Another week and where'd it go?

Hello, my blogpals.

Another week has flown by. Don't get me wrong. I'm beyond happy it's Friday. One more phone call, expecting a pat on the head from a client I'd done--what I thought was--a great job for, only to get a sucker punch to the kisser instead. Nothing's ever good enough. I sink into a funk that even tiny dark chocolate Milky Way bars can't lift. Can I ever get anything right for these people???

It should've been a happier week for me. Harriet Miers withdrew her nomination. Cheney's chief of staff indicted. But a vague tinge of guilt keeps me from enjoying the afflictions visited on the undeserving, powerful and vindictive. Karma tends to make that pleasure boomerang on you...it won't be too long before you're guilty of at least two of those things (getting something you didn't deserve, being vindictive, maybe even abusing a position of power you have over someone less fortunate).

Well, if nothing else goes right, at least I'll get an extra hour of sleep this weekend...thanks to that old "fall back" thing.

Have a good one, kiddos. I'll be back next week, ready to take another kick in the pants or blow to the ego and say, smiling and servile, "Thank you sir! May I have another?"

It's all in a day's work.

Happy Friday!

This picture of Stubby the Iguana is brought to you by way of family in Pompano Beach, Florida. Stubby lives in the neighbor's palm tree and ambles over to Ted and Cindy's on sunny afternoons for free vegetarian grub. Loves grapes, tomatoes not so much. Iceberg lettuce, yes, but spinach, don't think so. They say beggars can't be choosy...Stubbs hasn't heard that saying.

He was dubbed Stubbs after one of the multitude of recent hurricanes to pass through left him with only a partial tail. It's grown back, but the tell-tail difference in coloration indicates where the new part is. Stubby's a survivor. Unbeaten. Unbowed.

There is a population explosion of Iguanas in Pompano Beach. They're becoming pests (sorry, Stubby). Hard to imagine any creatures so ugly, scaly and slow-moving could be getting shagged so much that their resulting offspring cause a problem. But then again, my mother always said, "there's somebody for everyone." Apparently this goes double for Iguanas in Pompano Beach, Florida.

Despite the hazards of losing life, limb or lizard tail in the frequent storms, the vibe in Pompano Beach is ultra pleasant. Laid back and beach-bummy. Thinking of Stubbs, how he crawled underneath a dock and hung by his toenails while the hurricane did its worst, I'm reminded that most of what I get twisted over isn't worth the worry. Stubbs does nothing more than show up and goofy people feed him grapes and lettuce and want to have their picture taken with him. Heck, Mr. Wonderful even put Stubby's picture on T-Shirts and ran him for president.

If an ugly, scaly and slow-moving thing like Stubby could be so well cared for, I probably don't need to worry so much about getting my own needs met. No, I don't think the world owes me. I try not to have an attitude of entitlement. Gratitude and appreciation are much more rewarding and appropriate responses to life. I'm not saying there aren't appalling, hideous, egregious aspects to life---more than half the world's children are suffering extreme deprivations from poverty, war and HIV/AIDS.

At the same time that almost half a billion children on the planet don't have access to safe drinking water, children in this country have moonwalks installed on their front lawns for birthday parties.

Growing up guilt-ridden and Southern Baptist, (that's redundant, isn't it?) you are taught that on judgment Day you will be called to account for yourself. You'll review an instant-replay of your life and be asked, "What did you do with what you were given?"

Now, there's plenty to dislike about Southern Baptist weirdo theology, but that idea--what do you do with what you are given?--isn't too bad.

I asked God, "why do you let innocent children die of starvation? Why
don't you do something?"

And God said, "I did do something."

"Oh yeah? What?"

"I made you."

http://www.selltheranch.com/

This is why God gave us blogs in the first place.

I am humbled in the presence of greatness.

The big boss is coming to town. I'm writing to get some of the anxiety out of my insides and "off gas" it into the blogosphere.

There will be preening. And long, tedious meetings. There will be speechifying. And, there will be public floggings in the main square. (Well, I'm not so sure about that last bit)

I never feel truly good about the work I do at this place. There's always something I've screwed up, or haven't done up to par. And the sad thing is, it's always internally focused things that take up so much time that I'm not able to do the right thing for my customers. It's a queasy, slippery feeling almost all the time.

Oddly, I know what to do about this, but don't remember very often. Focus on what I can control--my actions, my attitude. Do what I can, have realistic (so difficult for someone who really prefers unreality) appraisal of what I can accomplish each day. Try to remember how much longer it takes to do simple things because of the paperwork and beauracracy involved. And BE GRATEFUL TO HAVE A JOB!

Seriously, I live in the city that took in the biggest wave of Katrina victims. It's bad manners to whine about feeling unsatisfied and inept at work.

And, once again, I tell myself that I will make a plan and take steps to change things. Start by simplifying my life a bit. Talk to people and let them know I'm looking for my next career adventure. And, one more time, remind myself that unless I do an honest day's work for an honest day's pay, I'm not going to feel right about anything on the job. Oh, yes, and remember that the assholes and miscreants I work with are sick human beings like me. No different. It's just that I can see their blindspots and weaknesses so much more clearly than my own.

You mean, have compassion? On them? On me?

Oh yeah, that's what I meant.

It's quittin' time boys and girls! After five days of groveling for the almighty dollar (including the humiliation of presenting my seriously obese, diabetic boss with a box of donuts and a card for "boss's day"--are we sucking up to him, or trying to kill him?) we get a few days to unwind, decompress, have our souls dry cleaned, and then we get to do it all over again. Will you all join me in singing the Friday song? http://www.landoverbaptist.org/audio/well.wav

Wishing you a safe and happy weekend, but if you can't quite manage that and need someone discreet to post bail, you know where to call me.

Why is it so difficult to do what you know is good for you? Why is it so much easier to fuck off? It's easier to slouch than to sit up straight. Good posture takes effort. Easier to turn the alarm off and go back to sleep than to get up and go exercise. Easier to eat junk than to prepare a healthy fresh meal. Easier to abuse credit cards than save for a comfortable retirement. Easier to throw clothes on the floor than hang them back up. Easier to slump onto the couch and watch TV than invest time in deepening relationships, or visit a museum or use your brain. I read somewhere that your brain is more active when you sit and stare at a wall than when you watch TV.

But I digress.

Writing a couple thousand years ago, the Apostle Paul bemoaned this human predicament. In his letter to he Romans, Paul whined, "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do, this I keep on doing. "

My minister, Fr. Jim Nutter at Palmer Episcopal Church, says Paul is the most important person who ever lived. THE. And there are plenty of people to choose from. I don't know. Paul is a hard character to warm up to. You read his letters and some of them seem so much like mental masturbation. (forgive me for using the word "masturbation" in the same paragraph as my priest's name and while referring to one of the major league Saints). Paul seems to have conflicted, almost tortured ideas about sexuality and women.

But then, that same prickly Paul, difficult to warm up to, and sometimes downright tedious and anal gives us this:
1 Corinthians 13: "If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."


I know I'm going to keep fucking off. I'm human. That's how I'm wired. But I also have the capacity to love. That's side-by-side with my propensity for being a clod. It's a grandmother's love. Every blobby, smeared fingerpaint we make gets a prominent place on her fridge. In her eyes, we're brilliant, gifted and amazing--even when we've got acne and cowlicks. It's that love that always hopes and keeps plugging away, reminding us to turn off theTV and talk--or better yet, listen--to our loved ones, eat some green things, go for a walk, sit up straight. If we never got to experience much of that kind of love in the "real world," it's hard to tap into our inner reserves. But, I think it's there in most of us--certain psychopaths like some of my co-workers are the exception.

For another opinion, go here: http://www.fes-net.com/_lob/LOL/sounds/donotpassgo.wav

"My mom may be crazy, but at least she's doing all she can about it."

Quote from my 17-year-old daughter

Mr. Wonderful's making merry with power tools down in the ravine. I'm wondering if the noise over there is a wandering cow, flock of wild gobblers or a time-warped band of Hippies hunting for 'shrooms. (We are just 1/2 hour outside of "Keeping It Weird" Austin, Texas).

This weekend, Mr. Wonderful took me to Wimberly, Texas to soak up the Hill Country vibe and get some work done on his piece of Eden (stop it, you gutterminds. I'm talking about his property there!) His land is near the Blanco River and this time of year it's as close to heaven as you can get and still be in Texas.

He finished building a deck overlooking the pond and dry creekbed. Back in February, there was a little waterfall flowing into the pond and water spilling down into the creek. Now, the pond is fairly low--it never dries up completely, but there's no flow, so the water looks like weak coffee. The mustache of ferns sprouting out of the rocks circling the pond seem to remember there was once water flowing through here and they wait, expecting more to come.

I like watching Mr. Wonderful in full-out handydude mode. He moves gracefully and deliberately, very little wasted effort. There's a zen contentment about him, and he must have been thinking through every single thing he was going to do, in what order, for a couple of weeks before this trip, because he works with quiet precision now. I'm appreciating the chance to watch his wiry, ripped body stripped to the waist and misted with sweat, too.

I lounged on the finished portion of the deck and read Michael Palin's Sahara while he built the rest of the deck. To escape the noise of the saw, I went up the hill and put birdseed in feeders. I practiced the fine art of peeing in the woods. Thank you, Bikram Yoga, for all those awful "awkward poses." I had no idea how much those yoga postures help you pee in the woods and not on your shoes!

We went to town for dinner, and found the Cypress Creek Cafe uncharacteristically sedate for a Saturday night. A last-minute cancellation of their musical act might have explained it, except, it's the only nightlife in Wimberly. Maybe the regulars were hoopin' and hollerin' elsewhere, celebrating UT's humiliation of OU earlier in the day.

Back out on the property, we sat in lawnchairs and stargazed. Saw two shooting stars. Sure, they might've been satellites or something less magical, but they looked like shooting stars to us. We made a campfire and roasted marshmallows to golden brown, gooey perfection.

In the miniature cabin that Mr. Wonderful built to serve as toolshed and sleeping quarters, I showed off my flannel pajamas with tiny glow-in-the-dark stars on them. It gets so dark out there, you can't see your hand in front of your face. The only thing either of us could see was the stars on my pajama shirt.

Sunday, he was up at dawn. He rolled me like a burrito up in the two sleeping bags and then went off to put the final boards on the deck he'd framed Saturday. It got down into the 40s, a welcome relief from the 100-degree temperatures we'd seen here just a couple of weeks ago. Your reward for getting up so early is seeing mother and young deer, wild turkeys, and lots of different kinds of birds. At any time of day, there are always about a half-dozen vultures floating in slow circles up in the sky. If you forget how ugly the things are up close, they look beautiful up there.

The deck newly finished, and the smell of freshly sawed lumber and moist newly dug earth in the air, we spread our yoga mats on the deck, stretched ourselves out on the mats and popped the i-pod into the speakers to play a Deepak Chopra meditation. I'm thinking: this is the ultimate expression of getting back to nature for a couple of stressed-out, 40-something urban professionals like us.

With Deepak reminding us to breathe in and out and pointing out that I am not in the universe, the universe is in me, we melted into our yoga mats and luxuriated in the wind in the trees, mild sunlight on our skin and birdsong all around us. As we gently opened our eyes, we both saw a bird high up in the sky, wheeling slowly around in a flapless arch.

It wasn't the meditation that left me with a rug burn on my spine and bruises on Mr. Wonderful's knees. But I won't detail that here.

Buttoned back up, and the i-pod switched to the B-52s, we danced around on the deck to "Love Shack," a fitting send-off for our visit.

This beautiful tree is brought to you by God. We don't have trees like this in Houston, Texas. 

Hello friends in the blogosphere. I'm new at this, so be gentle with me. Over time, you will learn to like me. I will grow on you like a soft, fuzzy mold. But for now, we're just feeling our way and taking a few, tentative steps toward engagement on a deeper level.

Each new experiment in relationship, whether it is virtual or in the "real world," entails some amount of risk. Nothing inspires me more about the human enterprise than this: our ability to try again. To risk anew. Despite the bitter disappointments, failures, bruises, scars, we keep on at it.

Something admirable (or stupid?) about that.

Do their children know what these people are doing?