My weird life

I am ordering take-out tofu noodles while texting a young woman I've never met. We are making an appointment to get together Friday night.

"Is 6:30 too early?"

I'm thinking I could meet her and still have time to make an 8 pm meeting of ex-problem drinkers like me.

"Yes," she texts back. "What's the latest you can do?"

"Oh. Ok. It doesn't matter."

"How about 9?" she suggests.

I'm thinking, won't you be too tired? Are you getting enough rest? But instead, I type,

"Can we make it a little later, 9:15?"

Because I'm also thinking I could still make it to that 8 pm meeting...

We make our plan to meet.

The young woman is the mother of my gestating grandchild. "Bump," I call him.

Bump's dad –Dad? Sperm donor? Or, as one of my friends called a young man in a similarly unplanned scenario, "the perpetrator" – is my son. And my son is in jail. And he got this young woman pregnant immediately before getting himself locked up.

"She's knocked up; he's locked up," my brain chirps at me.

My brain is not ready to address this situation dead-on. It tunes out. It makes pallid jokes. It fuzzes over.

He was sentenced to 3 years. After a routine traffic stop, he was found to be in violation of his probation. If he had met the terms of his probation for 5 years, his record would have been cleared of his felony conviction for burglary of a habitation. But he didn't. He will be a convicted felon forever.

He was on probation after 13 months of incarceration, the last 6 in a locked-down rehab.

When my son was himself a bump, I never dreamed he would grow up to be an addict and convicted felon. That he would run away and drop out and get arrested. That I would learn how to make bail to get him out of jail, then months later, change my locks to keep him out of my house.

He was a beautiful baby. Brimming over with life. Happy. Curious. Very intelligent. He got brown eyes from his daddy and the gene for alcoholism. From me, male-pattern baldness and the gene for alcoholism. A double dose of the demon gene.

I did everything worried parents do. I sent him to rehab. Went to the dreaded "Family Weekend" at the end of rehab. Hired shrinks and lawyers. Bought cars that he wrecked. After two, I vowed to buy no more cars. I paid tuition, hoping this time he would finish a semester. He didn't. As much as it breaks my heart, I will pay no more tuition.

Most of all, I hoped. Then I despaired. Then I hoped again. Then, I was slightly less crushed the next time. Then I hoped, maybe slightly less hopeful. Then, I was disappointed, but not crushed or despairing.

Finally, I grew numb.

I was advised not to expect "immediate, contented sobriety." In fact, stop expecting anything.

This advice came from people whose “kids” were now in their mid-40s, and who had been down this road for 29 years, not the 9 years I had.

In contrast to my near paralysis and zombie-like state, the baby's mama has handled herself and this situation with dignity. She has handled me with caution and respect. She texted me to see if I wanted progress reports on the baby. Did I want to know what the doctor said when she had her visits?

"Of course." I texted back.

"I just didn't know how you felt about the baby." She texted to me.

What difference does it make how I feel about it? It's here. You're having it. We deal with it.

"It's my grandbaby." I text back to her.

Watch out for the brown acid!

It is the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, and I just learned that the promoters of the music festival/happening/love-in were bummed the performer they really wanted to close out the event turned down their invite.

Do you know this one?

It was Roy Rogers.

What a different world this might have been if Roy Rogers had crooned "Happy Trails" at the end of Woodstock!

It might have healed the generational divide permanently. Or ushered in the "hat act" cross-over country western musical genre decades before Tim McGraw.

Watching documentary after documentary, listening to Amy Goodman hawk the commemorative Pacifica Radio Woodstock edition complete with Roger Daltry-inspired leather fringe cover, I have to wonder about the half-million folks who are now 40 years older.

They're all on Medicare now.

You know what we need is another Woodstock where those 500,000 60+-year-olds have a peaceful love-in for universal healthcare! The lack of affordable, decent healthcare for so many in a nation so wealthy is really harshing our mellow, man.

Just swap bran muffins for the pot brownies and you're all set.

The doctor is in

I was intrigued with an interview I saw on Bill Maher's program this evening--the President's personal physician is also a member of Physicians for a National Health Program http://www.pnhp.org/ There are 16,000 doctors in this country who WANT a single-payor system. It is Medicare for everybody. Now, I know there are still plenty of nitwits out there polluting the atmosphere with babblings like, "Tell the government to keep its hands off my Medicare!" But there's still hope. We just need to keep encouraging our electeds to press on and not let the loud and ignorant derail this movement. We also need to shine a very bright light on abuses like the CEO of Cigna's compensation ">"falling" to a mere $11 million last year, 50% off his $22 million paycheck in 2007. And we should hold up to shame and ridicule anyone who buys into Sarah Palin's phantom of an Obama death panel determining to put her baby to death, because Trig has Down's syndrome (seriously. and Newt Gingrich defends this reprehensible load of crap) what is more likely in danger of death is the $22 million paycheck for an insurance company CEO.

Dear Mr. President, keep pushing

I support your efforts to reform health care. Please keep pushing. And please avoid watering down reforms to the point of making them irrelevant.

A country rich enough to kill Taliban with drone missiles in Afghanistan can deliver breast cancer treatment to an unemployed administrative assistant in Texas! It is time for America to set its skewed priorities straight.

I believe the discourse around health care reform should be a conversation about the right of every American to a basic level of care. Denying health care is a denial of civil rights. We accept the right of every child to attend school. And we pay for her education, even if her parents are in the country illegally, because all Americans have a stake in equipping the next generation to be productive members of society. It is the next logical step to apply that sense of shared responsibility to health care.

And please keep repeating the fact that health-care costs have skyrocketed at the same time that real wages have stagnated. Even if people will not support reform because it is right, they will do it out of self-interest, when they know the facts.

Our current system discriminates against people who make too much to qualify for government care, but don't make enough to pay for the basics of wellness, like preventive check-ups and routine tests. For them, serious illness compounds physical and emotional crisis with a financial setback they may never escape. Multiplied millions of times, their illnesses are creating a financial hole the U.S. may never climb out of. And may God help the growing numbers of the unemployed. There is a stark line segregating the health care haves from the have nots.

This is not the America we should be.

As the health reform debate festers into an increasingly acrimonious and unhelpful mess, "Astroturf" organizations are disrupting town hall meetings and spewing misinformation. This disturbing perversion of the town hall process should cause thoughtful Americans to recoil in distaste. And to take action. That is why I am finally writing today, after having these sentiments for months.

But I am hopeful intimidation tactics will backfire. Perhaps by embarrassing moderate opponents, fake Americans for Prosperity will tip the balance toward reform. Fistfights at a Tampa town hall, hand-lettered signs scrawled with swastikas, and a Congressman hung in effigy, recall scenes of angry, axe-wielding white men screaming at a little black girl trying to enter a desegregated school. That was not the America we wanted to be then. I am hopeful America can rise to the occasion again. We are better than this.


My qualifications to write this essay: None, really. But I have seen a dear friend lose health insurance half-way though breast cancer treatment and before reconstructive surgery. This upper middle-class professional's company declared bankruptcy and cancelled its policy, leaving her to come up with $11,000 per treatment to continue chemo. If she couldn't find a new job soon enough, her cancer would be considered a pre-existing condition and not be covered by a new employer's policy. All this was perfectly legal.

Making McCain Exciting

My new favorite thing. The brilliant people at The Colbert Report took note of a recent John McCain speech in which the GOP chosen one not only was robotic, monotone and lifeless, but he ALSO was standing in front of a green screen. Thus, the "Make McCain Exciting Greenscreen Challenge" was born, and the floodgates opened. Some of these are so funny, they are awe-inspiring. Something the candidate himself was several decades ago, (not funny, but awe-inspiring). A long career in politics causes one to lose all awe-inspringness, though.

My favorites: Gray Ambition

Street Racer McCain


Bucktooth Bunny McCain

Star Trek McCain

Toto, I don't think McCain's in Kansas anymore

Putting kittens to sleep


And finally, this weird little Mini McCain



Ahhh...life is good, with a bit of computer enhancement.

Big Brains

So, I get spammed occasionally by a Speakers Bureau called "Big Speak." Since I'm a PR person, Big Speak assumes I'll book one of their people for a keynote at some gala or special meeting. Reasonable enough. Yesterday, I got a postcard from them that advertised "Big Business Minds" and the speakers, presumably, who had them.

What struck me about these Big Business Minds was there were 16 of them. But only one was female. I felt depressed.

I go to the Web site. OK. Buzz Aldrin. You can't argue with that. He's a legend. And Lance Armstrong. Same thing. I scroll down the page and find one female speaker and her topic is...menopause.

Have to take my wee little brain off to work now. Thank goodness we have such smart men running everything for us. Like the White House, Federal Reserve, EPA and the Pentagon.

Toodles.

Pawn Shop Guitar

I'm listening to a tasty little band called "Computer vs. Banjo." Two guys who give lie to the old Steve Martin aphorism that you can't be depressed while playing the banjo. But, what got me thinking, and blogging, was this catchy line from their song, "Guitars need a sinners touch":

We all need a good sinner's love because we've all been pawned and beaten up. Maybe you'll find a good sinner today.

You could use a button or two because we all deserve to be found and groomed. Maybe you'll find a new suit today.

Along the way...you'll find someone else you won't forget. But you'll do something else that you'll regret.

Speaking for us pawn shop guitars, I must say that a good sinner's touch is the only thing that can unlock the music inside. And, (who would've guessed?) we beaten up guitars can make the sweetest music. So take a minute and listen to an incredibly bluesy banjo and tell me what you think...

Oh, and in case you're wondering. The picture above is Willie Nelson's famously battered guitar. I don't know if it's ever been in a pawn shop, but Willie certainly has...back in the 1960s, before the trademark red braids and Outlaw days. He had oily, short hair, wore scary ill-fitting suits and made commercials for the local Ford dealer.

We've done things we regret. That's what makes our music sweet, even when it's blue.

Wheezing Earth, update

The little tree Mark lovingly nurtured through its first 5 years died this summer. Too much heat, too little water. We should listen to the big message that little tree is sending all of us...


I found this neat applet that gives a quick and powerful visual of the carbon emissions different countries generate. It also displays the birth/death rates in those countries.

I'm not doing enough to make a difference, and I do more than most people I know. But, one of my new heroes, Annie Leonard, made this wonderful observation about the sorry state of things.

"The good thing about such all-pervasive problems is there's so many points of intervention."

See why she's a hero? She's not just an environmental wacko without credentials, either. A Columbia University graduate who went on to study city and regional planning at Cornell University, Annie traveled to over 30 countries, including Haiti, Bangladesh, India, the Philippines, Pakistan and South Africa, in her work investigating and promoting anti-pollution issues internationally.

Annie also produced The Story of Stuff a 20-minute video that opens your mind and your eyes to the insanity of our unsustainable lifestyles. Watching it is like swallowing the red pill in The Matrix, except it's just a cute little video with stick-figure animation and Annie talking...



We have to change, or change will be done to us and it will be more painful than $4 bucks to feed the gas guzzler. But then, pain's what motivates me. As my dear friend Nolan says, "I move, not because I see the light, but when I feel the heat."

And oh, it is getting hot out there...
If you were wondering, in the time it took me to create this post, 969,000 tons of CO2 were admitted into the atmosphere, and 5575 people were born, while 2420 died.

You should be so lucky to die in class

Tonight in Bikram Yoga, the instructor asked the brand-new students how they were doing. This was about 85 minutes into the 90-minute class.

"I think I'm going to die," one of the newbies said.

The instructor repeated a Bikram saying, "You should be so lucky to die in this class."

I know what he means. Death would be the easy way out.

But, on the other hand, what a lovely way to go...

Doing the yoga has given me a lot of things. Patience. Humility. Acceptance of myself and others. And a very high tolerance for sweaty, stinky humanity.

I loved this article on Bikram yoga and "deeper sweat." It talks about one of the best things that happens as a result of sweating, twisting, stretching and breathing in that torture chamber. Eventually, you become "bulletproof." Meaning, that you can detach from the things that bug you and annoy you enough to find peace.

No matter what. No. Matter. What.

Now that's a pretty cool thing to find in a 105-degree room with sauna humidity.

Yes, he did

Since I'm a woman on the downhill side of 45 and I even have this blonde hairdo that looks pretty much like hers, I was supposed to have voted for Hillary.

But she just didn't connect with me.

I feel sad for her. I remember watching Bill speak at the Democratic National Convention in 2004 and feeling so nostalgic. Oh, Bill! I missed you and I missed the '90s and I thought how nice it would be to turn back the clock to happier times.

He talked about how we're all in the same boat, about what unites us rather than divides us. He talked about forming a more perfect union.

But then Bill resigned his job as ex-President and turned into this peevish, perturbed and abrasive dude. Bill Clinton, Mr. Charming, abrasive!

Then I remembered that for most of those so-called happier times in the '90s, I was personally pretty miserable and mostly chemically impaired. So, was I really feeling nostalgic, or was my memory just too foggy to be trusted?

And besides, he wasn't running for President, she was. And she reminded me of Laura Johnson, the valedictorian of the high school class two years ahead of mine. Older than me. Smarter. Well, sure she was smarter. And she knew it and we all knew it. We figured she'd be successful in her life, but we didn't like her. We didn't want to hang out with her.

Do you vote for someone for President because they're someone you'd want to hang out with? People generally say this is where we went wrong with Dubya, but I disagree. People voted for Dubya because Karl Rove saw how well it worked for Nixon to get people motivated by greed and fear, not because Bush was such a swell guy. Although I think I'd rather hang out with Obama than Hillary, that's not why I voted for him.

Obama appealed to our better natures. He had uplift.

Hillary, frankly, was a drag. She appealed to the bitter, resentful, fearful parts of people. Not too different from the Republicans, who score big with resentful, fearful rich people. Hillary's voters are similarly grumpy, but they don't belong to country clubs.

Understandably so. If you're a 55 year old woman who's watched dumber, less qualified men rise in the corporation while you plodded along earning 75 cents to their dollar, you're pissed off. And, if you lose your health insurance at the same time that you are undergoing chemo, then you're either terrified or going ballistic.

But it's hard to argue that you're any more entitled to your resentments than, oh, I don't know, a black man whose dad absented himself from his two-year-old's life and left him to grow up with his white hippie mom and lepers for neighbors in Indonesia. I mean, if anybody has a right to be bitter...but I don't get that from Barack.

Slate ran an interesting piece that argued Hillary failed because she wasn't enough of a feminist. She fell into the trap of trying too hard to be "one of the boys," slamming back whiskey shots, talking in that deep chest voice that ultimately grates on your nerves, never for one minute backing off of her vote to send boys my son's age to die in Iraq. Blaming her failures not on herself but on our gender bias, she didn't embrace a more relevant feminism that affirms the value of being female. It is not advancing the cause if you advocate that women aspire to be men or even mannish in the worst aspects: hawkish, arrogant, combative, patronizing.

Yes, it was doubly sad the day Obama clinched the nomination and Hillary finally read the delegate count on the wall, also was the anniversary of the 19th Amendment's ratification. Who scripted this? The first serious woman contender for President sees her hopes dashed with finality on the anniversary of women getting the vote.

And yet, there's a lesson in history, too. The women's suffrage movement was inspired by the Abolitionists who succeeded in overturning slavery. So, it stands to reason that a black man would have a real chance of becoming president long before a woman in this country.

And here's another lesson if we're willing to learn from someone outside our borders. Mary Robinson, former President of Ireland. Former United Nations High Commissioner on Human Rights. Current member of The Elders. What a cool, strong, powerful, extraordinarily talented and intelligent woman leader. When she speaks about human rights, international law and the right of every person to be treated with dignity, she shows the creativity and imagination that a woman could bring to the highest office in a nation and the global community.

I don't think women have to vote for a woman if she's the wrong person for the job. If Mary Robinson was running, I'd vote for her. Obama is the next-best thing, though.

Zipped up

Just back from 10 days in Costa Rica, where we visited waterfalls, rain forests, volcanoes, mountains, beaches and two- and three-toed sloths. (We're not talking about our travel companions).

We went up to Arenal Volcano, where you can ride a ski-lift tram up and down the mountain, or you can ride up then zip down, courtesy of 8 zip lines reaching a top speed of 50 mph. Wavering and feeling a powerful need to visit the Damas, I heard Mr. Wonderful say, "I didn't come this far not to zip."

That did it. We zipped. If this blogger/YouTube thingy works, you can zip along, too. Our trusty guide Carlos videotaped a zip trip we'd just made--600 ft above the rainforest canopy. You'll see Arenal Volcano and Lake Arenal if you look quick. And you can hear Mr. Wonderful at the end, when asked "How was it?" He says, "Beautiful!" Pura Vida!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hTfLL9nYaMs

How hard can this be?

I found this lovely item for sale in the on-line store of a very hip little shop. http://domy.myshopify.com/products/shikito-brown

Really? Seriously?
This item (ahem. "Vinyl Toy") retails for $25. It is the icon for the B*Shit line of streetware. And for those of you who don't use "streetware" in your daily vocabulary, I suppose it means T-shirts you use to make a statement, instead of those that emerged from near the top of the laundry hamper. But, back to the vinyl toy. It struck me: someone manufactured, packaged and marketed it.

I'm thinking that the rest of us who are not in this line of work, well, we are just a bunch of uptight overachievers.

Me at five

The person I am was born five years ago, on January 20, 2003.

At the time, it seemed accidental.

That other me was miserable, lonely, depressed, worried, muddled, anxious, flabby, fearful, morbid. My life was passing me by in excruciating slow motion. And I was like a spectator at a Kabuki theater show, uncomprehending and confused about the plot, the characters and the point of it all.

I drove the streets of Houston, dreading to go home.

If I swerved my car into that telephone pole, or this concrete embankment, would it look like an accident? I couldn't stand my children suffering the abandonment caused by a mother who committed suicide. Plus, they could collect my life insurance.

But I'd screwed up so many other things in life, I'd probably screw up my death, too. I was chicken--thank goodness.

Despite (because of?) being so crazy myself, I was on a mission to fix the crazy people in my life. If I could just come to grips with my screwed up family members-- as my addled reasoning went-- then, THEN, I'd be happy.

So, I headed into Al-Anon, looking for serenity, trying to find the secret to fixing them, searching for the magic mantra or fail-safe strategy to straighten all of them out.

I even screwed that up.

I walked in the wrong door, into the wrong room.

Sitting on that folding chair in the back of the room, the fog in my head and darkness in my heart was heavy as I'd ever known. The God of my childhood was pissed off and vengeful, and I was sure He was deeply disgruntled with me. My family was estranged. I felt awkward socializing and retreated from the few friends I hadn't pushed away. My business was stumbling. My third marriage was spiteful and loveless. I was afraid my son would die and my daughter had left to go live with her dad.

But that night, a white-haired man with twinkling blue eyes and kindness like drops of warm rain on parched earth smiled at me and said, "There's only one person in this world you can change, and that's you."

"Just because you get sober, that doesn't mean your life will suddenly be wonderful," he said. "It may not get any better. Life will still be life. But YOU will get better, and that will make it so much easier to deal with life."

He was right.

My life didn't get better. In fact, it got worse immediately. Then a lot worse.

Then it got different.

Then it got better.

Then it became miraculous.

In five years, I have:

Gotten divorced.

Taken a year's sabbatical from romantic involvement.

Sold a house and a business, bought a house, sold it, and changed jobs twice.

Confessed my most shameful, guilt-inducing secrets to a priest, then to my dearest friend and gradually made peace with my past.

Reconciled with my daughter and rebuilt our relationship better than we'd ever dreamed.

Celebrated the miracle of my son, shared Thanksgivings and Christmases with him--after spending previous holidays not even knowing if he was alive.

Met a lovely man. Fell for him. Moved in with him. Proposed to him. Married him.

Seen sunrise over Tikal and sunset over Lake Atitlan, Guatemala.

Attended the funeral of a man who ODed six weeks after his baby son was born.

Looked down from above the clouds at Machu Picchu.

Celebrated Easter morning fireworks in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico with cherished friends.

Made my friend Doug's wish come true by asking him to be flowergirl at my wedding.

Felt snowflakes melt on my face at Lake Louise. Watched clouds drift through the treetops in the Canadian Rockies.

Walked on the floating Uros Islands of Lake Titicaca.

Roasted marshmallows around the campfire in Wimberley.

Prayed over a comatose man in ICU who overdosed after a few months sober.

Helped repair flood-battered homes in New Orleans.

Felt good knowing my parents have finally, after 40+ years, stopped worrying about me.

Seen a dear friend conquer breast cancer while losing her health insurance and her job, yet emerge with her marriage and prodigious sense of humor stronger than ever.

Lost a friend to cancer, while watching him deny that disease victory by maintaining his grace and never succumbing to self-pity.

Sung karaoke sober.

Danced sober.

Made love sober.

Discovered that every cell in a body not deadened with massive doses of a depressant feels marvelously alive and vibrant.

Survived the Bikram Yoga Challenge.

Not too bad for a five-year-old.

The view from here

I had a really lovely Thanksgiving this year.

So many things to be thankful for: almost-grown kids who not only speak to me, but made the drive up to Austin to hang out with all of us old folks; still married (I know!) to Mr. Wonderful; good health; and at last, feeling nearly at peace with myself and most people.

An old friend I'd lost touch with for years caught up with me for coffee a few weeks ago. My friend noticed that I seemed content and happy, and reconnecting was like "finding a cozy old pair of slippers I'd forgotten in the back of my closet."

I felt ok with being "old slippers." I'm letting my hair go gray.

Contentment is good for the soul, I suppose, but bad for artistic output.

Isn't some angst or perturbation required to push a person to do...what? Great things? Create art? Mend the world's ills? Is that what my grandiose little ego wants me to think is my mission?

What about living a happy life and cherishing the people who populate it? Isn't that enough?

Maybe it's that old-time religion in me, making me feel that reveling in a life of simple joys is somehow selfish. There's a suspicion of contentment -- serenity means you're not paying attention to the evils in the world.

Pakistan. Darfur. Squalor. Oppression. Poverty. Dancing With The Stars.

The horror is out there. And there is more for me to do.

But feeling my son hug me so tight when he walked in the door at Thanksgiving felt like heaven on earth.

And at the end of a strenuous practice, relaxing in savasana on my yoga mat, my upturned palm nesting inside my mate's...heaven.

Watching the rain fall and wind blow across the Wimberley hills while I sip hot chocolate by the window, even more heaven.

"As the fly bangs against the window attempting freedom while the door stands open, so we bang against death ignoring heaven."
Doug Horton

In Guinea Pig We Trust

Back from honeymooning in Peru. Happy to report I did not fall off a mountain, did not die of altitude sickness (despite feeling for a while like my eyeballs would explode from the pressure), and was not bitten by a llama. I did, however, learn the difference between an alpaca and a llama, and added this to my list of party tricks. You've been warned.

In Peru, the national delicacy, their delicious dish, is Guinea Pig. You can walk down Cuzco's cobblestone streets and find dozens of sidewalk cafes charming as any on the Seine or along Ringstrasse. Proudly emblazoned on the chalkboard menus out front: "Baked Guinea Pig."

Oh so many reasons to be a vegetarian.

Now, the gustatory delights of Guinea Pig aside, I also learned that the rural people of Peru ascribe amazing properties to this little rodent.

Hillary's health reforms have not reached Peru yet. But even if they could afford it, most rural people live so far away from a hospital, any serious ailment would either improve or kill them long before they reached one.

No problem! You got a Guinea Pig, you're in business.

Apparently the procedure goes this way: The practitioner takes a live Guinea Pig, holds it in one hand, and waves it over you. Like being wanded by an airport security screener, but with a Guinea Pig. Next (sensitive viewers may not want to read the next bit), they slice open the Guinea Pig to observe its insides. If the furry little beast had a bad heart, the human patient gets heart medicine, bad Guinea kidneys, the person gets kidney potions, etc. In Peru, "MRI" stands for Manual Rodent Inspection.

I did not have the Guinea Pig test, but here's a picture of me at Machu Picchu, soaking up the positive energy reported to emanate from Sacred Rock.

It's very popular with the tourists, who can't wait to get their little shots of positive energy courtesy of this monumental Inkan stone, which just happens to be shaped like...

One last little bit of Peru lore about the Guinea Pig's role in evangelizing the Inkas. In Lima's big cathedral and Cuzco's equally impressive 16th-century sanctuary, are massive paintings of The Last Supper. In both paintings, on the table in front of Our Savior and the disciples, on a platter and with its four feet pointing heavenward, is...

"Take, eat. For this is my Guinea Pig, which was broken for you."

Recycled

Two weeks from tomorrow, I take that long walk from single 40-something mother of mostly grown kids to empty nester newly wed.

Despite my obvious practice at this, it's harder than you might think finding the right dress for my fourth wedding.

"Fourth wedding" sounds ghastly, so I prefer to say I'm marrying my third husband. That at least sounds a bit less Elizabeth-Tayloresque. My second husband was stretched over two marriages, so this is my third husband, fourth marriage.

OK, now back to the important thing. The dress.

I walked miles in malls and searched online versions of those same stores. I'm too young for the MOB dresses (mother of the bride) and "dignified"--and I hope you appreciate the humor in uttering "fourth wedding" and "dignified" in the same breath--enough not to wear something clearly too young for me.

It all looks like Briteny Spears prom dresses or something Aunt Esther might have worn to a fancy church meeting on Sanford and Son.

I told my mother I felt like those paper bags of bananas you buy at the grocery store, five pounds for a dollar. Not old and rotten enough to throw out, but close enough to going bad that you've gotta get them off the shelf. Pronto.

What's the right packaging for that?

Friends who know me and my Mr. Wonderful's green leanings, teased me about finding a recycled dress. And I DID find one. Made of recycled plastic and silk tulle, looked like a cross between Japanese paper and lace, and dotted with Swarvorski crystals. At $7,000, that was a big fat I don't think so.

My friend Doug (the "flower girl" for my upcoming wedding) found my dress on bluefly.com. Through Internet magic--also where Mr. Wonderful found his Ralph Lauren tuxedo and our platinum wedding bands (on eBay--natch!)--Doug found the dress. Not at all the dress I'd imagined: something tailored, understated, sensible and befitting someone who wasn't exactly new at this. Nope. Not that. Instead, we found a glamorous, romantic, formal gown.

Before I found the dress, I whined to Mr. Wonderful that it was impossible to find the appropriate thing for this occasion. "I can't wear a big, dumb wedding dress," I simpered.

"Why not? You're getting married," he said, very gently and sweetly, melting me into tears immediately.

Thank God finding love has nothing to do with deserving it. But maybe keeping it has everything to do with appreciating it. And I do. I will.

I am getting married. Me. Again.

To the sweetest, kindest, most trustworthy man I've ever known. Well, except for the man who'll take me down that long walk into my future married life, my Dad. Who, by the way, loves Mr. Wonderful almost as much as I do. Heck, Dad proposed to my groom long before I did.

"I look forward to the day I can call you my son-in-law," he said, about 18 months ago.

So, the dress is new. Only the bride is recycled.

NOLA, we hardly know ya

Last weekend, I visited New Orleans with a group of earnest, upper-middle class, mostly middle-aged folks from Houston, plus friends from Fla. and Colo. We worked our overpadded behinds off mucking out houses and doing various "do-gooder" things. We'd come to help the bowed but unbroken people in the Lower 9th and Gentilly.

Too many stories to tell just one.

Like the springer spaniel whose owners left him behind but the attic stairs down in case floodwater came in the house, thinking they'd be gone a day or two. The pup survived 3 weeks in the attic, with water up to the ladder's top step and no food. Today, the re-plumped pup is understandably wary of strangers, but also, a great testament to the will to survive.

I think about the house where most of the contents were gone but a calendar still hung on the wall, the page for August, 2005 with each day marked off up to the 28th. There were a couple of batons left in the closet, the girl was a twirler. A rosary was left on the window sill. When we put it out on the curb with a pile of trash, we didn't realize the black box, about the size of a gallon gas can, held cremated remains of a long-gone family member. But one team member found an identical box, so that sent us out to dig through the pile and retrieve the other one.

Ashes to ashes.

Monday, my first day back at work, I was still having trouble adjusting to my normal life. The focused, intense physical labor, the closeness of my team members, the emotional impact of being immersed in the inescapable reality of mortality and impermanence--it's hard to reenter the everyday world after that. I miss them. Sweating and getting Sheetrock dust in my eyes and itching from fiberglass insulation and working harder than I knew I could. I miss it.

I looked around and realized my personal office at work is the size of a FEMA trailer that an entire family lives in. The trailers still fill parks and line residential streets. About 12,000 families still live in them, and sometimes get tossed out of them in the middle of the night by the authorities for flimsy reasons. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/17575595/

When you meet the people rebuilding their homes in Gentilly, or step into a FEMA trailer and take a good look around, which takes about 2 seconds, you realize this is America, too. We want to think those people still living in FEMA trailers are different from us. They are the victims of their corrupt government. Or lazy. Or another regrettable fruit of ignorance and poverty. Anything to console yourself that they are not like us. Anything to let you hold them at arm's length and tell yourself what happened to them can't happen to you.

But, if I lost my job, my home, all my possessions, and the insurance money was not immediately forthcoming, how long could I afford to live in something better than this? And what if this same fate struck all of my immediate and extended family at the same time? Where would I turn for help?

Nearsighted

I suffer from myopia of the medical and spiritual varieties. I'm "nearsighted," so if it's right in front of my nose, I can see it. But, if it's beyond arm's length, it's a blur.

I wish I could see farther out into the future, then I wouldn't have to strain my weak faith. There would be no leaping into the unknown. All that anxious energy I devote to worrying over making this choice or that one, I could spend that energy on other things. Like planning for retirement or cleaning out my car trunk.

Grand-girlfriend

I'm becoming a grand-girlfriend today. My soon-to-be POSSLQ's (Person of Opposite Sex Sharing Living Quarters, as the U.S. Census Dept. calls him) daughter is having a baby, his first grandchild.

Moving a notch down the chain of mortality does strange things to your outlook. I thought grandkids would be trouble-free. You spoil 'em, they giggle when they see you, and when they whine or poop in their pants, you can hand them over to their parents. What a deal!

Then I think about my own parents, my kids' grandparents. And I realize how many heartaches they've endured over the hard knocks my kids have taken. In some ways, grandparenthood is worse than being a parent. You love the little buggers and feel even more helpless when bad things happen to them. You're a generation removed.

They say that becoming a parent is one of the greatest acts of courage, because you've allowed your heart to go walking around outside your body. It may be doubly so for grandparents--you ache for your own child, who suffers when her child does, and for the grandchild, too.

My life has been a series of events that broke me open, softened me up and made me tougher at the same time. I look at one of my young co-workers, who tells me he needs to "learn to be more compassionate" to colleagues who don't pull their weight.

I tell him, "It comes with age. The longer you're around, the more chances you have to screw up. And you realize how many times you deserved the hammer to fall on you, but for some unknown reason it didn't. Then you stop wishing for the hammer to fall on someone else."

Although I'm much too young to be anybody's grandmother, for godsakes, even being the significant other of a grandfather makes me feel different. Life snuck up on me. I'm busy having my nails done and worrying about filing my income taxes late, and the next thing you know, mortality taps me on the shoulder.

I am getting older. One day, I'll be old. In the last few days, I've gotten emails about a co-worker's 40-something fiance' dying from a sudden stroke. And a colleague's sister being killed suddenly in a car wreck. And one of my dearest mentors going in for open-heart surgery.

These things happen to other people, not me. Right? Like being a grandparent. That's not me. Not yet. No way I'm old enough to be that uncool....

Stubby Update

We have learned that Stubby the Iguana came through hurricanes Katrina and Wilma unscathed. Nobody's exactly sure where he went or how he weathered the storm, but he's back most afternoons, just as always, happy to take a free handout of vegetarian grub if you've got some to spare.

Although the office building where our Ft. Lauderdale friends work will take more than a year to be restored, Stubby did not lose so much as a fingernail in all the hubbub.

Now, if that doesn't give you the properly perky post-holiday perspective (and how can you not feel perky in the presence of alliteration?) take this nifty little quiz to find out your personality type expressed as a Christmas Tree, Hanukkah Bush or Kwanzaa Shrub:

You Are a Minimal Christmas Tree

You're not a total Scrooge, but you feel no need to go overboard at Christmas. Less is more, and your Christmas reflects refined quality.

What Christmas Tree Are You?