hope that we'll have a sincere change of leadership next week.

2. On my walk to 7-11, I plugged into my iPod to find I'd left it not on shuffle, as per usual, but on the Amelie soundtrack. I walked deliberately slowly down the blocks from my office to the store so that I could soak up the music. The capricious cold breezes and cool grey sky were completely opposed to the warm, semi-nostalgic light that bathes virtually every scene in that movie. Nonetheless, when the music began, I felt suddenly awakened to the world around me ... a little like the title heroine.

3. Babydog had to have a bath last night. Apparently on her walk yesterday, she decided to roll around in a pile of some other dog's poop, and our dog-walker discovered what enticed her too late. She managed to wipe off and gently clean the bulk of it, but Babydog still had some smudged in her fur, and she stunk. She hates being bathed and will wriggle away as much as possible. But last night, she dutifully stood in the bathtub as I focused the shower sprayer on her. With soaked fur looking like feathers, she looks up at me as if to say, "Is this what you want? Fine. See if I care. It was worth it!"

Shifting

Change is a comin'. And I'm not just talking about the upcoming election.

I'm tired of my job. I've been there for a little less than two years and I think I burned around mid-September. I approached my boss about two months ago with the possibility of a promotion and a raise and he was receptive, provided I continue to prove myself through the crunch period of a project that culminated the first week of this month. Yesterday we continued the conversation. He thinks I should talk more in depth about raise and title change with my immediate supervisor. I am excited by the prospect, but the truth is, I'm exhausted. I need something different. I do love what I do, though frankly, I've never been excited about where I do it or the products we produce nor the clients for whom we produce them. My tolerance for any job has always been about a year, so I'm overdue. Maybe all I need is a long vacation. Not just a week, but two or three - something that is anathema to Americans and certainly the American work structure.

... and I'm enjoying performing again. Not that I ever really stopped enjoying it. I always love it. But I'm enjoying it differently these days. My degree is in acting and I never really pursued it: I'm not that disciplined or competitive to make a career of it, plus too much of anything, not matter how much I love it, turns me off, for a while at least. I don't think I want to go back to working towards a stage career, maybe not even a local TV career, but I am seeing that I can make money - if not a living - locally by performance gigs in the region. The gist of all this is that I'd like to find some way, ultimately, to create a work/life path whereby I can pursue performance more, make money at that as well, and still continue in my line of work, making money at that and start writing, in earnest, making money at that and ideally, have better control over my time, so that quality time with my family is not just a pie-in-the-sky concept. This is probably impossible, but I figure I have to at least attempt it.

So, I'm beginning to take steps and I've decided to do something each day - no matter how great or small - to nudge the path a little forward. Yesterday, I continued the conversation with my boss about advancement and management projects they're giving me. While that continues me in my current office, it still puts me in a position that allows me to bandy for something better when I look outside the office. Additionally, I started dropping crumbs of discontent, specifically about work/life and work/work balance. (Though I rarely get paid for my performance gigs, I've decided to classify them as work, because they are labor intensive and I'm starting to look for paying gigs more.) Hopefully, it won't come out of the blue later this month when I start talking to him about the possibility of job-share - a conversation I had with a semi-freelance colleague of mine who worked with us through the big nasty project this summer and fall. She wants more hours, more stability and ultimately a full-time staff job. I want fewer hours and, provided I learn how to sell myself and manage my time better (big HA on both), ultimately I imagine freelance to be something I'd like to do. At issue is this: she's been in the industry longer, has a higher title than mine - internally, the title to which I am currently aspiring and which probably most other offices would assign me or hire me on. If we successfully pitch this job-share idea, it will be hard to also successfully pitch me as worthy of the title and/or pay adjustment. Honey and I brainstormed negotiations the other day. We'll see how things go over the weeks and months.

Other things great and small I've been doing lately: submitted my resume to a company for whom I'd like to do no-brain work from home stuff (giving me more time to perform and write); started updating my LinkedIn page and getting in touch with more industry colleagues through that site whom I haven't seen in a while; begun creating a website to showcase my talents and not just have some supremely lame vanity place holder; and I'm trying to get better about updating my resume more frequently and tailoring it to certain positions. I despise touching my resume. Not sure why. I'm sure it has something to do with my reluctance for self-promotion, but I gotta get over that. It's agonizing to overcome that revulsion, by the way.

My goal is to be out of that office, doing something different by January; April at the latest. Let's see if that happens. One thing's for sure: if June, the month where the mega-project crunch traditionally gets into high gear, rolls around and I'm still there, then I've failed.

Update

Thanks to all of you who offered kind thoughts and prayers for my dad's recovery. Mommanator asked for, and it seems only fair that I deliver, an update on Dad's condition.

He had the surgery on the 13th, a Monday, and went home on the 20th, a Monday. I haven't talked to him on the phone since Wednesday, I think, but he sounds better and better every time I talk to him. He got the flowers I ordered him and sounds like he's in good spirits. I don't know how long he'll have to stay home recovering, but I trust all is well.

In general, the folks in ICU were impressed with him and his recovery. For one, they were impressed that a man of his age (62) with his general overall health problems was recovering along at such a good clip, especially for someone who had already had that surgery once before. It's my understanding that we only have 4 or 5 arteries in our heart, but after two triple-bypasses, Dad's heart must now look like it's crawling with worms! Awesome! They were also impressed that his memory was so sharp after all the meds that were being pumped into him and the mega-anesthesia from which he was recovering. One of his nurses, Chris, was stunned that Dad remembered his name. The nurses switched shifts around 7AM/PM. At 7AM, Tuesday, Dad's surgery was only 18 hours old. He should've been foggy on Chris' name by 7PM, but wasn't, nor was he foggy on the other ICU nurse's name. Honey says that's the preacher in him: having to remember the names of strangers after a few casual meetings. Probably, but that skill is also probably helpful in the recovery process - assuming being mentally astute is helpful.

I have to leave in a few minutes for a road trip. The group I perform with is travelling up the coast for a benefit show. Yea! Road trip! But spouses and significant others have to stay home. Grr. Hopefully, Honey will come with me next month when we hit the road again. Anymore, we're having to make time for each other, which seems silly as we sleep next to each other and all! Such is life. Sheesh, what's it gonna be like if we have kids?

Like a Child

Dad had his second open-heart surgery yesterday. For those keeping track at home, his first was in the mid-80s.

We went to church Sunday morning and as the senior minister was out on vacation, Dad was scheduled to preach. It wasn't one of his better or more memorable sermons - it was new, anyway - but I really enjoyed hearing him preach. I always enjoy it, but since I don't live nearby and since he's no longer the senior minister, hearing him preach is always a treat. It was good to see some folks there that I hadn't seen for a few years. People offered their prayers; one of Dad's parishoners stopped by their house yesterday afternoon specifically to pray with us. As I don't know her, I didn't know what to think of it. Her prayer though was really sweet and comforting. She referred to Dad, in her prayer, as a man with a heart as big as all outdoors; and he is one of the very few people I've ever met for whom I think that description is perfect. She also brought my mom a little scarecrow rag doll she picked up at a crafts store. Ultimately, I really appreciated her visit.

Mom had been tearing and crying a little here and there all Sunday. I had been playing the supportive daughter, there to cheer on Dad and comfort Mom. I was definitely worried, but I wasn't letting myself show it. I had actually convinced myself that I was okay, that I had my worries in check. I suppressed my own emotions so much I almost snowed myself over. Almost. Before I went to sleep Sunday night, it all came out. I cried and cried and let myself be scared and just let it out to God telling him how scared I was and how worried I was. All my doubts and fears. I'm not sure I'd talked that candidly to God in a long, long time. Years maybe. In crying and reaching out, I discovered I suppress a lot of my negative emotions. Or I have been in recent years. It felt genuinely good to weep and genuinely good to just get candid with God.

This was different from his first triple by-pass. I didn't go with him to the hospital on the day of the surgery the first time. I was eight. My brother and I stayed the night with my mom's baby brother and his wife. They were so cool when we were kids, simply because they were young. I remember my uncle gave me an Apple computer t-shirt with the colored apple logo on it. It was sized for an adult male, so it swallowed me up, but I wore as a night shirt. We didn't get to see Dad for a day or two after the surgery. When we finally went to the hospital, my mom warned us to be gentle and not too loud because he was trying to recover. I remember walking into his room and him standing up from the edge of his bed, wearing a green bathrobe, and seeing the stitches on his left shin. That's where the doctor had removed his leg veins, which were transplanted to his heart to replace (or by-pass?) the old clogged arteries. But to my eight-year-old eyes, the stitching was sinister. Had the surgeon made a Frankenstein monster out of my dad? It sure looked like it! He opened his arms wide to receive hugs from us, and I delivered, cautiously, in case he was a Frankenstein monster and tried to kill us suddenly. During the nights he was in the hospital, my brother and I slept with mom in their bed. It felt good to all sleep together when we all felt so sad and scared.


Sunday night, as I hunched on my parents' guest bed, crying and clutching a teddy bear mom had bought as a stage prop for a one-act she directed when she taught high school in West Texas, I realized I felt just as scared and vulnerable as I did when I was eight. Not only that, I wish I had the protections provided me when I was eight. When I was eight, I didn't have to wake at some ungodly hour to go with Dad to the hospital for check in and surgery prep. When I was eight, I didn't have to watch as they wheeled Dad away into surgery. When I was eight, I didn't have to wait for hours in a waiting room, anticipating each visit from the nurse. When I was eight, though I've always feared losing my parents, I think I was maybe less afraid of losing my dad than I am now. ... no, I've always been exactly as afraid of losing him as I am now.

We were very fortunate to be surrounded by friends and family yesterday. Dad's boss, the senior minister at his church, arrived at the hospital around 5:50, when we were arriving and stayed throughout the whole procedure until we got the all-clear, around 1:30 yesterday afternoon. I didn't know him well, but got to know him better; he's a nice guy and I can see why my family likes him. My uncle who lives in the Dallas area was down for a 6-month check up from his oncologist at a nearby hospital. (He's been cancer-free for years now, but still has to get the official thumbs up every 6 months.) He stopped in for a while, between appointments, to sit with us. We made waiting-room friends with a Muslim family who were awaiting news about their brother. One of his sisters - the one who wore a scarf and traditional clothes - had a chain of prayer beads that reminded me of a rosary. Though I cherish the iconoclasm of the strain of protestantism in which I was raised, sometimes I wish we had retained traditions like that from our Catholic forebears. We're 3-D beings, having something tactile to cling to doesn't have to be idolatry. But I digress. Other friends from my parents' church stopped by to check in. A little after 2, about 45 minutes to an hour after surgery, Mom and I were allowed to visit him in the ICU recovery room. Poor guy was so far whacked on anesthesia, he barely opened one eye. Mom held his hand and talked to him for a few minutes and then we both said goodbye.

Mom had to return home around 4 to meet with a repairman about some light fixes to the house. There's still a lot of Ike debris around the city: tarps on roofs, tons of tree branches gathered here and there; signs knocked off. My brother arrived in time for the 5PM visitor period. Before we went in, I warned him that a few hours earlier, Dad looked like a coma patient and he had tubes coming out of him and he was pasty white and cold. He nodded. We're grown ups. We can handle seeing our dad look like that right? HA! Immediately, we both started tearing up. By this time, Dad was more responsive. He couldn't speak with the tube in his mouth, but at least his eyes were open and he could communicate non-verbally. "Blink if you know we're here, Dad," my brother said. He blinked. "Blink twice if you're still going to vote for Obama," I requested. He blinked twice of course. My brother and I did what we always do when we're scared or sad, we cracked wise. I think Dad appreciated it because we could see him sort of turn up the corners of his mouth in an attempted grin. I figured out that he had an itch on his right arm, so my brother scratched it. "There are so many tubes coming out of you, you look like a cow being milked!" my brother told him. Immediately, I SO wanted to say, "Dad! Be careful! Soylent Green! It's made of PEOPLE!" But everyone else in the recovery room was so quiet. We were the only ones really talking aloud. Other family members just hovered over their loved ones. Thankfully, Dad wasn't the worst looking. I actually feel sorry for Dad in that hall. Not just because he's uncomfortable, but because he's having to share space with people who really do look a lot worse off than him, right now.

After our visit yesterday afternoon, my brother broke down in the hall outside ICU recovery. I held him and let him cry on my shoulder and let myself cry on his. Seeing Dad as vulnerable as that exposed all our vulnerabilities. Again, I was grateful that when I was a child, I was protected from that.

Mom visited him this morning. He's still in ICU recovery, but he's sitting up, the tube is out of his mouth, and he's talking. It takes forever for anesthesia to fully wear off, so he'd forgotten that we visited yesterday, but that's fine. The fact that he went from droopy-tongue coma to Diving Bell and the Butterfly messaging within a couple of hours yesterday to sitting up and talking this morning is really, really encouraging to me. Bro will be coming by in about 15 minutes to pick me up to hang out before we visit him at 5. Dad will probably be moved out of recovery and into a room tomorrow. That will be a good thing, as the poor man needs a window, and we won't have as restrictive visiting times. I leave tomorrow morning, so I'll probably say goodbye to him tonight as the 8 o'clock visitation ends. Which sucks. I'd much rather get to say goodbye to him in his own room, or at home, but I'll take what I can get.

I waffled a bit on whether or not to come down for this. They don't "need" me. Technically, there's nothing I can do to help the situation. And, selfishly, I'm scared. But in retrospect, I'm terribly glad I did. A triple by-pass surgery is nothing to be trifled with and a second one, even less so. I think it was heartening for him to see me in his time of need. Maybe I also needed to come down, to expose myself to my own fears and become a little girl again. That wouldn't've happened had I stayed home.

Reading Habits: Book Meme

Darla has tagged me with a book meme.

So, without further ado:

Do you remember how you developed a love for reading?
No. I remember when I developed a love for my husband and a love for Cohen brothers movies. Aside from that, I don't remember when or how I developed a love for reading, eating, cinema or anything else in my life that makes me happy, for that matter. ... I do have fond memories of going to the library a lot as a kid. Particularly for the brief period we lived in Kansas when I was a tot. Mom didn't have a job, so she stayed at home with me. We went to the library and the park every day. Rifling through storybooks and then rumbling through the playground. I also remember spending a lot of my grade school youth reading whatever newspapers and news magazines were lying around the house. We usually had 2 or 3 subscriptions at a time. As a result, my classmates thought I was a huge nerd. Nothing more confounding to her peers than a wonkish 8-year-old.

What are some books you read as a child?
Man, my memory sucks. I remember, as a small child, the Little Golden Books. Tawny, Scrawny Lion and the sort. I am a child of the 80s, and cross-marketing, so I remember having and enjoying several Sesame Street books. When I could read for myself, 2nd or 3rd grade, I remember reading almost all of Beverly Cleary's books - at least all I could get my hands on. I remember liking Skinnybones, Judy Blume's books and books written to compete with her. Though, they seemed to fall short of her talent. In about 5th or 6th grade, I went through a "real mysteries" and paranormal phase. I read a lot of books about UFOs and the Loch Ness monster, Amelia Earhart's disappearance and the like. I was lured by the fright and thrill of the possible but unproven.

What is your favorite genre?
Don't think I have one.

Do you have a favorite novel?
As with movies or music, my favorite of anything shifts with periods in my life. Novels that have really spoken to me in the last few years are Lamb and The Handmaid's Tale (both on my blogger profile). I haven't really found any novel that I've read in the last 2 or 3 years that's really struck me. With the exception of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, which I read earlier this year. That book keeps harping my memory. I liked its voice.

Where do you usually read?
In bed. On weekends, when I'm not running errands from the week or doing laundry, if it's not already occupied by Honey or Babydog, the fainting couch in our living room.

When do you usually read?
Before I fall asleep. On weekends.

Do you usually have more than one book you are reading at a time?
Rarely. I'm a slow reader and am easily distracted, so I usually just focus on one at a time. I find if I pick up another book while I'm reading one, it's a death knell for whichever one I began. How much of that is a testament to my short attention span and how much is a testament to the lameness of the first book, I don't know.

Do you read nonfiction in a different way or place than you read fiction?
No.

Do you buy most of the books you read, or borrow them, or check them out of the library?
It's a mix. Right now, I'm challenging myself to read books in my own library that I've accrued but not yet read, or have begun reading, but got distracted and didn't finish. So, I haven't checked out a book for a while. I think my favorite thing is to borrow books, though. Not only because I don't have to turn it in in 2 weeks or face a fine, but because it usually comes with a recommendation and an affection from the lender. When people share their music, movies or books or other media and culture with you, it brings you closer to them.

Do you keep most of the books you buy? If not, what do you do with them?
Yes. Did you not just read the previous paragraph? I do like lending my books out or giving them away.

If you have children, what are some of the favorite books you have shared with them? Were they some of the same ones you read as a child?
I don't have children. Though, I did read Dogzilla to Babydog one night.

What are you reading now?
Paula, by Isabel Allende. Not deep enough into yet to cry ... a lot.

Do you keep a TBR (to be read) list?
I have one on my computer somewhere. Anymore, I keep the list on our Amazon wishlist. Or ... I just go to my own bookshelves, as I'm trying to satisfy my self-styled challenge.

What’s next?
Not sure. I tried, for the umpteenth time, earlier this year to read Little Women, but I still can't get into that book. It's still on my bedstand. Mocking me. Maybe that one. Or Living Buddha, Living Christ, by Thich Nat Hahn, lent me by a dear friend last year. Though, I think I'll go for something fiction after two non-fiction in a row. We'll see.

What books would you like to reread?
The full Hitchhiker series. I've re-read the first book several times, but not the whole series. That, I've done only once.

Who are your favorite authors?
Douglas Adams. Though I wasn't that impressed with him when I read Mother Tongue, after a Brief History of Nearly Everything, I have a new appreciation for Bill Bryson. Kurt Vonnegut. It's been a few years since I've been on a KV wave, but I do really like him.

So that's that. I guess I'm supposed to tag people. How about the frequent readers? Pearl, Joe, Mommanator and Sonnjea. Happy Friday!

WMML for the last few days

Yes. I'm ripping off the title of this post from the regular feature on Sonnjea's blog. But imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so I hope she takes it as such.

Thank goodness for John McCain. Without him, a sophomoric joke from The Office that has had Honey and me in stitches since Thursday would've probably petered out by now. ("Petered out? Then why am I pregnant?" Hey-oh!)

In the season premiere of The Office, the folks at Dunder Mifflin were having an office weigh-in to compete in their company-wide summer weight loss challenge. As they crowded on the warehouse scale, Dwight was trying to get people to eat more to skew the results, so their end loss would be larger. He walked up to one of his officemates and held an eclair to her face. "Here, eat this eclair. If you can't swallow, at least hold it in your mouth." The camera focused on Jim who clearly got a kick out of Dwight's request. It took a few beats for me to figure out that it was a double entendre, but I've been riding it all week. Both Honey and I have been walking around the house looking for excuses to say, "If you can't swallow, at least hold it in your mouth." Yes. We're extraordinarily mature!

Around Sunday night, the joke started aging a little. But thankfully, the Republican candidate for the Presidency revived it for us. Monday morning, 6AM: we're sitting in the kitchen, checking emails, reading the news, etc and listening, as we do every morning to Morning Edition. The reporter is delivering a story about McCain and the bailout plan. They play a clip (about 15 seconds into this file) and McCain says something that rouses Honey and me out of our groggy Monday morning stupors. "This is something that all of us will swallow hard and go forward with."

Immediately, we died laughing. Awww, yeeeaaaahhhh! If you can't swallow the bailout, at least hold it in your mouth, America.

Our reaction was completely juvenile, I know. And, that I've been mashing up those two bits of media in my brain have kept me giggling for a week speaks to my utter lack of sophistication. But it certainly woke me up, on a morning when I so dreaded going into work that I wanted to cry. And it woke me up enough to really get a good workout on the Wii Fit - something I hadn't done in weeks. So ... thank you, John McCain. You are a Monday morning hero to this young woman!

Leonard Cohen and The Perils of Being a Preacher's Progeny

I tried to find a soundfile to embed, but alas, I couldn't. So I posted this video, which I really only want you to listen to. The sound is grainy, clearly an old LP, but I actually kind of like that.

I am a preacher's kid. Before I get into the meat of this post, please allow me to address your first set of questions: No, my home life was not like that of the chick in Footloose! Nor was I a rebellious, booz-swilling, drug-addled, leg-spreading hellian. Nor was I (or am I) a white-gloved, goody two-shoes. I was just a kid who lived in a home with a dog and parents who loved her and her brother. I was brought us up in a religious household and my parents encouraged introspection and inquiry, and mercy toward others, so I've always been personally baffled by the constrictive Footloose model. (Though that more closely mirrors the preacher-kid [PK] upbringing my mom had.)

Peril #1: Having to swat off stereotypes superglued to you and to your family. (Do doctors', cops' or military members' kids get the same "knowing" wink and tongue-click that PKs get? Ugh. Letting it go.) Peril #2: If you're female, you are concerned that you might end up marrying a preacher. Why? Because your mom was a PK, or your grandmother, or someone close in the family line. It seems to be genetic. I had several PK friends in high school and college, and they all had that fear. Nothing against ministers - most of us were very comfortable in church, loved other ministers and repected our minister parents (some were mothers, of course) - but the tendency for preachers' daughters to marry back into the ministry unnerved us. Not only is it an itinerant lifestyle - a few years in Texas, a few in Oregon, etc - like a military family, but we know first hand the social pressure of expectations on ministers' families and the wives, specifically. They're mini-First Ladies, whether they like it or not or are good at it or not; especially in small communities. My peers and I were children of feminism. We didn't want to be shoe-horned.

There are more, I'm sure. Like people suppose you to be able to quote and accept the Bible front to back or conversely that you totally reject religion (the adult version of the PK stereotypes). But the peril that I stumbled upon recently was actually rather benign. And yes, it tarries back to the simple video embedded above.

Most preachers I know draw heavily upon pop-culture for their sermon references. Our last minister loved to reference Ann Lamott, who Darla recommended I read to help me better my writing. The minister of the church where Honey and I met and married frequently referenced Emily Dickinson, upon whose works he wrote his doctoral dissertation. One of Honey's favorite religion professors - also a retired minister - would open his semester with a class screening of Star Wars. My dad is partial to dropping Bob Dylan references. In fact, he has a sermon in his repetoire, "I Was So Much Older Then, I'm Younger Than That Now," though I can't recall what the theological tie-in theme is.

When you grow up hearing movie scenes, song or poetry lyrics and literary themes framed in terms of biblical or theological analogies, or in terms of modern parable, it's easy to kind of find them everywhere. And sometimes, there are moments that just coalesce and I think, "Dang, this is a sermon analogy begging to happen." This is the benign peril of which I write.

A few months ago, in advance of the release of the lastest Indiana Jones movie, Honey and I rewatched the first three. Toward the end of the movie, Indy and his father are escaping the crumbling temple where the grail has been kept for eons. The hot blond Nazi has just fallen into a widening crevasse, and now Indy is in the same danger. His father, who refuses to call him Indiana, now clings to Indy, trying to lift him out of the crevasse. "Henry, let it go!" he pleads. Indy ignores him, blinded by sudden greed, trying to reach for the grail just beyond his grasp. Then his father calmly calls, "Indiana." The trance is broken. Indy relents and is pulled to safety. Immediately, the voice of Leonard Cohen sprung into my head singing, "love calls you by your name." Then two seconds later, I thought, "Man, there has to be a sermon in here."

Now, I can't think of that scene, nor listen to that song without thinking that they are begging to be weaved into a sermon. Perilous!

I rarely fixate on song lyrics (it can take me years of hearing a song over and over before it really strikes me what the artist is conveying), but what I love about "Love Calls You By Your Name" is that it seems to bring quiet mercy to moments of vulnerability in spaces narrow and vast: "between the windmill and the grain/ between the traitor and her pain." At least that's what I hear. And I've always been touched that Dr. Jones the elder humbled himself to the name that his son recognized. I can't think of an exact scripture reference that this could tie in to; the bible is full of naming and calling issues (Sarai became Sarah; Gabriel pretty much tells Mary what she's gonna call her baby; God calls Samuel out in the night; the still small voice). I think ceremonial re-naming is still something done in Judaism, on occasion. But frankly, it seems like this could be used in several sermons. Love calls you by your name. God is love. God calls you when and where you are vulnerable and most in need of mercy ... I don't know.

But that's my peril. Benign; but it itches. The upshot of this is that I've since introduced my dad to Leonard Cohen. As my dad is the one who trained my musical palate to favor yarn-spinning and story-tellers, I'm a little surprised that he wasn't more familiar with him, beyond the ubiquitous "Hallelujiah." Especially since they're both baby boomers! But he likes him and I have a feeling is going to seek him out more. Maybe I'll get him some CDs for Christmas.

Since this is my 200th post, and since you've been so nice to read this far, I figure I'll give a little more media. Enjoy the mixtape I made for Dad ... who just got electricity back TODAY, two weeks after Ike blew through (WOOHOO!), and who will be facing open heart surgery in another 3 weeks. Yipes. Here's love calling out to him!