Oh, the days when I had 20+ hits on my blog...and then I don't post and I get 4 or so...
It's a sign. It's a sign, friends that I need to do a little more writing. I've been sittin' back on my haunches, doin' a little too much home-improvement (but, gee, ask me about my beautiful new periwinkle bathroom and my spic-and-span garage), watchin' a little too much of HBO's new show Big Love, readin' a few too many British writers during my spring break. Back to the grindstone I say, back to regular posts and deep thinkin'.
Yesterday I went on a little Menards run. I have big love for Menards, now that they built a store on the southeast side of my city, where few businesses dare to dwell, as ultimately, I believe that they are a tad bit racist and afraid of having stores in ethnically diverse neighborhoods. However, after Menards made their big move, I got all excited and made the decision that EVERYTHING (that I can't buy at my tried and true K-mart which proudly displays a banner saying "We [and then the big red heart] the South Side!!!! [notice the multitude of exclamation points, for they really, really love us]) would come from them.
On my way to aforementioned destination I saw one of my favorite southside characters--the man who stands on the corner of a major intersection with a bullhorn and yells unintelligable words to his audience (who are all in cars). I often pause, and try to listen to his words, as I figure if he has the, how shall I say...um...guts to stand in the cold and yell into a bullhorn, he at least deserves to be heard. But, alas, once again as I turned NPR down, all I heard was "Mhmpghs...lahifihglimmmsht...thriglshtils..." again. Nothing which made any sense of me. I sat at the intersection watching him. Wondering about his message...I mean, friends, he is out there a lot...like at least weekly.
So, today, I decide to make a difference in the life of my megaphone dude. I thought I'd just try a little experiment on my way to Menards, the store which actually seem to like us south-siders, and I waved at MM (that would be my cute term for Megaphone Man). Without skipping a syllable he waved back happily.
It wasn't until later that I wondered, "Does he think he just converted another soul for his mission?" And what would said mission be? Getting me to heaven? Getting me to accept Jesus as my personal savior? Getting me off crack? Getting me to subscribe to National Geographic? Getting me to shop at Menards?
Hmmm...
Regardless, it made me happy to make him wave back. And, I think God likes that kind of cross-cultural, cross-religious dialogue.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Monday, March 20, 2006
Dirty Diana
Why, oh why, do you get certain songs stuck in your head for absolutely NO GOOD REASON? I mean, really? Why, oh why, have I been singing the song "Dirty Diana" all afternoon? By who, by Michael Jackson? By Prince? Praytell, someone let the contemplative chaplain know why these lyrics are echoing in her head? Is it a sign from God that someone named Diana is in need of a hospice chaplain and they have very bad hygenic practices? Oh...when will the madness end.
On a happier note...tonight is my personal spring break. MC has spring break this week, which means R. is off for the entire week but since I only teach a once-a-week evening course, I get a three hour spring break this Monday night. I thought about going to Jazzercise tonight, but then thought..."Hey, it's SPRING BREAK might as well live it up." I may not have a Panama City beach house, but I've got me a Lean Cuisine personal cheese pizza and 21-lb. cat in my lap and a nice hot bath with patchouli bath oil in my future. The fun starts here (and yet if addressing my college self) I'd feel the need to say, "how did I sink so low?"
What else? What else? I've got your attention now and feel the need to make this post worthwhile, lest you feel overburdened by your internet surfing. Um....how can I impress readers so that more than 9 readers read per day? Magic tricks? Tap dancing? Secrets revealed?
Okay, here's one...when I was seven, I stole my friend Dora's scooby-doo rubber stamp. But, internet friends, don't tell anyone...especially not Dora.
More exciting tales of renegade adventures to come...
On a happier note...tonight is my personal spring break. MC has spring break this week, which means R. is off for the entire week but since I only teach a once-a-week evening course, I get a three hour spring break this Monday night. I thought about going to Jazzercise tonight, but then thought..."Hey, it's SPRING BREAK might as well live it up." I may not have a Panama City beach house, but I've got me a Lean Cuisine personal cheese pizza and 21-lb. cat in my lap and a nice hot bath with patchouli bath oil in my future. The fun starts here (and yet if addressing my college self) I'd feel the need to say, "how did I sink so low?"
What else? What else? I've got your attention now and feel the need to make this post worthwhile, lest you feel overburdened by your internet surfing. Um....how can I impress readers so that more than 9 readers read per day? Magic tricks? Tap dancing? Secrets revealed?
Okay, here's one...when I was seven, I stole my friend Dora's scooby-doo rubber stamp. But, internet friends, don't tell anyone...especially not Dora.
More exciting tales of renegade adventures to come...
Saturday, March 18, 2006
What Can You Do? Sometimes it's Random...
Here's the random post...
Today...I cleaned the garage. Yes, friends, you heard me right. I cleaned the frickin' garage. I reoganized boxes. I restacked boxes. I threw away, I mean recycled loads of crap. It took hours. And I am very proud of myself, she says, stretching her arm to pat herself on the back. Let's just call it spring fever (and not obsessive compulsive disorder, okay?).
And...I was a stellar step-mom and went with R. to watch T. in her choir concert in a town an hour away...which was very well-done (the concert, not my attending...). R. and I like watching white kids boogie down to spirituals. We especially like it when their choir directors actually let them clap their hands (which is the way it should be done, dammit [sorry, Mom, about the cussing, but it needed to be said]).
Not much more to report tonight...just checking in with the faithful few who read my paltry nuggets of pith (perhaps I should let my MC English professor advisor who retired in 1994 know that I use those kinds of words in my posts? Thank you Rowan for teaching me big words so I can understand NPR).
Okay...over and out for tonight. Tune in tomorrow for inspiring words and deep thoughts. I'm sure of it.
Today...I cleaned the garage. Yes, friends, you heard me right. I cleaned the frickin' garage. I reoganized boxes. I restacked boxes. I threw away, I mean recycled loads of crap. It took hours. And I am very proud of myself, she says, stretching her arm to pat herself on the back. Let's just call it spring fever (and not obsessive compulsive disorder, okay?).
And...I was a stellar step-mom and went with R. to watch T. in her choir concert in a town an hour away...which was very well-done (the concert, not my attending...). R. and I like watching white kids boogie down to spirituals. We especially like it when their choir directors actually let them clap their hands (which is the way it should be done, dammit [sorry, Mom, about the cussing, but it needed to be said]).
Not much more to report tonight...just checking in with the faithful few who read my paltry nuggets of pith (perhaps I should let my MC English professor advisor who retired in 1994 know that I use those kinds of words in my posts? Thank you Rowan for teaching me big words so I can understand NPR).
Okay...over and out for tonight. Tune in tomorrow for inspiring words and deep thoughts. I'm sure of it.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Body Writings
"and the body, what about the body?"
--Jane Kenyon
I remember the first time I was ever conscious of my body.
I was playing outside, wild, free and topless at around the age of four with my best friend--the one who shared my name and my unbounded energy. We swung, untamed, from monkey bars--the "Dome Climber" it was called--that hollow structure of black and white metal where I got my first black eye against my pale Scandinavian skin.
It was newly spring and the first warm of the season. We ran topless through the fenced-in backyard, yodeling and cawing like birds. Pure unadulterated, unblemished, unstained, fun.
My mother called us inside from the doorway of the back room, the room with its 1970s orange couch and homemade curtains. She stood framed by the old door calling to us, "Girls!" And when we raced each other to the asphalt porch, our sunken chests heaving, exhausted from our wild tear across the lawn, we were met with T-shirts draped over her outstretched arm. Mom smiled, "Here girls," she said in a conspiratorial whisper, "why don't you put these on? You're getting too old to not wear tops, and besides, there are men working on the fence."
Indeed, there were men--topless men! Men who had invaded our sacred play space with their postdiggers and their other phallic tools. Men who we had forgotten were there after our initial curiosity, as we gamboled and and galloped across the green, green grass.
We didn't argue. We weren't angry. Mom wasn't being mean, in fact she kept smiling in a gentle, but realistic way. My best friend and I slipped our shirts on and ran back to the outdoor world. But we were somehow tamed, our wings had been clipped, our freedoms undermined. "The Men" had encroached on our turf, into our afternoon reverie and now we were the ones who had to change.
I think this is the first awareness I had that my body was somehow inappropriate--somehow something to be covered. Surely something to be guarded and whispered about, something which would make my bread-baking, PBS-watching, cooperative-learning, Dr. Sholl's-wearing mother purse her lips nervously about as she felt the need to protect her tiny chick.
I am 34 years old and I am still learning how to be aware of my body. I am still learning that while, at 34 I cannot freely frolic topless in my unsheltered backyard on a spring day (or, I could but oh, how it might upset [or fascinate?] the neighbors...), I can become familiar and safe in my own skin.
I often sigh and avert my eyes from the mirror as I prepare to bathe. In time, perhaps, I can begin to soften toward my worn skin which has been a safe harbor for lo these many years. And perhaps sometime soon, I'll remember what it feels like to have my body as unfurled as my soul again.
--Jane Kenyon
I remember the first time I was ever conscious of my body.
I was playing outside, wild, free and topless at around the age of four with my best friend--the one who shared my name and my unbounded energy. We swung, untamed, from monkey bars--the "Dome Climber" it was called--that hollow structure of black and white metal where I got my first black eye against my pale Scandinavian skin.
It was newly spring and the first warm of the season. We ran topless through the fenced-in backyard, yodeling and cawing like birds. Pure unadulterated, unblemished, unstained, fun.
My mother called us inside from the doorway of the back room, the room with its 1970s orange couch and homemade curtains. She stood framed by the old door calling to us, "Girls!" And when we raced each other to the asphalt porch, our sunken chests heaving, exhausted from our wild tear across the lawn, we were met with T-shirts draped over her outstretched arm. Mom smiled, "Here girls," she said in a conspiratorial whisper, "why don't you put these on? You're getting too old to not wear tops, and besides, there are men working on the fence."
Indeed, there were men--topless men! Men who had invaded our sacred play space with their postdiggers and their other phallic tools. Men who we had forgotten were there after our initial curiosity, as we gamboled and and galloped across the green, green grass.
We didn't argue. We weren't angry. Mom wasn't being mean, in fact she kept smiling in a gentle, but realistic way. My best friend and I slipped our shirts on and ran back to the outdoor world. But we were somehow tamed, our wings had been clipped, our freedoms undermined. "The Men" had encroached on our turf, into our afternoon reverie and now we were the ones who had to change.
I think this is the first awareness I had that my body was somehow inappropriate--somehow something to be covered. Surely something to be guarded and whispered about, something which would make my bread-baking, PBS-watching, cooperative-learning, Dr. Sholl's-wearing mother purse her lips nervously about as she felt the need to protect her tiny chick.
I am 34 years old and I am still learning how to be aware of my body. I am still learning that while, at 34 I cannot freely frolic topless in my unsheltered backyard on a spring day (or, I could but oh, how it might upset [or fascinate?] the neighbors...), I can become familiar and safe in my own skin.
I often sigh and avert my eyes from the mirror as I prepare to bathe. In time, perhaps, I can begin to soften toward my worn skin which has been a safe harbor for lo these many years. And perhaps sometime soon, I'll remember what it feels like to have my body as unfurled as my soul again.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Hypochondriac
Those of you who know me well will find this blog entry completely and utterly unsurprising. For, yes, I am a hypochondriac. Certifiably. Undeniably.
When I have a head cold, my mean little mind says, "It's probably a brain tumor." When I get a paper cut that doesn't stop bleeding within a few seconds the bad bully of my inner voices say, "You probably have leukemia." In this wretched fear-filled universe which is the bad neighborhood of the interior of my head hangnails quickly become gaping wounds and stomach aches are esophageal cancers. I've spent countless hours worrying about: breast cancer, multiple sclerosis, heart attacks, colon cancer, ovarian tumors, and nasal polyps among other things. I am a walking encyclopedia of rare medical conditions. When the true condition is, anxiety, folks.
The remedy comes in recognizing my hypochondriacal nature (does that mean sitting in a room with other worriers who clutch their medical symptom dictionaries close to their chests and watch me with wary eyes and saying, "Hello, my name is Christen. I am a hypochondriac?") and popping an occasional Xanax.
And so, you ask, "Dear fragile Contemplative Chaplain, why do you do what you do? You're surrounded by dying people. You know death on an intimate basis and it ain't pretty." And my answer...well, my answer is this..."I dunno." Maybe I think it's an innoculation or something. Maybe it's because I'm trying to minister to my own wounded parts. Maybe it's because I feel the need to conquer my fear. Maybe it's because every time I watch a patient slip fearlessly into that great beyond I feel they're teaching me a lesson. I just don't know.
So, today...(you knew this post was going somewhere with one of my fears, didn't you?)...today I'm sitting in a meeting and I lean behind me to scratch my lower back and I realize that there is a, gasp, pretty big sized lump there. Not a surface lump, a sort of deep achy lump. "Oh no," I think, as my insides turn upside down. Shit. I don't have time for a hypochondriacal breakdown. I go to the bathroom and lift my dress and feel around on my back and realize that, yes, indeedy, it actually is a lump. And it's weird. And it's, well, lumpy and movable. And I sink down on the floor and start crying. Because this is what I do. Because, as you recall, my mind is a bad neighborhood and I was immediately conjuring up my death-bed scene.
Well...long story short...after a doctor appointment this morning...and .5 mgs. of Xanax...I can now happily report that I will not wilt and die from aforementioned lump in the next few days. However, I have a new friend in my life, something that is called a lipoma (which is a fancy way of saying a fatty benign tumor) which apparently is very common in the lower back and which will only need to be dealt with if it grows any larger and presses on any nerves in my back.
The doctor reiterated that I didn't need to worry. He reiterated that he could tell just by palpating it that it was a lipoma. He told me to relax. These babies don't become cancerous. They're very common. He offered to refill the Xanax. He was so clearly not at all impressed with my monstrously large (okay smaller than golf ball sized) new friend. I sat, taking deep breaths and thinking, "Thank God, I dodged the bullet again." Because you see, in the bad neighborhood of my head, scary things are just around the corner.
As the doctor was leaving I said, "Will this go away on its own?" And he smiled kindly and said, "No. You'll have it forever. " And then he paused and said gently, "If you want, though, you could name it?"
Hortense and I are going to go recline on the couch now and watch us some T.V. We've had an awfully stressful day.
When I have a head cold, my mean little mind says, "It's probably a brain tumor." When I get a paper cut that doesn't stop bleeding within a few seconds the bad bully of my inner voices say, "You probably have leukemia." In this wretched fear-filled universe which is the bad neighborhood of the interior of my head hangnails quickly become gaping wounds and stomach aches are esophageal cancers. I've spent countless hours worrying about: breast cancer, multiple sclerosis, heart attacks, colon cancer, ovarian tumors, and nasal polyps among other things. I am a walking encyclopedia of rare medical conditions. When the true condition is, anxiety, folks.
The remedy comes in recognizing my hypochondriacal nature (does that mean sitting in a room with other worriers who clutch their medical symptom dictionaries close to their chests and watch me with wary eyes and saying, "Hello, my name is Christen. I am a hypochondriac?") and popping an occasional Xanax.
And so, you ask, "Dear fragile Contemplative Chaplain, why do you do what you do? You're surrounded by dying people. You know death on an intimate basis and it ain't pretty." And my answer...well, my answer is this..."I dunno." Maybe I think it's an innoculation or something. Maybe it's because I'm trying to minister to my own wounded parts. Maybe it's because I feel the need to conquer my fear. Maybe it's because every time I watch a patient slip fearlessly into that great beyond I feel they're teaching me a lesson. I just don't know.
So, today...(you knew this post was going somewhere with one of my fears, didn't you?)...today I'm sitting in a meeting and I lean behind me to scratch my lower back and I realize that there is a, gasp, pretty big sized lump there. Not a surface lump, a sort of deep achy lump. "Oh no," I think, as my insides turn upside down. Shit. I don't have time for a hypochondriacal breakdown. I go to the bathroom and lift my dress and feel around on my back and realize that, yes, indeedy, it actually is a lump. And it's weird. And it's, well, lumpy and movable. And I sink down on the floor and start crying. Because this is what I do. Because, as you recall, my mind is a bad neighborhood and I was immediately conjuring up my death-bed scene.
Well...long story short...after a doctor appointment this morning...and .5 mgs. of Xanax...I can now happily report that I will not wilt and die from aforementioned lump in the next few days. However, I have a new friend in my life, something that is called a lipoma (which is a fancy way of saying a fatty benign tumor) which apparently is very common in the lower back and which will only need to be dealt with if it grows any larger and presses on any nerves in my back.
The doctor reiterated that I didn't need to worry. He reiterated that he could tell just by palpating it that it was a lipoma. He told me to relax. These babies don't become cancerous. They're very common. He offered to refill the Xanax. He was so clearly not at all impressed with my monstrously large (okay smaller than golf ball sized) new friend. I sat, taking deep breaths and thinking, "Thank God, I dodged the bullet again." Because you see, in the bad neighborhood of my head, scary things are just around the corner.
As the doctor was leaving I said, "Will this go away on its own?" And he smiled kindly and said, "No. You'll have it forever. " And then he paused and said gently, "If you want, though, you could name it?"
Hortense and I are going to go recline on the couch now and watch us some T.V. We've had an awfully stressful day.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
After Having Posted That...
I realize that I was wrong, and that there really is something I should give up for Lent.
The act of transforming a perfectly decent shirt into a halter top.
I know, it's very 1976 and thus qualifies as "retro", but I've never really had the navel for it.
And, we'll save the white shoes before Memorial Day for next year, okay?
Ah, But What Is There to Say...
I know, I know, I know...I bitch about it regularly. I want to talk. I really, really, really want to say something and I don't know what to say.
What does the gentle reader want? Theological musings? Reflections on the day? Dirty little secrets? Pithy life pointers? Ho hum. How to fill these pages?
Let's see...I've recently uncovered the art of MEME's...damned if I know what they stand for (gentle reader, please enlighten this idiot). And here's the MEME that my sweet sisters on Rev Gal pals suggest..."Tell Us Four Things You Have Made a Practice of At One Time Or Another."
I think the idea is that we'll talk about what we've done for Lent. I'm not so much a "give up for Lent" kinda gal, being a low-church heathen. Instead, I try to be a "how can I enrich myself during this season?" And my idea was, "Ah, maybe...well, um...okay...not so much..." So, no, no I have not given up, or enriched myself throughout the Lenten journey. I have decided that since I'm preparing hours and hours of reading for the class I'm teaching that this sort of counts. Don't you think?
The other day I was sitting in my (very open spaced and more like a cubicle) office when I overheard one of our admission nurses at hospice make, what I thought, was a true "admission." Jean is a very devout Catholic woman, who takes her faith seriously, and still lets loose with a few colorful expletives now and then (which I, frankly, love in a person). Jean was talking to another nurse and saying, "I was going to give up smoking for Lent, but decided instead to keep smoking and just read the Bible each day as I did it."
And, then, there is my other favorite sacrificial Lenten story...when I was nannying in seminary, I took care of two adorable girls who were three and six. Both girls were raised Catholic, and after the oldest took her first communion, she was very intrigued with what to give up for Lent. She opted to give up chocolate. But, in the world of Connor and Claire, you could do whatever you gave up, but only on Sundays (is this Catholic understanding?) Connor's younger sister, three year old Claire, decided that she wanted to sacrifice as well and so, as she explained it to me, she decided to give up the worst thing she did. She decided that the worst thing she did was hit her sister. But, her mother told her that to give up this would make Sunday an awful day in the family...so Claire opted to give up chocolate too.
So, what have I made a practice of? Umm...in college I began running, which became addictive. And so, I worship on the sidewalks of the Crown Colony neighborhood regularly. I'm a convert. I have made a practice of early morning cups of tea daily. I've made a practice of evening quiet as I prayerfully reflect on the day, right before falling to sleep.
Big Oscar presentations on tonight...and despite the fact that R. and I have seen none of the movies, we'll see them all in the next year when they make it to HBO! So, I look at it as a preview of coming attractions. Yippee and pass the popcorn.
What does the gentle reader want? Theological musings? Reflections on the day? Dirty little secrets? Pithy life pointers? Ho hum. How to fill these pages?
Let's see...I've recently uncovered the art of MEME's...damned if I know what they stand for (gentle reader, please enlighten this idiot). And here's the MEME that my sweet sisters on Rev Gal pals suggest..."Tell Us Four Things You Have Made a Practice of At One Time Or Another."
I think the idea is that we'll talk about what we've done for Lent. I'm not so much a "give up for Lent" kinda gal, being a low-church heathen. Instead, I try to be a "how can I enrich myself during this season?" And my idea was, "Ah, maybe...well, um...okay...not so much..." So, no, no I have not given up, or enriched myself throughout the Lenten journey. I have decided that since I'm preparing hours and hours of reading for the class I'm teaching that this sort of counts. Don't you think?
The other day I was sitting in my (very open spaced and more like a cubicle) office when I overheard one of our admission nurses at hospice make, what I thought, was a true "admission." Jean is a very devout Catholic woman, who takes her faith seriously, and still lets loose with a few colorful expletives now and then (which I, frankly, love in a person). Jean was talking to another nurse and saying, "I was going to give up smoking for Lent, but decided instead to keep smoking and just read the Bible each day as I did it."
And, then, there is my other favorite sacrificial Lenten story...when I was nannying in seminary, I took care of two adorable girls who were three and six. Both girls were raised Catholic, and after the oldest took her first communion, she was very intrigued with what to give up for Lent. She opted to give up chocolate. But, in the world of Connor and Claire, you could do whatever you gave up, but only on Sundays (is this Catholic understanding?) Connor's younger sister, three year old Claire, decided that she wanted to sacrifice as well and so, as she explained it to me, she decided to give up the worst thing she did. She decided that the worst thing she did was hit her sister. But, her mother told her that to give up this would make Sunday an awful day in the family...so Claire opted to give up chocolate too.
So, what have I made a practice of? Umm...in college I began running, which became addictive. And so, I worship on the sidewalks of the Crown Colony neighborhood regularly. I'm a convert. I have made a practice of early morning cups of tea daily. I've made a practice of evening quiet as I prayerfully reflect on the day, right before falling to sleep.
Big Oscar presentations on tonight...and despite the fact that R. and I have seen none of the movies, we'll see them all in the next year when they make it to HBO! So, I look at it as a preview of coming attractions. Yippee and pass the popcorn.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Big Jesus Love
So, I'm working on my feminist/womanist theology class preparations today. The topic is Christology. And it's such an incredibly huge topic...so many amazing thoughts and ideas. I've been reading Carter Heyward's Saving Jesus from Those Who are Right and Marcus Borg's Meeting Jesus for the First Time and all sorts of articles from "Daughters of Sarah" and oh my goodness, but I read them and say, "Yes! That's what I mean when I say I'm Christian! It's this Jesus! He rocks!"
Christianity has so often been co-opted by the religious right. So many of the lefties like me have allowed Jesus to become the imperialist, authoritarian, white, male, patriarchal grand poobah...when as I see it, he was a man deeply committed to allowing women (and all those disenfranchised) to have a voice, and a place. Geez, you gotta love a man like that.
So, I'm remembering why I love Christianity so much, I mean, wholly apart from the God factor...just the basics of the teachings make me swoon. Tonight, I've just got big Jesus love. And I say that without apology. Won't be long before I'm smacking a Jesus fish on my car and singing "Kum Ba Yah" on Karoke night.
Christianity has so often been co-opted by the religious right. So many of the lefties like me have allowed Jesus to become the imperialist, authoritarian, white, male, patriarchal grand poobah...when as I see it, he was a man deeply committed to allowing women (and all those disenfranchised) to have a voice, and a place. Geez, you gotta love a man like that.
So, I'm remembering why I love Christianity so much, I mean, wholly apart from the God factor...just the basics of the teachings make me swoon. Tonight, I've just got big Jesus love. And I say that without apology. Won't be long before I'm smacking a Jesus fish on my car and singing "Kum Ba Yah" on Karoke night.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Reason Number One...
that I need to have a human baby soon is because the damn cat will only play "So Big!" (as in, [said in a cuddly-wuddly voice], "How big is Cooper? How big is my big blonde boy?" To which he bellows in the way that only a 21lb. brain-damaged cat can bellow) for so long before attacking me. Again.But, alas. I am so not pregnant. I mean, I am as far from pregnant as one might possibly be. And I tell you this, as a woman who just learned it herself. And while that pisses me off immensely, given the freakin' injustice of it all, and the horrid invasive procedure aspect, at least I can have me a nice glass of chardonay with no guilt attached (I, unlike most Brethren carry no tea-totaling guilt...nay, I flaunt my drinking to the world. Look at me, world, I just bought me the big ass bottle of Sutter Farm chardonay on sale at Kroger, and goddammit I can drink it for a good seven days before I have to stop again!). And, of course, there is the solace that I have not just one, but two cats and one dog who still call me "Mommy," in their own wee little yowling and yipping cat and dog ways.
However, I have also learned lately that the thing I hate oh-so-much is when people get the sad look when asking about the fertility stuff. I cannot do the sad look. The, oh-you-poor-thing-with-the-barren-womb look, the one where they gaze just a little too long into your eyes as if saying, "I know how it feels to be so utterly devoid of hope...so empty."
Hold hope for our future or get outta Dodge, friends. I need no sympathy...empathy, yes. Sympathy, not so much. We'll have our little Ella and/or Grayson in time...and while the decision about whether she'll/he'll arrive straight from my womb or on a plane from China or Guatamala has yet to be determined, there is room for plenty of hope.
And, the reality is, that my life feels pretty graced as it is, so we can wait.
And now, Cooper sits perched next to my monitor (really, I didn't just write that to make some high and holy literary point, and bring this essay to full circle...he does, just sit here watching the cursor move on the screen...which makes the screen a little hairy sometimes when he bends in a little too close), so my calling as cat-mommy beckons.
"Here, Cooper, Here, boy... Tell Mama how big you are...you're SO Big, aren't you?"
For tonight, at least, I have a baby, even if his only discernable gift is eating Cat Chow and pooping in a big litter box (at least most of the time). But really, diapers are messy anyway.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
They Take You In
It has been a quiet day, as most Sundays are in our abode. Cups of tea being made and finished. Cats making their way (despite all attempts at indicating to them that I am trying to ignore them that I am currently off duty as cat nanny, as I am writing and can't have them biting the end of my pen) onto laps and refusing to leave. Classes being prepared for. Student writings being read. When dusk comes, candles being lit. This is my Sabbath. My holy time.
R. and the girls went with me to my church this morning, and there is a wholeness I have when we can worship together as a family. For multiple reasons, R. and I worship in different communities, that decision being made for reasons of choice, but also for reasons of circumstance.
I need to worship with a CoB congregation to maintain my ordination (although I would chose to worship there regardless of that technicality). R. worships at a downtown UCC, a UCC that I actually have some history with, as I was confirmed there in the 1980s, it was the church my parents decided we should attend after my father left the United Methodist pastorate. We attended because it was progressive, and because my parents wanted me to experience an open community which let me question and grow and change, and affirmed my wanderings, rather than demanding that I tow the party line. It was a large church, and mostly I felt...well, lost in the community there. Lost with good theology being pumped into me, but lost nonetheless.
Now, I choose not to worship at aforementioned UCC on alternate Sundays currently not because I feel lost in the community anymore, in fact they have dwindled in membership due to their (wonderful) prophetic stances. However, I choose not to worship there on a regular basis for another simple reason, which is that I don't want to put all my effort into a church that I am not allowed to join. "The contemplative chaplain not allowed to join a church," the gentle reader may ask..."Pray tell, what convenience store did you rob? Or how much money did you steal out of the offering plate to make a membership offer off-limits?"
Actually, gentle reader, I am not allowed to join the downtown UCC not because of restrictions from the CoB, mind you, not because it would be frowned upon to have associate membership elsewhere, no. Instead I am not allowed to join as an associate member because I will not make a profession of faith which affirms that it is at baptism that we renounce evil. I have a hard time believing that those who are unbaptized should be affiliated with evil, and that we renounce evil only with a largely symbolic act (especially symbolic when it is a church, like the UCC, which espouses infant baptism). And further, how exactly does one define evil? R. is in a similiar quandry, but that's his story to tell.
I don't know too many people who can say that even the UCC, which is reputed by so many fundamentalists as having "loose morals," will keep them from joining (although I am welcome to affirm the church motto and "come see where the journey takes me"). My journey, however, seems to have a roadblock temporarily stopping it in regard to this church. I'm only a little bitter about this, however. And have been trying to be patient with my theologically unlikeminded "brother in Christ" who pastors said UCC church.
Ah well...I have found a home in the Anabaptist margins with my folk-singin,' yurt-livin,' mustacheless-beard-sportin,' buddies. We do just fine, thanks. I've learned through the Beacon Heights Church of the Brethren what home is, the place where when you have to go, they have to take you in. With love, with grace, with acceptance. I have such an incredibly shoddy attendance record, and I am still met with hugs and support. I'd like to think this is what Jesus wanted to have happen in these communities created in his image.
However, I have digressed from what I wanted to say about family, and sharing a pew with my family. But perhaps what I must remember is that I share a pew with my larger family whenever I attend my sweet little CoB, for they have invited me in, regardless of who I am and that's what sisters and brothers are supposed to do.
R. and the girls went with me to my church this morning, and there is a wholeness I have when we can worship together as a family. For multiple reasons, R. and I worship in different communities, that decision being made for reasons of choice, but also for reasons of circumstance.
I need to worship with a CoB congregation to maintain my ordination (although I would chose to worship there regardless of that technicality). R. worships at a downtown UCC, a UCC that I actually have some history with, as I was confirmed there in the 1980s, it was the church my parents decided we should attend after my father left the United Methodist pastorate. We attended because it was progressive, and because my parents wanted me to experience an open community which let me question and grow and change, and affirmed my wanderings, rather than demanding that I tow the party line. It was a large church, and mostly I felt...well, lost in the community there. Lost with good theology being pumped into me, but lost nonetheless.
Now, I choose not to worship at aforementioned UCC on alternate Sundays currently not because I feel lost in the community anymore, in fact they have dwindled in membership due to their (wonderful) prophetic stances. However, I choose not to worship there on a regular basis for another simple reason, which is that I don't want to put all my effort into a church that I am not allowed to join. "The contemplative chaplain not allowed to join a church," the gentle reader may ask..."Pray tell, what convenience store did you rob? Or how much money did you steal out of the offering plate to make a membership offer off-limits?"
Actually, gentle reader, I am not allowed to join the downtown UCC not because of restrictions from the CoB, mind you, not because it would be frowned upon to have associate membership elsewhere, no. Instead I am not allowed to join as an associate member because I will not make a profession of faith which affirms that it is at baptism that we renounce evil. I have a hard time believing that those who are unbaptized should be affiliated with evil, and that we renounce evil only with a largely symbolic act (especially symbolic when it is a church, like the UCC, which espouses infant baptism). And further, how exactly does one define evil? R. is in a similiar quandry, but that's his story to tell.
I don't know too many people who can say that even the UCC, which is reputed by so many fundamentalists as having "loose morals," will keep them from joining (although I am welcome to affirm the church motto and "come see where the journey takes me"). My journey, however, seems to have a roadblock temporarily stopping it in regard to this church. I'm only a little bitter about this, however. And have been trying to be patient with my theologically unlikeminded "brother in Christ" who pastors said UCC church.
Ah well...I have found a home in the Anabaptist margins with my folk-singin,' yurt-livin,' mustacheless-beard-sportin,' buddies. We do just fine, thanks. I've learned through the Beacon Heights Church of the Brethren what home is, the place where when you have to go, they have to take you in. With love, with grace, with acceptance. I have such an incredibly shoddy attendance record, and I am still met with hugs and support. I'd like to think this is what Jesus wanted to have happen in these communities created in his image.
However, I have digressed from what I wanted to say about family, and sharing a pew with my family. But perhaps what I must remember is that I share a pew with my larger family whenever I attend my sweet little CoB, for they have invited me in, regardless of who I am and that's what sisters and brothers are supposed to do.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
1000+
So, I've hit the 1,000 hits mark on this here blog. Ye Olde Site Meter reports that some folk are reading this (of course my own checking to see if anyone read probably accounts for 80% of above hits, so yippee for 200 hits!).
But, then I went and added pictures and NO ONE commented. It was as if there was a huge void in the universe, and while I knew people were still reading (gee, thanks Site Meter), NO ONE said anything. It was sort of like when I teach my class and students stare at me and I can get no read on their emotions. I find I want to say to them, "Look, throw me a bone here, give me something! Do you agree, disagree? Heeeeeellllllllpppppp Me Out!" That's sorta how I feel sometimes about my writing. I kiss it and send it out into the universe and think, "Well, I wonder how that one will fly." Perhaps the picture addition was sort of like when The New Yorker added Tina Brown as an editor (1992 or 1993ish?) and people rioted politely in the Guggenheim (actually, no, I'm joking here, but isn't that where you would imagine New Yorker readers to demonstrate?). But, my dad still complains about it on a regular basis, reminding me that even 13 years after the fact that he doesn't like change. Which, I guess, I can't complain about because we are sort of cut from the same cloth. Remember the "New Coke?" Yeah, still bitter about that, despite their attempts at fixing the huge error by reinstiling the classic.
Anyway, my neurotic little mind says, "Oh no, perhaps they all think you've gone and got the big head, what with the photos and all. You should have remained a simple faux Brethren girl." It's okay, I'm in therapy. I'll work through my neuroses.
Otherwise...life is relatively calm in Chez P-M, where all the men are academics, the women are worriers, and the children are, for the moment, stomach-flu-free.
But, then I went and added pictures and NO ONE commented. It was as if there was a huge void in the universe, and while I knew people were still reading (gee, thanks Site Meter), NO ONE said anything. It was sort of like when I teach my class and students stare at me and I can get no read on their emotions. I find I want to say to them, "Look, throw me a bone here, give me something! Do you agree, disagree? Heeeeeellllllllpppppp Me Out!" That's sorta how I feel sometimes about my writing. I kiss it and send it out into the universe and think, "Well, I wonder how that one will fly." Perhaps the picture addition was sort of like when The New Yorker added Tina Brown as an editor (1992 or 1993ish?) and people rioted politely in the Guggenheim (actually, no, I'm joking here, but isn't that where you would imagine New Yorker readers to demonstrate?). But, my dad still complains about it on a regular basis, reminding me that even 13 years after the fact that he doesn't like change. Which, I guess, I can't complain about because we are sort of cut from the same cloth. Remember the "New Coke?" Yeah, still bitter about that, despite their attempts at fixing the huge error by reinstiling the classic.
Anyway, my neurotic little mind says, "Oh no, perhaps they all think you've gone and got the big head, what with the photos and all. You should have remained a simple faux Brethren girl." It's okay, I'm in therapy. I'll work through my neuroses.
Otherwise...life is relatively calm in Chez P-M, where all the men are academics, the women are worriers, and the children are, for the moment, stomach-flu-free.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Mi Padre
There are some things I don't write about easily. Some things that are harder to say. And often, this comes out of deep emotion, and deep gratitude.
I love this picture.
I have one version of it, an earlier (or later) version where we're both facing the camera, me with my arms wrapped around my Dad's neck, resting my chin on his shoulder. The picture sits next to my computer. It is in an old brass frame, left over from one of my Dad's offices, lost in a move as he up-sized his office space, and added portraits of me as I grew (and as he shed those ridiculous brown shoes and gorgeous wide maroon tie and bell-bottomed pants). I look at the picture often as I sit in front of my Dell. I look at what my mother refers to as the "Miller mouth" which rests on both of our faces and at the way we sit so easily, so comfortably close to one another, our arms intertwined, our eyes laughing.
Dad and I have always been close. But we haven't been close in that way that some father and daughter duos are. I've never been my dad's tomboy (forbid the thought). I've never hung out with him at company picnics (what?). I've always paused a minute at the Father's Day card selection because lawn-mowing jokes, and golfing stories, and fishing jokes never really suited Dad. And it didn't honor the connection we had.
How could I say to him, "I am so much like you that sometimes I gasp in recognition?" or "I am so utterly spellbound to be blessed to be your daughter?" Words like these sound like idol worship, and I know my father better than to revere him in a holy way. Instead, I recognize his weaknesses (some that are similar to my own) and gather the cloak of his unending love around me and sink into it's familiar safety, and offer my own humble and unconditional love back.
I am a woman who has learned that men should listen to her, because I was listened to by my father. And I am a woman who has learned that she deserves to be respected, because I was honored by my father. And I am a woman who has learned that she can be vulnerable, because she witnessed her father's honesty. And I am woman who as a feminist is not afraid to know God paternally, for I have been fiercely loved by a father.
And today, I write the words that are inscribed in my heart. Just because. Just here.
The Reason...
I haven't blogged today is that my Donny and Marie paper dolls finally arrived from E-Bay. I've been humming "I'm a Little Bit Country...I'm a Little Bit Rock and Roll" and putting Donny's purple socks on and off him for hours.
Check in tomorrow, I'll try to post then as my Sonny and Cher paper dolls won't arrive until Wednesday from E-Bay.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Obsessive Compulsive's Garden of Eden
So, I finally figured out how to post pictures. Oh my God the excitement. You're gonna say, "Christen, we sure wish you'd never learned this, cause we're frankly a little scared by your zeal at documenting things now..." or perhaps you'll say, "Thank the good Lord in heaven that you finally recognized that your computer does more than just send those fancy-pants letters you like to send." Regardless of what you say...you now can receive all-photos, all the time. If you're an avid reader (Mom...I'm talking to you) you might want to scroll back through previous entries as I now have illustrated some of them.
The girl, she has gone wild. Almost as wild as she went on this day, when it appears she chose to accessorize her beautiful 1970s era hat with a tasteful scarf. All I needed to make the outfit complete was a little more cowbell.
I've gone almost that wild and crazy. Now I just need to find me a nice bold scarf.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
A Feline's Valentine's Day
'Twas Valentine's Day yesterday.
As Robert and I are more low-key types on Valentine's Day, we don't go out and buy one another plush teddy-bears measuring 36 inches tall. We're not big fans of singing cupid telegrams, or sparkling diamond pendants or tie clips.
I am proud to say that I thought ahead and had a festive bag full of dark chocolate yummies strategically placed where my hermit-boy husband would notice them on top of the pile of clothes he had set out to wear after his morning shower. Watching a wet-headed Robert say, "Oh! What's this?!?" was, to put it oh-so-nerdily a tremendous joy. "I'll have to hide them from the girls!" he remarked. That's my boy, always thinking ahead!
Robert's Valentine's gift for me was a beautiful bouquet of Oriental lilies. Vibrant magenta on the tips with pure white centers and the most striking orange-yellow stamens (I'm hoping that I'm adequately recalling 11th grade Botany class with that term).
I had to have a minor procedure yesterday at sweet little Dr. B.'s office, which rendered me incapable of movement for much of this morning, and, knowing that I would be bed-bound, moved the vase of flowers onto my dresser, where I could see them whilst lying in bed. The lilies smell wonderfully, and the only problem with them, is that if you accidentally brush them with your hand, you end up with an orange stain on the spot where they came into contact with skin.
I shut Cooper and Moses, the 21 and 19 lb. wonder cats out of our bedroom last night, not wanting them to be tempted by the lure of the lilies' intoxicating aroma which might beg them to try to take a bite out of their petals, but apparently I forgot when I finally got out of bed this afternoon to pick up Miss T. from school to again shut the bedroom door.
Upon my arrival home, I was checking email at the computer...taking care of business...etc. when I heard Cooper's plaintive meowing (which sounds mostly like a sick cow, as Cooper was in a moped/cat collision several years ago which, according to the vet, has rendered him incapable of meowing modulation...his own form of cat brain-damage [but dammit, he's lovable...]) and turned to see my blondish cat with the white muzzle and chest now stained a deep yellowish-orange.
"Cooper," I bellowed, "Where have you been?" To which he tried to act all nonchalant, or as nonchalant as you can act when being a 21lb. brain-damaged cat.
He was so utterly busted. It won't be long before you see him, and his stained muzzle on a post-office wall.
Thankfully, my lilies seem to have weathered their Cooper fondling. I guess cats need Valentine's Day affections too.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Reasons To Be Content
The cursor is blinking tauntingly at me. And I'm feeling sort of quiet. I simply don't have a lot to say, but wanted to be in communion with this here weblog, as I know there is nothing more frustrating than to day after day after day log on to a website and see that the blogger has neglected to blog yet again. Makes one kind of grumpy, understandably. And I don't want my dear readers (a.k.a. my therapist, my parents, Robert, and my sister-in-law [at least in my mind]) to harbor any ill-will towards me.
I realize that for the first time in quite awhile I'm feeling quite content.
For some unexplained reason, the rat-race which has been the fertility quest has slowed to a sort of leisurly stroll through the maze. I have yielded, finally, or perhaps for now, to the recognition that I'm doing all I can and that there is nothing more for me to do but be still and wait.
In the meantime, the class I'm teaching fills me with life and questions and passion. I continue to delve into the mystery of the feminine divine and gasp in recognition at what I have, at times, forgotten. The reality is that we move in God, we swim in the very current of the birthing waters of God, and She is in us, and through us, and with us--and with Her we create this ever-changing masterpiece of life. And the beauty of it, is that we simply need to remember this, to remember to breathe in her goodness and power and compassionate grace.
So, I have reason to be content today. And for now, life is sweet.
I realize that for the first time in quite awhile I'm feeling quite content.
For some unexplained reason, the rat-race which has been the fertility quest has slowed to a sort of leisurly stroll through the maze. I have yielded, finally, or perhaps for now, to the recognition that I'm doing all I can and that there is nothing more for me to do but be still and wait.
In the meantime, the class I'm teaching fills me with life and questions and passion. I continue to delve into the mystery of the feminine divine and gasp in recognition at what I have, at times, forgotten. The reality is that we move in God, we swim in the very current of the birthing waters of God, and She is in us, and through us, and with us--and with Her we create this ever-changing masterpiece of life. And the beauty of it, is that we simply need to remember this, to remember to breathe in her goodness and power and compassionate grace.
So, I have reason to be content today. And for now, life is sweet.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
The Professor, She is Naked!
So, I've been busy.
Really busy.
What, have I been doing?
Not the laundry.
It's piling up.
Not knitting.
My latest dishcloth remains in the same state of unfinishedness.
Not catching up on any outstanding correspondence.
Oh, so sorry those who are waiting for me to respond.
Instead, I have been reading.
Reading and reading.
Trying to cram all of the feminist theology into my head that I can.
Because now I teach it.
And I'm convinced that I really shouldn't be teaching it.
Because I'm sure I'm not that smart.
And yet, students are sending me emails that start like this, "Dear Professor Miller."
Holy shit.
Utterly holy shit.
I'm convinced that it won't be long before one of these students (students who, I might add, were born in 1987 the year that I was a freshman in high school and french kissing Lance Adams in his family's rec room), stands up and announces to the class, ala The Emperor's New Clothes by Hans Christian Andersen, "Look! The professor is naked!" It won't be long before my students recognize that I feel utterly bewildered that they look to me for wisdom.
Having said all of this, I also must add these words...I feel alive.
Really busy.
What, have I been doing?
Not the laundry.
It's piling up.
Not knitting.
My latest dishcloth remains in the same state of unfinishedness.
Not catching up on any outstanding correspondence.
Oh, so sorry those who are waiting for me to respond.
Instead, I have been reading.
Reading and reading.
Trying to cram all of the feminist theology into my head that I can.
Because now I teach it.
And I'm convinced that I really shouldn't be teaching it.
Because I'm sure I'm not that smart.
And yet, students are sending me emails that start like this, "Dear Professor Miller."
Holy shit.
Utterly holy shit.
I'm convinced that it won't be long before one of these students (students who, I might add, were born in 1987 the year that I was a freshman in high school and french kissing Lance Adams in his family's rec room), stands up and announces to the class, ala The Emperor's New Clothes by Hans Christian Andersen, "Look! The professor is naked!" It won't be long before my students recognize that I feel utterly bewildered that they look to me for wisdom.
Having said all of this, I also must add these words...I feel alive.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
A Letter I Will Never Send
Dear You,
I dreamt of you again last night. It seems all of this preparation for teaching a college course reminds me of college, and my mind does strange things with it all. I suppose after we were roommates for so long, it's not as easy for the dark gray matter in my head to extricate you. Your face and your voice echo there somehow, even though we have moved in different life paths and haven't spoken in well over three years.
You were the sister I never had. And now you are the one I will never completely understand.
My dream last night was rich in meaning. In it, we were in college again, living in Oakwood Hall, the real Oakwood, not its imposter redux version. We were living in separate rooms, on separate floors, just as we did our junior year of college, although we practically wore the carpet down traveling between those two rooms in that year of 1993. In my dream, I recognized a beautiful tree outside my second-story window, a tree ripe with juicy, red apples. I realized that if I stretched my arm out the window, I could just barely pull the fruit into my waiting fingertips. I ran to the phone and called your room and asked, "Do you like apples?" And you were enthusiastic in your response and I said, "Well, hurry, and come to my room because there are apples, so sweet, just hanging outside waiting for us to eat them." And you said, "I can't. And more than that I won't. There are things I cannot do." And you hung up on me. And I didn't understand why. And I began to cry. And then I walked to the window and reached my arm out as far as I could and gently, a warm apple, fell into my outstretched fingers. And I pulled it toward me, and saw that it was good. And I took a bite.
When I left K., I bit the apple. When I asked for a divorce, I was banished from the Eden of your good graces. You disowned me, wanting nothing more to do with me and my kind. Of course, you finally sent the obligatory note reminding me that you couldn't be supportive, but that you would "hold me in prayer."
Do you have any idea what it means to be abandoned by the one who you thought was your sister? Do you realize how painful it was to recognize that the apple needed to be eaten? That living in Eden sheltered me from the realities of wisdom and truth. Do you see that God still clothes and shelters those of us who eat the fruit? That we are not cut off from God's grace?
Sometimes I miss you. I miss a shared language and a sense of being understood to the core. I miss talking over cups of hot tea and the sharing of hot bread fresh out of the oven.
But mostly, now, I wonder whether that world was just a lie, whether that Eden was just an imaginary place.
May you be well,
Me
I dreamt of you again last night. It seems all of this preparation for teaching a college course reminds me of college, and my mind does strange things with it all. I suppose after we were roommates for so long, it's not as easy for the dark gray matter in my head to extricate you. Your face and your voice echo there somehow, even though we have moved in different life paths and haven't spoken in well over three years.
You were the sister I never had. And now you are the one I will never completely understand.
My dream last night was rich in meaning. In it, we were in college again, living in Oakwood Hall, the real Oakwood, not its imposter redux version. We were living in separate rooms, on separate floors, just as we did our junior year of college, although we practically wore the carpet down traveling between those two rooms in that year of 1993. In my dream, I recognized a beautiful tree outside my second-story window, a tree ripe with juicy, red apples. I realized that if I stretched my arm out the window, I could just barely pull the fruit into my waiting fingertips. I ran to the phone and called your room and asked, "Do you like apples?" And you were enthusiastic in your response and I said, "Well, hurry, and come to my room because there are apples, so sweet, just hanging outside waiting for us to eat them." And you said, "I can't. And more than that I won't. There are things I cannot do." And you hung up on me. And I didn't understand why. And I began to cry. And then I walked to the window and reached my arm out as far as I could and gently, a warm apple, fell into my outstretched fingers. And I pulled it toward me, and saw that it was good. And I took a bite.
When I left K., I bit the apple. When I asked for a divorce, I was banished from the Eden of your good graces. You disowned me, wanting nothing more to do with me and my kind. Of course, you finally sent the obligatory note reminding me that you couldn't be supportive, but that you would "hold me in prayer."
Do you have any idea what it means to be abandoned by the one who you thought was your sister? Do you realize how painful it was to recognize that the apple needed to be eaten? That living in Eden sheltered me from the realities of wisdom and truth. Do you see that God still clothes and shelters those of us who eat the fruit? That we are not cut off from God's grace?
Sometimes I miss you. I miss a shared language and a sense of being understood to the core. I miss talking over cups of hot tea and the sharing of hot bread fresh out of the oven.
But mostly, now, I wonder whether that world was just a lie, whether that Eden was just an imaginary place.
May you be well,
Me
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Two Posts in One Day!
It's a quiet day at Chez Pettit-Miller. Robert is napping. I'm sitting in front of my sweet Dell, which has no name (I better work on that, as I believe all important appliances and cars should have names as it helps them to function more efficiently, and just feel, well, needed and valued...just ask Cicero the Honda Civic, he'll tell you of his worth!)
I'm not sure I have all that much to say, except that I promised some Disney stories and haven't come through. And now my memory is getting all fuzzy and I'm thinkin' "wha?" when I reread my Disney notes...
There is, however, one little vignette...not all that holy, but enough to make me smile and remember, nonetheless.
One evening, whilst Robert was meeting with his students I wandered on over to Downtown Disney with my Mom and the Dickster for dinner and shopping (did I mention my Mom and Stepdad were with us for several days of our journey? I loved, loved, loved having them there). Of course, as often happens, my mother and I dissolve in giggles over something and Dick smiles kindly and enjoys watching the women in his life act like giggling morons. All we have to do is start out with a few words to a story and we lose it..."Hey Mom, remember the day we took Grandma shopping at Linens and Things and she found the windchimes?" And we both laugh and laugh and Dick patiently smiles. "Hey Mom, remember when Connie Chung said 'Happy Hannukah'?" Oh, but the hilarity. Dick nods appreciatively. "Hey Mom, remember the night I put the collander on my head and pretended to be the statue of liberty?" Dick closes his eyes and nods. Thankfully, my mother still believes I am the silliest person on the earth, and my step-father nods his approval kindly. And occasionally, and I might add without the stimulus of any intoxicating beverages, we both dissolve into giggles. This was sort of one of those nights...
Mom, Dick and I wandered over to the Disney Marketplace which is Disney madness! Imagine everything Disney sells in their parks in one place, connected building to building. Imagine many, many people wandering around speaking in different languages, and oh, the Brazillian tour groups with the neon clothing and the flags (those of you Disneyphiles know what I'm talking about). Mom and I were there for a simple reason...we wanted to find a hat for T., oldest step-daughter extraordinaire, and at 12 years old, hard as heck to buy for [see Mom, how I used "heck" instead of that other word that you don't like it when I use]. Dick opted for the wise choice which was, to sit outside aforementioned Marketplace and people watch. Somehow in the midst of the Mickey chaos...in the midst of the Tinkerbell paraphenilia, and the Goofy accessories my 4'10" mother and I became dislocated and thus, were rendered incapable of providing Disney with our super wondertwin mother-daughter powers.
And, in so doing did, the right and natural thing. We both just stopped exactly where we were and waited for the other to find us. Thus, I was standing in "Mickey's Men's Ware" surrounded by subtle and unassuming polo shirts with mouse ears embroidered on the breast and Mom was in "Princess Playthings" surrounded by tiny little girls squealing at the $65 sparkly Cinderella dresses begging to be worn on their squirming bodies. We both just assumed that the other would find us. Great minds think alike.
Whilst standing in my appointed spot I took a moment to survey the scene. Bored men wandering around, led by several overzealous wives. Now, I am not one to stereotype based on gender roles, however, in this instance, I had little choice but to yield to the common belief, as there was little to refute the balding white middle class men being led by their beloveds.
A weary looking father, holding a sleeping toddler in his arms was being led by his wife toward a stack of T-shirts near me. Wife (let's call her Trixie), held up a Tigger T-shirt to her balding, overweight and tired-looking spouse.
"Here," she said perkily, "what do you think?"
Ed (the name I've chosen for said husband) said quietly and dejectedly. "I don't know. I think I'm more of an Eeyore kind of guy."
"Really?" Trixie said quizically.
"Huh."
"Geez, Trixie!" I wanted to yell, "Even I can see that and I don't sleep with the guy every night!"
Ultimately, my mother and I were reunited. And there's no big story there, apart from the fact that we both met halfway, having realized, at about the same time that perhaps the other was staying where they were. Like mother, like daughter. However, while Mama got to watch little girls having their innermost fantasies met by becoming Cinderella, or Pocahantes, or Ariel. I got to see women have their innermost fantasies dashed by learning that their husbands were not, indeed, the vigrorous Tigger types, but were instead merely "an Eeyore kind of guy."
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