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Things happen in threes. It's a fact of nature. There's no denying it. Death is the most conspicuous for occurring in threes. Whenever a celebrity dies right after another celebrity, everyone asks who'll be next?
In a span of a few days, there were three deaths in my life. One I had never met but everyone knew. One I had seen in person and quite a lot of people knew. One I had really known but not very many people knew.
Chronologically, the first to go was the pop star who EMT's found unresponsive in her hotel bathroom and pronounced her dead at the scene. Next was the EMT who died in the line of duty responding to a car fire. He fell from the interstate bridge to a creek twenty or thirty feet below. The last was my sister-in-law's gentleman friend who EMT's tried to revive on his bedroom floor even though he was gone before they arrived.
Practically everyone knows the details of the pop star's death and funeral. She was eulogized by a movie star better than most clergy could ever preach. The brotherhood that is the fire department in American and parts of Canada as well as citizens in my city know about the EMT's death and the bagpipers who laid him to rest. Few know about J's death and the tornado warnings in my home state during his funeral.
Few know that my sister-in-law stopped by her house to pick up something during work and caught J on the bed. She chided him for napping during the day before realizing that he wasn't asleep. I can't imagine the hysteria she felt. He brought so much love and happiness to her life. My mother-in-law even liked him.
Come Monday, people will gather at the water cooler and dissect whether red sashes on black robes will become the new standard in Black churches. Some people will announce that they want a wake at an Irish bar following their funerals. A few of us will note that a good man, who didn't inspire as much outpouring of grief or support as some people, will be missing from our holiday table this year.
[Title taken from this.]
Thanks to all the feedback from my last post. For everyone who commented, even those who commented and didn't want their comments posted, I really appreciate everything that was said.
Why am I creating a new blog post instead of saying this in a comment?
Because, for some asinine reason unknown to me, the comment field will not load on my Blogger account. So, instead there's a whole new post just to say thanks. And to Dash, Yes, it makes sense, and No, it's not weird coming from you.
[Title taken from this or this. The latter was probably taken from the former.]
Tim Tebow is probably the most famous current half-rate quarterback in the NFL. He's not famous for his prowess on the field. He ended the season with a 46.5% completion for 1,719 passing yards, and 12 touchdowns in 14 games. Denver finished with an 8-8 record. Compare that to another 8-8 record quarterback with a 78.2% completion for 3,474 passing yards, and 26 TD's. Mike Sanchez and the Jets didn't make the playoffs.
What's Tebow famous for? His religion and his devotion to passive proselytizing with his John 3:16 strips under his eyes and his prayerful kneeling after impressive plays. So why is he so bad for Christianity, as the title of this blog claims?
As Carter Turner, a religious studies professor, points out in a recent article, his actions are bringing the very nature of God into question. Tebow prays to God for a first-down, or a touchdown, or a victory. God rewards Tebow's devotion by granting his prayer. God intervenes in the lives of the devout and prayerful and worthy. But what happened against the Patriots? Did God decide that Tebow hadn't genuflected enough? Did God decide that Tom Brady, with his illegitimate son and his almost-illegitimate second son, was more worthy of the victory?
And what of people who pray ceaselessly every day that their child or parent or husband with cancer be healed? What of the farmers in Texas who prayed for rain last summer? Did God ignore their prayers because they weren't devout enough? Which is why Tebow is bad for Christianity.
For people observing this, it calls upon the nature of God. Some people will say that God had other plans and not to question the working of God. Then why pray? If God has plans that we are not privy to, that sounds a lot like predestination. God has preordained that something will happen so it does. Like Tebow's connection for a touchdown. Or the Holocaust. Or 9-11. See where this leads. Just what has God preordained? But if God answers prayer requests for touchdowns and football victories, why didn't God answer the prayers of the students at Virginia Tech praying for their lives?
In the very public nature of Tebow's religiosity, he leads people not to finding salvation through Christ but to questioning the existence and nature of God. Is God the Great Clockmaker of the Deists? Or is God the Intervener of the Evangelicals? Does God answer prayers? How does God decide whose prayers to answer?
And whose God answers prayers? The God of Tebow who lets two of his teams lose championship games? What about the God, Allah, of Muhammad Ali who allowed only five losses in his career?
People are wondering whether God is helping Tebow. They want to know for certain whether God answers prayers and intervenes in our daily lives. Because in today's world of economic recession, climate extremes, and the general limits and frailties of human existence, there ain't a whole lot certainty.
[The opinions expressed in this article are the sole views of the author and do not necessarily express the views of the blog audience. Should anyone feel moved to leave a comment, please keep your comments on topic and do not attack the author. And before leaving any comment, read about No True Scotsman before posting.]
It was the best of nights; it was the worst of nights. Saving the best for last, let's delve into what makes a bad night.
It begins by watching a psychological thriller with Deirdre who had her wisdom teeth removed the day before. She propped herself up on the love seat in front of the fireplace and filled her iPad screen with the movie. Sitting in the chair next to her, it was hard not to watch and soon the plot pulled me in. Afterwards, the scenes kept replaying in my mind waiting for the fire to die down and for Deirdre, now tucked into her bed, to drift off to sleep.
Finally getting to sleep myself, it didn't take long for the images and plot twists to wake me. After a bad dream, a person tries to think of something, anything, else. Alas, my mind raced to the financial paperwork waiting for me on my desk at work.
Time ticked by at an unknown speed. But it felt like eons before sleep came again.
Jackpot! Karma can be a bitch sometimes but not then. She doted on me with such a wonderful dreamscape.
Dazzling city lights, skyscrapers, uptown-quality street scenes. Like a modern-day, post-Woody Allen, opening to "Manhattan". Less of the naval gazing vibe and more of the astonishment vibe. A party in a modern, glass-walled penthouse restaurant. Delicious food. Direct phone line and immediate access to clothing stores and hair stylists. Mixing and mingling with the swells. Talking trade secrets with the chef. But time to leave the party for another restaurant in a sanitized ethnic part of town.
The car was a white convertible, waiting at the front door. Mr. Gaelic slid into the driver's seat as I sat next to him in the passenger seat. My hand rubbed his thigh as we pulled away. No more than a half block and it started to rain. He quickly pushed the button to close the roof and the rain lightly fell on the canvas top and covered the windshield. As the light turned green, we started through the intersection to new adventures and another restaurant with another party.
But, alas... I awoke before we had made it another full block.
Even though the exhaustion of originally not sleeping well still lingered, the contentment remained. Who knows where dreams come from? But however this one was produced for me, whatever my thoughts and actions were the night before, the nighttime visions were enough to replace the earlier nightmare with serenity and gratification.
[Title taken from this.]
Two constants in life are death and taxes. As any semi-regular reader of my blogs knows, death has struck many times over the years, everyone from my father to my priest's wife. But when death strikes and you can't comfort the grieved, you're at a loss.
Wednesday at work, the flu infected me to a degree that even my co-workers could see the progression over a few short hours. One scurried around the office with Clorox wipes disinfecting every surface I had touched during the day. Another insisted that I go home. NOW!
It was upon checking my cellphone for urgent office email on Thursday morning that my friend's email stunned me. Her niece committed suicide on Wednesday night. The girl shot herself. Her father found her.
The time stamp on my friend's email was 2:34 a.m. She had wanted to come over for a shoulder of support. The problem is that she is also the primary caretaker of her elderly parents who suffer from dementia (her dad) and a gaging reflex that requires a feeding tube for nutrition (her dad) to pneumonia (her mom) because of a stroke (her mom). The last thing she needed was to take my flu germs back to her parents just when both of them were out of the hospital.
So she wrote a lengthy email containing her pain and anguish and despair. And I was at a loss for words.
Of the two teenage suicides from my circle of friends, they were both gunshots. There are some sights that can't be unseen. Death, especially a tragic, traumatic, bloody death, is one of them. One that no father should ever have to see.
"Any customer can have a car painted any color that he wants as long as it is black." ~ Henry Ford.
If only it was that easy! Now a trip to the grocery store leaves me mentally exhausted. There is whole milk, 2%, 1%, skim, organic, grass-fed, soy, almond, goat, unpasteurized. The cereal aisle alone takes twenty minutes alone sometimes just to find the three different brands and flavors that my family eats. It would be so much easier if there was only the equivalent of a black car in the cereal aisle. "Any customer can have whatever cereal he wants as long as it is corn flakes." Just think of the time that would save!
When Finola asked me what I thought of the SOPA legislation, I realized that even though I work on Capitol Hill I don't know enough about it to have formed an opinion on it one way or the other. Finola informed me that it would hurt smaller artists and some websites. Playing devil's advocate, my rebuttal was about intellectual property and copyrights. I knew enough to know that the recording industry and the motion pictures association support SOPA. It took Finola's reminder that SOPA stands for Stop Online Piracy Act for me to know what S-O-P-A means.
It would be so easy to just accept what people told me rather than learning about both sides of the issue. It's more than just having an inquisitive spirit. It's also having the ability to reason for myself. It's the time and effort to seek out as much knowledge on issues as I can before making a decision. There would be more time available for important decisions if there weren't so many other decision distractions.
I still don't know enough about to SOPA to have a fully formed opinion. And I'm not ready to adopt one position over another just because someone says I should. Not even if that someone is Mr. Gaelic. My independence is one of the things that attracted him to me in the first place. But that's a blog for another time.
What really depresses me is that I don't see that quest for information and knowledge very often in today's society. Or at least the level that I would expect from a first-world country. Am I the only thinking girl in America?
[Title taken from this.]
The hall runner, the front and back indoor mats, and the bathroom rug have been pressed into service between the rugs on any exposed wooden floor. Baby came home from the hospital and can't walk well on slick surfaces. Chairs block the doorways to the kitchen, having long ago outgrown the need for baby gates. She is limited to only leashed potty breaks outside. No walks, no jumping, and NO licking of the incision site.
The never-ending yapping of the neighbors' dog reverberates in one ear. The drone of a television show insults the other. Vehicular traffic is constant. Baby tries to sleep but whimpers and whines for lack of a comfortable position.
If she were healthy, she would be heading to the farm for the day. It may be just as well that she must stay in the city. Someone needs to stay to apply ice packs periodically, assist with potty breaks, stretch her legs muscles. Mostly, she is my excuse to spend the afternoon napping rather than scraping up floor tile and aiding Mr. Gaelic by holding facia boards in place under the eaves while he nails the fresh wood to the outside of the cabin. For a rare weekend, we will be at our suburban home rather than our country home.
Every weekend since Thanksgiving, we've been working on fixing up the cabin which had been neglected for the better part of 15 years. Combined with the end-of-the-year flurry of activity at both Mr. G's and my jobs, exhaustion has set in. Thanks in large part to Wednesday's unscheduled adventures.
Part of me wants the escape to the quiet and dark of our hidden valley. Part of me wants the comfort of my familiar bed. Once the cabin has been refurbished, I won't have to choose. By then, Baby should be able to jump into the back of the truck. And the only noise that will interrupt our silence will be the neighbor's cows who have wandered up to the devil's rope separating our land from his.
Original plans for today: Go to court to contest a traffic ticket where the officer gave me a ticket for running a yellow light that changed as I was halfway under it.
Actual events for today: Alarm goes off. "What time is it?" "6:30." "Okay . . . crap! I was supposed to meet C at 7:00!"
Skip shower. Pull hair into a bun. Dress and run out of the house with Mr. Gaelic to drop him off at the subway. Tap the ears to make sure the earrings are there which reminds Mr. G to check for his phone, billfold, belt. "Forgot the belt! Let me out here and I'll take the bus."
Arrive at meeting place. No C. "Didn't she call last week to cancel? I can't remember. I think she did." Get back in car and drive home.
Log onto office computer from home and check email. Deirdre calls and needs me to bring her literature binder to school by 11:00. Find binder in her room and place it next to my purse. Okay, traffic court is at 9:30. "I should take it before court."
Look out window at Baby, next-door-neighbor's dog, and dog from around the corner playing in yard. Baby is a 140-pound, eight-year-old Great Pyrenees. Go to front door to say hello to neighbor from around the corner. "Baby is limping? Did you know she's limping?" "I just saw her and she was fine." Sure enough, Baby is barely able to walk.
Call the vet to get an appointment as soon as possible. "We have 10:30 and 11:15." "Uh, I have a 9:30 meeting and I'm not sure when I'll be out. Do you have anything later?" "1:00." "I'll take it."
The clock says 8:50. Not enough time to get to the high school and back to the courthouse by 9:30. But she needs the binder by 11:00. And, oh dear! Deirdre is driving the truck today. Baby can't ride in the car. There's not enough room for her. And the gas gauge says 11 miles to empty.
Drive to the courthouse and find two-hour on-street parking. Walk into anteroom and realize I'm the only Anglo there. How many other cases will be called before mine? How many will need interpreters? No time for this!
Find the cashier's window and pay the fine. There goes my clean driving record! And it was yellow when I when through it!
On way to car, see friend from church whom I haven't seen in months. Talk briefly. Once in car again realize Deirdre's binder is still on the kitchen counter. Lack of breakfast is catching up with me. Need coffee!
Call Mr. G for moral support. He offers to help me get Baby to the vet. Stop by house to shower, fix hair, change clothes, and retrieve binder. Drive to high school to leave binder. Gas gauge down to 3 miles to empty. Pull into gas station and, while filling up, watch verbal fight between female driver trying to pull to pump and male cabbie blocking the lane. Station manager intervenes. "Please don't let me get caught as an eye-witness to an assault." No time for that.
Swing by Mickey D's for drive-thru latte. The Starbucks across the parking lot requires getting out of car and standing in long line. No time for that. Mr. G calls to say he'll be at home subway station in 15 minutes. Stop by house to check office emails. Back in car to pick up Mr. G. On way to high school with Mr. G's truck keys, boss calls for explanation of what meetings were moved and canceled on today's calendar. He doesn't follow my explanation and hangs up. Mr. G repeats back to me what he heard and it's exactly right.
Deposit Mr. G next to truck. He offers to stop at Mickey D's for lunch. "May I have a sweet tea as well?" Back at house, type email to boss with minute detail of which meetings were moved and canceled. Mr. G arrives, takes his burger upstairs to eat as he changes clothes. Wolf down my burger standing over kitchen sink.
Together, lift Baby into back of truck. Mr. G helps me get her inside the vet's office then steps out for conference call on his cell. Vet tells me that she tore the left ACL. She tore the right ACL two years ago. As he tells me this, both of us sitting in the floor with Baby, he looks like he's about to cry. Reading his mind, ponder whether the high cost of the surgery offsets Baby's age for such a gentle giant of a dog. Immediately ask about surgery rather than any other option.
Mr. G helps me get Baby into truck again. At home, Baby refuses our help and attempts to jump out of back of truck. In jumping, she knocks the tailgate open against the side of my head. Fall into car parked behind us, then to curb. Mr. G doesn't know who to help first, Baby or me. Give Baby pain medicine. She whimpers as she sleeps. Want to cuddle her but she needs rest.
Decide to work from home rest of day as does Mr. G. At some point temperature drops. Mr. G builds fire. Heat up leftover spaghetti. Wonder if had lunch. Don't remember. Then see cup from Mickey D's.
Want to send text to Finola saying, "FML." Will recount story and she'll understand.
He didn't seem interested in what the tourguide had to say. The earphones covered his ears, but whether the volume was up is another story. In his hands was his iPhone, thumbs tapping away at a game on the screen. He didn't hear the gentleman approach him. He didn't know anyone was talking to him until the gentleman touched his arm.
"Hi, I'm Congressman X. How would you like to join me and my staff on a Dome Tour?"
The boy backed away, probably only hearing "Hi, I'm Congressman X..." before thinking he was in trouble for doing something he wasn't supposed to. The boy found his mother in the crowd of tourists and quickly accepted the offer to climb to the top of the Capitol dome with seven other people he had never met.
It's the equivalent of 18 stories. Most of the tour is on old cast iron staircases. The first stop is on the windowed balcony just above the frieze. After a quick stop to look at the frieze up close and the Civil War graffiti scratched on one of the windows, the stairs lead inside the dome to the balcony just below the Apotheosis of Washington. Everyone is warned not to drop anything over the railing.
From the Apotheosis, it's a quick climb to the top of the dome. The door opens to a small walk just below the statue of Freedom. It's a beautiful 360 degree view. Magnificent on a clear day. Much better in the spring or fall than the summer or winter.
Standing outside at the top of the dome, the boy says that it is his first trip to the nation's capitol. What a story he'll have to tell his friends when he returns home!
All because there was an extra space available on the Dome Tour and the congressman didn't want it to go unfilled.
How does one go about putting together an intervention?
Last year at this time at a Christmas party, two friends and I were talking near the food table. One remarked that she needed to find the bar, that it had been a long week, and that she needed a drink. I cheerfully told them that I didn't drink. [However, after rejoining the paid workforce, my tee toting days quickly came to an end.]
A few days later, one of the women called me up for a coffee date. She peppered me with questions about why I stopped drinking. No, I didn't have a problem with alcohol. My doctor said my thyroid medicine would work better if I didn't drink. That was two years ago. [Well, three at this point.] In our conversation, my friend told me that she was concerned about our other friend whom she strongly suspected had a drinking problem.
After running into the second friend at a local Mexican restaurant, that assumption rings true. My friend's sentences seemed off. Her eyes looked dilated. And there were two shot glasses on the table, one empty, one full. Her dining companion was her 20-year-old daughter. Unless she's buying shots for her underage daughter, my suspicion is that she does in fact have a drinking problem.
Should I invite her for coffee and tell her that I'm worried about her? Should my first friend and I talk to her together? Should I talk to her daughter whom I watched grow up and who is a close friend of my daughter?
My timidity stems from a prior intervention that several female friends and I tried with another friend whose husband was physically abusing her. We tried to convince her to leave him. Instead she left us. They eventually divorced but the rifts between the female friends still exist.
Is speaking up the best option?
[Title taken from this.]
This was lifted off some woman waiting to be read in the Facebook feed. Enjoy!
15 Things White Girls Do on Facebook
1. Take pictures of their feet.
2. Express their extreme annoyance at this work day today and hint that it deserves a much needed alcoholic beverage at the end of it. WINK WINK.
3. Thank their hubby for being the best hubby in the world while their hubby is sitting right next to them.
4. Complain about bad service at restaurants. “Never eating at Applebee’s AGAIN!”
5. Express their extreme excitement to see their best friends tonight, Britney, Whitney, and Sarah!!! Love YOU GIRLS!!
6. Take pictures wearing a lot of makeup and looking really preppy while simultaneously making a “hard” facial expression and holding up what they consider to be a gangster sign. Potential caption: ‘Straight thuggin.’
7. Take pictures of undeserving food. "I effing love oatmeal!!! Mmmmmmm."
8. Make their status the song lyrics of any Kings of Leon Song.
9. Take a picture of someone they deem inferior to themselves in some way with the question: Really?
10. Write angry letters to companies (Dear EZ PARK, I hate you!), unorganized groups of people (Dear slutty freshmen who think that leggings can be worn as pants..), and non-entities (Dear unseasonably cold weather, WTF?!)
11. Subtly yell at no one in particular while being very specific. “Wow, it’s hard to believe that you think you know someone and then they turn around and STAB YOU IN THE BACK. Will never make that mistake again. EVER.”
12. Document exceedingly mundane activities for the day. “Getting my oil changed today. Then getting much needed groceries. Then it’s off to the post office to mail some bills. Then stopping by the gyno. Will probably need some gas by the end, so I may stop at the gas station. But I might be tired so I’ll probably just get it in the morning on my way to pick up a prescription. But if I’m not very tired I’ll probably just get the gas on the way home. Again, unless I am tired.”
13. Express their distaste for facebook on facebook and threaten to leave facebook to their facebook friends.
14. Ask seemingly rhetorical questions. “It’s cool to do a bunch of meth and babysit 20 six year olds, right?”
15. Write a status in another language. Parce que, Je suis tres intelligente!!
Recently Deirdre pulled out the photo albums in search of a baby picture for the high school yearbook. Deirdre is a senior this year and needs a "before" shot to go with her senior portrait. It's amazing how much they change. And how much they were always the same.
Out came the older albums from when Yours Truly was a baby. It's funny. Deirdre remarked that my baby pictures look like a mix of Finola and Maeve. On the next page, she claims that she's looking at herself in my baby picture.
Maybe that's why I have a difficult time remembering which our my babies' picture I'm looking at without checking the date. The females' looks in my family are strikingly similar. My children look like me. I look like my mother. My mother looked like her mother. If there were an extant picture of my great grandmother, she would probably look just like the rest of us.
A distant cousin sent me a photo he found in his mother's things. His note was short, "Guess who this is in the picture." I wrote back, "I know that's my grandfather. But based on the date, my mother wouldn't be old enough." He answered, "It's your grandmother." Once when at my maternal aunt's house, she was showing photos from some event. I swear the woman in the picture was my mother. Except that she had red hair. My mother was the one with brown hair. My aunt has red hair.
There are photos of my parents in my living room. First-time visitors always want to know at what Old Timey Photo Shop we had them taken. Now even my husband is beginning to look like my father at a younger age. There is truth to the old wives' tale that the longer people live together the more they resemble each other. And apparently their in-laws in Mr. Gaelic's case.
[Title taken from this.]
What is it about Southern Gothic? The characters are all tortured souls. It is my belief that most Southern authors are tortured souls as well. And that an author can't write well about a place until he leaves it. It's like unrequited love. There's some nagging itch of a feeling that must be put on paper or a memory stick. That need to write.
I had a need to write. I had several stories that I longed to tell. Coming of age tales, stories of love and loss, yarns of deceit and redemption. For a while, I couldn't go a day without writing. Hours would disappear as if mere seconds as the words flowed onto the pages. But then something happened.
My muse, that itch to write, vanished overnight. She had been my constant for several years. But suddenly she was gone. And the strange thing is that I don't miss her.
Her leaving coincided with the culmination of a class that Mr. Gaelic and I took. Oddly enough, it was only in learning how to truly communicate everything we needed and wanted of each other that I no longer needed an expressive outlet.
Mr. Gaelic might not appreciate my candor, but we spent almost a year with a coach doing individual and joint homework assignments in learning why and how we react to each other based on our life experiences. The homework and classwork was emotionally difficult at times. But in learning how to express ourselves in a manner that the other was receptive to, we learned that we had never really opened up to each other. Twenty years of marriage and we finally learned how to talk to each other so that the other person actually heard, not only with their ears but with their heart, what we had to say.
When you know without a shadow of a doubt that you are heard by the person you love more than life itself, finding a replacement muse is moot.
[Title taken from this.]
Comedy is funny because it has a kernel of truth in it. So when a friend posted a joke recently, it wasn't just funny. It was hilarious. Because it's so true.
It's about things women say. Through the years and different relationships, I have used the examples listed. In fact, most women have used and probably still use them. So guys, word of warning. Read this joke and know that it's funny because it hits the bull's eye of truth.
And another warning... When a woman answers "How are you?" with "Fine", it's actually an acronym for "Fucked-up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional". And it usually means, "Stay the fuck away!"
Mr. Gaelic is a techno-geek. For example, one night recently he sat at the library desk with the desktop computer, his laptop, his iPad, and his iPhone uploading several albums from the home CD collection to the cloud. Not satisfied when the album cover was omitted from the upload, he found sites to copy a picture of the cover to download.
I, on the other hand, am not an early adopter. It took me years before relinquishing an old cell phone for a smart phone. Music for me comes most often from the radio or CDs. There is no sense of urgency in having the latest and greatest since it gives them time to work out the bugs and come down in cost.
It reminds me of a friend who passed away a couple of years ago. His children are my children's ages but he never wanted to be on any social media websites. He always said that he could be relevant without Facebook.
Are we relevant without social media, without our blogs, without constant connection, without instant gratification? Can we still be relevant in an ever-increasing technologically driven world?
[Title very loosely based on this.]
Ye nevah cawll. Ye nevah wryte. Whot? Ye don' luve ye muddah?
Two things that Southern mothers and New York Jewish mothers have in common are the guilt trip and the good food. Sometimes at the same time.
Lawdy mehcy, chil'. Ya gotta eat yawr collah' greens or yaw're gonna disappeah until dey ain't nuttin' lef' o' ya but da clothes ya wearin' righ' now.
As an aside, that reminds me of when I read the Uncle Remus books by Joel Chandler Harris. One can only read them if one knows the real Southern dialect. Sort of like reading A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. It flows much better if one knows a true New Orleans accent. But I digress.
No, I didn't disappear off the face of the earth. Mr. Gaelic's annual conference was in Orlando. Piggyback on a Disney World visit and Mrs. Gaelic is out of this world. What better way to see Tomorrowland than without kids in tow! We could smile at all the beautiful babies we wanted to and then quickly find another table away from the screaming brats.
You know all those guides with suggested touring plans for each of the Disney parks? Don't use them. We tried using one the first two days and realized that we would have more fun if we didn't try to do and see everything. Just be and enjoy. Sheer bliss. Do you know how refreshing it is to have Fastpasses in hand to both Soarin' and Test Track and decide that you'd rather go back to the hotel and take a nice long bath?
And a word to the wise... Just because the resort bar has signature drinks on the menu doesn't mean that you have to try one. Save your money and your taste buds. Stick with what you know. Some of those signatures are ghastly!
Is this just a phenomena in my town? Or do people everywhere not know how to drive in the rain and the dark at the same time?
It took me 45 minutes to go 14 blocks. Fourteen! My house is a mere six miles from my office. The commute was an hour and fifteen minutes.
During Snowmageddon, some people sat in their cars on the roads until the wee hours of the night. On 9-11 (yes, THE 9-11), Mr. Gaelic arrived home six hours after leaving his office. Which is also six miles from home. Granted, those were two extraordinary traffic events.
But still! It's just a little rain, people! And darkness happens every single day! That's what wipers and headlights are for. There were no fender benders on the drive home. My guess is it was just volume and people driving at much slower speeds. I shouldn't complain. On the bright side, I made it home safe and sound.
[Title taken from this.]
There was no lunch. No food. Only a cup of coffee. All because of wanting some kind of religious grounding and centering in my workaday life.
There is a group near my office that has a short chapel service every Wednesday. The group is part of one of the mainline Protestant denominations. In their office building is a small chapel complete with Bibles and hymnals. Why did it take me this long to find such a respite?
After the 30 minute service, one of the staff members whom I had exchanged emails with about the service took me on a tour of the office building, introduced me to other staffers, got me a cup of coffee in their break room, and talked with me for over an hour in their library. He is an ordained minister with an extremely similar upbringing as mine. I could have talked to him all afternoon had it not been for the daily fires that I deal with in my office.
Just walking into the chapel and sitting in the stillness and quiet was enough to wash away any burden from my shoulders. The words of the prayers were reminiscent enough of my Episcopal parish to soothe my soul. The only dissonance was a hymn that I know by heart but the music was completely foreign. Oh well, I can deal with that.
Skipping food for lunch instead to be nourished and nurtured was well worth it. My body my not be able to live by coffee alone; but my soul can flourish with bread and wine. Go in peace to love and serve the lord. [Title and last sentence explained here.]
The gloves are coming off. My political stance has always been moderate for the most part. My votes have swung both ways. But after voting today, the realization hit me that Republicans are ruining our political system.
The local clerk of the court was elected many years ago. He has never had opposition. The clerk's position is actually one that isn't a political position. On the ballot, there is never a D or an R or an I or anything after his name. This year he has an opponent. Who is a Republican and vocal about the fact that he's a Republican. And vocal about the fact that the current clerk does a fine job. And vocal about the fact that the reason he's running is to take the position over to the Republican side. Even though it's a non-political position.
A friend of mine who ran for city council a few years ago on the Republican ticket (yes, I voted for him) told me that he sees no reason to vote for the challenger. My friend doesn't like the challenger's tactics of running his campaign. The challenger has done a full-court press to oust the current clerk. Who the challenger admits is doing a fine job.
I cut the party plenty of slack, wanting to believe that it really was the Grand Old Party of Teddy Roosevelt and Eisenhower. Watching this local election, it's down right impossible to call it grand.
Do you vote for the best person for the position or do you vote for their party affiliation? The local Republican party let me down. They don't want me to vote for the best person; they want me to vote for the Republican. They're not synonymous. The best person is the best person. Sometimes that person is a Democrat. Sometimes that person is a Republican.
From now on, it'll be harder for me to look at any Republican candidate without wondering, if there were no R after your name, would your followers still be your followers?
[Title taken from this.]
If ever there was a day when this gal needed some Shania Twain, it was today. My horrid habit of eating the ice from my drinks caused a filling to crack. The dentist said it was in need of a crown. My first crown. No one told me exactly what to expect.
The appointment was just after the dentist's office opened. The idea was to go straight from there to my office. My nice pashmina protected my arms and shoulders from the chill in his office while the heating ramped up.
Barely after reclining in the chair, he stuck a huge needle in my gum. "Little sting." Little sting, my ass. Those needles weren't that big before. When did they get so big?
But the anesthesia worked. My lip and tongue tingled until they felt as large as a lemon. By that time, the tingling had subsided and there was no feeling. That's when the worst of the whole procedure began.
It's that smell. Like burning flesh. Like hair caught in a candle. And it doesn't stop. Because he just keeps on and on and on until my tooth is ready for the temporary crown.
Woah, woah, woah. Temporary? You mean I have to come back for more? Heaven help me.
And THEN... the anesthesia wears off. Can someone just hit me over the head with a bat and knock me out until morning? Somehow, miraculously, the end of the workday arrived.
On the drive home, the day was cooling into evening. But, hey! If I can stand the pain in my mouth, I sure as hell can stand a little chill. The convertible top went down, the seat heater went on, and the pashmina wrapped around my head and shoulders to keep my hair from tangling in the wind. Throw on some shades and I'm ready for my closeup, dahling.
