In the past 8 months, I have said good-bye to 3 of my favorite uncles. I know that with the blessing of age comes the curse of more frequent departures, but I'm still not a fan of the traditional funeral process.
During the evening of my Uncle Richard's funeral, my Dad made comments regarding what he'd like to see happen at his own memorial service and my sister said something to the effect of "you won't know what we do; you won't be here." (In my family, jabs are expressions of love, so don't take that the wrong way-he didn't). I said "I don't knoooowwwww.... he might...."
And I started thinking-what if I did get to (or have to) see my own memorial service? What would I want to happen? Maybe I should spell it out. I hope to outlive you all, but just in case... these are my final wishes:
When you are 100% certain I am not breathing, cremate me. I hate enclosed places. The only full-on anxiety attack I ever had was when I had an MRI. Elevators and UT football games make me sweat. Give me wide open spaces; room to make big mistakes. Eventually, let me rest on a bookshelf somewhere. Or you could take me shopping from time to time. I'd like that.
As for the memorial service itself, rent out the Bistro or the place where Manhattan's used to be. I dig both. Actually, any dark place with barstools will work. No open bar--I know my friends. My family couldn't afford the bar tab. Sorry about that. I do expect you to drink, unless that's a problem for you, and then I expect you to drive everyone else home. Rent a bus.
(And if I'm actually THERE, in my urn, please put me waaaaaayyyyyy out of reach. I know I'm not the only joker in the crowd.)
As you walk in the door, I want you to put on a name tag with your name--your REAL name--and how you know me--you can use your discretion on that one. When in doubt, "old friend" will suffice. Some of you have been in & out of my life for 40+ years; you've changed. Don't count on my sister remembering you.
I expect there to be biscuits and cheese aplenty. Deviled eggs would be nice too and french fries for everybody! This will not be the night to watch your cholesterol or count carbs. Live it up!
Play music. I love 80's stuff--that oughta bring tears to some people's eyes. Jackson Browne, America, Fleetwood Mac and CSN&Y are good too. The Pet Shop Boys' "It's a Sin" and Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" would be apropos.
Tell funny stories. If you've known me for longer than 3 weeks, you've got one. Tell it. I already have. Laugh so hard your sides hurt.
Someone needs to wear a turtleneck inside out and backwards; act like you don't realize it. Someone needs to drink enough Goldschlager to pass out in a bathroom stall. I hope at least one of you walks head-long into the front door or drops your keys down a storm drain. I'm a sucker for physical comedy; I supply a lot of my own material. Eat cake with black icing and stick your tongues out at each other. Remember that life ain't so serious. Hug the stuffing out of each other. Someone recite A Parable of Immortality by Henry Van Dyke.
http://www.spirit-path.net/parableimmortality.htm
If you are so inclined, light a candle, say a prayer, and rest assured that I am already making mischief on another plain. And when it's time to wrap it up, play this song.
It's my song for you:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vm-xui5HFDc
P.S. One last request: on the Friday before UT's first season home game, gather near WBIR and when the Pride of the Southland Band begins to play "Rocky Top" to open the 11 o'clock news, let the bottle rockets fly. I'll leave it to you as to where you aim...
Monday, December 31, 2012
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Anne's Coffee
For many years, my beau & I would travel to his mother's house on Christmas Eve. She loved to have her babies home for Christmas morning, even if those babies were pushing 50.
On Christmas morning, it was a little like being a kid again, but we were old enough to slow it down a bit. Savor the coffee, the gifts, the time together. No one enjoyed it more and wanted it to last longer than Anne.
After the last present was unwrapped and the stockings were emptied, we would make our way to the kitchen and Anne would prepare Christmas brunch. Anne was the queen of her kitchen, and while she might dole out a chore here or there, the process was in her command. I suspect she moved slowly, not so much due to her age, but more as a ploy to keep her children with her for a few minutes more. Brunch often took place well after 1pm.
Now I've been known to skip breakfast, so I could never figure out why I always got the shakes on Christmas. Maybe 1pm was pushing it too far? Maybe this was a sign that I had diabetes? Maybe my biorhythms were off because of waking up in a strange place? Maybe I was the Grinch and all this cheer was too much for my tiny heart? But it never failed, I would have to grab something out of the fridge to settle my nerves, to keep my hands from shaking every Christmas.
I love to sleep, so I was often the last to greet Christmas morning. I would grab a cup of coffee and join the others in the den. One morning, I slept even later than normal and there was no coffee when I got up. I announced "I'm going to make another pot of coffee and I'll be right there!"
Anne said "I'll come help you!" I thought to myself "I'm 40 years old, I'm pretty sure I can make a pot of coffee." But my Mama didn't raise me to be ugly to sweet, well-meaning old ladies so I chose to reign that in.
As if she was reading my mind, she said "This fancy coffee pot can be a little difficult."
"First you pour the tap water into the filter pitcher. Oh good, we already have some filtered."
Oh good.
"Then you pour 12 cups of water into the reservoir."
Good. I was still with her. We hadn't entered rocket science coffee-making yet.
"Then you measure out 12 big scoops of coffee..."
Wait. 12 scoops? TWELVE scoops???
I have made coffee almost every day of my life for the last 20 years. It goes like this: water in the reservoir, 4 big scoops of coffee, 5 if I need a little jolt, turn the thing on. Done.
4 scoops. Maybe 5. Not TWELVE.
No wonder I get the shakes every Christmas. I always knew that her coffee was a bit stronger than mine... I think I'm having my usual 3 cups of coffee, but I'm REALLY having 12 cups and maybe a shot of espresso.
For the years that followed, I simply, quietly poured half a cup of milk in my coffee on Christmas morning and smiled.
Anne is gone now. I miss her. I miss how much joy she got from watching middle-aged kids open Christmas presents. I don't miss her coffee much, but in her honor I believe that on this Christmas morning, and every Christmas morning to follow, I will prepare the 1st pot of coffee with 12 scoops.
On Christmas morning, it was a little like being a kid again, but we were old enough to slow it down a bit. Savor the coffee, the gifts, the time together. No one enjoyed it more and wanted it to last longer than Anne.
After the last present was unwrapped and the stockings were emptied, we would make our way to the kitchen and Anne would prepare Christmas brunch. Anne was the queen of her kitchen, and while she might dole out a chore here or there, the process was in her command. I suspect she moved slowly, not so much due to her age, but more as a ploy to keep her children with her for a few minutes more. Brunch often took place well after 1pm.
Now I've been known to skip breakfast, so I could never figure out why I always got the shakes on Christmas. Maybe 1pm was pushing it too far? Maybe this was a sign that I had diabetes? Maybe my biorhythms were off because of waking up in a strange place? Maybe I was the Grinch and all this cheer was too much for my tiny heart? But it never failed, I would have to grab something out of the fridge to settle my nerves, to keep my hands from shaking every Christmas.
I love to sleep, so I was often the last to greet Christmas morning. I would grab a cup of coffee and join the others in the den. One morning, I slept even later than normal and there was no coffee when I got up. I announced "I'm going to make another pot of coffee and I'll be right there!"
Anne said "I'll come help you!" I thought to myself "I'm 40 years old, I'm pretty sure I can make a pot of coffee." But my Mama didn't raise me to be ugly to sweet, well-meaning old ladies so I chose to reign that in.
As if she was reading my mind, she said "This fancy coffee pot can be a little difficult."
"First you pour the tap water into the filter pitcher. Oh good, we already have some filtered."
Oh good.
"Then you pour 12 cups of water into the reservoir."
Good. I was still with her. We hadn't entered rocket science coffee-making yet.
"Then you measure out 12 big scoops of coffee..."
Wait. 12 scoops? TWELVE scoops???
I have made coffee almost every day of my life for the last 20 years. It goes like this: water in the reservoir, 4 big scoops of coffee, 5 if I need a little jolt, turn the thing on. Done.
4 scoops. Maybe 5. Not TWELVE.
No wonder I get the shakes every Christmas. I always knew that her coffee was a bit stronger than mine... I think I'm having my usual 3 cups of coffee, but I'm REALLY having 12 cups and maybe a shot of espresso.
For the years that followed, I simply, quietly poured half a cup of milk in my coffee on Christmas morning and smiled.
Anne is gone now. I miss her. I miss how much joy she got from watching middle-aged kids open Christmas presents. I don't miss her coffee much, but in her honor I believe that on this Christmas morning, and every Christmas morning to follow, I will prepare the 1st pot of coffee with 12 scoops.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Are You Better Off Than You Were Four Years Ago?
When people ask me "are you better off than you were four years ago?" I know they are thinking in monetary terms. Is that the only component to life?
If you don't make more money, have more money, spend more money, you aren't doing better: is that the deal?
I imagine that if over the last four years, I had gotten 50% increases in pay every year, but hated every minute I was at work, I would not be better off.
I imagine that if over the last four years, I had obtained a job that paid $100,000 more, but my relationship with my family deteriorated, I would not be better off.
I image that if over the last four years, the government cut my taxes to 0%, gave me a free car and filled it up with gas every week and paid for my groceries, let me stay home and made all those losers on welfare scrub my bathtub every day, I would STILL not be better off if I essentially didn't like myself.
So when we ask the question: are you better off than you were four years ago--maybe we should start with ourselves?
What are you doing to make yourself a better person?
Me? Not much. I admit it. It nettles me. I know that I have prioritized superficial things over what really matters, and if I want to be "better off", I need to make some changes.
It has nothing to do with money.
It has nothing to do with the government.
It has everything to do with me.
Work toward being a better person, be better off four years from now.
No governmental assistance required.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Let's Get Something Straight
The political season is upon us. I hate it almost as much as I hate football season. We seem to have evolved into a football team mentality when it comes to deciding the leaders of our country. Reasonable people become intoxicated jerks, jeering in the stands. It's all about making sure your team gets to take down the goal post. Go Red Team! Go Blue Team!
I don't get it.
I can't stand it when people call each other names. Over the course of the last few weeks, I have seen people use words like 'moron', 'idiot', and 'retarded' to describe the other side (this is coming form both sides of the fence so nobody gets a pass here). How ugly. Surely, we are more civilized than this.
But maybe not. It's disturbing to me that people who don't understand that Republican and Christian are not synonymous and who are concerned about the details of Snooki's pregnancy are capable of directing policy. Clearly, we're a little confused and have a long way to go in sorting out our priorities when it comes to what really matters.
I know that "what really matters" is different for everybody, so let me tell you what matters to me:
Tonight, there's a kid in your community who will go to bed hungry, who doesn't have a toothbrush. That's a promise. I've seen it. What are we doing for him?
Tonight, there's a kid in your community whose 'father' or 'mother' is beating the crap out of him. How do we protect him?
Tonight, there's a kid in your community who can't read and doesn't have the tools to learn. Are you trying to make the world a better place for him?
Or are you just worried about you?
That's what I think our problem is. Too much 'me' and not enough 'us'. A lot of the issues being discussed could have a 'trickle-down' effect, but let's face it: it won't trickle down that much. I see a lot of discussion about The Man vs. the common man, a lot of discussion about guns and religion and civil rights: all important--don't get me wrong. But, in my mind, those are 'now' things: fix it now, fix it for ME. I don't think we are thinking enough about the very resource which could sustain us or sink us, and that's the kids.
I think we should look at making sure help goes where it's truly needed: let's make sure we are feeding those kids food that's good for them, let's make sure we are keeping them warm and keeping them safe, let's make sure we are giving them the tools to raise themselves up, give them a chance. Let's build our future here, and let's start by being good examples and treat each other with respect when we disagree.
I haven't decided which suit I will vote for in November. I'm not on the Red Team and I'm not on the Blue Team. I'm on the Bottom Layer Team, the team who can't vote, the team whose fate I may decide with a click of a button. That's a lot to consider and I'll take my time to consider it.
Or maybe I'll just vote for me. I like my platform best anyway. :)
I don't get it.
I can't stand it when people call each other names. Over the course of the last few weeks, I have seen people use words like 'moron', 'idiot', and 'retarded' to describe the other side (this is coming form both sides of the fence so nobody gets a pass here). How ugly. Surely, we are more civilized than this.
But maybe not. It's disturbing to me that people who don't understand that Republican and Christian are not synonymous and who are concerned about the details of Snooki's pregnancy are capable of directing policy. Clearly, we're a little confused and have a long way to go in sorting out our priorities when it comes to what really matters.
I know that "what really matters" is different for everybody, so let me tell you what matters to me:
Tonight, there's a kid in your community who will go to bed hungry, who doesn't have a toothbrush. That's a promise. I've seen it. What are we doing for him?
Tonight, there's a kid in your community whose 'father' or 'mother' is beating the crap out of him. How do we protect him?
Tonight, there's a kid in your community who can't read and doesn't have the tools to learn. Are you trying to make the world a better place for him?
Or are you just worried about you?
That's what I think our problem is. Too much 'me' and not enough 'us'. A lot of the issues being discussed could have a 'trickle-down' effect, but let's face it: it won't trickle down that much. I see a lot of discussion about The Man vs. the common man, a lot of discussion about guns and religion and civil rights: all important--don't get me wrong. But, in my mind, those are 'now' things: fix it now, fix it for ME. I don't think we are thinking enough about the very resource which could sustain us or sink us, and that's the kids.
I think we should look at making sure help goes where it's truly needed: let's make sure we are feeding those kids food that's good for them, let's make sure we are keeping them warm and keeping them safe, let's make sure we are giving them the tools to raise themselves up, give them a chance. Let's build our future here, and let's start by being good examples and treat each other with respect when we disagree.
I haven't decided which suit I will vote for in November. I'm not on the Red Team and I'm not on the Blue Team. I'm on the Bottom Layer Team, the team who can't vote, the team whose fate I may decide with a click of a button. That's a lot to consider and I'll take my time to consider it.
Or maybe I'll just vote for me. I like my platform best anyway. :)
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Yul Brynner Vs. The Baby Skunk
I was last man out at the office tonight, so it was up to me to set the alarm. Plink-plink-plink-plink. "Armed. Away. Exit Now." I swung open the big metal door, letting it clang shut behind me.
I wasn't ten feet away when I spotted a fuzzy tail in the grass. "That's an ugly-lookin' squirrel" I thought. A couple steps closer and my heart jumped into my throat. He turned and looked at me nonchalantly. I slammed my entire body against the side of the building. That's no squirrel; that's a baby skunk.
Cue "The Good, The Bad & The Ugly" theme song.
I guess I could have gone back inside the building, but I really, really, really wanted to go home. And in order to get to my car, I would have to pass within 4 feet of PePe.
I would have to run for it.
Running.... bleck.
There's a stand-up routine by comedian Bill Hicks about Yul Brynner and Jim Fixx. Look it up, if you aren't squeamish about profanity. The gist of it is this-- Jim Fixx ran every day of his life, ate tofu, and preached the gospel of clean living. Yul Brynner drank like a fish, smoked his brains out and ran around chasing the opposite sex. They're both dead now. Jim's in his casket with a look like "where did I go wrong?" Yul's in his casket with a sloppy grin on his face.
It boils down to this--I'm a Yul kinda girl.
The skunk waddled toward me and I took off like a shot. Well, in my case, a whiskey shot aged for 40+ years...
Yul lives to fight another day.
I wasn't ten feet away when I spotted a fuzzy tail in the grass. "That's an ugly-lookin' squirrel" I thought. A couple steps closer and my heart jumped into my throat. He turned and looked at me nonchalantly. I slammed my entire body against the side of the building. That's no squirrel; that's a baby skunk.
Cue "The Good, The Bad & The Ugly" theme song.
I guess I could have gone back inside the building, but I really, really, really wanted to go home. And in order to get to my car, I would have to pass within 4 feet of PePe.
I would have to run for it.
Running.... bleck.
There's a stand-up routine by comedian Bill Hicks about Yul Brynner and Jim Fixx. Look it up, if you aren't squeamish about profanity. The gist of it is this-- Jim Fixx ran every day of his life, ate tofu, and preached the gospel of clean living. Yul Brynner drank like a fish, smoked his brains out and ran around chasing the opposite sex. They're both dead now. Jim's in his casket with a look like "where did I go wrong?" Yul's in his casket with a sloppy grin on his face.
It boils down to this--I'm a Yul kinda girl.
The skunk waddled toward me and I took off like a shot. Well, in my case, a whiskey shot aged for 40+ years...
Yul lives to fight another day.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
I'd Like a College Life, Please
I had a killer day yesterday.
I left my house at 8:00 am. I ran some errands, then hit the office. I worked behind a desk for about 6 hours and then I wacotted for about 7 hours.
For those of you who don't know: WACOT = walking around, checking on things. It's a skill.
I got in my car at 11:45 pm and luxuriated in the hour commute home. I changed into my favorite kaftan (some of you might call it a muumuu, but I think it's much more fashionable than that. It has a drawstring that creates an empire waist and makes me look like that woman on the Jeffersons, but I digress. We can talk about my nightwear preferences some other time.) It takes me a while to "wind down", so I finally crawled into bed at 2am.
So, for those of you having difficulty following along, here's the Cliff Notes version:
Up at 6:30am, in bed at 2am: 16.5 hour day from front door to front door, juggling all day long.
Poor me.
I can hear you guys breaking out the violins.
I woke up at noon today.
While I stood in the shower, hoping the water could scald the pain out of my joints, I reminisced about my college days. How did I do it? I had 8 am classes--most of which I actually attended. I went to work after class and then I went to a bar after work. When the bar closed down, I usually went home... around 2pm. This was my college routine--not every day--but more frequently than not.
Not so different than the act I pulled off yesterday. So why is it that the most I've been able to manage today is to make a sandwich and take the recycling out?
"Boy," I thought to myself. "If someone could just bottle College Life, I'd give them just about whatever they wanted."
I imagine myself sidling up to the bar.
"What'll you have tonight, ma'am."
Ma'am.... oh how I hate to be called Ma'am. Well, we'll fix that in a hurry.
"I'll have a College Life, please."
"Comin' right up. That'll be $500."
"Not a problem."
He pops the cap and as he pours the beverage into a frosty mug, I can already feel it. The possibilities, the curiosity, the liberty. Ahhh. But there's something else... along with the possibilities comes the horrible mistakes. The curiosity renders painful discoveries. Liberty hold hands with damaging irresponsibility. And College Life will definitely suck the cash right outta your pocket.
Want to rethink that?
On second thought, I'll stick with vodka and glucosamine.
I left my house at 8:00 am. I ran some errands, then hit the office. I worked behind a desk for about 6 hours and then I wacotted for about 7 hours.
For those of you who don't know: WACOT = walking around, checking on things. It's a skill.
I got in my car at 11:45 pm and luxuriated in the hour commute home. I changed into my favorite kaftan (some of you might call it a muumuu, but I think it's much more fashionable than that. It has a drawstring that creates an empire waist and makes me look like that woman on the Jeffersons, but I digress. We can talk about my nightwear preferences some other time.) It takes me a while to "wind down", so I finally crawled into bed at 2am.
So, for those of you having difficulty following along, here's the Cliff Notes version:
Up at 6:30am, in bed at 2am: 16.5 hour day from front door to front door, juggling all day long.
Poor me.
I can hear you guys breaking out the violins.
I woke up at noon today.
While I stood in the shower, hoping the water could scald the pain out of my joints, I reminisced about my college days. How did I do it? I had 8 am classes--most of which I actually attended. I went to work after class and then I went to a bar after work. When the bar closed down, I usually went home... around 2pm. This was my college routine--not every day--but more frequently than not.
Not so different than the act I pulled off yesterday. So why is it that the most I've been able to manage today is to make a sandwich and take the recycling out?
"Boy," I thought to myself. "If someone could just bottle College Life, I'd give them just about whatever they wanted."
I imagine myself sidling up to the bar.
"What'll you have tonight, ma'am."
Ma'am.... oh how I hate to be called Ma'am. Well, we'll fix that in a hurry.
"I'll have a College Life, please."
"Comin' right up. That'll be $500."
"Not a problem."
He pops the cap and as he pours the beverage into a frosty mug, I can already feel it. The possibilities, the curiosity, the liberty. Ahhh. But there's something else... along with the possibilities comes the horrible mistakes. The curiosity renders painful discoveries. Liberty hold hands with damaging irresponsibility. And College Life will definitely suck the cash right outta your pocket.
Want to rethink that?
On second thought, I'll stick with vodka and glucosamine.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Eva Braun--The Car
I know this much about myself: I don't really care much about what I drive. I don't need my car to say "I have lots of money... or lots of credit", I don't need it to say "I'm tough"; "I'm pretty", or "I'm fast." I'm pretty sure my car says "I am weeks away from appearing on Hoarders" and I'm fine with that.
I drive an old VW Passat Wagon; I love her. I named her Eva Braun because she's German, a touch evil and often misguided.
Eva is also smart. She announces any condition that a driver might want to note, down to the smallest detail such as the temperature has fallen below freezing... Gee thanks, Eva; I had no idea. As is her fashion, she gives a shrill "neeeeeeeeet" (which always makes me bolt upright) and then she flashes a message across the dashboard. "Please refuel" is her most frequent request.
But today, she announced something new.
"neeeeeeeet...BOOT LID AJAR" she said in a deep, smoke-soaked German accent.
"My what?"
"neeeeeeeet...BOOT LID AJAR" and then, as if I was being obtuse, she showed me an image of a car with the trunk lid up.
"Ohhhh... my truuuuunk's open. OK. Thanks, Eva." I sometimes forget that she's European. I could only imagine what a car designed in Tennessee would say. Probably something like "Ay, yer trunk's open" or "Trunk's open, moron."
"neeeeeeet... BOOT LID AJAR."
If Eva & I have anything in common, it's that we are both stubborn and neither one of us will shut up. So for 20 miles, she said "neeeeeeeet... BOOT LID AJAR."
And for 20 miles, I said:
"Yep; got it."
"Heard ya."
"Eva, I'm not pulling over. Shut up."
And on and on.
When I finally got to my destination, I went around to the back of the car. The boot lid was most definitely NOT ajar. On my way home, she decided to lock & unlock her doors twice, randomly. So it's clear to me that Eva's mind is no longer synapsing correctly. Can her cyanide pill be far behind?
I drive an old VW Passat Wagon; I love her. I named her Eva Braun because she's German, a touch evil and often misguided.
Eva is also smart. She announces any condition that a driver might want to note, down to the smallest detail such as the temperature has fallen below freezing... Gee thanks, Eva; I had no idea. As is her fashion, she gives a shrill "neeeeeeeeet" (which always makes me bolt upright) and then she flashes a message across the dashboard. "Please refuel" is her most frequent request.
But today, she announced something new.
"neeeeeeeet...BOOT LID AJAR" she said in a deep, smoke-soaked German accent.
"My what?"
"neeeeeeeet...BOOT LID AJAR" and then, as if I was being obtuse, she showed me an image of a car with the trunk lid up.
"Ohhhh... my truuuuunk's open. OK. Thanks, Eva." I sometimes forget that she's European. I could only imagine what a car designed in Tennessee would say. Probably something like "Ay, yer trunk's open" or "Trunk's open, moron."
"neeeeeeet... BOOT LID AJAR."
If Eva & I have anything in common, it's that we are both stubborn and neither one of us will shut up. So for 20 miles, she said "neeeeeeeet... BOOT LID AJAR."
And for 20 miles, I said:
"Yep; got it."
"Heard ya."
"Eva, I'm not pulling over. Shut up."
And on and on.
When I finally got to my destination, I went around to the back of the car. The boot lid was most definitely NOT ajar. On my way home, she decided to lock & unlock her doors twice, randomly. So it's clear to me that Eva's mind is no longer synapsing correctly. Can her cyanide pill be far behind?
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
50 Shades of Something
I consider myself an avid reader, but I have a hard time getting into 'chick lit'. I like to read things by people who write better than I do, who inspire me to prose, whose imagination and wit are superior to mine. I could read 'To Kill a Mockingbird' every day--the whole absurd horror of the 'ham' attack is sheer brilliance. Harper Lee called the novel 'a simple love story'.
I call it 'what I want to be when I grow up'.
When the '50 Shades of Gray' trilogy hit, friend after friend recommended it to me. One friend announced "it's Mommy porn!" That reminded me of an exchange--
Several years ago, I went to lunch with a friend from work. Annie was a sweet strict Southern Baptist and well, I'm a mean, mediocre Methodist. But we liked each other, learned a lot from each other, and both wanted something else as a profession.
"If you could do anything besides this, what would it be" she asked me.
"I would be a writer" I said.
"So write."
"Do you know how long it takes to write a novel? Who has the time?" (I could have written 30 since I had this conversation...but it might require ADD medication and then I'm sure anything I wrote would suck.)
Trying to encourage me, she said "you could write those little romance books."
I arched an eyebrow and smirked. "Annie, you've know me for a while now-you know there's not a romantic bone in my body."
"Well," said my sweet Southern Baptist friend, "write those little porn books."
???
So far, I've avoided '50 Shades of Gray', but Annie might have been on to something. Sooner or later, I'll read it. I just want to buy my own copy.
I call it 'what I want to be when I grow up'.
When the '50 Shades of Gray' trilogy hit, friend after friend recommended it to me. One friend announced "it's Mommy porn!" That reminded me of an exchange--
Several years ago, I went to lunch with a friend from work. Annie was a sweet strict Southern Baptist and well, I'm a mean, mediocre Methodist. But we liked each other, learned a lot from each other, and both wanted something else as a profession.
"If you could do anything besides this, what would it be" she asked me.
"I would be a writer" I said.
"So write."
"Do you know how long it takes to write a novel? Who has the time?" (I could have written 30 since I had this conversation...but it might require ADD medication and then I'm sure anything I wrote would suck.)
Trying to encourage me, she said "you could write those little romance books."
I arched an eyebrow and smirked. "Annie, you've know me for a while now-you know there's not a romantic bone in my body."
"Well," said my sweet Southern Baptist friend, "write those little porn books."
???
So far, I've avoided '50 Shades of Gray', but Annie might have been on to something. Sooner or later, I'll read it. I just want to buy my own copy.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
The Kindness of Strangers
On my way home from work tonight, my car made this horrible noise and then there was the sound of rushing air. My first thought was 'Great; another flat', but having had a blow-out (or two), the ease of steering told me that wasn't the issue. A quick look at my gauges said it wasn't engine-related either.
Fortunately, I was close to the Strawberry Plains exit and could make a hasty escape off the interstate. I pulled into a BP and did a quick check. Tires looked okay. Car seemed fine. But in the front, there was a piece of plastic-some sort of cover-hanging down. While I deemed it nonessential to operating the car, I knew it wasn't wise to get back on the interstate.
Enter Weldon. He pulled up beside me. "You got some trouble?"
"Yeah," I said. "This thing," I pointed at the cover.
"Let me see if I can help". He crawled underneath the car as best he could. Long story, short: Weldon was able to rig the cover back into place, at least until I can get it to a proper service station.
What's remarkable about this story as that, with more than an hour's commute ahead of him, Weldon was doing this in the pouring rain and driving wind for someone he did not know. And he made me get back in the car so I wouldn't get wet.
"I don't know how I could re-pay you," I said, doing my best Blanche Du Bois impression.
"PAY me?" Weldon said. "You don't need to pay me. You just need to do two things: you need to slow down and next time you see somebody who needs help and you can help 'em, help 'em."
And with that, he patted me on my soggy shoulder with his water-logged hand and got back in his car.
I get the feeling that Weldon does this kind of thing a lot. I get the feeling that we all should.
Fortunately, I was close to the Strawberry Plains exit and could make a hasty escape off the interstate. I pulled into a BP and did a quick check. Tires looked okay. Car seemed fine. But in the front, there was a piece of plastic-some sort of cover-hanging down. While I deemed it nonessential to operating the car, I knew it wasn't wise to get back on the interstate.
Enter Weldon. He pulled up beside me. "You got some trouble?"
"Yeah," I said. "This thing," I pointed at the cover.
"Let me see if I can help". He crawled underneath the car as best he could. Long story, short: Weldon was able to rig the cover back into place, at least until I can get it to a proper service station.
What's remarkable about this story as that, with more than an hour's commute ahead of him, Weldon was doing this in the pouring rain and driving wind for someone he did not know. And he made me get back in the car so I wouldn't get wet.
"I don't know how I could re-pay you," I said, doing my best Blanche Du Bois impression.
"PAY me?" Weldon said. "You don't need to pay me. You just need to do two things: you need to slow down and next time you see somebody who needs help and you can help 'em, help 'em."
And with that, he patted me on my soggy shoulder with his water-logged hand and got back in his car.
I get the feeling that Weldon does this kind of thing a lot. I get the feeling that we all should.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Edward Cullen and 'This'
I haven't thought of him in years, but once the Twilight movies hit, I found myself thinking of him quite frequently. The film character of Edward Cullen reminds me very much of an ex-boyfriend. I don't really remember exactly what he looked like, but every time I see an ad for the film, I think of him--incredibly handsome and cold.
It was a case of opposites attract. I should have known it would never work out when I went to his condo for the first time-white carpet, white couch, professionally framed photographs on the wall, monogrammed hand towels in the bathroom, everything perfectly placed.
"Do you have a maid," I asked.
"No."
"Did your mother stop by today?"
"No."
I should have made for the door that instant, but I didn't--because on the surface he was everything a woman would want in a mate. Reputable family, career-driven, impeccably dressed, athletically built, up-standing citizen... and hot. But cold.
It finally ended--spectacularly--one evening at dinner. Let's just put it this way: my tolerance for people who judge other people based on their race, religion or sexual preference is low. My defense of people's rights to be judged on their own merit-and not on a stereotype-is, uh, well, loud. And "Edward's" tolerance for a screaming girlfriend in the middle of Copper Cellar was decidedly low. He got up and walked out, leaving me to pay the tab and find a way home. Neither of us ever looked back.
But one thing he said to me has stuck for nearly 20 years now. He said "You are better than this."
Better than what? Better than the life I was living then?
As I look around, I see books stacked high, paint jars and brushes clutter tables, three dogs asleep on the floor and I hear music being made down the hall, in a house that's falling down as fast as we can prop it up-a house that's filled with chaos and laughter, warm with the smell of coffee and cinnamon. I see a yard with daffodils in the Spring and weeds in the Summer with neighbors who meet on porches, enjoy each other's company and do things for each other. I see a job I love going to every day with people who care about what they do. I see a family and friends who love me just the way I am. I see a life filled with ups & downs, emotional turmoil and euphoria.
Better than what?
Better than this?
I don't think so.
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