Well, I'm back!
I know, it's been over six months since my last post, but hey, I've been busy moving cross-country and getting settled--plus a lot of stuff happened that snowballed to mammoth proportions. So much so that I felt like a candle in the middle of an avalanche.
Anyway, just wanted to let everyone know I'm alive and well and finally able to begin writing here again, and with more frequency than half-year intervals. Sorry if anyone worried about me. Got a post coming up for this weekend, so stay tuned. Hope everyone is well!
Irish
Monday, November 05, 2007
Saturday, May 19, 2007
The Turkey Has Landed
Helloooooooooo!!!
I really, really, REALLY am so very sorry that it's been so long since my last post. As most of my readers (all five of you) know, I up and packed my Jeep and moved 3000 miles west, in an extremely short span of time. Every time I thought of writing an entry, something else came up and I never did get round to it. Plus, it's time consuming setting up house and getting a job. Who knew?
All right, so...details.
Back in late February, I was reminiscing to a friend of mine about when I lived in Arizona. We got to talking about it in depth, and I found myself feeling quite homesick for the desert--as I often did on occasion when I thought of the time I lived here. I'd been missing it for a few years, and always figured, well, one day we'll look at going back.
Anyway, on impulse, I pulled out my laptop and logged on to check airline prices--just for shits and giggles. Whaddaya know, there was a rock-bottom, once-in-a-blue-moon round trip ticket available for $300. I don't know what came over me, but I forthwith pulled my virgin Visa card out and booked the ticket right then and there. Something told me that it was the right thing to do. Didn't understand it then. Still don't quite understand it now, but as it turned out, I'm glad I listened.
Flash forward to March 3, and I'm on the airplane, zooming at 30,000 feet in a pressurized tube with 145 other passengers and praying to God I don't get someone's cold before touching down in Tucson. The food is bad enough; getting sick would just have been kicking me when I was down.
To make a long story short, I loved every minute of my two weeks in Arizona, which I labeled a vacation/job scout to justify my gleeful cavorting in the Southern Desert. Almost immediately I knew I didn't want to live in Tucson again; it's gotten waaayyy too big for my taste--they hit a population of 1.4 million about two years ago, and the city is enormous. Much more so than when I lived there before. Too much crime, too many people, too many traffic accidents where people die. Uh-uh.
I've been visiting Tombstone since I was ten and first came out here to visit my grandfather during summers. You may have heard of Tombstone. It was 125 years ago that eight or nine guys went at each other with guns and rifles behind a corral, and thus immortalized the town as the epitome of the "Wild West". Earps and Clantons...some such fellows. Three men died in the shootout and found their eternal rest over in Boothill Cemetery, while the others went on to achieve either ignominious deaths or an insane level of fame. I'll tell y'all about that stuff later.
But yes, I live less than a block from the famous OK Corral, and work right across the street from it.
I'm getting ahead of myself. That's what happens when you don't post in a while; all your darks and colors get thrown in the wash together. Forget separating. Anyway, I chose to come back and live here. I had no firm job offer, really--unless you count the fact that my friend Sherri said I could work at her restaurant when I got back. Which at least was money coming in while I looked for full-time employment. But again, somehow I knew it would work out. So I flew back home to New Hampshire and began packing immediately.
Whatever I could squeeze into my Jeep I kept. Everything else got sold or given away in one weekend during my moving out sale. We all say it, but it's still astounding to realize how much we accumulate in a relatively short time. I couldn't believe how much stuff I had. I mean, I'm only one woman. When I first came to New Hampshire from West Virginia (via Los Angeles), I had nothing but my clothes, a television set, and my computer. That was about it. Now, five or so years later, I was divesting myself of possessions that could have supported a small Puerto Rican family.
After packing the Jeep and closing up my apartment, I spent a few days with my sister before finally heading out in the early morning of April 6. I won't bore everyone with the travelogue; suffice it to say that I have seen the heartland, and it was beautiful, but there was too much of it.
Ohio, the state in which I was actually born, was cold and unpredictably snowy, what with the Lake Effect. One minute I could see perfectly where I was going, then the next, a complete white-out. Indiana and Illinios had a lot of corn. Miles of corn. So much corn that I literally got on my cell phone to friends and family and begged them to chat with me for a few minutes to save me from the boredom.
I saw more cows than I hope ever to see again in my lifetime. They're all in Oklahoma. If the cows decided to band together and have a rebellion, they'd win that state in no time flat. Mind-boggling. Hereford, Texas, was the only place that may have had more cows, but it was hard to tell, since the Herefords were packed like sardines into huge pens. I thought it was wood before I got a closer look. I was so appalled at the conditions the poor things had to live in that I averted my eyes for the rest of the trip through that town.
Missouri was cool. I got to see the famous St. Louis arch, and even got pictures of it on my cell phone--at great peril and risk to life and limb. I haven't figured out how to transfer them to my computer, or I'd show them to you. Maybe one day soon that'll happen. My spirits lifted when I saw it, though--knowing I was officially at "The Gateway to the West" did wonders for my morale.
Roswell, New Mexico was bigger than I thought it would be. Also more normal. I didn't see a single alien, unless you count the ones that slid across the border of Mexico illegally. Very disappointing, actually. Maybe the outer space aliens have a condo community just outside of town, complete with enclosures and a gate guard.
White Sands, New Mexico was annoying. It went on forever and was populated with brainy NASA employees who have better Wal-Marts than the rest of us. Johnson Space Center's parking lot is bigger than Yankee Stadium. Too many people with too many expensive cars. But the sand was pretty.
When I crossed the state line into Arizona, I let out a triumphant, exultant whoop. If anyone had been able to see or hear me, I'm sure they'd have pegged me as a lunatic. But three days of driving will do that to you. The moment I saw my beloved Dragoon Mountains in the distance, my entire body relaxed, and I knew I was twenty minutes from home.
I pulled into the carport of my "new" house at 11:34 am on April 9. Three and a half days and 2,675 miles after I had started out. And my Jeep was still in fine form. The first thing I did was go and get something to eat, since I was starving. Called everyone and let them know I had arrived safely. Then I collapsed onto the little twin bed a friend had set up for me and was unconscious within minutes. Unpacking could wait another day.
More later!
Irish
I really, really, REALLY am so very sorry that it's been so long since my last post. As most of my readers (all five of you) know, I up and packed my Jeep and moved 3000 miles west, in an extremely short span of time. Every time I thought of writing an entry, something else came up and I never did get round to it. Plus, it's time consuming setting up house and getting a job. Who knew?
All right, so...details.
Back in late February, I was reminiscing to a friend of mine about when I lived in Arizona. We got to talking about it in depth, and I found myself feeling quite homesick for the desert--as I often did on occasion when I thought of the time I lived here. I'd been missing it for a few years, and always figured, well, one day we'll look at going back.
Anyway, on impulse, I pulled out my laptop and logged on to check airline prices--just for shits and giggles. Whaddaya know, there was a rock-bottom, once-in-a-blue-moon round trip ticket available for $300. I don't know what came over me, but I forthwith pulled my virgin Visa card out and booked the ticket right then and there. Something told me that it was the right thing to do. Didn't understand it then. Still don't quite understand it now, but as it turned out, I'm glad I listened.
Flash forward to March 3, and I'm on the airplane, zooming at 30,000 feet in a pressurized tube with 145 other passengers and praying to God I don't get someone's cold before touching down in Tucson. The food is bad enough; getting sick would just have been kicking me when I was down.
To make a long story short, I loved every minute of my two weeks in Arizona, which I labeled a vacation/job scout to justify my gleeful cavorting in the Southern Desert. Almost immediately I knew I didn't want to live in Tucson again; it's gotten waaayyy too big for my taste--they hit a population of 1.4 million about two years ago, and the city is enormous. Much more so than when I lived there before. Too much crime, too many people, too many traffic accidents where people die. Uh-uh.
I've been visiting Tombstone since I was ten and first came out here to visit my grandfather during summers. You may have heard of Tombstone. It was 125 years ago that eight or nine guys went at each other with guns and rifles behind a corral, and thus immortalized the town as the epitome of the "Wild West". Earps and Clantons...some such fellows. Three men died in the shootout and found their eternal rest over in Boothill Cemetery, while the others went on to achieve either ignominious deaths or an insane level of fame. I'll tell y'all about that stuff later.
But yes, I live less than a block from the famous OK Corral, and work right across the street from it.
I'm getting ahead of myself. That's what happens when you don't post in a while; all your darks and colors get thrown in the wash together. Forget separating. Anyway, I chose to come back and live here. I had no firm job offer, really--unless you count the fact that my friend Sherri said I could work at her restaurant when I got back. Which at least was money coming in while I looked for full-time employment. But again, somehow I knew it would work out. So I flew back home to New Hampshire and began packing immediately.
Whatever I could squeeze into my Jeep I kept. Everything else got sold or given away in one weekend during my moving out sale. We all say it, but it's still astounding to realize how much we accumulate in a relatively short time. I couldn't believe how much stuff I had. I mean, I'm only one woman. When I first came to New Hampshire from West Virginia (via Los Angeles), I had nothing but my clothes, a television set, and my computer. That was about it. Now, five or so years later, I was divesting myself of possessions that could have supported a small Puerto Rican family.
After packing the Jeep and closing up my apartment, I spent a few days with my sister before finally heading out in the early morning of April 6. I won't bore everyone with the travelogue; suffice it to say that I have seen the heartland, and it was beautiful, but there was too much of it.
Ohio, the state in which I was actually born, was cold and unpredictably snowy, what with the Lake Effect. One minute I could see perfectly where I was going, then the next, a complete white-out. Indiana and Illinios had a lot of corn. Miles of corn. So much corn that I literally got on my cell phone to friends and family and begged them to chat with me for a few minutes to save me from the boredom.
I saw more cows than I hope ever to see again in my lifetime. They're all in Oklahoma. If the cows decided to band together and have a rebellion, they'd win that state in no time flat. Mind-boggling. Hereford, Texas, was the only place that may have had more cows, but it was hard to tell, since the Herefords were packed like sardines into huge pens. I thought it was wood before I got a closer look. I was so appalled at the conditions the poor things had to live in that I averted my eyes for the rest of the trip through that town.
Missouri was cool. I got to see the famous St. Louis arch, and even got pictures of it on my cell phone--at great peril and risk to life and limb. I haven't figured out how to transfer them to my computer, or I'd show them to you. Maybe one day soon that'll happen. My spirits lifted when I saw it, though--knowing I was officially at "The Gateway to the West" did wonders for my morale.
Roswell, New Mexico was bigger than I thought it would be. Also more normal. I didn't see a single alien, unless you count the ones that slid across the border of Mexico illegally. Very disappointing, actually. Maybe the outer space aliens have a condo community just outside of town, complete with enclosures and a gate guard.
White Sands, New Mexico was annoying. It went on forever and was populated with brainy NASA employees who have better Wal-Marts than the rest of us. Johnson Space Center's parking lot is bigger than Yankee Stadium. Too many people with too many expensive cars. But the sand was pretty.
When I crossed the state line into Arizona, I let out a triumphant, exultant whoop. If anyone had been able to see or hear me, I'm sure they'd have pegged me as a lunatic. But three days of driving will do that to you. The moment I saw my beloved Dragoon Mountains in the distance, my entire body relaxed, and I knew I was twenty minutes from home.
I pulled into the carport of my "new" house at 11:34 am on April 9. Three and a half days and 2,675 miles after I had started out. And my Jeep was still in fine form. The first thing I did was go and get something to eat, since I was starving. Called everyone and let them know I had arrived safely. Then I collapsed onto the little twin bed a friend had set up for me and was unconscious within minutes. Unpacking could wait another day.
More later!
Irish
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Ya Learn Something New
You just never know what interesting things you might learn when you visit and comment on your friends' blogspots. Have a look at the following, and make sure you read the comments section, and click on the link provided in one of the replies. That's the most important part.
I give you Torquemada Unleashed. Courtesy of the incomparable Jean.
I give you Torquemada Unleashed. Courtesy of the incomparable Jean.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Outta Dodge
I just returned from Arizona after a 10-day visit, and am now in the full throes of organizing and packing up my life. I swore when I moved into this place that I'd never move again, because I loathe moving. They say it's one of the top three things that is most stressful. I think the other two are divorce and taxes. I can feel my anxiety and blood pressure rising exponentially with each new day.
Anyway, I wanted to drop a quick post to let everyone know that I am indeed moving to Arizona, and am on the fast track to get out of here and on the road by the end of the month. Hence, I may not be able to write for a couple of weeks. Once I get settled in my beloved Tombstone, I'll be back online and writing all about my new home. It's a pretty famous town, even though it only has 2000 residents. I've missed it there. Can't wait till this is all over and I'm settled. Did I mention I hate moving?
Irish
Anyway, I wanted to drop a quick post to let everyone know that I am indeed moving to Arizona, and am on the fast track to get out of here and on the road by the end of the month. Hence, I may not be able to write for a couple of weeks. Once I get settled in my beloved Tombstone, I'll be back online and writing all about my new home. It's a pretty famous town, even though it only has 2000 residents. I've missed it there. Can't wait till this is all over and I'm settled. Did I mention I hate moving?
Irish
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
History Repeating
The other day I ranted at Britney Spears' mother in this blog, asking where the hell has she been while her daughter was falling apart in front of our eyes. Well, I want to retract that rant and in its place issue an apology.
From what I've been able to find out, Mama Spears did try--several times--to intervene, even to the point of near-bullying her daughter to get help. So did her father. It appears that Britney is the only one who doesn't want to take action. As of 1pm today, it has been learned that she has again checked herself out of rehab at Promises in Malibu--again, after less than 24 hours in the facility.
I don't know if anyone is going to be able to help her. Things are falling apart, and the center is not holding. We may be looking at another Anna Nicole situation, and God bless her family for trying to stop it.
From what I've been able to find out, Mama Spears did try--several times--to intervene, even to the point of near-bullying her daughter to get help. So did her father. It appears that Britney is the only one who doesn't want to take action. As of 1pm today, it has been learned that she has again checked herself out of rehab at Promises in Malibu--again, after less than 24 hours in the facility.
I don't know if anyone is going to be able to help her. Things are falling apart, and the center is not holding. We may be looking at another Anna Nicole situation, and God bless her family for trying to stop it.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Blackjack Jesus
I have to say, I was a bit enamoured of my glib turn of phrase the other day. I even congratulated myself on my literary wit. However, Jean, in her generosity and brilliance, actually caught it by the tail and turned it into a catchphrase that I now love even more. She's just better at that than I am. Plus, her writing is just wonderful, and I always enjoy reading anything she has to say.
It got me thinking. I've been catching up on my blog as well as other friends' blogs, emails, and the like. Brock had sent me a lovely email a while back, and I read some of his always gentle and optimistic posts, despite some hardships he's having at the moment. His wife Auny had some interesting entries on her website about faith, too. Now, I'm not by any means a devoutly religious person, as I've said before. I consider myself a questioning Christian, if indeed I can call myself a Christian at all. As I've also said before--maybe not here on this blog, but I think I said it on Brock's--I believe that everyone probably has a piece of the God puzzle, and I also think that sometimes people get too bolluxed up in scripture, squabble too much over doctrine, and miss the big picture. Everything gets blown out of proportion so much that they forget what their original fight was really all about. And all I can think is, God is either up there shaking his head in defeat, or laughing his ass off at the silliness of the human race.
God and Jesus are gamblers and gamesmen. And their prophets? So was Bhudda, and so was Mohammed. Moses was a rather compulsive crapshooter, and Abraham was the most consummate poker player of all the prophets; the man looked God in the eye and bluffed Him down on Sodom and Gomorrah. The Earth is a giant casino, and world history as we know it is full of improbable gambles--not the least of which was the creation of homo sapiens.
I realize that people may look askance and aghast at me for what appears to be blatant blasphemy. If a hardcore fundamentalist got near me, I'm sure he'd be in fear for my soul and try to save it from the fiery pits of Hell. However, irreverence is not disrespect, and I maintain that a dose of humor to go along with theology is a healthy thing. It keeps you from getting into that bolluxed-up state I was talking about. Laughter is a universal leveler and it keeps things in perspective.
Jesus had a sense of humor, you know. What group of young men would drop everything they had--their families, friends, and livelihoods--and follow a guy who was somber, gloomy, and portentious all day and all night for three years? Galloping around the Galilee, depending on the kindness of strangers for food and shelter? I don't know about you, but I have a hard time believing the disciples would have stuck with Jesus as long as they did if he wasn't a fun guy to be around. The hordes of people who came from all over to hear him preach must have seen a dynamic and entertaining speaker--who wants to traipse out of town for a day to hear someone drone on with maddening brevity or hurling invective? Yuck. If I want that kind of crap, I'll watch American Idol.
Then there were the children; the New Testament tells the story that when the disciples tried to keep the kids from bothering the Rabbi, Jesus chastised them, saying, "Suffer the little children to come unto Me and forbid them not; for such is the Kingdom of God." Kids freakin' loved him--and anyone who has ever been around children for any appreciable length of time knows that they don't suffer fools gladly. If you scare them, talk down to them, or if they find you utterly boring and without any redeeming playtime value, they won't bother with you. That the village urchins were said to excitedly run to him whenever he came around says a lot for his charisma.
If you read between the lines of Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John, you'll also find other examples of Jesus' humor. Man, it was sharp. Now, it wasn't the kind of humor we might recognize today; as far as we know, they didn't tell "knock-knock" jokes or have an ancient version of "Jackass" back in the day. Jesus' humor was contemporary and subtle; it was used in such a way as to illustrate a point to his flock, rather than jamming it down their throats. He loved allegory, metaphor, was a master of sarcasm and a lover of puns. Sometimes when I read the Gospels, I can all but see the deadpan delivery when Jesus confronts a situation so ridiculous, the only way to respond is with humor.
Take Luke, chapter 19. Zacchaeus was a short little man, and a tax collector--one of the most reviled--if not the most reviled--of men in that day. No one ever wanted to mix with tax collectors, because to do so was to soil oneself with a man in cahoots with Rome. Sort of like any member of Congress in today's world.
Anyway, Zacchaeus was really short. One day Jesus came to town and a huge crowd gathered round him as he walked through the streets. Zacchaeus had heard so much about the Rabbi and wanted to get a good look at him. So he tucked his pride in his pocket, skirted the edge of the horde, and climbed as far up a tree as he could go in order to get a birds-eye view.
Now, the idea of a tax collector debasing himself in such a way is funny enough. But when Jesus saw this short little man dangling precariously atop the branches, he stunned both Zachheus and the crowd by saying, in what I imagine to be a completely droll and straight-faced manner, "Zacchaeus, come down. I'm going to stay at your house tonight."
I mean, what would you say to a man peering through tree branches at you? You might smile and wave, or maybe nudge your buddies and point the guy out. Jesus went one better, shocking the assembled crowd by not only inviting himself to the sinner's house, but actually deigning to speak to the man. It turned everyone on their ears. And Jesus knew it. It's hysterical. Better yet, he won a convert with humor rather than force. That's an effective speaker.
Here's another example: Jesus came across a man possessed by evil spirits, and conversed with the demon, asking, "What's your name?"
And they said, "My name is Legion, for we are many."
Well, Jesus was about to drive the demons out of the poor man, but they begged him not to cast them back into hell again. So what does Jesus do? It's pretty cheeky. He says, OK, fine, I won't send you to hell. No problem. Instead, he knocks them into a herd of pigs, all of whom promptly went insane and careened into the Galilee like a flock of insensate lemmings--and drowned.
I mean, come on! That's funny. Jesus got the last word and the last joke, and thoroughly enjoyed showing Legion the folly of their request. You don't want hell? All right, but I won't guarantee what I give you will be any better. It's your funeral.
Blackjack Jesus. If you ask him a question or make a request of him, you better mean it, because he won't necessarily give you what you want or what you want to hear. What he will give you is what you ask for. He won't cheat; he's just better at the game. You say "hit me", and he will. Just don't complain when he knows the cards better than you. You take your lumps and suck it up like a grownup. Don't worry; he'll let you play again. That goes for God, too, by the way. Or Allah, or Jehovah, or Uncle Bob--whatever you want to call him.
One of my favorite examples of Jesus' humor--aside from some of the wonderful brilliance when he's talking to Peter (who, we must admit, was a little thickheaded and hot under the collar)--is this one, and I'm paraphrasing the first part:
There was a rich man who came to Jesus and asked him, "What do I need to do to be your disciple? What must I do to follow you?"
And again, ever the consummate Blackjack player, Jesus deals out the hand. "Oh, come on," he says. "You know the commandments. Don't cheat; don't steal. Don't kill, don't lie. Honor your father and mother."
The rich man says, "I've done all of these all my life."
Jesus was impressed and saw that the guy was genuine. So he calls the final bet. "There's only one more thing you need to do, then. Sell everything you have, give your money to the poor, and come along with us."
It's the only thing the man wasn't expecting. His face fell, and he walked away without a word.
Jesus watched him go, and then looked round at his disciples, saying, "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God."
Contemplate that imagery. A camel trying to squeeze through the eye of the needle. It's one of the trippiest, most evocative, and hilarious analogies Jesus ever used. Even through his disappointment, Jesus was able to use humor as illustration, and people got it.
Take a look at the world's most sought after speakers. I don't care who they are; politicians, philosophers, preachers, or prophets. You'll find that every single one of them used humor to keep people interested and thinking. Now go look at your Bible, your Koran, the I Ching. See it?
Whether you believe that Jesus was the Son of God, or that he was a brilliant and insightful prophet, one thing is incontrovertible: He was human. As God's son, he was sent down to experience being a man. As a prophet, he was flesh and blood from day one. Men--human beings--get angry, get tired, get scared, get hungry and thirsty and sleepy. They cry, and they laugh. To say Jesus never joked or laughed or couldn't poke fun at himself is, for me, highly illogical and unbelievable. The guy possessed a rapier wit and intelligence even the Pharisees couldn't match. To me, that truly makes him the Son of Man.
It got me thinking. I've been catching up on my blog as well as other friends' blogs, emails, and the like. Brock had sent me a lovely email a while back, and I read some of his always gentle and optimistic posts, despite some hardships he's having at the moment. His wife Auny had some interesting entries on her website about faith, too. Now, I'm not by any means a devoutly religious person, as I've said before. I consider myself a questioning Christian, if indeed I can call myself a Christian at all. As I've also said before--maybe not here on this blog, but I think I said it on Brock's--I believe that everyone probably has a piece of the God puzzle, and I also think that sometimes people get too bolluxed up in scripture, squabble too much over doctrine, and miss the big picture. Everything gets blown out of proportion so much that they forget what their original fight was really all about. And all I can think is, God is either up there shaking his head in defeat, or laughing his ass off at the silliness of the human race.
God and Jesus are gamblers and gamesmen. And their prophets? So was Bhudda, and so was Mohammed. Moses was a rather compulsive crapshooter, and Abraham was the most consummate poker player of all the prophets; the man looked God in the eye and bluffed Him down on Sodom and Gomorrah. The Earth is a giant casino, and world history as we know it is full of improbable gambles--not the least of which was the creation of homo sapiens.
I realize that people may look askance and aghast at me for what appears to be blatant blasphemy. If a hardcore fundamentalist got near me, I'm sure he'd be in fear for my soul and try to save it from the fiery pits of Hell. However, irreverence is not disrespect, and I maintain that a dose of humor to go along with theology is a healthy thing. It keeps you from getting into that bolluxed-up state I was talking about. Laughter is a universal leveler and it keeps things in perspective.
Jesus had a sense of humor, you know. What group of young men would drop everything they had--their families, friends, and livelihoods--and follow a guy who was somber, gloomy, and portentious all day and all night for three years? Galloping around the Galilee, depending on the kindness of strangers for food and shelter? I don't know about you, but I have a hard time believing the disciples would have stuck with Jesus as long as they did if he wasn't a fun guy to be around. The hordes of people who came from all over to hear him preach must have seen a dynamic and entertaining speaker--who wants to traipse out of town for a day to hear someone drone on with maddening brevity or hurling invective? Yuck. If I want that kind of crap, I'll watch American Idol.
Then there were the children; the New Testament tells the story that when the disciples tried to keep the kids from bothering the Rabbi, Jesus chastised them, saying, "Suffer the little children to come unto Me and forbid them not; for such is the Kingdom of God." Kids freakin' loved him--and anyone who has ever been around children for any appreciable length of time knows that they don't suffer fools gladly. If you scare them, talk down to them, or if they find you utterly boring and without any redeeming playtime value, they won't bother with you. That the village urchins were said to excitedly run to him whenever he came around says a lot for his charisma.
If you read between the lines of Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John, you'll also find other examples of Jesus' humor. Man, it was sharp. Now, it wasn't the kind of humor we might recognize today; as far as we know, they didn't tell "knock-knock" jokes or have an ancient version of "Jackass" back in the day. Jesus' humor was contemporary and subtle; it was used in such a way as to illustrate a point to his flock, rather than jamming it down their throats. He loved allegory, metaphor, was a master of sarcasm and a lover of puns. Sometimes when I read the Gospels, I can all but see the deadpan delivery when Jesus confronts a situation so ridiculous, the only way to respond is with humor.
Take Luke, chapter 19. Zacchaeus was a short little man, and a tax collector--one of the most reviled--if not the most reviled--of men in that day. No one ever wanted to mix with tax collectors, because to do so was to soil oneself with a man in cahoots with Rome. Sort of like any member of Congress in today's world.
Anyway, Zacchaeus was really short. One day Jesus came to town and a huge crowd gathered round him as he walked through the streets. Zacchaeus had heard so much about the Rabbi and wanted to get a good look at him. So he tucked his pride in his pocket, skirted the edge of the horde, and climbed as far up a tree as he could go in order to get a birds-eye view.
Now, the idea of a tax collector debasing himself in such a way is funny enough. But when Jesus saw this short little man dangling precariously atop the branches, he stunned both Zachheus and the crowd by saying, in what I imagine to be a completely droll and straight-faced manner, "Zacchaeus, come down. I'm going to stay at your house tonight."
I mean, what would you say to a man peering through tree branches at you? You might smile and wave, or maybe nudge your buddies and point the guy out. Jesus went one better, shocking the assembled crowd by not only inviting himself to the sinner's house, but actually deigning to speak to the man. It turned everyone on their ears. And Jesus knew it. It's hysterical. Better yet, he won a convert with humor rather than force. That's an effective speaker.
Here's another example: Jesus came across a man possessed by evil spirits, and conversed with the demon, asking, "What's your name?"
And they said, "My name is Legion, for we are many."
Well, Jesus was about to drive the demons out of the poor man, but they begged him not to cast them back into hell again. So what does Jesus do? It's pretty cheeky. He says, OK, fine, I won't send you to hell. No problem. Instead, he knocks them into a herd of pigs, all of whom promptly went insane and careened into the Galilee like a flock of insensate lemmings--and drowned.
I mean, come on! That's funny. Jesus got the last word and the last joke, and thoroughly enjoyed showing Legion the folly of their request. You don't want hell? All right, but I won't guarantee what I give you will be any better. It's your funeral.
Blackjack Jesus. If you ask him a question or make a request of him, you better mean it, because he won't necessarily give you what you want or what you want to hear. What he will give you is what you ask for. He won't cheat; he's just better at the game. You say "hit me", and he will. Just don't complain when he knows the cards better than you. You take your lumps and suck it up like a grownup. Don't worry; he'll let you play again. That goes for God, too, by the way. Or Allah, or Jehovah, or Uncle Bob--whatever you want to call him.
One of my favorite examples of Jesus' humor--aside from some of the wonderful brilliance when he's talking to Peter (who, we must admit, was a little thickheaded and hot under the collar)--is this one, and I'm paraphrasing the first part:
There was a rich man who came to Jesus and asked him, "What do I need to do to be your disciple? What must I do to follow you?"
And again, ever the consummate Blackjack player, Jesus deals out the hand. "Oh, come on," he says. "You know the commandments. Don't cheat; don't steal. Don't kill, don't lie. Honor your father and mother."
The rich man says, "I've done all of these all my life."
Jesus was impressed and saw that the guy was genuine. So he calls the final bet. "There's only one more thing you need to do, then. Sell everything you have, give your money to the poor, and come along with us."
It's the only thing the man wasn't expecting. His face fell, and he walked away without a word.
Jesus watched him go, and then looked round at his disciples, saying, "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God."
Contemplate that imagery. A camel trying to squeeze through the eye of the needle. It's one of the trippiest, most evocative, and hilarious analogies Jesus ever used. Even through his disappointment, Jesus was able to use humor as illustration, and people got it.
Take a look at the world's most sought after speakers. I don't care who they are; politicians, philosophers, preachers, or prophets. You'll find that every single one of them used humor to keep people interested and thinking. Now go look at your Bible, your Koran, the I Ching. See it?
Whether you believe that Jesus was the Son of God, or that he was a brilliant and insightful prophet, one thing is incontrovertible: He was human. As God's son, he was sent down to experience being a man. As a prophet, he was flesh and blood from day one. Men--human beings--get angry, get tired, get scared, get hungry and thirsty and sleepy. They cry, and they laugh. To say Jesus never joked or laughed or couldn't poke fun at himself is, for me, highly illogical and unbelievable. The guy possessed a rapier wit and intelligence even the Pharisees couldn't match. To me, that truly makes him the Son of Man.
Bald Truths
Boy howdy, I knew Britney was on that bobsled, but apparently it's careening downhill even faster than I thought. The very day after I posted the "Tapeworm" blog, she went and did this.
I hear her mother hopped a plane from Louisiana to Los Angeles, rushing to do damage control. Which is good; someone obviously needs to take the wheel.
My question is, what in the hell took the woman so damn long? Her daughter's been imploding for months, if not years, before now.
Irish
I hear her mother hopped a plane from Louisiana to Los Angeles, rushing to do damage control. Which is good; someone obviously needs to take the wheel.
My question is, what in the hell took the woman so damn long? Her daughter's been imploding for months, if not years, before now.
Irish
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Mea Culpa
Hi, everyone! Guess what! New post coming later on--either tonight or tomorrow morning. I promise. Really and for true. I just gotta finish it.
See you then!
See you then!
The Tapeworm
A friend of mine from back in Hollyweird called me last week. She was trying to find out who's designing and distributing the infamous "Gift Baskets" for the Oscars this year. Now, bear in mind, I got out of Los Angeles about eight years ago. I still keep in touch with a few old pals, just to kind of keep my finger on the pulse of things, and I still get a bit nostalgic about Hell-Ay. But by and large, I'm really, really glad I left when I did--otherwise I doubt I'd like myself very much at this point. That town has a way of sucking every bit of your own soul out and putting something else in. It lacks in substance and harbors an excess of ickiness. I call it the Tapeworm.
Anyway, my friend needed me to call a few contacts and find out this kernel of information for her. It brought me back to thinking about Celebrutality again...remember, one of my earlier posts during which I railed vituperously at the entitled attitude of Hollywood bourgeoisie? Well, guess what? The Academy, in their infinite wisdom and ball-shriveled fear, have completely washed their hands of the heretofore traditional gift baskets. No more freebees for people who make enough money to afford the actual items in the basket. No more getting away with receiving said freebies without giving some of the largesse back to the government. They'll have to make do with designers giving them gowns to wear in exchange for publicity, and Harry Winston loaning jewels for same.
As you may surmise, Hollywood's Babylonians are decidedly not happy about this unlucky change in events; their world is tilting on its axis. Half the reason they go out to these soirees is to bilk and shill for goodies. You just know Paris Hilton is moaning into her Grey Goose at the injustice of not getting a bonus Treo for her trouble; forget the fact that no one, including Paris, really knows why she got an invitation to the event at all. The day Paris Hilton is nominated for an Oscar is the day the Seventh Seal will be opened and a great silence will be heard in Heaven for half an hour. Because even the angels and cherubim will be stunned into unholy speechlessness. Jesus will start dealing Blackjack in Vegas, and God will go to Turks and Caicos for a well-earned vacation.
But I digress. My point is (I think) about the fact that the more money people seem to have, the less they want to spend it and the greedier they get. The Academy may not be putting up gift baskets this year, but I'm willing to lay odds that the after-party hosts will take up the slack; the uproar otherwise would simply be too deafening, and besides, no one would go to the parties if there were no goodies to heist for free.
"FREE" being the operative word.
Vanity Fair has the best party of the night--as a rule, they usually host it at Morton's after the awards ceremony, and it is by far the most coveted invitation out of all the parties on Oscar night. Everyone who wants to be seen must go. Even if you're George Clooney, unless you've gotten that golden ticket of an invite, you're relegated to the B list for the evening. You're crap, and no one wants to photograph you. And VF has the best food, the best place settings, and the biggest open bar this side of the Mississippi. It's a great party that simply smells of money. However, none of the guests will spend any.
It's amazing to me, actually. There are people in that industry that make more money in one week than most of us see in five years, and yet, they never seem to have to open their wallets for anything. I don't know how that happens, really. They get free dresses, free jewelry, free food at restaurants...free tickets and free hotel rooms, you name it.
Take Anna Nicole Smith, for instance. God bless her, she was a train wreck of the first water. Not even really a C list celebrity. Okay, yeah, she had a couple of pithy endorsements for questionable diet remedies, and a now-defunct reality show--but at the rate at which she appears to have consumed drugs and alcohol, her paycheck couldn't have lasted that long. She had yet to receive a penny from the Marshall estate. Where did she get the money for all her traveling? The hotel rooms and airfares? Vacationing in the Bahamas isn't cheap, let alone living there. And the phalanx of attorneys she had working on various lawsuits is mind-boggling, and I'm sure they were keeping meticulous records and invoices for their billable hours. I'm sure they still are.
Where the hell was the money coming from?! How can someone who had no obvious marketable skills (besides her boobs, a sad and tragic life that translated into a media spectacle), and no apparent source of income that supported her lifestyle--how could she live the way she did?
Keep in mind, she was a celebrity of a lower order, and she was able, somehow to enjoy (if indeed she "enjoyed" anything, poor thing) a level of comfort and luxury not many of us do. Now, consider the A and B list people. They get even more than that. None of them ever seem to end up having to pay for anything, or if they do, they get huge discounts and are shitty tippers.
So much gets wrapped up in their sense of entitlement that it's like a tapeworm; they can't stop feeding it, and it never fills them up. Remember what I said about Hollywood eating your soul? That's the tapeworm. It always wants more, and more is never enough. Meanwhile, the things they really and truly so desperately need, they never get. Like a wake-up call.
Anna Nicole was a woman who so desperately wanted to be famous. Everything she did was to that end, but you know, I really think she would have been so much better off had she remained "undiscovered". If she had stayed in Texas the rest of her life working in a greasy spoon, raising her son and marrying a mechanic, I seriously think she'd be alive today. Yes, she got famous, just like she always wanted, but her fame also enabled her addictions. She needed help, not Methadone. She needed someone to care enough about her to take her by the elbow and steer her towards a reputable doctor and treatment facility. Instead, what she got was a gaggle of lawyers, lovers, and general sycophants who only hung around her so that they could feed on the fallout of her largesse. They didn't give a crap if she was high or drunk or messed up beyond belief; as long as the cow kept farting cash, they were content with the status quo. Why change it? If she were, God forbid, to straighten up and sober up, she probably would have realized just who these people were and forthwith booted them out on their asses. Their insurance was her addiction and her insecurity.
She's not the only one. Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears aren't far behind Anna, if you ask me. Both are riding on an out-of-control bobsled straight into the hell of ignominy, and no one seems to care enough to try and stop them. Nobody. Where are their parents? Where are their friends? Do they have any? They have people around them all the time who are more than happy to ride on the bandwagon, get into exclusive clubs, and suck down free booze. Both starlets are in their early twenties and look forty. That's just pathetic, and terrifying. One day, we're going to have another headline on the news that tells us one of them is dead, killed by an overdose, or alcohol poisoning, or a DUI.
In large part, it happens because these people do get too much free stuff, too much unwarranted license to behave with excess, too many excuses. The tapeworm inside them keeps clamoring for more and more and more until finally, as Yeats said, Things fall apart. The Center cannot hold. They are eaten up from the inside, like a rotting corpse with a beautiful makeup job, until it all simply falls in on itself. That's what tapeworms do: lets you live on just enough to keep you alive, but takes the bulk of everything for itself and demands more. Finally, it just takes everything.
It's ironic to me that two of the women I've just named--Lindsey and Anna--worship Marilyn Monroe. Anna wanted to be Marilyn; Lindsey wants to emulate her, too. Hell, Linds just bought Marilyn's old apartment. This woman was the blueprint, really. Marilyn was beautiful, she was idolized. She was actually an exceptionally talented actress, which makes her story even more tragic, because what she might have become will forever be speculation. But she was also insecure, vulnerable, helpless in many ways, and she was enabled, coddled, addicted, and mishandled. And she died. Even her rivals felt bad for her.
Joan Crawford was nobody's fool. She was tough, ambitious, hard-working, some would say cold. But no one could ever call her stupid. She didn't like Marilyn and made no bones about it; Marilyn offended her, threatened her ego, and represented a debauchery in the business that Crawford abhorred. But despite those feelings, Crawford pegged Marilyn's problem with a precision a surgeon would appreciate.
Right after Marilyn died, Joan became very upset when she heard about it. She was having dinner at director George Cukor's house and talking about Marilyn when he called bullshit. "What is this?" he wanted to know. "You never liked Marilyn."
As always, she was bitingly honest. "Yes, you're right," she admitted. "She was cheap, and an exhibitionist. She was never professional, and that irritated the hell out of people. But for God's sake, she needed help. She had all these people on her payroll. Where the hell were they when she needed them? Why in the hell did she have to die alone?"
There will always be stars, and twice as many tapeworms looking for hosts.
Anyway, my friend needed me to call a few contacts and find out this kernel of information for her. It brought me back to thinking about Celebrutality again...remember, one of my earlier posts during which I railed vituperously at the entitled attitude of Hollywood bourgeoisie? Well, guess what? The Academy, in their infinite wisdom and ball-shriveled fear, have completely washed their hands of the heretofore traditional gift baskets. No more freebees for people who make enough money to afford the actual items in the basket. No more getting away with receiving said freebies without giving some of the largesse back to the government. They'll have to make do with designers giving them gowns to wear in exchange for publicity, and Harry Winston loaning jewels for same.
As you may surmise, Hollywood's Babylonians are decidedly not happy about this unlucky change in events; their world is tilting on its axis. Half the reason they go out to these soirees is to bilk and shill for goodies. You just know Paris Hilton is moaning into her Grey Goose at the injustice of not getting a bonus Treo for her trouble; forget the fact that no one, including Paris, really knows why she got an invitation to the event at all. The day Paris Hilton is nominated for an Oscar is the day the Seventh Seal will be opened and a great silence will be heard in Heaven for half an hour. Because even the angels and cherubim will be stunned into unholy speechlessness. Jesus will start dealing Blackjack in Vegas, and God will go to Turks and Caicos for a well-earned vacation.
But I digress. My point is (I think) about the fact that the more money people seem to have, the less they want to spend it and the greedier they get. The Academy may not be putting up gift baskets this year, but I'm willing to lay odds that the after-party hosts will take up the slack; the uproar otherwise would simply be too deafening, and besides, no one would go to the parties if there were no goodies to heist for free.
"FREE" being the operative word.
Vanity Fair has the best party of the night--as a rule, they usually host it at Morton's after the awards ceremony, and it is by far the most coveted invitation out of all the parties on Oscar night. Everyone who wants to be seen must go. Even if you're George Clooney, unless you've gotten that golden ticket of an invite, you're relegated to the B list for the evening. You're crap, and no one wants to photograph you. And VF has the best food, the best place settings, and the biggest open bar this side of the Mississippi. It's a great party that simply smells of money. However, none of the guests will spend any.
It's amazing to me, actually. There are people in that industry that make more money in one week than most of us see in five years, and yet, they never seem to have to open their wallets for anything. I don't know how that happens, really. They get free dresses, free jewelry, free food at restaurants...free tickets and free hotel rooms, you name it.
Take Anna Nicole Smith, for instance. God bless her, she was a train wreck of the first water. Not even really a C list celebrity. Okay, yeah, she had a couple of pithy endorsements for questionable diet remedies, and a now-defunct reality show--but at the rate at which she appears to have consumed drugs and alcohol, her paycheck couldn't have lasted that long. She had yet to receive a penny from the Marshall estate. Where did she get the money for all her traveling? The hotel rooms and airfares? Vacationing in the Bahamas isn't cheap, let alone living there. And the phalanx of attorneys she had working on various lawsuits is mind-boggling, and I'm sure they were keeping meticulous records and invoices for their billable hours. I'm sure they still are.
Where the hell was the money coming from?! How can someone who had no obvious marketable skills (besides her boobs, a sad and tragic life that translated into a media spectacle), and no apparent source of income that supported her lifestyle--how could she live the way she did?
Keep in mind, she was a celebrity of a lower order, and she was able, somehow to enjoy (if indeed she "enjoyed" anything, poor thing) a level of comfort and luxury not many of us do. Now, consider the A and B list people. They get even more than that. None of them ever seem to end up having to pay for anything, or if they do, they get huge discounts and are shitty tippers.
So much gets wrapped up in their sense of entitlement that it's like a tapeworm; they can't stop feeding it, and it never fills them up. Remember what I said about Hollywood eating your soul? That's the tapeworm. It always wants more, and more is never enough. Meanwhile, the things they really and truly so desperately need, they never get. Like a wake-up call.
Anna Nicole was a woman who so desperately wanted to be famous. Everything she did was to that end, but you know, I really think she would have been so much better off had she remained "undiscovered". If she had stayed in Texas the rest of her life working in a greasy spoon, raising her son and marrying a mechanic, I seriously think she'd be alive today. Yes, she got famous, just like she always wanted, but her fame also enabled her addictions. She needed help, not Methadone. She needed someone to care enough about her to take her by the elbow and steer her towards a reputable doctor and treatment facility. Instead, what she got was a gaggle of lawyers, lovers, and general sycophants who only hung around her so that they could feed on the fallout of her largesse. They didn't give a crap if she was high or drunk or messed up beyond belief; as long as the cow kept farting cash, they were content with the status quo. Why change it? If she were, God forbid, to straighten up and sober up, she probably would have realized just who these people were and forthwith booted them out on their asses. Their insurance was her addiction and her insecurity.
She's not the only one. Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears aren't far behind Anna, if you ask me. Both are riding on an out-of-control bobsled straight into the hell of ignominy, and no one seems to care enough to try and stop them. Nobody. Where are their parents? Where are their friends? Do they have any? They have people around them all the time who are more than happy to ride on the bandwagon, get into exclusive clubs, and suck down free booze. Both starlets are in their early twenties and look forty. That's just pathetic, and terrifying. One day, we're going to have another headline on the news that tells us one of them is dead, killed by an overdose, or alcohol poisoning, or a DUI.
In large part, it happens because these people do get too much free stuff, too much unwarranted license to behave with excess, too many excuses. The tapeworm inside them keeps clamoring for more and more and more until finally, as Yeats said, Things fall apart. The Center cannot hold. They are eaten up from the inside, like a rotting corpse with a beautiful makeup job, until it all simply falls in on itself. That's what tapeworms do: lets you live on just enough to keep you alive, but takes the bulk of everything for itself and demands more. Finally, it just takes everything.
It's ironic to me that two of the women I've just named--Lindsey and Anna--worship Marilyn Monroe. Anna wanted to be Marilyn; Lindsey wants to emulate her, too. Hell, Linds just bought Marilyn's old apartment. This woman was the blueprint, really. Marilyn was beautiful, she was idolized. She was actually an exceptionally talented actress, which makes her story even more tragic, because what she might have become will forever be speculation. But she was also insecure, vulnerable, helpless in many ways, and she was enabled, coddled, addicted, and mishandled. And she died. Even her rivals felt bad for her.
Joan Crawford was nobody's fool. She was tough, ambitious, hard-working, some would say cold. But no one could ever call her stupid. She didn't like Marilyn and made no bones about it; Marilyn offended her, threatened her ego, and represented a debauchery in the business that Crawford abhorred. But despite those feelings, Crawford pegged Marilyn's problem with a precision a surgeon would appreciate.
Right after Marilyn died, Joan became very upset when she heard about it. She was having dinner at director George Cukor's house and talking about Marilyn when he called bullshit. "What is this?" he wanted to know. "You never liked Marilyn."
As always, she was bitingly honest. "Yes, you're right," she admitted. "She was cheap, and an exhibitionist. She was never professional, and that irritated the hell out of people. But for God's sake, she needed help. She had all these people on her payroll. Where the hell were they when she needed them? Why in the hell did she have to die alone?"
There will always be stars, and twice as many tapeworms looking for hosts.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
You Talkin' to ME?
Yes, I know, the mighty horde of my readership is ready to lynch me for not posting in exactly a month, but hey, I've been busy. I'm by no stretch the most consistent blogger on the net, but the way I figure it, I'm not getting paid for this, so what's the rush? At least, that's the justification. I aspire to be like my pal Jean over at "You Are Here"--she posts regularly and without fail, sometimes two entries in a day--but I think it's going to be some time before I even stagger towards one tenth of her prodigiousness. You should go and check out her site whenever you're waiting for me to get my ass in gear--she's hysterical and always has something interesting to say. I, on the other hand, have plenty to say; it's just that I'm fundamentally lazy.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Merry Mayhem
Good God Gurdy, as Mom used to say. In less than forty-eight hours, my schedule for the next four days is crammed so full of stuff to do that I'm beginning to wonder if I'll actually have time to sleep. Ah....Christmas.
As I noted in my last post, I'm doing all my gift shopping in one go over the next two days or so. I am doing this not because I'm certifiably insane, or because I procrastinated. I have to do it because with the new job and all, I just haven't had time, or frankly, the money until just now. I've been making lists upon lists of the things I need to have done by Sunday afternoon, and my desk is beginning to look like Broadway after the Macy's parade.
I was only informed of my new job's office party yesterday--"An all-day extravaganza," as our receptionist described it to me. So I have to order up a veggie plate, because I don't have time to make it up myself, and I have to run downtown and pick up something for the Yankee Swap. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this time-honored New England tradition, it's kind of like your regular Secret Santa swap, but with a twist. What happens is, you draw names, that person goes up and gets a gift and unwraps it in front of everyone. Then the next person who goes, unwraps their gift and decides whether they like it or not. If they don't, they can swap it with anyone who has already opened their gift, and the preceding giftee can't refuse or argue about it. That happened to me last year. I opened a beautiful crystal vase for my gift, and don't you just know, the next person down the line didn't want her present, and promptly told me to hand the vase over. I, in turn, was the chagrined swappee of a really cheesy Sno Globe.
Anyway, so I have to find something for the Yankee Swap, and I have to go to the grocery and pick up some provisions and my veggie plate. Then I have to run out and do some actual Christmas shopping. And more of that tomorrow. Then back to the grocery store. Why? Because I need baking stuff.
If I could, I'd give gifts to everyone that I love and care about, but as of yet, I'm not rich enough to do that. Besides, if I did, I'd be shopping until past New Year's. But I want to give friends and colleagues something. So I bake.
I go out and get a bunch of those tins--you know, the kind that are used for fruitcakes. And I take an entire day and bake cookies, pastries, and confectionary until I've filled about fifteen to twenty tins with chocolate chip cookies, macaroons, fudge, wonder bars, and almond drops. It's a lot of effort, and takes time to do, but it's so gratifying. My house always smells so wonderful, and the look on people's faces when they lift the lid off that tin is worth every minute I spend mixing, whipping, and baking.
So tomorrow, in addition to Christmas shopping, I need to take the list labeled "Cookie Tins" and get all the ingredients for three dozen of four kinds of cookie. The checkout girl is going to think I'm some kind of sugar junkie, but whatever. I can think of worse things to be labeled. Then Saturday and Sunday, I'll be making like a Keebler Elf. Hee!
What else? Oh, yeah, wrap presents Sunday afternoon and go to Sis' house for dinner. Then back to her house again Christmas morning to do the deal with the kids. Then (I know, are you tired yet?) it's back to my house to get ready for a Christmas party I'm hosting for those friends of mine who don't have plans or family around and just want to hang out.
Sometime in all this, I gotta clean my house so that my Christmas party guests don't think I'm a total sloth--and I promised to go out with some friends during the weekend, too. By next Tuesday, I'm pretty sure I'll be comatose, but hey, at least I'll have had a good time.
More later. Gotta run out and buy the Yankee Swap thing. I'm thinking a Sno Globe....
As I noted in my last post, I'm doing all my gift shopping in one go over the next two days or so. I am doing this not because I'm certifiably insane, or because I procrastinated. I have to do it because with the new job and all, I just haven't had time, or frankly, the money until just now. I've been making lists upon lists of the things I need to have done by Sunday afternoon, and my desk is beginning to look like Broadway after the Macy's parade.
I was only informed of my new job's office party yesterday--"An all-day extravaganza," as our receptionist described it to me. So I have to order up a veggie plate, because I don't have time to make it up myself, and I have to run downtown and pick up something for the Yankee Swap. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this time-honored New England tradition, it's kind of like your regular Secret Santa swap, but with a twist. What happens is, you draw names, that person goes up and gets a gift and unwraps it in front of everyone. Then the next person who goes, unwraps their gift and decides whether they like it or not. If they don't, they can swap it with anyone who has already opened their gift, and the preceding giftee can't refuse or argue about it. That happened to me last year. I opened a beautiful crystal vase for my gift, and don't you just know, the next person down the line didn't want her present, and promptly told me to hand the vase over. I, in turn, was the chagrined swappee of a really cheesy Sno Globe.
Anyway, so I have to find something for the Yankee Swap, and I have to go to the grocery and pick up some provisions and my veggie plate. Then I have to run out and do some actual Christmas shopping. And more of that tomorrow. Then back to the grocery store. Why? Because I need baking stuff.
If I could, I'd give gifts to everyone that I love and care about, but as of yet, I'm not rich enough to do that. Besides, if I did, I'd be shopping until past New Year's. But I want to give friends and colleagues something. So I bake.
I go out and get a bunch of those tins--you know, the kind that are used for fruitcakes. And I take an entire day and bake cookies, pastries, and confectionary until I've filled about fifteen to twenty tins with chocolate chip cookies, macaroons, fudge, wonder bars, and almond drops. It's a lot of effort, and takes time to do, but it's so gratifying. My house always smells so wonderful, and the look on people's faces when they lift the lid off that tin is worth every minute I spend mixing, whipping, and baking.
So tomorrow, in addition to Christmas shopping, I need to take the list labeled "Cookie Tins" and get all the ingredients for three dozen of four kinds of cookie. The checkout girl is going to think I'm some kind of sugar junkie, but whatever. I can think of worse things to be labeled. Then Saturday and Sunday, I'll be making like a Keebler Elf. Hee!
What else? Oh, yeah, wrap presents Sunday afternoon and go to Sis' house for dinner. Then back to her house again Christmas morning to do the deal with the kids. Then (I know, are you tired yet?) it's back to my house to get ready for a Christmas party I'm hosting for those friends of mine who don't have plans or family around and just want to hang out.
Sometime in all this, I gotta clean my house so that my Christmas party guests don't think I'm a total sloth--and I promised to go out with some friends during the weekend, too. By next Tuesday, I'm pretty sure I'll be comatose, but hey, at least I'll have had a good time.
More later. Gotta run out and buy the Yankee Swap thing. I'm thinking a Sno Globe....
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Moon Sand and Monetary Misadventure
Okay, I know...It's been over two weeks, and I just know the three of you who read this blog are wondering just what the bloody hell happened to me. Sorry. I kept meaning to post, but as it happened, by the time I'd come home at the end of the day, all I could seem to muster the energy to do was cobble some kind of edible nourishment in the kitchen and collapse into my bed. Getting up at 5:30 ain't easy when you're not used to it. Especially when it's still dark outside when you get up...(shudder).
Anywhoo....here I be. The job is going very well, thank you, and I'm knee-deep in catching up on the Christmasy goodness. That's the other thing that's been corrupting my blog time. It gets harder and harder to shop for my family each year. I try to be creative with gifts and get something that maybe they had never thought of having, but realized they wanted or needed once they opened it. I get kicks out of that. But jeepers, it's difficult. I have no idea what to get my niece and nephew--I mean yeah, they're kids, and kids should be relatively easy to buy for, right? Well, not these little munchkins. I have the blessing and curse of having two very smart, very creative, and frighteningly discerning young whippersnappers for whom Barbies and Tonka toys just won't cut it.
My niece--I'll call her C--is nine years old. Bubbly, full of laughter, terrifying in her erudition and intelligence, and every inch a budding pre-teen. She's artistic, likes music and good books, loves gymnastics and group activities. Loves her sleepovers with her contemporary Scary Preteens, and still gets a little scared when there's a big thunderstorm in the middle of the night. She likes dressing up and putting the pretty on, but she also has equal enthusiasm for getting down and dirty with Daddy when he's mucking out the yard or gutting this year's deer. She's that heartbreaking combination of delicate flower and unstoppable tomboy. In other words, one day her boyfriends are going to have their hands full, and her parents and I are going to be downing Alka-Seltzer in bulk.
My nephew--I mentally refer to him as Animal, because he reminds me of that wild, uninhibited Muppet drummer--just turned five. He's an Imp. I swear, in the classical sense. He's always got this glint in his eye that lets you know that there's something going on in his brain that will completely flummox you once he lets on what it is. And he gets a real buzz off of confounding those of us who are a few decades older. He likes anything that has to do with dinosaurs. Doesn't matter what. Puzzles, erector sets, card games, action figures, DVDs, whatever. He doesn't care, as long as it has scales and teeth and is, for the most part, representative of an extinct species. Animal also loves the usual boy stuff--cars, trucks, his little motocross bike, baseballs and basketballs--you get the picture. Ironically, he's also a tomboy to an extent, although he's gotten past the stage where he liked to dress up and play Princess with big sister C. But he still retains his sensitive side.
Anyway, my sister called me in triumph this morning, having discovered the Holy Grail of the progeny's desires. "Moon Sand!" she crowed.
Moon Sand? MOON SAND? What the hell is Moon Sand? I hadn't a clue. Unfortunately, Sis didn't either, really--she just knows that's what it's called. Apparently, that's as far as she went in her research--the rest is up to me. Having used the great oracle Google, I've discovered that it's apparently some kind of water-resistant, shape-shifting kind of sand that holds together so well you can build sand castles with it. And even more remarkable, the sand has such fortitude that whatever castle you build could conceivably last longer than Buckingham Palace. Jeez, we've come a long way from Play-Doh and Silly Putty.
So, later this week, after payday, I am braving the wanton insanity of the department stores to do all my shopping in one go, and will gird myself for the relevant battles therein. Toys R Us alone is going to take body armor for the Moon Sand and dinosaurs.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Anywhoo....here I be. The job is going very well, thank you, and I'm knee-deep in catching up on the Christmasy goodness. That's the other thing that's been corrupting my blog time. It gets harder and harder to shop for my family each year. I try to be creative with gifts and get something that maybe they had never thought of having, but realized they wanted or needed once they opened it. I get kicks out of that. But jeepers, it's difficult. I have no idea what to get my niece and nephew--I mean yeah, they're kids, and kids should be relatively easy to buy for, right? Well, not these little munchkins. I have the blessing and curse of having two very smart, very creative, and frighteningly discerning young whippersnappers for whom Barbies and Tonka toys just won't cut it.
My niece--I'll call her C--is nine years old. Bubbly, full of laughter, terrifying in her erudition and intelligence, and every inch a budding pre-teen. She's artistic, likes music and good books, loves gymnastics and group activities. Loves her sleepovers with her contemporary Scary Preteens, and still gets a little scared when there's a big thunderstorm in the middle of the night. She likes dressing up and putting the pretty on, but she also has equal enthusiasm for getting down and dirty with Daddy when he's mucking out the yard or gutting this year's deer. She's that heartbreaking combination of delicate flower and unstoppable tomboy. In other words, one day her boyfriends are going to have their hands full, and her parents and I are going to be downing Alka-Seltzer in bulk.
My nephew--I mentally refer to him as Animal, because he reminds me of that wild, uninhibited Muppet drummer--just turned five. He's an Imp. I swear, in the classical sense. He's always got this glint in his eye that lets you know that there's something going on in his brain that will completely flummox you once he lets on what it is. And he gets a real buzz off of confounding those of us who are a few decades older. He likes anything that has to do with dinosaurs. Doesn't matter what. Puzzles, erector sets, card games, action figures, DVDs, whatever. He doesn't care, as long as it has scales and teeth and is, for the most part, representative of an extinct species. Animal also loves the usual boy stuff--cars, trucks, his little motocross bike, baseballs and basketballs--you get the picture. Ironically, he's also a tomboy to an extent, although he's gotten past the stage where he liked to dress up and play Princess with big sister C. But he still retains his sensitive side.
Anyway, my sister called me in triumph this morning, having discovered the Holy Grail of the progeny's desires. "Moon Sand!" she crowed.
Moon Sand? MOON SAND? What the hell is Moon Sand? I hadn't a clue. Unfortunately, Sis didn't either, really--she just knows that's what it's called. Apparently, that's as far as she went in her research--the rest is up to me. Having used the great oracle Google, I've discovered that it's apparently some kind of water-resistant, shape-shifting kind of sand that holds together so well you can build sand castles with it. And even more remarkable, the sand has such fortitude that whatever castle you build could conceivably last longer than Buckingham Palace. Jeez, we've come a long way from Play-Doh and Silly Putty.
So, later this week, after payday, I am braving the wanton insanity of the department stores to do all my shopping in one go, and will gird myself for the relevant battles therein. Toys R Us alone is going to take body armor for the Moon Sand and dinosaurs.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Mom is Proud and Heaving a Huge Sigh of Relief...
Yes, Momma, I got a new job today!
It's always fun to get a job offer. It's new and fresh and exciting--kind of like a new boyfriend or a new car. You're all atwitter with anticipation at the outset, and then ya sorta get used to it after awhile, and it's not such a big deal anymore. But hopefully, you're happy enough with the situation that you enjoy staying with it.
My mom, God bless her soul, always worries about me. Now, I know--all mothers worry and want the best for their children, no matter how old we get. But Mom's got a different animal of daughter in me. Because I'm constantly going between freelance and contract work, I never really know from one month to the next how much I'm going to make, let alone save back for a rainy day. That makes her nervous, and I don't really blame her. There have been plenty of times when I've been literally down to the last five dollars in my bank account, when fortunately I got a phone call offering me a gig. Somehow I always land on my feet--knock wood--and claw my way back to solvency, at least for a little while.
Thing is, I'm just really lousy at keeping "normal" jobs. The ones where you sit behind a desk and stay there all day. Now, I don't mind doing that now and again--I'm a writer, for Pete's sake, so yeah, there are days when I sit down and crunch the keyboard for hours on end. But that's different. If I had to sit and answer phones or enter data into a computer 9 to 5, forty hours a week, without ever going anywhere, I'd die. Or I'd kill somebody. I simply suck at that sort of thing. That's why I'm in marketing and public relations; you never do the same thing every day, and you're always meeting new people. The hours are irregular and weird, but I like that. You have room to be creative and innovative--you have to be, in order to keep up. You have to be energetic and out in front of people on a consistent basis, and you have to manage your time extremely well.
I don't know if it's New England or it's me...maybe it's a little of both, but the problem with me is that it's very hard to find an employer who understands how the job really works, and how I need to do it in order to produce effective results. Some people have the idea that I'm out there just having one big ball of fun, and I get paid to do it. Well, that's not exactly how it works. Yes, I have fun at what I do--I'd be an utter dingbat to work in this field if I didn't enjoy it. But it's not an easy job, and it's not a free ride to weekly lunches and business functions. It's work. Some days, I don't feel particularly charming or energetic or personable, but tough noogies. That's what I get paid for, so whether or not I'm having a bad day, I have to pull out the smile and act like I'm the happiest girl on the planet. Doesn't matter how tired I am, or that my feet hurt, or that I have a cold and really want to be in bed with a hot toddy. I am there to represent my client and/or employer, and lots of times my day doesn't end at five o'clock. That's part of the deal.
I've had employers who genuinely didn't understand the necessity of going out of the office to do what I do--and I think that they have it in their heads that I'm on the beach somewhere working on my tan. It boggles my mind that there are still people out there who honestly hold to the belief that if you're not in the office, you're not working. Hello?
We are now a global society that requires us to be mobile. That's why we have those stupid Blackberries and cell phones and PDA's and laptops--so we can work outside of our cages. If you can go to the golf course and call that a "business meeting", then why isn't my committee membership given equal credence??
Anyway, I suck at the cage. I don't like it, I don't want to do it, and therefore it's hard for me to find a "normal" job with the kind of employer who really gets it. That's why I went into doing contract and freelance. I didn't always make as much money, but at least I could do the job the way I wanted.
Which brings me back to my mother.
She's relieved because I accepted an offer today from a "normal" employer. I've been interviewing with them for a bit, figuring out if I'll fit in with them. It looks good, and I'm happy about it. They're a nice bunch of people who seem to agree with my marketing philosophy, which makes me feel optimistic. I figure I'll ease into the job over the next few weeks, tone down a little on my personality so as not to frighten anyone, and then dig in after we've all gotten used to each other. I may even last longer than six months. And if they're just as nutty and off-center as I am, this could go on for years.
It's always fun to get a job offer. It's new and fresh and exciting--kind of like a new boyfriend or a new car. You're all atwitter with anticipation at the outset, and then ya sorta get used to it after awhile, and it's not such a big deal anymore. But hopefully, you're happy enough with the situation that you enjoy staying with it.
My mom, God bless her soul, always worries about me. Now, I know--all mothers worry and want the best for their children, no matter how old we get. But Mom's got a different animal of daughter in me. Because I'm constantly going between freelance and contract work, I never really know from one month to the next how much I'm going to make, let alone save back for a rainy day. That makes her nervous, and I don't really blame her. There have been plenty of times when I've been literally down to the last five dollars in my bank account, when fortunately I got a phone call offering me a gig. Somehow I always land on my feet--knock wood--and claw my way back to solvency, at least for a little while.
Thing is, I'm just really lousy at keeping "normal" jobs. The ones where you sit behind a desk and stay there all day. Now, I don't mind doing that now and again--I'm a writer, for Pete's sake, so yeah, there are days when I sit down and crunch the keyboard for hours on end. But that's different. If I had to sit and answer phones or enter data into a computer 9 to 5, forty hours a week, without ever going anywhere, I'd die. Or I'd kill somebody. I simply suck at that sort of thing. That's why I'm in marketing and public relations; you never do the same thing every day, and you're always meeting new people. The hours are irregular and weird, but I like that. You have room to be creative and innovative--you have to be, in order to keep up. You have to be energetic and out in front of people on a consistent basis, and you have to manage your time extremely well.
I don't know if it's New England or it's me...maybe it's a little of both, but the problem with me is that it's very hard to find an employer who understands how the job really works, and how I need to do it in order to produce effective results. Some people have the idea that I'm out there just having one big ball of fun, and I get paid to do it. Well, that's not exactly how it works. Yes, I have fun at what I do--I'd be an utter dingbat to work in this field if I didn't enjoy it. But it's not an easy job, and it's not a free ride to weekly lunches and business functions. It's work. Some days, I don't feel particularly charming or energetic or personable, but tough noogies. That's what I get paid for, so whether or not I'm having a bad day, I have to pull out the smile and act like I'm the happiest girl on the planet. Doesn't matter how tired I am, or that my feet hurt, or that I have a cold and really want to be in bed with a hot toddy. I am there to represent my client and/or employer, and lots of times my day doesn't end at five o'clock. That's part of the deal.
I've had employers who genuinely didn't understand the necessity of going out of the office to do what I do--and I think that they have it in their heads that I'm on the beach somewhere working on my tan. It boggles my mind that there are still people out there who honestly hold to the belief that if you're not in the office, you're not working. Hello?
We are now a global society that requires us to be mobile. That's why we have those stupid Blackberries and cell phones and PDA's and laptops--so we can work outside of our cages. If you can go to the golf course and call that a "business meeting", then why isn't my committee membership given equal credence??
Anyway, I suck at the cage. I don't like it, I don't want to do it, and therefore it's hard for me to find a "normal" job with the kind of employer who really gets it. That's why I went into doing contract and freelance. I didn't always make as much money, but at least I could do the job the way I wanted.
Which brings me back to my mother.
She's relieved because I accepted an offer today from a "normal" employer. I've been interviewing with them for a bit, figuring out if I'll fit in with them. It looks good, and I'm happy about it. They're a nice bunch of people who seem to agree with my marketing philosophy, which makes me feel optimistic. I figure I'll ease into the job over the next few weeks, tone down a little on my personality so as not to frighten anyone, and then dig in after we've all gotten used to each other. I may even last longer than six months. And if they're just as nutty and off-center as I am, this could go on for years.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Gluttony, Stuffing, and Giving Thanks
Thanksgiving.
I'm still kinda recovering, which I think is what the majority of my friends and acquaintances are doing. You know, I like Thanksgiving...sort of. At least, I like the food, which anyone who knows me will tell you is enough incentive for me to do just about anything. But I suppose I've gotten cranky as I've gotten older. Or maybe I'm just more cynical. Or lazy.
Does anyone else ever feel like Thanksgiving is the obligatory holiday? The one where we look forward to it with a mix of anticipation and resignation? I don't know how many people I talked to right before Thursday who said stuff like, "Yeah, I was invited down to my uncle's house, but it's such a long drive..." and "I'm supposed to go to my cousin's house, but God, it's gonna be a nightmare,because someone always starts an argument," or, "I volunteered to cook this year, and now I wish someone had stopped me before I opened my big mouth."
It's a weird holiday. I went up to see my sister and her family for the Big Day. And I enjoyed it--don't get me wrong. Sis is a fabulous cook, and she makes a stuffing that I could eat for a solid month. She and I can find anything--and I mean anything--to laugh at, and laugh at long and loud, until tears are streaming down our cheeks. My niece and nephew are lively, energetic, and engaging kids, and I absolutely adore them, no matter how much they can exhaust me in an alarmingly short span of time. I love going to visit my sister; that's not the problem for me at all.
The problem is that it's kind of a letdown once you actually get to sit down and eat. It's anticlimactic; after all the cooking and waiting and drooling...and starving all damn day so that you have room for the turkey and fixin's...well, all I can say is, I've never been able to eat and enjoy as much of the food as I thought I would at the start of Thanksgiving day. And that really bums me out. I live for food, and Thanksgiving is the one day I can freely and uninhibitedly indulge in my love (or gluttony) for carbohydrates. To not be able to have second helpings of stuffing, mashed potatoes, biscuit, and green bean casserole is just criminal to me.
Not so bad, in the entire scheme of things, I'll grant you. But I couldn't help thinking of some of those friends of mine who truly could have been just as happy staying home and ordering Chinese. Thanksgiving can be a real chore, let's face it. It doesn't mean we don't love our families, or want to be around them. It doesn't even mean we really mind the cooking. It's just that it's the one day we're all pretty much expected to demonstrate these sentiments, or otherwise be thought of as bad progeny. And that's really not fair.
I remember last year we had a snowstorm Thanksgiving Eve. It wasn't really a very bad one; we've certainly had worse in this neck of the woods. But by morning the roads were still pretty treacherous and icy, and the drive to Sis' house is a good half hour on a really bad highway. I just didn't want to take the chance of ending up as part of New England scenery. So I stayed home. I think my sister was actually a little bit relieved, because the snow meant she only had to cook up a turkey breast and some side dishes for her, her husband, and the kids. She didn't have to spend the entire day waiting for an entire bird to roast, imprisoned in the kitchen. It didn't mean I didn't love her, or that she didn't love me, or that we didn't want to see each other, but I think both of us were pretty satisfied with the arrangement.
Me? I crept to the little market down the street, got myself some provisions, and happily spent Thanksgiving cuddled up watching movies and the parade in New York while the snow fell desultorily past my window. I was warm, full, safe, and comfortable. I was thankful for it, and so was my sister.
*Incidentally, do you know what was actually eaten at the first Thanksgiving? Nope, not turkey and cranberries and stuffing. The surviving settlers feasted on clams, seaweed, nuts, corn, and berries.
I suppose that's another thing to be thankful for. I'd boycott if there wasn't stuffing.
I'm still kinda recovering, which I think is what the majority of my friends and acquaintances are doing. You know, I like Thanksgiving...sort of. At least, I like the food, which anyone who knows me will tell you is enough incentive for me to do just about anything. But I suppose I've gotten cranky as I've gotten older. Or maybe I'm just more cynical. Or lazy.
Does anyone else ever feel like Thanksgiving is the obligatory holiday? The one where we look forward to it with a mix of anticipation and resignation? I don't know how many people I talked to right before Thursday who said stuff like, "Yeah, I was invited down to my uncle's house, but it's such a long drive..." and "I'm supposed to go to my cousin's house, but God, it's gonna be a nightmare,because someone always starts an argument," or, "I volunteered to cook this year, and now I wish someone had stopped me before I opened my big mouth."
It's a weird holiday. I went up to see my sister and her family for the Big Day. And I enjoyed it--don't get me wrong. Sis is a fabulous cook, and she makes a stuffing that I could eat for a solid month. She and I can find anything--and I mean anything--to laugh at, and laugh at long and loud, until tears are streaming down our cheeks. My niece and nephew are lively, energetic, and engaging kids, and I absolutely adore them, no matter how much they can exhaust me in an alarmingly short span of time. I love going to visit my sister; that's not the problem for me at all.
The problem is that it's kind of a letdown once you actually get to sit down and eat. It's anticlimactic; after all the cooking and waiting and drooling...and starving all damn day so that you have room for the turkey and fixin's...well, all I can say is, I've never been able to eat and enjoy as much of the food as I thought I would at the start of Thanksgiving day. And that really bums me out. I live for food, and Thanksgiving is the one day I can freely and uninhibitedly indulge in my love (or gluttony) for carbohydrates. To not be able to have second helpings of stuffing, mashed potatoes, biscuit, and green bean casserole is just criminal to me.
Not so bad, in the entire scheme of things, I'll grant you. But I couldn't help thinking of some of those friends of mine who truly could have been just as happy staying home and ordering Chinese. Thanksgiving can be a real chore, let's face it. It doesn't mean we don't love our families, or want to be around them. It doesn't even mean we really mind the cooking. It's just that it's the one day we're all pretty much expected to demonstrate these sentiments, or otherwise be thought of as bad progeny. And that's really not fair.
I remember last year we had a snowstorm Thanksgiving Eve. It wasn't really a very bad one; we've certainly had worse in this neck of the woods. But by morning the roads were still pretty treacherous and icy, and the drive to Sis' house is a good half hour on a really bad highway. I just didn't want to take the chance of ending up as part of New England scenery. So I stayed home. I think my sister was actually a little bit relieved, because the snow meant she only had to cook up a turkey breast and some side dishes for her, her husband, and the kids. She didn't have to spend the entire day waiting for an entire bird to roast, imprisoned in the kitchen. It didn't mean I didn't love her, or that she didn't love me, or that we didn't want to see each other, but I think both of us were pretty satisfied with the arrangement.
Me? I crept to the little market down the street, got myself some provisions, and happily spent Thanksgiving cuddled up watching movies and the parade in New York while the snow fell desultorily past my window. I was warm, full, safe, and comfortable. I was thankful for it, and so was my sister.
*Incidentally, do you know what was actually eaten at the first Thanksgiving? Nope, not turkey and cranberries and stuffing. The surviving settlers feasted on clams, seaweed, nuts, corn, and berries.
I suppose that's another thing to be thankful for. I'd boycott if there wasn't stuffing.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Falling Down and Getting Up
I gotta tell ya, the last three weeks have been difficult. There is nothing in the world that drives me crazier than my sleep rhythm getting f*cked up. With the change in weather, the daylight savings time thing, and stress, I couldn't get to sleep at a decent hour for love or money. Which consequently resulted in me getting up later and later. Which transformed me into a lethargic, numb, and brain-cramped lump with absolutely no energy or motivation do do anything.
Mornings have never been good for me. I am not now, nor will I ever be, one of those creatures who bounce out of bed with the sun, ready to greet the day with a kiss and a smile. I'm lucky if I'm revved and awake by 10am. I will never be a voluntary early riser, much less a "morning person". I really do my best creative thinking and industry in the late afternoon and evenings. Having said that, however, I don't fancy wasting the day by sleeping till noon, either. It makes me feel depressed and ticked off and isolated, and nothing really gets done in my life.
My sleeping rhythm is extremely sensitive. If I'm off by one or two hours getting to bed at night, it wrecks everything for a good two weeks--if I'm lucky. And it takes a long time for me to adjust myself and get back to normal again--which, God willing, I've finally managed to do. This morning I got up, and it was still morning. Did it yesterday, too. It felt like Christmas. The sun has literally returned to the skies of New England, which helps, and I don't feel like I'm in a dark cocoon anymore. I even folded up my afghans and put them back in their basket.
So anyway, now I should be back to writing regularly on this blog, and working on things that pay my rent. I have an essay I've been meaning to finish for a later post--one that a good friend of mine has been waiting to read and keeps asking me about. I wrote two proposals over the weekend and am delivering them today for review. Things are getting back to normal--well, as normal as they get in my life. Heh.
It is still 2006, isn't it?
Mornings have never been good for me. I am not now, nor will I ever be, one of those creatures who bounce out of bed with the sun, ready to greet the day with a kiss and a smile. I'm lucky if I'm revved and awake by 10am. I will never be a voluntary early riser, much less a "morning person". I really do my best creative thinking and industry in the late afternoon and evenings. Having said that, however, I don't fancy wasting the day by sleeping till noon, either. It makes me feel depressed and ticked off and isolated, and nothing really gets done in my life.
My sleeping rhythm is extremely sensitive. If I'm off by one or two hours getting to bed at night, it wrecks everything for a good two weeks--if I'm lucky. And it takes a long time for me to adjust myself and get back to normal again--which, God willing, I've finally managed to do. This morning I got up, and it was still morning. Did it yesterday, too. It felt like Christmas. The sun has literally returned to the skies of New England, which helps, and I don't feel like I'm in a dark cocoon anymore. I even folded up my afghans and put them back in their basket.
So anyway, now I should be back to writing regularly on this blog, and working on things that pay my rent. I have an essay I've been meaning to finish for a later post--one that a good friend of mine has been waiting to read and keeps asking me about. I wrote two proposals over the weekend and am delivering them today for review. Things are getting back to normal--well, as normal as they get in my life. Heh.
It is still 2006, isn't it?
Monday, November 13, 2006
Back From Hiatus
Sorry I've not been writing the last couple of weeks--I've had a few meetings and have been working on a couple of proposals, so I was somewhat scarce. New blogs coming up this week, I promise. For those of you who are still reading, thanks for sticking with me, and sorry for the delay!
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Samhain
Samhain, in Irish Gaelic, is actually the word for "November". Kinda makes sense, doesn't it?
It was also the word used for the month of the Celtic calendar--there was a festival that marked the end of summer and celebrated the harvest. It also marked one of the sabbat feasts in the Wiccan wheel of the year (the opposite on the wheel is Beltane, which is the Wiccan celebration of life). The modernized version of this celebration is what we now call All Souls Day, or "Halloween".
So indeed, Samhain, or Halloween, did begin as a pagan holiday of sorts. I'd celebrate, too, when the village turned out a good crop and was able to ensure everyone would be fed through the winter. They had every reason in the world to party; the harvest was literally a triumph of life over death. This was the time to take stock of herds, grain supplies, decide which animals were to be slaughtered so that both the people and the rest of the livestock could survive the winter. It's still a custom observed by farmers and professionals in husbandry today.
Samhain Eve in Scots and Irish Gaelic takes place on October 31, during the final harvest. This is the Oidhche Shamnha, the name still used for the modern day version of Halloween.
I mention this in dissertation because, as a descendant of those hardy folk, it rankles when people refer to Samhain as a Satanic holiday, or a holiday celebrated by witches, ie, "devil worshipers". It's not at all accurate, and it certainly isn't fair. Anyone who characterizes it as such is woefully uninformed, and anyone who practices Samhain in that vein is abominably blasphemous about the true meaning of the holiday--and of "witches" in general. True Witches are not devil-worshipers, by the way. If they are committed, honest devotees of the craft, they celebrate the earth and its bounty, its power and its beauty, and revere and hold in high esteem the Creator who made it all.
Some of my ancestors were hung or stoned when they moved to the New World for "speaking in tongues" or for using "questionable" herbs in medicinal practice. Well, most of them were midwives who learned herbal lore from their mothers and grandmothers, and most of them spoke Gaelic. It's a strange-sounding language, I'll grant, and is virtually unlearnable to anyone who didn't grow up speaking it. Ignorance bred fear in the hearts of those who didn't bother asking questions. So people were killed for honoring their heritage. Incidentally, so were the Native Americans, but that's another post.
That ignorance and fear still exists, and I can't help but be astounded at the level of vilification and judgment people hurl at what they don't understand. You build a bonfire at Samhain and some of these nutjobs will say you're enacting a Satanic ritual and are sacrificing black cats to the Dark Prince. Look, Satan doesn't want black cats, trust me. He could care less about that shit; on the scale of his ambitions, cats don't really cause a blip on his radar. He's got bigger things on his mind.
The word Bonfire derives its etymology from Bonefire. Villagers were said to have cast the bones of the slaughtered cattle upon the flames--cattle having a prominent place in the relationship between man and the Creator. In your Judeo-Christian lore, as well as the Gaelic, people were constantly sacrificing livestock as a gesture of thanksgiving and prayer. Moses did it. So did Joshua and Jacob and Abraham. I defy anyone to label them Devil Worshipers.
With the bonfire ablaze, the villagers would put out all the other fires. Then each family, in a solemn ceremony, lit their hearths from the common flame of the huge bonfire--kind of like we do today with the Olympic Flame. This bonded each family in the village together as a whole, uniting in the common struggle of survival and celebrating their prosperity. It was community relations, in short; an act of solidarity.
After the Roman adoption of the holiday (usually celebrated in May) and the advent of Christianization, the November festival of Samhain eventually became All Hallows Day on November 1st, and All Souls Day followed on November 2nd. Both evolved into All Hallows Eve on October 31, and finally reached its present incarnation as the secular "Halloween" that we know today.
Samhain is still observed in Celtic culture today, and it is a wonderful affirmation of life, nature, and the cycle of life and death. It is not a bloodthirsty ritual of Darkness; nor is it blasphemous or even slightly profane.
I consider myself to be a bit of a polytheist, I suppose. I respect and often agree with the beliefs expressed in Christianity, Bhuddism, Islam, and Judaism, among others, and admire those who have the conviction of deep faith in those beliefs. However, I think that there are quite likely many roads to God, Jehovah, Allah, the Creator--or Big Daddy--whatever we call him (or her, or it). I'm not sure I believe that there is just one religion or belief is the "One Way". Frankly, I think it might be just a wee bit arrogant to assert such a thing; how can any human being know the Mind of God? How can I condemn someone for believing something I don't, or vilify them for the same thing? Who died and made me God? If you read your Old Testament, you find out that people got smacked down big time by Big Daddy when they started thinking that way. All I know is that I don't know everything, and I'm not going to. I'll still be asking questions on the day I die.
Sliante o dha dhuit--Happy Samhain, and Happy Halloween. This is the beginning of Winter. Harvest that which you have planted, celebrate it, and share it. May we all emerge together a brighter, stronger, and happier community in the Spring!
It was also the word used for the month of the Celtic calendar--there was a festival that marked the end of summer and celebrated the harvest. It also marked one of the sabbat feasts in the Wiccan wheel of the year (the opposite on the wheel is Beltane, which is the Wiccan celebration of life). The modernized version of this celebration is what we now call All Souls Day, or "Halloween".
So indeed, Samhain, or Halloween, did begin as a pagan holiday of sorts. I'd celebrate, too, when the village turned out a good crop and was able to ensure everyone would be fed through the winter. They had every reason in the world to party; the harvest was literally a triumph of life over death. This was the time to take stock of herds, grain supplies, decide which animals were to be slaughtered so that both the people and the rest of the livestock could survive the winter. It's still a custom observed by farmers and professionals in husbandry today.
Samhain Eve in Scots and Irish Gaelic takes place on October 31, during the final harvest. This is the Oidhche Shamnha, the name still used for the modern day version of Halloween.
I mention this in dissertation because, as a descendant of those hardy folk, it rankles when people refer to Samhain as a Satanic holiday, or a holiday celebrated by witches, ie, "devil worshipers". It's not at all accurate, and it certainly isn't fair. Anyone who characterizes it as such is woefully uninformed, and anyone who practices Samhain in that vein is abominably blasphemous about the true meaning of the holiday--and of "witches" in general. True Witches are not devil-worshipers, by the way. If they are committed, honest devotees of the craft, they celebrate the earth and its bounty, its power and its beauty, and revere and hold in high esteem the Creator who made it all.
Some of my ancestors were hung or stoned when they moved to the New World for "speaking in tongues" or for using "questionable" herbs in medicinal practice. Well, most of them were midwives who learned herbal lore from their mothers and grandmothers, and most of them spoke Gaelic. It's a strange-sounding language, I'll grant, and is virtually unlearnable to anyone who didn't grow up speaking it. Ignorance bred fear in the hearts of those who didn't bother asking questions. So people were killed for honoring their heritage. Incidentally, so were the Native Americans, but that's another post.
That ignorance and fear still exists, and I can't help but be astounded at the level of vilification and judgment people hurl at what they don't understand. You build a bonfire at Samhain and some of these nutjobs will say you're enacting a Satanic ritual and are sacrificing black cats to the Dark Prince. Look, Satan doesn't want black cats, trust me. He could care less about that shit; on the scale of his ambitions, cats don't really cause a blip on his radar. He's got bigger things on his mind.
The word Bonfire derives its etymology from Bonefire. Villagers were said to have cast the bones of the slaughtered cattle upon the flames--cattle having a prominent place in the relationship between man and the Creator. In your Judeo-Christian lore, as well as the Gaelic, people were constantly sacrificing livestock as a gesture of thanksgiving and prayer. Moses did it. So did Joshua and Jacob and Abraham. I defy anyone to label them Devil Worshipers.
With the bonfire ablaze, the villagers would put out all the other fires. Then each family, in a solemn ceremony, lit their hearths from the common flame of the huge bonfire--kind of like we do today with the Olympic Flame. This bonded each family in the village together as a whole, uniting in the common struggle of survival and celebrating their prosperity. It was community relations, in short; an act of solidarity.
After the Roman adoption of the holiday (usually celebrated in May) and the advent of Christianization, the November festival of Samhain eventually became All Hallows Day on November 1st, and All Souls Day followed on November 2nd. Both evolved into All Hallows Eve on October 31, and finally reached its present incarnation as the secular "Halloween" that we know today.
Samhain is still observed in Celtic culture today, and it is a wonderful affirmation of life, nature, and the cycle of life and death. It is not a bloodthirsty ritual of Darkness; nor is it blasphemous or even slightly profane.
I consider myself to be a bit of a polytheist, I suppose. I respect and often agree with the beliefs expressed in Christianity, Bhuddism, Islam, and Judaism, among others, and admire those who have the conviction of deep faith in those beliefs. However, I think that there are quite likely many roads to God, Jehovah, Allah, the Creator--or Big Daddy--whatever we call him (or her, or it). I'm not sure I believe that there is just one religion or belief is the "One Way". Frankly, I think it might be just a wee bit arrogant to assert such a thing; how can any human being know the Mind of God? How can I condemn someone for believing something I don't, or vilify them for the same thing? Who died and made me God? If you read your Old Testament, you find out that people got smacked down big time by Big Daddy when they started thinking that way. All I know is that I don't know everything, and I'm not going to. I'll still be asking questions on the day I die.
Sliante o dha dhuit--Happy Samhain, and Happy Halloween. This is the beginning of Winter. Harvest that which you have planted, celebrate it, and share it. May we all emerge together a brighter, stronger, and happier community in the Spring!
Monday, October 30, 2006
Sweat and Sweets
Sorry I haven't posted the last couple of days; I'm working on a particular post that I really want to get right. A pal of mine and I were having a discussion about the subject over the weekend, and it got me thinking. So bear with me; eventually I'll get into the swing of this blogging thing.
In other news, my sister went down South to our hometown and is visiting friends and relatives. I wish I could have gone with them, but right now it's just impossible. I'm in-between clients at the moment, and am looking round and pitching new ones, so I can't afford to be away. Winter is the toughest--and therefore--the most important time for me working-wise.
I hope I get a couple of good contracts before too long. One of the things I love most about the holidays is having the money to buy gifts and bake a bunch of goodies. I bake cookies, brownies, make fudge, and generally turn my kitchen into a haven the Keebler elves would love. Then I package them up into gift tins and give them out to friends. If I could afford to, I'd buy everyone I know and love a Christmas or Hanukkah gift, but of course I can't. Baking is my way of showing I care, and they really seem to like getting the sweet stuff. And boy, does my house smell wonderful when I do that. Any chocoholic would go into paroxysms of ecstasy just by stepping through the door.
Speaking of friends and family--I know some of you have stopped by the blog. See that line down below that says "Comments"? Click on the sucker and leave me a note once in awhile, you goobers!
Elections in about a week. There is weepage in the GOP. GO VOTE!
Irish
In other news, my sister went down South to our hometown and is visiting friends and relatives. I wish I could have gone with them, but right now it's just impossible. I'm in-between clients at the moment, and am looking round and pitching new ones, so I can't afford to be away. Winter is the toughest--and therefore--the most important time for me working-wise.
I hope I get a couple of good contracts before too long. One of the things I love most about the holidays is having the money to buy gifts and bake a bunch of goodies. I bake cookies, brownies, make fudge, and generally turn my kitchen into a haven the Keebler elves would love. Then I package them up into gift tins and give them out to friends. If I could afford to, I'd buy everyone I know and love a Christmas or Hanukkah gift, but of course I can't. Baking is my way of showing I care, and they really seem to like getting the sweet stuff. And boy, does my house smell wonderful when I do that. Any chocoholic would go into paroxysms of ecstasy just by stepping through the door.
Speaking of friends and family--I know some of you have stopped by the blog. See that line down below that says "Comments"? Click on the sucker and leave me a note once in awhile, you goobers!
Elections in about a week. There is weepage in the GOP. GO VOTE!
Irish
Friday, October 27, 2006
Blogging Breakdowns
Aha! AHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!! I did it! The Technical Trolls did not defeat me. I managed to put a Link List up! Woohoo!
Okay, my uncle helped me through what was truly a hair-pulling, profanity-laden hour of angst while I tried to figure out just what the hell I was doing wrong. You know, I'm a fairly educated, well-read, well-spoken woman, but nothing in this world makes me feel more infantile than HTML code. During moments such as these, Forrest Gump is my soul brother. And he's the smarter one.
At any rate, once Unca shepherded me patiently through the briar patch of writing links, I set gleefully to building my list (thanks, Unca!). It doesn't take all that much to entertain me these days, and writing the links was truly a pleasure once I could see I was doing it correctly. I also had to change the template of my blog, as you see. I kinda like this a little better. It suits my personality more than the previous one. Then again, I'm sure I'll change it every so often, just to keep things interesting.
He also taught me how to link text--at least, I hope he did. This is my first attempt. Keith Olbermann is my hero. (You might want to use Internet Explorer in order to access the link.) One of the few people who is ballsy enough to say what most of us are thinking, and who has the venue for gloriously venting his spleen with scathingly erudite, cogent, and brilliant finesse. What I'd give to see him corner Shrub in a small room with no teleprompters.
Okay, my uncle helped me through what was truly a hair-pulling, profanity-laden hour of angst while I tried to figure out just what the hell I was doing wrong. You know, I'm a fairly educated, well-read, well-spoken woman, but nothing in this world makes me feel more infantile than HTML code. During moments such as these, Forrest Gump is my soul brother. And he's the smarter one.
At any rate, once Unca shepherded me patiently through the briar patch of writing links, I set gleefully to building my list (thanks, Unca!). It doesn't take all that much to entertain me these days, and writing the links was truly a pleasure once I could see I was doing it correctly. I also had to change the template of my blog, as you see. I kinda like this a little better. It suits my personality more than the previous one. Then again, I'm sure I'll change it every so often, just to keep things interesting.
He also taught me how to link text--at least, I hope he did. This is my first attempt. Keith Olbermann is my hero. (You might want to use Internet Explorer in order to access the link.) One of the few people who is ballsy enough to say what most of us are thinking, and who has the venue for gloriously venting his spleen with scathingly erudite, cogent, and brilliant finesse. What I'd give to see him corner Shrub in a small room with no teleprompters.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Archaeology and Inventory
Well, today looked promising--for a brief space of time. It was sunny this morning for about an hour, and then WHAM--dark, foreboding, moody grey mounds of clouds came rolling in. What is this? Oh, yeah...that's right...winter's coming.
I need to find a sugar daddy who gives me an allowance to go to Italy every year between October and April. I'd be a much nicer person to be around. Mostly because I'd be eating better food and drinking a heck of a lot more wine.
Haven't posted the last couple of days because I've been trying to get my household in order. I do this twice a year: a full, top-to-bottom, inside-out overhaul and cleaning of my house. This means that each room is minutely examined, cleaned, disinfected, mopped, swept, and vacuumed. I go through all of my clothing, bathroom items, food, and papers, and decide what to keep and what to give or throw away. It's an arduous, tedious, frustrating project, but if I didn't do it, I think I'd be buried under the flotsam of my life within six months, and no one would ever find me again.
For instance, my closet and bureaus. It's appalling how many clothes I have and never wear. I have two full bureaus, plus a good-sized walk -in closet, chockerblock full of garments that will never touch my body again. I've gained fifteen pounds in the last year and can't get most of the slacks further than mid-thigh. So I inventory all of my clothing and force myself to get rid of anything I haven't worn in the last six months to a year. Which is difficult, because being female, I will delude myself into thinking that I just might be able to fit back into those cute Ralph Laurens again, if I really try. And this is a complete lie. I'll never fit into those things again; that boat has sailed. If I tried to get back on it again, it would sink. Talk about Titanic.
It took a couple of hours, but at the end of it all, I had quite an impressive pile of defunct slacks, jeans, shirts, pullovers, and shoes, which I then separated into "trade" and "donate" piles. I felt like I was on a dig in Egypt--finding things I didn't even remember having or thought I'd lost forever. If Zahi Hawass ever needs a volunteer to scrape away at an underground tomb, I'm his girl. I've honed some skills. Donations went to Goodwill, I gave some cute outfits to a couple of girlfriends, and I traded the others with a secondhand clothing store I patronize frequently. At least I got some jeans and a pair of boots out of that, and didn't spend any money. This is what my mother would call "thrift". I'm in my mid-thirties, and I'm only now grasping the concept.
Now you have an idea of just how exacting this "overhaul" project of mine is. If you think the clothing inventory was intense, ponder for a moment doing that over an entire house. Hence, no posts for the last three days. I thrifted. I divested. I cleaned and scrubbed and inhaled so many cleaning fumes that I think I now know how the denizens of Studio 54 must have felt when they stumbled out into the cold, grey, New York dawn. It'll take me days to get the smell of Formula 409 and Bartender's Friend out of my socks.
I need to find a sugar daddy who gives me an allowance to go to Italy every year between October and April. I'd be a much nicer person to be around. Mostly because I'd be eating better food and drinking a heck of a lot more wine.
Haven't posted the last couple of days because I've been trying to get my household in order. I do this twice a year: a full, top-to-bottom, inside-out overhaul and cleaning of my house. This means that each room is minutely examined, cleaned, disinfected, mopped, swept, and vacuumed. I go through all of my clothing, bathroom items, food, and papers, and decide what to keep and what to give or throw away. It's an arduous, tedious, frustrating project, but if I didn't do it, I think I'd be buried under the flotsam of my life within six months, and no one would ever find me again.
For instance, my closet and bureaus. It's appalling how many clothes I have and never wear. I have two full bureaus, plus a good-sized walk -in closet, chockerblock full of garments that will never touch my body again. I've gained fifteen pounds in the last year and can't get most of the slacks further than mid-thigh. So I inventory all of my clothing and force myself to get rid of anything I haven't worn in the last six months to a year. Which is difficult, because being female, I will delude myself into thinking that I just might be able to fit back into those cute Ralph Laurens again, if I really try. And this is a complete lie. I'll never fit into those things again; that boat has sailed. If I tried to get back on it again, it would sink. Talk about Titanic.
It took a couple of hours, but at the end of it all, I had quite an impressive pile of defunct slacks, jeans, shirts, pullovers, and shoes, which I then separated into "trade" and "donate" piles. I felt like I was on a dig in Egypt--finding things I didn't even remember having or thought I'd lost forever. If Zahi Hawass ever needs a volunteer to scrape away at an underground tomb, I'm his girl. I've honed some skills. Donations went to Goodwill, I gave some cute outfits to a couple of girlfriends, and I traded the others with a secondhand clothing store I patronize frequently. At least I got some jeans and a pair of boots out of that, and didn't spend any money. This is what my mother would call "thrift". I'm in my mid-thirties, and I'm only now grasping the concept.
Now you have an idea of just how exacting this "overhaul" project of mine is. If you think the clothing inventory was intense, ponder for a moment doing that over an entire house. Hence, no posts for the last three days. I thrifted. I divested. I cleaned and scrubbed and inhaled so many cleaning fumes that I think I now know how the denizens of Studio 54 must have felt when they stumbled out into the cold, grey, New York dawn. It'll take me days to get the smell of Formula 409 and Bartender's Friend out of my socks.
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