I Should have Come With A Warning Label

I am a menace.  To myself, that is.  The rest of the planet is safe....well, unless you happen to be walking behind me, close enough to catch a flailing arm as I attempt a hack-kneed swan dive in the middle of the sidewalk, complete with a set of shrieking howls resembling those of mating alley cats.  And dear God help you if you are in front of me when I'm attempting to negotiate the spinny door at the hospital or board the escalator in the mall. (stupid things should have harnesses) There will be causalities.  Why, do you ask, do I provide such entertainment on a regular basis for the throngs that gather?

Oh baby, I was born this way.

While reaching for the salad dressing the other night, I was stopped by my husband's: "Oh my WORD honey, what did you DO to your hand?!?"  I'm totally blank.  "Hmmm?" I ask.  "Look at your hand!" he points to the fingers clutching the blue cheese like I'm about to be robbed.  Upon closer inspection, I began to count....two burns, a slice across my ring finger, my first knuckle was missing, and there is an inch and a half gash down the center of my hand.  Admittedly, it was a hot mess.  "This is the new sexy." I told him.

I remember losing the knuckle while adjusting my stationary bike. (imagine my husband laughing out loud as I'm attempting to explain this. "You got hurt riding a stationary bike?!")  The gash was acquired while cleaning under the microwave which had a previously unknown broken plastic thingy that removed my flesh like Satan's melon baller--of course I irritate it every time I get my phone out of my pocket or put gloves on, so I've jacked it up even more.  The rest? 

Not. A. Clue.

It's been like this for--ever.  Today is my birthday and I have been a poster child for band aides and neosporin for so long I should demand shares in the company! (right now my left knee is a stunning rainbow of color as I dropped the largest drawer in the guest room dresser two days ago and caught it with my leg)  I think I've developed some kind of pain nerve memory block.  Honestly, you could hold a gun to my head and demand to know how I bruised the entire back of my arm last week and I would have to die.  I have NO recollection whatsoever!  I fall UPstairs.  I trip over carpets like a drunk ballerina with a death wish.  I now have an escort that seems to follow me around Home Depot, I think they were worried there would be lawsuits.   

Years ago I went to visit one of my best friends in Florida.  It was to be a romp of a weekend; fly down on Friday, back on Sunday.  I left a chipper, smiling girl with a bounce in her step.  48 hours later I returned with the skin missing from half my face (scraped it along the bottom of a pool), limping (pulled my hamstring in a wild game of cosmic bowling), and gasping like an emphysema commercial as I had caught some plague while guzzling the apartment complex pool water.  I had to get shots.  Missed a week of work to recover from that "two day girl get-a-way."

I couldn't watch The Hangover.  It was entirely too real.

I think we should have punch cards for the doctor's office...."nine visits and the tenth one is FREE!" 

I own enough ace bandages to mummify Paula Deen.

Scrapes are sexy.

The Ties That.......Strangle?

Relationships.  They're what give the turning of this planet meaning.  So much more than sunshine and water; humanity's soul has taken thousands of years of mornings and afternoons and breath-taking moments--and made them matter.  As we birth and raise and laugh, as we weep and bury and mourn--we create.  Music, poetry, paintings......roses that bloom in the dead of winter.  We have altered the world, built and destroyed civilizations.....and tangled within it all, we have loved. 

Sometimes it's romance that shakes the soul; it burns with an igneous passion composed of shared breath and melded flesh.  Sometimes it's the wonder of new life and a protectiveness that would fight to the death against any odds.  Sometimes it's friendship so deep--founded on experiences be them of pain or joy--that bind two hearts together.  Regardless, it's the life that is shared, that shines in the darkness.

But share....carefully.

I have traveled.  I have loved and married; divorced and learned, and loved more deeply the second time.  True friends have been few and treasured, but neighbors and acquaintances have flowed through my life in a river of color bringing laughter and frustration depending on the day.  In one thing I have been careful....to draw distinction.  Intimacy makes one vulnerable.  Knowing who has your back and who doesn't is vital.

With the invention of Facebook, we have taken the cherished noun "friend" and morphed it into a verb.  An action.  Something done with strangers.  Now I completely understand that this fabulous land of "like" has a million uses.  Publicity, causes, networking, real estate and recipe clubs.  But I wonder as we are changing the very meaning of that word....will it be replaced?  Or will we just forever alter what a "friend" is?

I found myself before the bright screen of my laptop late one night.....contemplating my "friends."  I scrolled through the list...ticking off in my mind, "college, high school, neighbor...."  And my own distortion, my own...corruption, reared its loathsome head into view.  For the very plastic nature of fb had absorbed me.  Why indeed is it merely a shiny promenade of new pictures and proud announcements?  Why does it feel so shallow and flimsy.....because it's not made for true friends.  It was created for strangers.  And most of us are about 176 degrees from real on it. 

We friend co-workers and fourteenth cousins and people we went to third grade with--curiosity gripping us in its wiry talons. "I wonder if they married?  Do their kids have red hair too?  Did he get fat?"  And once on this slippery slope we careen down an avalanche that leaves us buried beneath a mountain of "friends."  You awake upon a stage.  Do you know your cue?  Don't mess up your lines...

I did the unthinkable.  I "unfriended" 48 people.  Do you know, not a single one contacted me as to why....except one.  My sister.

WHAT??  You unfriended family?!?  Is that legal?  (will there be umbilical whiplash from your parents??)  But as I told my sister in a letter the next day, "We may be sisters, but we are not friends." 

I am done.  I am over.  I am rejecting connections by obligation.  Yes--obligation.  The actions taken to avoid offense.  The checks cashed on guilt or shame or duty.  Contracts with conditions and penalties if not fulfilled. Obligation. 

With this new year I have been....examining.  My heart, my time....my sense of worth.  I have asked difficult questions.  Why do I maintain contact?  What do we offer each other?  Does good....kindness....something healthy come from our relationship?  Dear Lord, do we even communicate on a regular basis or is it just me putting my day, my heart-aches, my triumphs, my tears out there....and them watching? Critiquing? 

Am I strong enough?  Can I withstand obligation?  Can I face neighbors and co-workers....my family?  Can I say that their relationship with me is one of unrequited vulnerability?  I want more authenticity....I want a return on my investment. 

No family is perfect.  History is difficult to overcome and childhood can be cruel.  However, I've decided that I want today--which is all we really have--to matter.  No waste.  No counterfeits or masquerades.  No pretending to agree when I don't or that we are something we are not. 

Family is family, and co-workers are co-workers and dammit, friends are friends!  Blessings to you if you can overlap some of those, my mother is absolutely one of my closest friends.  But in this world of cheap imitation everything....friendship needs preservation.

It is a gift of choice.  Not obligation.

Beyond the Framed

I was browsing through the artwork at a lovely shop recently.  There was a couple next to me also clicking through the frames, commenting on such and whatnot.  He seemed slightly bored, she alternated looking with picking lint off her black cable sweater.  Suddenly she exclaimed, "Oh, here it is!  I've always wanted this for the hallway!"  Triumphantly, she placed the coveted prize in her cart with a smile the Cheshire Cat would have admired.  There, encased in lacquered wooden dark cherry swirls and divots, was the familiar scripture, "Love is patient, love is kind.  It does not envy...."  Nearly everyone could quote this; it's amazing how truth is passed on and repeated and eventually written in lovely calligraphy, framed, and hung upon a wall.

I didn't find anything to captivate me so with my basket on my arm I headed toward the check-out, thoughts of something grilled and cheesy filling my hungry mind.  Shifting from foot to foot, we stood.  It seemed like there were twelve of us, but I'm sure it was only my imagination.  And then I hear a voice--the same voice--demand a spot ahead of me. 

"I was here before you!" the lady in black exclaimed, pushing her buggy into another cart, knocking it into the magazine display and causing the "5 Hour Energy" shots to totter dangerously atop it.  "Um, I don't think so."  The other cart owner replied, somewhat hesitantly.  "Oh no," Mrs. Black responded, "I'm CERTAIN I was here first, I was just getting a water over there."  It was late.  Everyone in line was hungry, (the collective sound of stomach growls was beginning to sound like a wolf pack) and buggy owner #2 just didn't seem up to a brawl with Mrs. Black. (granted, she did look rather intimidating with her hair sprayed so stiff it resembled a helmet to enter battle with)  And so we stood longer, staring at the back of a black sweater still flecked with lint. 

I nestled my bags in the seat next to me, gazing out across the parking lot.  The click of the ignition, shift into gear and ease out into the evening traffic.  Winter seems murkier this year.  Wetter.  The holiday lights glittered like stars as I drove home that night.  And within me, a fire burned. 

I'm a redhead.  I own a heavy bag.  There is a reason.

I spent several years in my twenties down in Guatemala and Mexico.  Working with local churches and orphanages, we helped American college kids to come down and work for several months at a time.  We built houses, cleared fields, and swabbed scraped elbows and knees in health clinics.  We lived in a large cinder block building with a tiled floor.  There were no rugs.  No television.  No hot water.   We had a chess board and a radio and a crazy kitten we had rescued named El Tigre, who ate holes in my socks and chased the roaches. 

The only "art" in the living room, was on north wall where someone had taken a black marker, and written that scripture.  "Love is patient, love is kind..."  However, there was another wall.  And upon it was written the first three verses of that chapter in the Bible that come directly before the "love is patient" section.  The first three seem to be forgotten.  Lost.  They are not quoted nor have I ever seen them framed....

"Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.  And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.  And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profits me nothing."    1 Corinthians 13:1-3

Though you have glorious speeches, wisdom and knowledge beyond the ages, invincible faith.  Though you give everything to the poor and martyr yourself/time/resources.......but have not love?

You. Are. Nothing.

I am saddened.....I am enraged, by people that know the words.  They know the language and they know how to write checks and volunteer at the shelter and adopt a pet.  But love?  I'm not sure love lives within them. 

Love was the only language I could speak in those countries.  I remember holding a little girl's hands while they stitched her shoulder back together with minimal anesthetic....and I sang to her.  In English.  lol  She didn't know a word that I said, but as tears sluiced down both of our cheeks, she knew love. 

This year I am challenging me.  I am challenging you.  To analyze your heart.  Why do you do what you do?    Ian Percy said, "We judge others by their behavior.  We judge ourselves by our intentions."  He nailed this with caustic accuracy.  We constantly evaluate what others are doing, but often excuse ourselves because of our rationalizations, our justifications....our explanations.  "I cut that guy off in traffic 'cause I was late."  "I snapped at the cashier because I had a bad day."  "I had to because my husband was waiting."  But even when we do good....do we expect a thank you?  Is it for the tax write-off or the applause?  Is "Love" and everything that word encompasses, something you plan and act out?  Or does it simply live inside you?  In your pores, your breath.

Love isn't always thanked.  It isn't particularly clean.  It isn't comfortable and rarely convenient.  It's often in the smallest of things.  The most overlooked gestures.  But when the God of the universe planted the seed within us, the magnificent potential that is the human soul.....it was meant to love.  Above all, before all, and without filter. 


Without love....we are nothing.

The Murder of Magnificent

Inspirational poetry gone awry.  Sentiment with snarkish undertones, apathy all dressed up and parading about as if queen for the day....

Have you ever popped a chocolate into your mouth, your tongue wrapping about its deliciousness; explosions of velvety goodness and then..."Spitoo-ey!"  Gag, gasp!  "What in the hell was in the center?! Tasted like MOUSE CRAP!" 

Death to generic chocolates.  And all pretenders.

I despise pretenders.  Charlatans and frauds...contemptible.  I've actually raised my arm over my head casually during a dinner party and when asked why, I replied, "Savin' the watch...it's gettin' a little deep in here." (thank you mom for that southern gem)

And simply the worst of impostors are the ones that cover themselves in glitter and preen....gag me.

Thus my response to a recent blurb on a facebook page I came across.  "I've flown and crashed, lost and won, I've learned my lessons and if you don't like who I am, then you can kiss my ass!"

I was all on board....yes, yes, and then....the flip of the hair and bob of the head and there was probably a finger wagging.  This 20-something was all "I am who I am and if you don't like it, blah blah blah..."  It's EVERYWHERE!  In my classroom, on the bus, it seems to be permeating the very air we breathe.

When did this happen?  When did our arrogance surmount our potential?

There was actually a time when self-improvement was a life-long endeavor.  When learning and graciousness were pursued until death--and not just for financial gain or career advancement--but for the simple enrichment of the soul, the enhancement of the experience....just to be...more.  Becoming a better cook, learning a language, reigning in a sharp temper, practicing patience.....being open to differences and beauty.  Self control.

Living was a privilege then, cherished.  Our technological advancements have eliminated so many diseases, sterilized our wars, isolated us behind screens.  We've become enamored with our own opinions.  We've forgotten that this life is not to be wasted on repetitious sitcoms, $5 pizzas, and lite beer!  That the soul grows, the spirit blooms....that the potential inside each of us is breathtaking.  The possibility of grace, the miracle of forgiveness.  Kindness and laughter and giving....going without.  Voluntarily. 

The richness of humanity is the ability to change by will, not dictated by need.

And yet, the world is swimming with generic chocolates.  Bridezillas and Springers and the girl at CVS who shoved her way in front of everyone.  Potential so wrapped in layers of arrogance and belligerence that the seed within is suffocating.  The magnificence that could be is choking.

The flames of entitlement are scorching our nation, leaving blackened husks where loveliness should have been. 

"I am what I am..."

...but you could have been so much more.

.

Gators and Poptarts

Yesterday morning I was confronted with absolute proof that my darling angelic boys--have horns.  And possibly a tail.  I suppose every parent at some point faces the human fallibility of their prodigy, but mine slapped me in the face at 8am; shortly after waffles and kisses and "have a nice day!s."  I waved good-bye as they left for the bus, one by one, and then went to tinkle. (three cups of joe before dawn will do that to you)  And there, staring at me from the bottom of a yellow pool...was Pebbles.  Not Bambam, not Fred or Wilma....Pebbles. 

Someone had ditched their morning vitamin and forgot to flush.   Ooooooh, I was peeved.

A peeved mum in our house leads to lost allowances and days without television...and cold cheese sandwiches for dinner.  (seriously, ask my boys, tick me off badly--especially by being ungrateful--and I completely go on strike)  Three growing boys used to home cooked menus containing bacon wrapped roasts and homemade bread and scalloped potatoes suddenly reduced to cold sandwiches and apples will surprise and delight you with rapid apologies and changed behavior. 

At any rate, confrontations were had, the culprit confessed and handed over the cost of a bottle of Flinstones (about two week's allowance) and promises of future honesty were made.  When we don't like something, we discuss.  We don't lie, cheat or steal....or flush hard earned money down the toilet, dammit!

However, last night I was shocked repeatedly as glaring examples of exactly that--lying, cheating, & stealing--were paraded across the television screen accompanied by a catchy tune, nifty tag lines, and the ever present laugh track.  Welcome to American advertising.

Example 1.  Sad boy is about to ingest deplorable poptart when he is rescued by generous girl from such a blunder by her offer to share her delish toaster strudel.  How does sad boy respond to this kindness?  He snatches both halves of the strudel and runs off yelling, "You can have the poptart!"

Example 2.  Famous race car driver is "insured for almost everything" by some insurance company but when he accidentally drives a golf ball through someone's window; famous-wealthy-adult race car driver sneaks off.

Co-workers steal each other's food, wives belittle their husbands, and little Timmy in "time out" plays like madman in the kitchen with no supervision.  Twenty minutes of any "tween" show on Nick or Disney elevates destructive behavior, deceit, and theft--all draped in the absolute stupidity of any adult in the room--to entertainment. 

And the laugh track runs.

There will always be the discussion about media reflecting reality or dictating it, but I cannot help but wonder as we are setting our children down for "entertainment" that is full of mean girls, moronic adults and a complete lack of responsibility--how can we expect anything different in our own living rooms? 

Well.....I refuse to give in.  Again.  I will block channels our neighbors watch, rampage like a lunatic about stolen yogurt commercials, and attempt to find creative ways to make the consequences fit the crime.  Sometimes I feel like I'm piloting a cruise ship on a tranquil sunny sea.....other times I'm barely poling my raft of ruffians in a hurricane while alligators snap at my heels. 

Parenthood.  Why they make whiskey.

Marrow

I made soup today.  Roasted chicken.  And it took 6 hours.  Seriously.

I began sometime after the second cup of coffee, but before the third.  Pulled the carcass of bones and tendons from the fridge; burnished skin, gelatinous broth congealed to the breast and thighs.  Johny Lang, Tracy Chapman, and Nina Simone took turns in the cd player as I listened to the wind blow outside.  Something about the cool caress of Autumn's fingers on my cheek leads me to the kitchen every time...

Nearly unconsciously I begin to peel the meat from the bones.

Soon this becomes a personal quest...my fingers sliding along calcium lengths, searching out the divots and undulations that hide the sweetest, darkest meat.  Peeling back roasted skin to coax tender slices of salty succulence from their place, separating cartilage from bone, sinew from muscle.  The meat drops into the bowl, the bones piling in a mound inside the soup pot.  Ribs, back, wings...vertebrae...skeleton abandoned.

Slice of onion, celery ribs with leafy tops, rosemary cut from the chilly planter on the porch--the single lonely herb left next to the brittle husks of basil and crispy sage.  Crushed ivory cloves of garlic, black peppercorns tossed into steaming water....the bones sink beneath an an aqueous grave.  Soft simmering....tempered heat....rosemary mist.  Satisfaction permeates my soul as I leave the room with a last glance toward the windows slowly filling with lovely steam....

Three hours later.

Delicious carcass and vegetable pulp.  Broth with....warmth.  Depth.  Marrow.  Drain, chill, skim the fat, smile softly...secretly at the thought of rosemary infused lusciousness.  Chopped panchetta into the pot, crisping.  Onion, glistening.  Fresh celery, carrots, herbs.  The broth from lifeless bones, resurrected into liquid gold. 

As I stir, I wonder.  This afternoon I received a call from a distant friend, we chatted.  Upon her asking about my day, I responded, "I'm making soup."  She laughed, "Like you open the can, right?"  I chuckled softly to myself.  As I added crushed sage and fresh rosemary....I wondered if she'd ever had soup--real soup.  Soup with love and time and marrow in it. 

Like life, soup is so substantial...so basic.  But when was the last time you had soup made from the bone?  There is...vitality in it.  Pain and blood and pulse and joy and movement....life.

Sometimes I feel like Campbells has taken over the planet.  Condensed it.  The Hallmark channel: "Open can, add one hour of time and the Jack Frost movie and sha-zam--Christmas eve!"  Do you remember actually threading needles, making cranberry popcorn strings for the tree while swapping "favorite Christmas past" tales?  Before Macys took over?  I truly don't mean to sound...old. (chuckle)  Or like some Martha Stewart commercial, but there is something missing...

Instant marriages--no such thing.  Instant parenting? (take one child, add a wireless device and their own tv...)  Friendships, home-making, dinner, holidays....I am internally battling this war against a condensed life.  I refuse to give in.

The last step.  After the simmer, the softening of vegetable and meat and corn, a cup of cream.  Fresh pepper....the aroma fills the house.  I go out to get the mail and the 45 seconds it takes to do so--leave me reveling in the warmth of deliciousness as I reenter.  Eyes closed....amazing. 

Marrow.

Swallow. There now, you're all better.

Mmmm.....quite the day and it's not even 2:30 on this rainy fall afternoon. I awoke to grumpy children after nearly losing a game of strip poker that surprisingly included my boss, my neighbor, & the mailman. (what, you don't dream like this?) Thank God for coffee makers with timers and toaster waffles--these two things save me from killing the boys on a regular basis. My 94 yr-old grandmother is staying with us for a few weeks to give my parents a break. This experience traverses a scale with a range from "Oh, how darling and cozy as she gets to spend cherished time with her great grand-children doing puzzles and drinking hot cocoa" to "Yes, Gramma--you need to put your teeth in to eat breakfast....no, I don't know where you left them."

Stress?

He left for work, the children packed safely off to school carrying clarinets, clean gym uniforms and lunches. I settle Gramma on the couch for a very LOUD episode of Matlock and Hazel curls up at her feet. I attempt to bike for 20 minutes while watching Grahm Norton.....um, really I drank more coffee. Dressed, found the keys and off to do the shopping, hit the deli, & refill the wine rack. By the time I returned, I distinctly resembled a drowned rat, and the eleventeen trips with bags into the house didn't help matters.

Hot tea, deep breath. I love coming home. I spend actual TIME on how our home smells, hitting up this little import shop for the most delish incense that somehow magically combines clove and exotic spices with sandalwood and brown sugar. Y.u.m. However, beef burgundy was on the menu for tonight (seriously, any reason to open a bottle of wine at noon) and so I began seasoning the beef, browning it till the pan was lined with scrumptious crispy bits. In with the onion, a rasher of bacon for smoky lust, carrots and celery and half (er...um?) a bottle of wine....mmmmm, the aroma was heavenly. After simmering for a few hours, I'll finish it with cream and the boys will love walking through the door this afternoon. I put the bread dough on the back of the stove to rise, get Grandma some lunch and tuck her in for a nap.

Alright, switch up the laundry, sweep the entryway, vacuum the living room....and can I sit now? With a fresh cup of tea, I nestle into a corner of the couch with a magazine a neighbor had passed on. September's issue of Health--sporting a cover which told me I could melt 12 lbs in 28 days without hunger, purchase 8 energy foods, and "YES YOU CAN!" get stronger, cook healthier, and feel amazing every day!  Sha-zam, can we just bottle the cover?

And speaking of bottles....

By the time I had turned a mere 20 pages, I was in shock. I went and got a pen and paper and starting on page one, began to write the names of the drugs advertised. Lovaza, Cimzia, Abilify, Lyrica, Orencia, Restasis, Vesicare & Viviscal....twelve all told. This did not include the six suppliment ads promising vitality and sexual fulfillment, the diet pills and programs (5 total) and I haven't even gotten to the FOUR PAGE spread on Botox! Perhaps most frightening was the pull-out two page poster, "Yoga For A Beautiful Body" on which the entire back was two pages explaining Pristiq and the risk vs gain of its consumption.

What. The. Hell?

It was as if this magazine was one long subliminal (??) message that you need drugs. You are not good enough. You are not happy enough or thin enough or have enough eye lashes the way the good Lord above created you. Yet every model for the wrinkle creams didn't have them, and the poor bent over Pristique lady was facing a mirror image of her smiling self. The yoga chick was already in smashing shape and Allergy Woman was rolling about in a hayfield with a hairy dog. If you don't like.....anything....they've got a bottle with a pill for you, baby. The the results are dreamboat! (psssst, remember the titanic....)

I know depression. I divorced my first husband. I have three sons, I therefore understand stress. Anxiety and I sit down for tea once every few weeks. I have been on welfare after that divorce, gone hungry, and worked my ass off to get back on my feet and stand tall. There is no pill for that. I find, in general, that anything easy isn't worth a damn. If a pill can fix it, you're in more trouble than you know. Now PLEASE understand that I am SO glad that we live in a world of modern medicine that actually makes miracles possible. Cancer, diabetes, leukemia--we have amazing medicines that have altered the direction of humanity! (my youngest son, 11 lb hulk that he was, and I would have died if it were not for medicine and
c-sections) And there are times--absolutely--when medication is part of the answer. But a pill without change inside of ourselves--is just a lifelong addiction....dressed up with a prescription.

I suppose, most of all, I am appalled at the message in this magazine whose very title is "Health." It contains zippy recipes for new yogurt smoothies, and a fab way to do squats...but the real message?

Exactly what is healthy?

It is so much more than what is in the mirror, on the scale, in or a bottle.  It isn't instant....ever.

How have we lost track of that?