Blogging is such an interesting phenomenon. I forget I don't know the people who most often read my blog and whose blogs I most often read. This came full-force tonight when I was reading the comments left for me under "Pauline Trent and P.T. Shank." See, I realized that praise, support and congratulations from these people have meant more to me than some of the responses I've gotten from people who share my bloodline. Now, this is, partly, a statement about how fucked up my family has become. But it is also a statement on how important people can become to each other in unexpected ways. I mean, I got a comment from the Butler. One of my favorite bloggers left me a comment! How cool is that?
DonDon mentioned that he "almost know(s) someone soon to be famous" and that statement took me by surprise. Still, it's true. Because we don't know each other. And yet... "Not knowing" DonDon and the Butler and Jaded's Kimmy didn't keep me from being so worried about them when we thought Rita was going to be a bigger than Katrina had been. "Not knowing" the Gay Mad Housewife didn't make me any less happy when he was able to start leaving comments for people again, even just one-handed. "Not knowing" Blue Dog certainly hasn't kept me from checking her site to oooo and ahhh at her creations. And "not knowing" Cracker doesn't keep me from hoping she's okay because I haven't gotten a comment in a while.
Of course, there are the bloggers I do know. The Lovely Cats, Nemeria, FEAA, the One in VA, and appsrus. Their praise and support and congratulations light my world because they are my friends, my family...and yes, my fellow bloggers.
Perhaps it is because we are all writers and so the praise of other writers means more. But I think it has to do with this great community we have created for ourselves. We all have friends and loved ones that we recognize on the street, that have our home phone numbers and our "real" email addresses. Hell, that know our real names. Still, that doesn't make this place ~ this cyber lunch table, if I may borrow from Blogzie ~ any less important. Just makes it different. And since I love different, it really works for me ~ and makes me as proud to read those comments as if the people who left them actually knew my name and I knew theirs.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
The PTs
OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
She did it! She sold my book! Friend/Agent/Editor Extrordinaire has a binding, verbal agreement with two different publishing companies for not one, not two, but THREE books! THREE BOOKS!
The first is a nonfiction. It's work for hire, nothing exciting about EXCEPT THAT IT'S MY FIRST PUBLISHED BOOK!
The second two... Wow. The one that is finished is about a cop and a journalist. Back when my dad died, I was so lost and in such pain. I was talking to a friend about needing something, anything and she said "Write me a romance novel. Make me the heroine. Oh, and I want a cross between George Clooney and Bill Pullman to fall in love with me." So I did. And seven years later, I lived in the right building and met the FAEE. And here we are.
The second one ~ that's honestly a little scary. They want to sign two books but, um, I don't have two books written. Guess what? I can get a second book written! It took me about an hour to get an outline. You want two books? Damn right I can write a second one.
So who the hell are the two PTs???? They are both my grandmother. Her maiden name and her married name. And now, they are my names as well. Nonfiction gets written under PT Shank, her married name. Fiction under her maiden name, which is also abbreviated PT. So, look for them in '06 and '07. I guarantee they're good reading!
OH MY GOD! (Insert Bouncy Pobble doing the Happy Dance here)
Those are exciting-over-the-moon-can't-sit-still-think-I'm-gonna-hyperventilate Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee. Which is on me, today!
She did it! She sold my book! Friend/Agent/Editor Extrordinaire has a binding, verbal agreement with two different publishing companies for not one, not two, but THREE books! THREE BOOKS!
The first is a nonfiction. It's work for hire, nothing exciting about EXCEPT THAT IT'S MY FIRST PUBLISHED BOOK!
The second two... Wow. The one that is finished is about a cop and a journalist. Back when my dad died, I was so lost and in such pain. I was talking to a friend about needing something, anything and she said "Write me a romance novel. Make me the heroine. Oh, and I want a cross between George Clooney and Bill Pullman to fall in love with me." So I did. And seven years later, I lived in the right building and met the FAEE. And here we are.
The second one ~ that's honestly a little scary. They want to sign two books but, um, I don't have two books written. Guess what? I can get a second book written! It took me about an hour to get an outline. You want two books? Damn right I can write a second one.
So who the hell are the two PTs???? They are both my grandmother. Her maiden name and her married name. And now, they are my names as well. Nonfiction gets written under PT Shank, her married name. Fiction under her maiden name, which is also abbreviated PT. So, look for them in '06 and '07. I guarantee they're good reading!
OH MY GOD! (Insert Bouncy Pobble doing the Happy Dance here)
Those are exciting-over-the-moon-can't-sit-still-think-I'm-gonna-hyperventilate Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee. Which is on me, today!
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Selfish Pobble
Rita shifted. Louisiana is getting its butt kicked ~ again. And I care. I really do. My heart breaks for them and my prayers and energies surround them. And yet...the bitch shifted. My Dear One, my friends, their loved ones, are safe. And I am just selfish enough to be grateful.
It has been an exhausting several days for them and for those of us who love them. And they are safe. I am working on rescheduling my visit. Because that is more important even than it was. I want to see my Dear One. I want to get my arms around him. Now, yes, for the record, I do indeed still have that horribly inappropriate crush on him, but that's not what I'm talking about.
I want to hold on to him, feel him and Know for myself that he is alive and well. Weep a little on his shoulder. Keep him close enough that I can reach out and touch him when I need to. See him, feel him, smell his hair, hold his hand, let him rest his head on my shoulder and rest mine on his.
These last few days, I have come to love him. I'm not In Love with him ~ dear Lord, he's 20. I just...love him. I want him to get his life back. I want his girlfriend to get back home so that he can stop worrying about her. I want him to be able to put the house back together. I want him to get back to work, to turn off his instant messenger, go on dates, make his movies, hang with his best friends.
And he can do all those things very, very soon. Because the bitch shifted. And I'm just selfish enough for that to be what matters to me most. So, now, I'm going to bed.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ or great Texas iced tea.
It has been an exhausting several days for them and for those of us who love them. And they are safe. I am working on rescheduling my visit. Because that is more important even than it was. I want to see my Dear One. I want to get my arms around him. Now, yes, for the record, I do indeed still have that horribly inappropriate crush on him, but that's not what I'm talking about.
I want to hold on to him, feel him and Know for myself that he is alive and well. Weep a little on his shoulder. Keep him close enough that I can reach out and touch him when I need to. See him, feel him, smell his hair, hold his hand, let him rest his head on my shoulder and rest mine on his.
These last few days, I have come to love him. I'm not In Love with him ~ dear Lord, he's 20. I just...love him. I want him to get his life back. I want his girlfriend to get back home so that he can stop worrying about her. I want him to be able to put the house back together. I want him to get back to work, to turn off his instant messenger, go on dates, make his movies, hang with his best friends.
And he can do all those things very, very soon. Because the bitch shifted. And I'm just selfish enough for that to be what matters to me most. So, now, I'm going to bed.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ or great Texas iced tea.
September 24th
Today is my 11th wedding anniversary. The Lovely Cats and my bio-sister were maid and matron of honor respectively. The Divine M was a bridesmaid. My father, grandmother, and Pat were still alive. My Heart wasn't yet two. My 13 year-old-soon-to-be-nieces were thrilled to be invited to their first adult party.
How things change. Death and birth. The deployments and promotions that destroyed our marriage weren't even a whisper. The Lovely Cats was almost engaged ~ but not to the Tom Cat. The Divine M had just started fooling around with the Grill Master. One of those nieces has a child of her own now ~ making me not only a great aunt but a great-aunt. My Heart is now 12. My other nieces and nephews weren't even twinkles. My Dear One, with whom I was instant messaging when I noticed the date, was all of 9. My mother and sister are now in the last minute rush before another wedding ~ my mother's youngest stepdaughter. The Sergeant Major is in Iraq and another woman waits for his return in a house I picked out and once called home. I can't help but think I am the only one who notices this day. We were young and in love and the world was ours. How things change.
And yet...
The Lovely Cats' family was there, as they are now. The Duck and her kid were there, as they have always been. Nemeria was stage managing so she couldn't attend, but her warm fuzzies were there, as they are now. Appsrus couldn't make it either, but he was there in thought, as he is now.
And me? I've changed too. Not so young and not at all in love. But stronger. Wiser. Happy again, just in a very different way. And the world is still mine. That hasn't changed.
So, as I sit here, swamped with so many conflicting emotions, I find comfort in that. I am honest enough to admit I miss those young people and what they had before; I am grateful to them and what they had. But more than that, I am grateful for what I have become. Much, much more.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
How things change. Death and birth. The deployments and promotions that destroyed our marriage weren't even a whisper. The Lovely Cats was almost engaged ~ but not to the Tom Cat. The Divine M had just started fooling around with the Grill Master. One of those nieces has a child of her own now ~ making me not only a great aunt but a great-aunt. My Heart is now 12. My other nieces and nephews weren't even twinkles. My Dear One, with whom I was instant messaging when I noticed the date, was all of 9. My mother and sister are now in the last minute rush before another wedding ~ my mother's youngest stepdaughter. The Sergeant Major is in Iraq and another woman waits for his return in a house I picked out and once called home. I can't help but think I am the only one who notices this day. We were young and in love and the world was ours. How things change.
And yet...
The Lovely Cats' family was there, as they are now. The Duck and her kid were there, as they have always been. Nemeria was stage managing so she couldn't attend, but her warm fuzzies were there, as they are now. Appsrus couldn't make it either, but he was there in thought, as he is now.
And me? I've changed too. Not so young and not at all in love. But stronger. Wiser. Happy again, just in a very different way. And the world is still mine. That hasn't changed.
So, as I sit here, swamped with so many conflicting emotions, I find comfort in that. I am honest enough to admit I miss those young people and what they had before; I am grateful to them and what they had. But more than that, I am grateful for what I have become. Much, much more.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Nevermind
Disregard everything in the last post. They didn't go. Even my Dear One knows his Momma is beig stupid. But he won't leave her. And so, here I sit.
Insert your own, preferred expletive here.
Thoughts are Pobble Thoughts (at least the ones that are fit to print). That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Insert your own, preferred expletive here.
Thoughts are Pobble Thoughts (at least the ones that are fit to print). That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Just For Me
Today, my post is just for me. If you are looking for humor or insight or anything remotely thought-provoking, move on and come back later. If you are looking for completely unedited, stream of consciousness Pobble Thoughts then hey, this post might be for you, too.
You know in some (usually bad) movies, there is someone outside of the situation who is in contact with the hero while he is dealing with the drama? Die Hard comes to mind immediately ~ as does an episode of West Wing and it amazes me that those two have Anything in common! Anyway, Bruce is at the top of this building, surrounded by bad guys and lots of fun exploding things and he has, via a convenient radio or cell phone or something, contact with a cop out in the real world. This cop gives Bruce someone to talk to, someone to help distract him and basically keeps him sane between explosions. At the end of the movie, Bruce looks around, sees a man he's never met before and somehow or other knows it's "Pal." (hey, Extrordinaire ~ check out the correct punctuation!) And there is this weepy moment where these two men finally meet and embrace.
I have spent the last several hours being "Pal." ~ and if I never have to do it again, that's fine by me. My Dear One down in Texas has Finally hit the road and is evacuating. I suppose but I'm not sure that his *%#$&%^##%&$*%$#*)#$^%*$(&$# stepfather got over himself and decided to actually LEARN from Katrina. However, starting at about 10:30 yesterday morning and not ending until after 1 this morning, I have been instant messaging with my Dear One. I have flirted, joked, waited, listened, calmed, babbled and stayed right here at this computer. At some point last night, I reminded him that he didn't have to stay on just to talk to me. And he asked if I would stay with him.
Now, there's not much Caretaker in the Boston Pobble. Used to be, I admit it. But I got over that a long-ass time ago. But when a scared 20-year old who wants nothing more than to get the hell out of Dodge but won't leave his momma asks you to be a lifeline until 1) they finally leave; 2) he loses power or 3) he has to run for his life, it's kinda hard to say no. Shortly after 1 this morning, he decided he wanted to get some more stuff packed up because Momma had decided to leave at 5 a.m., in spite of &%(#(%&%&(#)(*^)#(#$&@*(%&(* stepdad. Something made me leave my messenger up, even after he logged off.
Bless his heart, he pinged me for the first time this morning at 5:30 his time. Momma was waffling and he was waiting again. When I stumbled into my office three hours later ~ there he was. And so I have sat here. Used a break while he went to get gas in the trucks to take a quick shower, make coffee and grab a smoke. And then we sat here. Discussed the merits of sandwiches made with potato chips v. those made with fritos (he is 20, remember) and stayed staunchly on either side of the debate. (I was a potato chip girl myself) Talked about what he was taking with him. Talked about what we would do next time we got together. Looked at weather maps and driving directions to Center, Texas (which, for the record, ISN'T in the center of Texas.) And, every so often, he would ask if I wanted to go. And I would remind him that I was there for as long as he wanted me there. And he would say "Good. Thanks. So..." and we would babble some more.
Finally, finally, finally ~ Momma stepped up and said it was time. So my Dear One and I said goodbye. He asked if I remembered where he was going. I assured him I did ~ Center, Texas. He asked if he could call me when he gets there. I assured his ass he'd better, regardless of the time ~ and stressed that if calling me wasn't a priority, I understood that too. He didn't ask ~ but I told him I would stay online until he logged off. So I did. And when his name disappeared from my "online" buddy list, I broke down and wept.
Interestingly enough, it is harder now. Don't get me wrong ~ I am SO GRATEFUL he and Momma are on the road. I don't know if &%$&%*$#*(#%&$*%#*()$#*%^$&*#()*$#(%#^%*$&#*$(#)*($(#*&%&*$&$(#)8$(#)&%$%$**$#()@(#@)_($(#&%*#$*$_#9$ stepdad went with or not. Don't really care. And, at the same time, it is harder not knowing what's happening. I KNOW he is heading to safety and wouldn't in a million years prefer him at his computer in the direct line of the bitch. I trust COMPLETELY that he is safe and will make it to Center, Texas incident free. And I will rest better whenever that phone call comes. Because waiting is its own bitch.
You know, the movies may be about Bruce ~ but I have developed a respect for Pal. It ain't easy being Pal. It hasn't been easy maintaining my calm because the last thing the situation needed was more drama. But I wouldn't have changed it. I wouldn't have not been there for him. And I am honored beyond words that I'm the one he wanted with him.
So, my charged candles will stay lit for the duration (safely, I promise!) and my energies will continue to go with him and surround the people who DID stay. And life will go on. In spite of stupid people. And *%*$(%*$&*#()$()#*^%*$)($()^$**$(%)($)%$&^($)#($@_@_%*$$*)*%$(&@__#(@%*$&%$*% stepdads.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
You know in some (usually bad) movies, there is someone outside of the situation who is in contact with the hero while he is dealing with the drama? Die Hard comes to mind immediately ~ as does an episode of West Wing and it amazes me that those two have Anything in common! Anyway, Bruce is at the top of this building, surrounded by bad guys and lots of fun exploding things and he has, via a convenient radio or cell phone or something, contact with a cop out in the real world. This cop gives Bruce someone to talk to, someone to help distract him and basically keeps him sane between explosions. At the end of the movie, Bruce looks around, sees a man he's never met before and somehow or other knows it's "Pal." (hey, Extrordinaire ~ check out the correct punctuation!) And there is this weepy moment where these two men finally meet and embrace.
I have spent the last several hours being "Pal." ~ and if I never have to do it again, that's fine by me. My Dear One down in Texas has Finally hit the road and is evacuating. I suppose but I'm not sure that his *%#$&%^##%&$*%$#*)#$^%*$(&$# stepfather got over himself and decided to actually LEARN from Katrina. However, starting at about 10:30 yesterday morning and not ending until after 1 this morning, I have been instant messaging with my Dear One. I have flirted, joked, waited, listened, calmed, babbled and stayed right here at this computer. At some point last night, I reminded him that he didn't have to stay on just to talk to me. And he asked if I would stay with him.
Now, there's not much Caretaker in the Boston Pobble. Used to be, I admit it. But I got over that a long-ass time ago. But when a scared 20-year old who wants nothing more than to get the hell out of Dodge but won't leave his momma asks you to be a lifeline until 1) they finally leave; 2) he loses power or 3) he has to run for his life, it's kinda hard to say no. Shortly after 1 this morning, he decided he wanted to get some more stuff packed up because Momma had decided to leave at 5 a.m., in spite of &%(#(%&%&(#)(*^)#(#$&@*(%&(* stepdad. Something made me leave my messenger up, even after he logged off.
Bless his heart, he pinged me for the first time this morning at 5:30 his time. Momma was waffling and he was waiting again. When I stumbled into my office three hours later ~ there he was. And so I have sat here. Used a break while he went to get gas in the trucks to take a quick shower, make coffee and grab a smoke. And then we sat here. Discussed the merits of sandwiches made with potato chips v. those made with fritos (he is 20, remember) and stayed staunchly on either side of the debate. (I was a potato chip girl myself) Talked about what he was taking with him. Talked about what we would do next time we got together. Looked at weather maps and driving directions to Center, Texas (which, for the record, ISN'T in the center of Texas.) And, every so often, he would ask if I wanted to go. And I would remind him that I was there for as long as he wanted me there. And he would say "Good. Thanks. So..." and we would babble some more.
Finally, finally, finally ~ Momma stepped up and said it was time. So my Dear One and I said goodbye. He asked if I remembered where he was going. I assured him I did ~ Center, Texas. He asked if he could call me when he gets there. I assured his ass he'd better, regardless of the time ~ and stressed that if calling me wasn't a priority, I understood that too. He didn't ask ~ but I told him I would stay online until he logged off. So I did. And when his name disappeared from my "online" buddy list, I broke down and wept.
Interestingly enough, it is harder now. Don't get me wrong ~ I am SO GRATEFUL he and Momma are on the road. I don't know if &%$&%*$#*(#%&$*%#*()$#*%^$&*#()*$#(%#^%*$&#*$(#)*($(#*&%&*$&$(#)8$(#)&%$%$**$#()@(#@)_($(#&%*#$*$_#9$ stepdad went with or not. Don't really care. And, at the same time, it is harder not knowing what's happening. I KNOW he is heading to safety and wouldn't in a million years prefer him at his computer in the direct line of the bitch. I trust COMPLETELY that he is safe and will make it to Center, Texas incident free. And I will rest better whenever that phone call comes. Because waiting is its own bitch.
You know, the movies may be about Bruce ~ but I have developed a respect for Pal. It ain't easy being Pal. It hasn't been easy maintaining my calm because the last thing the situation needed was more drama. But I wouldn't have changed it. I wouldn't have not been there for him. And I am honored beyond words that I'm the one he wanted with him.
So, my charged candles will stay lit for the duration (safely, I promise!) and my energies will continue to go with him and surround the people who DID stay. And life will go on. In spite of stupid people. And *%*$(%*$&*#()$()#*^%*$)($()^$**$(%)($)%$&^($)#($@_@_%*$$*)*%$(&@__#(@%*$&%$*% stepdads.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
What Am I Doing?
It's 2:30 in the morning. I've had a long day. I spent a lot of time keeping a friend calm and feeling safe and loved. I have helped decorate a room I have never even seen. I have gotten some really good work done. I'm tired and ready to sleep. But what am I doing? I'm blogging. Writing is my addiction. So is thinking. And, with all this mess recently, there has been a lot to think about.
Tonight, I've spent a lot of time thinking about my blessings. And Goddess be thanked, I am blessed.
I have amazing friends.
I have a Gift and someone who recognized it.
I have a profession I love.
I have a family.
I have a roof over my head, food to eat, and air conditioning.
I have potential.
I have self-love and self-worth.
I have joy in my life that outweighs the sorrow.
I have a faith that is strong and can see me through the times when the sorrow outweighs the joy and makes the joy that much better.
I have the love and loyalty and respect of truly, truly good people.
I have The Plan.
I have dreams and goals.
I have a sharp mind, sharp wit, and sharp tongue.
I have compassion and mercy within me.
I have boundaries that keep me from being a doormat.
I have the ability to make glorious, breathtakingly spectacular mistakes.
I have the wisdom to learn from them.
I have comfort in my own skin.
I have the things I need and more.
And, here, at 2:30 in the morning, I am so aware of these blessings ~ and so many more that I won't list or I won't sleep. I wish them for all peoples, everywhere. They are the blessings of a good life and they don't tie into what we deserve. We don't always get what we deserve. That's why they are blessings.
I know that, earlier this evening, I could have given you a list of all the sorrows I know of and it would have seemed like a perfectly logical post. And I can still give you that list. I just prefer this one. It strikes me as more important these days to remember what I do have, rather than dwelling on what I don't.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Tonight, I've spent a lot of time thinking about my blessings. And Goddess be thanked, I am blessed.
I have amazing friends.
I have a Gift and someone who recognized it.
I have a profession I love.
I have a family.
I have a roof over my head, food to eat, and air conditioning.
I have potential.
I have self-love and self-worth.
I have joy in my life that outweighs the sorrow.
I have a faith that is strong and can see me through the times when the sorrow outweighs the joy and makes the joy that much better.
I have the love and loyalty and respect of truly, truly good people.
I have The Plan.
I have dreams and goals.
I have a sharp mind, sharp wit, and sharp tongue.
I have compassion and mercy within me.
I have boundaries that keep me from being a doormat.
I have the ability to make glorious, breathtakingly spectacular mistakes.
I have the wisdom to learn from them.
I have comfort in my own skin.
I have the things I need and more.
And, here, at 2:30 in the morning, I am so aware of these blessings ~ and so many more that I won't list or I won't sleep. I wish them for all peoples, everywhere. They are the blessings of a good life and they don't tie into what we deserve. We don't always get what we deserve. That's why they are blessings.
I know that, earlier this evening, I could have given you a list of all the sorrows I know of and it would have seemed like a perfectly logical post. And I can still give you that list. I just prefer this one. It strikes me as more important these days to remember what I do have, rather than dwelling on what I don't.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
7 More Things, from The Lovely Cats
The Lovely Cats was instant messaging with me while I was instant messaging with a friend down in Texas. I kept him sane; she kept me sane. And she and I got to talking about how horrendous it must be to try and gather what you want to take with you if you have to evacuate. She blogged and then tagged me in instant message. So, not including clothing, documents, cash, meds, here are my seven...
1. Bear. This is my stuffed bear I have slept with most of my life. I have kicked men out of my bed for not wanting me to sleep with Bear.
2. My father's pictures. I have a series of three pictures of him and me together, on a cold, rainy Fourth of July with the Constitution doing her yearly turn-around in the background.
3. My Papa's picture. This is my grandfather, my father's father. It's one of him as a young man, in WWII. He's laughing and all is well in his world.
4. My manuscripts, hard copies and discs.
5. L. Bo Peb and Lame. This is the title of a drawing made by my oldest nephew. He is my heart. It is a sharpie drawing of Little Bo Peep and a lamb. And in his, then, five year old, wisdom, it became L. Bo Peb and Lame.
And that's it. Of course, I can stretch the list to seven. Couldn't we all? I mean, I own stuff I want. And, if someone said, "Leave now" these are the 5 things I would stop for ~ and nothing else. This was an interesting exercise. And I pray God that it never becomes reality.
At this moment, Brandon and his momma are scheduled to leave the coast about 5 a.m. The Duck, the hubby, and the critters are (I believe) already out. The Butler is on his way out. But Pete and Jack and so many others are staying. Be safe.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
1. Bear. This is my stuffed bear I have slept with most of my life. I have kicked men out of my bed for not wanting me to sleep with Bear.
2. My father's pictures. I have a series of three pictures of him and me together, on a cold, rainy Fourth of July with the Constitution doing her yearly turn-around in the background.
3. My Papa's picture. This is my grandfather, my father's father. It's one of him as a young man, in WWII. He's laughing and all is well in his world.
4. My manuscripts, hard copies and discs.
5. L. Bo Peb and Lame. This is the title of a drawing made by my oldest nephew. He is my heart. It is a sharpie drawing of Little Bo Peep and a lamb. And in his, then, five year old, wisdom, it became L. Bo Peb and Lame.
And that's it. Of course, I can stretch the list to seven. Couldn't we all? I mean, I own stuff I want. And, if someone said, "Leave now" these are the 5 things I would stop for ~ and nothing else. This was an interesting exercise. And I pray God that it never becomes reality.
At this moment, Brandon and his momma are scheduled to leave the coast about 5 a.m. The Duck, the hubby, and the critters are (I believe) already out. The Butler is on his way out. But Pete and Jack and so many others are staying. Be safe.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Damn
I was supposed to go to Houston tomorrow. This trip has been planned since June. Guess what? I ain't going. Guess what else? Some of my friends ain't leaving, either. Here's the thing, they don't live IN Houston. They live just outside of Galveston. Great.
So, I'm trying not to worry too much. Maybe it's because of Katrina. Maybe it's because this is the first hurricane that's hit since I've met a lot of these folks. Maybe it's because most of them are under 21 and are having to stay eventhough they want to leave because their parents are staying. Maybe I am completely overreacting. I don't know. I know I am scared for my friends.
The Duck ~ I'm not so much scared for her. She and her hub and her critters are going to be fine. They know when to leave. But "my" kids... I'm not used to having teenagers to be concerned about. Not like this. It's a new experience for me and, quite frankly, We are Not amused by it. I find myself wishing I was independently wealthy (okay, that's not a new experience but you get the idea) so that I could buy them all plane tickets and get them the hell out of there, if their parents wanted to go or not. But I can't.
So, instead, I am setting my intentions, charging my candles, and have sent them all orders to be in touch as soon as they can after Rita the bitch blows through. That is one of the joys of being an adult to teenagers; you can give orders. And once again am asking for prayers, energies, warm fuzzies ~ whatever. Not just for my friends but for the entire area, which has already seen and gone through too much.
One specific request: Brandon's dad. Yes, this is the same Brandon whose grandparents we were concerned about during Katrina. His name is Ronny. He's a Galveston cop and in charge of the dive team. He cannot leave. He will be leading rescues before, during and after the storm.
Those are Pobble Thoughts ~ and once again, Pobble Prayers.
So, I'm trying not to worry too much. Maybe it's because of Katrina. Maybe it's because this is the first hurricane that's hit since I've met a lot of these folks. Maybe it's because most of them are under 21 and are having to stay eventhough they want to leave because their parents are staying. Maybe I am completely overreacting. I don't know. I know I am scared for my friends.
The Duck ~ I'm not so much scared for her. She and her hub and her critters are going to be fine. They know when to leave. But "my" kids... I'm not used to having teenagers to be concerned about. Not like this. It's a new experience for me and, quite frankly, We are Not amused by it. I find myself wishing I was independently wealthy (okay, that's not a new experience but you get the idea) so that I could buy them all plane tickets and get them the hell out of there, if their parents wanted to go or not. But I can't.
So, instead, I am setting my intentions, charging my candles, and have sent them all orders to be in touch as soon as they can after Rita the bitch blows through. That is one of the joys of being an adult to teenagers; you can give orders. And once again am asking for prayers, energies, warm fuzzies ~ whatever. Not just for my friends but for the entire area, which has already seen and gone through too much.
One specific request: Brandon's dad. Yes, this is the same Brandon whose grandparents we were concerned about during Katrina. His name is Ronny. He's a Galveston cop and in charge of the dive team. He cannot leave. He will be leading rescues before, during and after the storm.
Those are Pobble Thoughts ~ and once again, Pobble Prayers.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
It's DonDon's Fault
Here I am, happily checking my blog on a rainy Saturday, with my broken foot propped up and I get to DonDon's blog. Damn him. Now, The Lovely Cats and I have seen these tests and taken them before. (Spending Far Too Much time on them, as well and being more than a little shocked to learn that someone has a hidden camera on my life) But, oooo!!! oooo!!! ooooo!!!! Look! I can put them on my Blog!!!! They can be Pobble Thoughts!!!! This is why it's DonDon's fault. (We love DonDon)
SO! Without further ado (drumroll, please)...
SO! Without further ado (drumroll, please)...
| You Are an Appletini |
 Most of the time, you're a typical party girl / guy. But when you get super sauced, you really up your sex appeal. |
| You Are Somewhat Machiavellian |
 You're not going to mow over everyone to get ahead... But you're also powerful enough to make things happen for yourself. You understand how the world works, even when it's an ugly place. You just don't get ugly yourself - unless you have to! |
| Your Personality Profile |
 You are elegant, withdrawn, and brilliant. Your mind is a weapon, able to solve any puzzle. You are also great at poking holes in arguments and common beliefs. For you, comfort and calm are very important. You tend to thrive on your own and shrug off most affection. You prefer to protect your emotions and stay strong. |
| Your Kissing Purity Score: 11% Pure |
 For you, it's all kiss and no talk. You're in a permanent lip lock. |
| Your Superhero Profile |
 Your Superhero Name is The Mega Glory Your Superpower is Gadgets Your Weakness is Cowboys Your Weapon is Your Nuclear Shotgun Your Mode of Transportation is Giraffe |
| In a Past Life... |
 You Were: An Arrogant Monk. Where You Lived: Thailand. How You Died: Killed in Battle. |
Your Ideal Relationship is Polyamory 
You want to have your cake... and everyone else's.
Which isn't a bad thing, if everyone else gets to eat too!
You're too much of a free spirit to be tied down by a traditional relationship.
You think relationships should be open and free, with few restrictions.
Let me know who you end up being. Afterall, I've shown you mine...
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Highly Recommended
So, Friend/Agent/Editor Extrordinaire brought over dinner tonight. And two bottles of wine. Five hours later, we have talked ourselves hoarse, finished off both bottles and my foot feels GREAT. If you've got something broken, think about an evening like this. Trust me. ;)
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee (though I should probably just have water).
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee (though I should probably just have water).
Friday, September 16, 2005
Looting or Living?
Over the last few days, I have really tried to refrain from writing about Katrina and her aftermath. Other people are saying what I would say and saying more eloquently. And, quite honestly, I've needed a break. But a conversation I had with the Grill Master has been simmering in the back of the brain and I need to get it out.
We have been appalled by the looters. Not the people who have been taking the food and goods they need to survive but the looters. I have been appalled myself. And yet, as I sat on the deck, warm and safe and dry with a fabulous dinner being prepared inside by the Divine M and spoke with the Grill Master, I got to thinking...
You have lost everything. Everything. There is nothing left but the wet, filthy clothes on your back and your crying baby or your eldery mother. You are wading through water up to your chest with your child on your back because the water is too high for him to walk. You have walked away from your dog knowing she will probably drown because your child is more important to you. You have no idea where your sister and her children are, or if they are even alive. Maybe you have a garbage bag of belongings floating out in front of you. You are heading to the Convention Center because, although it's in squalor, there is no where else to go. And, there, in a window are diamonds. A $10,000 necklace. A $5000 bracelet. A couple pair of earrings that would go for $500 a pop.
No one is looking because they are all in their own, personal struggles and too preoccupied with their own shattered lives to notice you. Or no one is looking because there is no one left to look.
In a day or a week or a month you are going to have to start over. From what? With what? When there is nothing, how do you even begin to start over? And who's to say those aren't great-grandmama's jewels? Who's to say they haven't been in the family for years and have just been too treasured to sell, even when times got a little tough? You've got a child on your back and all that is standing between you and having something to start over with is a thin plate of glass.
Or there is no child ~ and you've still lost everything.
I'm 35, no kids, and there is nothing because the flood waters took it? And there is a something. Right there. Behind a thin piece of glass. There is tomorrow. There is a glimmer of hope when I've lost everything else.
Honestly, I think I might just break that glass. Shove those jewels deep in my pockets where they would be harder for someone else to find and keep wading. I don't know. I might not. I might trust my friends and family and God and just keep on keeping on until I was out. The point is...I don't know.
Some of the looters were out of control and using the chaos as a cover for violence and crime. I have no doubt. But some of them...I'm more willing to give the benefit of the doubt than I was. Walk a mile in my shoes and all that. It's something to think about anyway. And something I hope I never have to truly learn.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
We have been appalled by the looters. Not the people who have been taking the food and goods they need to survive but the looters. I have been appalled myself. And yet, as I sat on the deck, warm and safe and dry with a fabulous dinner being prepared inside by the Divine M and spoke with the Grill Master, I got to thinking...
You have lost everything. Everything. There is nothing left but the wet, filthy clothes on your back and your crying baby or your eldery mother. You are wading through water up to your chest with your child on your back because the water is too high for him to walk. You have walked away from your dog knowing she will probably drown because your child is more important to you. You have no idea where your sister and her children are, or if they are even alive. Maybe you have a garbage bag of belongings floating out in front of you. You are heading to the Convention Center because, although it's in squalor, there is no where else to go. And, there, in a window are diamonds. A $10,000 necklace. A $5000 bracelet. A couple pair of earrings that would go for $500 a pop.
No one is looking because they are all in their own, personal struggles and too preoccupied with their own shattered lives to notice you. Or no one is looking because there is no one left to look.
In a day or a week or a month you are going to have to start over. From what? With what? When there is nothing, how do you even begin to start over? And who's to say those aren't great-grandmama's jewels? Who's to say they haven't been in the family for years and have just been too treasured to sell, even when times got a little tough? You've got a child on your back and all that is standing between you and having something to start over with is a thin plate of glass.
Or there is no child ~ and you've still lost everything.
I'm 35, no kids, and there is nothing because the flood waters took it? And there is a something. Right there. Behind a thin piece of glass. There is tomorrow. There is a glimmer of hope when I've lost everything else.
Honestly, I think I might just break that glass. Shove those jewels deep in my pockets where they would be harder for someone else to find and keep wading. I don't know. I might not. I might trust my friends and family and God and just keep on keeping on until I was out. The point is...I don't know.
Some of the looters were out of control and using the chaos as a cover for violence and crime. I have no doubt. But some of them...I'm more willing to give the benefit of the doubt than I was. Walk a mile in my shoes and all that. It's something to think about anyway. And something I hope I never have to truly learn.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
The Pobble and the Break, Take 2
I have a broken foot. WTF!!! On the way up the stairs while being the Writer in the Basement, I tripped. Fell up the stairs. Coffee, books, papers, and the Pobble went flying. Now, I fall up their stairs once a visit. If I'm there a weekend or a week, it doesn't matter. I fall up the stairs. But this time...
This time, apparently, I broke one of those little bones in the top of my foot. And there's not really a damn thing that anyone can do about it. I have to keep it wrapped, keep it elevated, and stay off it. She looks at me and says "stay off it until Monday."
"Until Monday"...??? But I have places to go and people to visit and an apartment to clean and, and, and... And I get to spend the next three days hopping between my couch and my bed. We are Not amused.
Okay, We are. Falling up the stairs is amusing. But not having to stay off my foot when I'm busy dammit. Ah, Life as Pobble...
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
This time, apparently, I broke one of those little bones in the top of my foot. And there's not really a damn thing that anyone can do about it. I have to keep it wrapped, keep it elevated, and stay off it. She looks at me and says "stay off it until Monday."
"Until Monday"...??? But I have places to go and people to visit and an apartment to clean and, and, and... And I get to spend the next three days hopping between my couch and my bed. We are Not amused.
Okay, We are. Falling up the stairs is amusing. But not having to stay off my foot when I'm busy dammit. Ah, Life as Pobble...
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Tag Time
I was tagged by Jaded. Here goes nothing:
7 things I plan to do before I die:
1. eat spaghetti in the Medina
2. visit Africa, Istanbul, and Zanzibar
3. live at the Ritz
4. have a house big enough for ~ and actually have ~ my Bed and Breakfast Party
5. quit smoking ~ for real
6. have a stranger recognize me from the picture on the back of her/his book and ask for my autograph
7. go on a national book signing/reading tour
7 things I can do:
1. write
2. sing
3. act
4. listen
5. entertain and plan parties
6. tell time within 15 minutes by looking at the sun
7. navigate red tape
7 things I cannot do:
1. understand anything remotely scientific
2. speak another language other than English
3. stay on an elliptical machine
4. drive the speed limit on the interstate
5. babysit children under the age of 6 for any length of time
6. keep my apartment organized
7. make any kind of craft, art project, sewing project, whatever
7 things that attract me to the opposite (or same) sex:
(for real, not just to look at and drool)
1. intelligence
2. sense of humor
3. ability to listen
4. independent but still connected
5. social skills
6. someone who doesn't always put up with my crap
7. the ability to know what stuff IS crap (yeah, Jaded, I have to keep these last two; couldn't have said them better)
7 things that I say most often:
1. I hear you clucking
2. Hear this the way I mean it
3. Son of a bitch!
4. Oooooo!!!! Oooooo!!! Ooooo!!!!!
5. How can there be no food in the house?
6. I could've sworn I left it right here.
7. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee
7 celebrity crushes:
1. Brian Dennehy
2. Morgan Freeman
3. Chow Yun-Fat
4. Raul Julia (sniff)
5. Richard T. Jones
6. Sean Connery
7. Josh Hartnett
7 people I want to do this:
See, this is the one I was dreading most. If you are hoping to be tagged, consider yourself tagged. Just let me know you are taking the tag. If you don't blog but read this and want to do it, leave it in the comments section. And if you really can't be bothered, don't worry about it. ;)
These are Pobble Thoughts (with a little help from Jaded). That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
7 things I plan to do before I die:
1. eat spaghetti in the Medina
2. visit Africa, Istanbul, and Zanzibar
3. live at the Ritz
4. have a house big enough for ~ and actually have ~ my Bed and Breakfast Party
5. quit smoking ~ for real
6. have a stranger recognize me from the picture on the back of her/his book and ask for my autograph
7. go on a national book signing/reading tour
7 things I can do:
1. write
2. sing
3. act
4. listen
5. entertain and plan parties
6. tell time within 15 minutes by looking at the sun
7. navigate red tape
7 things I cannot do:
1. understand anything remotely scientific
2. speak another language other than English
3. stay on an elliptical machine
4. drive the speed limit on the interstate
5. babysit children under the age of 6 for any length of time
6. keep my apartment organized
7. make any kind of craft, art project, sewing project, whatever
7 things that attract me to the opposite (or same) sex:
(for real, not just to look at and drool)
1. intelligence
2. sense of humor
3. ability to listen
4. independent but still connected
5. social skills
6. someone who doesn't always put up with my crap
7. the ability to know what stuff IS crap (yeah, Jaded, I have to keep these last two; couldn't have said them better)
7 things that I say most often:
1. I hear you clucking
2. Hear this the way I mean it
3. Son of a bitch!
4. Oooooo!!!! Oooooo!!! Ooooo!!!!!
5. How can there be no food in the house?
6. I could've sworn I left it right here.
7. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee
7 celebrity crushes:
1. Brian Dennehy
2. Morgan Freeman
3. Chow Yun-Fat
4. Raul Julia (sniff)
5. Richard T. Jones
6. Sean Connery
7. Josh Hartnett
7 people I want to do this:
See, this is the one I was dreading most. If you are hoping to be tagged, consider yourself tagged. Just let me know you are taking the tag. If you don't blog but read this and want to do it, leave it in the comments section. And if you really can't be bothered, don't worry about it. ;)
These are Pobble Thoughts (with a little help from Jaded). That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
The Pobble and the...
...Break: I needed some time off. Some time away from blogging and reading and thinking. Too many wounds opened at once. Too much good news at the same time. I felt like I was going to implode with everything that was going on inside of me at the same time. So I took a break. And now I'm back.
...Businessmen: On my way home from being the Writer in the Basement, I upgraded to first class ($35 ~ gotta love AirTran!). I'm sitting there in my capri pants, re-reading a Harry Potter, ponytail happily swinging behind me when I get THAT feeling ~ the feeling I'm being watched. So I look up. The two men across the aisle from me are looking at me. So, being a Bold and Brazen Pobble, I look back at them. They look away and begin a whispered conversation. I go back to Hogwarts. As we were getting off the plane, I think I figured it out. There were seven of us in first class. Six of us were white business men in suits and ties, carrying briefcases and looking important. Then there was me. The Boston Pobble. Looking as little like a New England businessman as I can possibly look. Now, maybe that wasn't why they were looking at me. Maybe I had something in my nose or reminded them of someone they once knew or maybe they were just playing the Make-Up-A-Story-About-The-Other-People-'Cause-We're-Bored game. Still, it was interesting to notice. Yes, I'm a sociology nerd.
...Lost Wallet: Same trip and I'm in the back of a cab so I don't have to lug my crap on the T. Stuck in the door handle across from me is a wallet. I reached over to hand it to the cabbie and, for some reason, decided to check it. $310 in cash. Oh shit. Now, $310 could have paid for the trip I had just taken, including food, and given me enough to do my laundry and buy my groceries. While no one would sneeze at being given $310, it's a lot of money for me right now. A LOT. But I couldn't do it. Because if it's a lot for me, it's probably a lot for him, too. And even if it's not, even if it's his play money, it's still his money. Luckily for me, all of Boston is under construction so there are police at every corner, standing there, doing...something, I assume. So I got out of the cab and bopped over to the cop on the corner and turned it in. It was the right decision. And I know that. And I am still wondering if I'm a really good person or just stupid.
...The Big Decision: I am afraid I have to move from Boston. I don't want to move from Boston. I love Boston. I have better friends here than anyone has a right to expect. I have the Agent Extrordinairre (still don't know how to spell that word) here. I have a publishing company here. I have the greatest apartment ever here. I am the Boston Pobble for God's sake. And Boston is now the most expensive city in the country (actual reports say this; I'm not just pulling it out of my ass). I'm thinking about Philadelphia or New Haven. New Haven probably isn't big enough (I'm a city girl through and through) but I haven't ruled it out. What I know is I can live in an equivalent apartment in an equivalent neighborhood in Philly for half (seriously, HALF) of what I pay to live in Boston. So I know I have to decide. And I have to decide BEFORE my money runs out and the decision is made by not making a decision. But I don't have to like it.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
...Businessmen: On my way home from being the Writer in the Basement, I upgraded to first class ($35 ~ gotta love AirTran!). I'm sitting there in my capri pants, re-reading a Harry Potter, ponytail happily swinging behind me when I get THAT feeling ~ the feeling I'm being watched. So I look up. The two men across the aisle from me are looking at me. So, being a Bold and Brazen Pobble, I look back at them. They look away and begin a whispered conversation. I go back to Hogwarts. As we were getting off the plane, I think I figured it out. There were seven of us in first class. Six of us were white business men in suits and ties, carrying briefcases and looking important. Then there was me. The Boston Pobble. Looking as little like a New England businessman as I can possibly look. Now, maybe that wasn't why they were looking at me. Maybe I had something in my nose or reminded them of someone they once knew or maybe they were just playing the Make-Up-A-Story-About-The-Other-People-'Cause-We're-Bored game. Still, it was interesting to notice. Yes, I'm a sociology nerd.
...Lost Wallet: Same trip and I'm in the back of a cab so I don't have to lug my crap on the T. Stuck in the door handle across from me is a wallet. I reached over to hand it to the cabbie and, for some reason, decided to check it. $310 in cash. Oh shit. Now, $310 could have paid for the trip I had just taken, including food, and given me enough to do my laundry and buy my groceries. While no one would sneeze at being given $310, it's a lot of money for me right now. A LOT. But I couldn't do it. Because if it's a lot for me, it's probably a lot for him, too. And even if it's not, even if it's his play money, it's still his money. Luckily for me, all of Boston is under construction so there are police at every corner, standing there, doing...something, I assume. So I got out of the cab and bopped over to the cop on the corner and turned it in. It was the right decision. And I know that. And I am still wondering if I'm a really good person or just stupid.
...The Big Decision: I am afraid I have to move from Boston. I don't want to move from Boston. I love Boston. I have better friends here than anyone has a right to expect. I have the Agent Extrordinairre (still don't know how to spell that word) here. I have a publishing company here. I have the greatest apartment ever here. I am the Boston Pobble for God's sake. And Boston is now the most expensive city in the country (actual reports say this; I'm not just pulling it out of my ass). I'm thinking about Philadelphia or New Haven. New Haven probably isn't big enough (I'm a city girl through and through) but I haven't ruled it out. What I know is I can live in an equivalent apartment in an equivalent neighborhood in Philly for half (seriously, HALF) of what I pay to live in Boston. So I know I have to decide. And I have to decide BEFORE my money runs out and the decision is made by not making a decision. But I don't have to like it.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Friday, September 09, 2005
The Grill Master
As I mentioned in my last post, the Writer in the Basement has taken up residence again. ~Whew~ Too, too long.
While I knew it had been too long, that fact was brought home on Wednesday night when The Grill Master got home from work. He works steel contstruction so you can't touch him until he gets a shower. Trust me. So, he went into the shower and I got back on the computer. 30 minutes later, there were footsteps on the stairs. Showered, dressed and clean, he had come down for his hug. My arms went around him, I managed to say "I'll let go in a minute" and I burst into tears. Bless his heart, he understood. He's been there through most of it with me. And for the first time in two months, I felt safe enough to just let go.
TGM is a big man. BIG. Hell, he works steel construction. Don't tell him I told you but he's also a klondike bar ~ all hard and rough on the outside with a center that can melt in a heartbeat. He's the Divine M's husband, the Poo's father, and one of my favorite people. There is little more beautiful than walking in from shopping with The Divine M and finding TGM and the Poo asleep on the couch, her little body curled up on his (large) chest.
So, we have sat outside and shared the news of the last two months, spoken in silence, celebrated the good and grieved the bad. We have talked philosophically and stupidly (sometimes at the same time). I've gotten my Grill Master fix ~ and I already look forward to the next one.
He's a good man and I'm lucky to have him as a friend, as my family, as a reality check and a safe place. Tonight, we're having steaks. :)
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ but I don't need it 'cause The Grill Master will have it made for me when I get back up there.
While I knew it had been too long, that fact was brought home on Wednesday night when The Grill Master got home from work. He works steel contstruction so you can't touch him until he gets a shower. Trust me. So, he went into the shower and I got back on the computer. 30 minutes later, there were footsteps on the stairs. Showered, dressed and clean, he had come down for his hug. My arms went around him, I managed to say "I'll let go in a minute" and I burst into tears. Bless his heart, he understood. He's been there through most of it with me. And for the first time in two months, I felt safe enough to just let go.
TGM is a big man. BIG. Hell, he works steel construction. Don't tell him I told you but he's also a klondike bar ~ all hard and rough on the outside with a center that can melt in a heartbeat. He's the Divine M's husband, the Poo's father, and one of my favorite people. There is little more beautiful than walking in from shopping with The Divine M and finding TGM and the Poo asleep on the couch, her little body curled up on his (large) chest.
So, we have sat outside and shared the news of the last two months, spoken in silence, celebrated the good and grieved the bad. We have talked philosophically and stupidly (sometimes at the same time). I've gotten my Grill Master fix ~ and I already look forward to the next one.
He's a good man and I'm lucky to have him as a friend, as my family, as a reality check and a safe place. Tonight, we're having steaks. :)
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ but I don't need it 'cause The Grill Master will have it made for me when I get back up there.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Goodbye to a Good Man
I am finally back in the basement where I belong. It was less than three months and it feels like three years. And thank God I am here. I got one of the best phone calls of my life today ~ and will write about it in another post, I'm sure. But I also got a horrible one.
It was my ex-husband. It's actually good that he called because it assures us all he's alive and hasn't been killed in Iraq where he is serving. While I don't want to be married to him any longer, I don't want him dead either. But he was calling to tell me that his brother, 39, married with two young children, living in Rhode Island, put a shotgun to his head three weeks ago and pulled the trigger.
Apparently, he had been talking about it but there is this myth out there that says "if they talk about it, they won't really do it" so his wife, T, didn't pay it much mind. He and T got into a big fight, she mentioned divorce, and took the kids to her parents' for the weekend to think about it all. When she and the kids got home Sunday night, she found him.
And I am going through all the emotions that one goes through when someone we care about commits suicide. I'm sad, I'm hurting and I'm angry as hell. What kind of pain must he have been in? How loud must the demons have been? How alone must he have felt. And still, why did he have to go and do something so stupid, so permanent?
This person I've laughed with, argued with, cried with, spent holidays with, rolled my eyes at, shared meals with...isn't any more. My ex's family has been far more definitive about the divorce than mine (which I respect) so I lost him as a brother when I asked for a divorce. But it's different now.
My faith is such that he is safe, in heaven with his father, away from his demons and his pain, and embraced by a greater love than he ever could have known here. And I'm still angry. And sad. And hurting.
If you are thinking about suicide, please don't do it. Pick up the phone and call someone. Leave a comment here and let this community support you. Go to a hospital, a church, a friend. Because someone, even someone you think has already let go of you for other reasons, will care.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Bye, Pat. I'll miss you.
It was my ex-husband. It's actually good that he called because it assures us all he's alive and hasn't been killed in Iraq where he is serving. While I don't want to be married to him any longer, I don't want him dead either. But he was calling to tell me that his brother, 39, married with two young children, living in Rhode Island, put a shotgun to his head three weeks ago and pulled the trigger.
Apparently, he had been talking about it but there is this myth out there that says "if they talk about it, they won't really do it" so his wife, T, didn't pay it much mind. He and T got into a big fight, she mentioned divorce, and took the kids to her parents' for the weekend to think about it all. When she and the kids got home Sunday night, she found him.
And I am going through all the emotions that one goes through when someone we care about commits suicide. I'm sad, I'm hurting and I'm angry as hell. What kind of pain must he have been in? How loud must the demons have been? How alone must he have felt. And still, why did he have to go and do something so stupid, so permanent?
This person I've laughed with, argued with, cried with, spent holidays with, rolled my eyes at, shared meals with...isn't any more. My ex's family has been far more definitive about the divorce than mine (which I respect) so I lost him as a brother when I asked for a divorce. But it's different now.
My faith is such that he is safe, in heaven with his father, away from his demons and his pain, and embraced by a greater love than he ever could have known here. And I'm still angry. And sad. And hurting.
If you are thinking about suicide, please don't do it. Pick up the phone and call someone. Leave a comment here and let this community support you. Go to a hospital, a church, a friend. Because someone, even someone you think has already let go of you for other reasons, will care.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Bye, Pat. I'll miss you.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Two O' Clock
1. It's 2 a.m. and I'm awake. This was not the plan.
2. I have a headache.
3. My mind is racing.
4. I had a dream where Angelina Jolie was my best friend. No one believed me but Nemeria and The Lovely Cats so they were the only ones who met her. We ate chocolate and dangled our feet in the Charles River and all agreed she made a lovely best friend.
5. I have no idea if Angelina Jolie would make a good best friend and don't much care when I'm awake. Even at 2 a.m.
6. I used to work in a porn store. I sent my mother and step-father fun care packages. Sometimes I would forget where I worked and be momentarily startled by a nipple until I remembered. This is how I met the Muppet.
7. When you become friends with someone over a box of extra-large dildos, there is nothing you cannot discuss.
8. This is a boring post but I think I might sleep now.
Those are (sleepy, two in the morning) Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
2. I have a headache.
3. My mind is racing.
4. I had a dream where Angelina Jolie was my best friend. No one believed me but Nemeria and The Lovely Cats so they were the only ones who met her. We ate chocolate and dangled our feet in the Charles River and all agreed she made a lovely best friend.
5. I have no idea if Angelina Jolie would make a good best friend and don't much care when I'm awake. Even at 2 a.m.
6. I used to work in a porn store. I sent my mother and step-father fun care packages. Sometimes I would forget where I worked and be momentarily startled by a nipple until I remembered. This is how I met the Muppet.
7. When you become friends with someone over a box of extra-large dildos, there is nothing you cannot discuss.
8. This is a boring post but I think I might sleep now.
Those are (sleepy, two in the morning) Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
A Weekend at the Cathouse
The Lovely Cats got the flu on Friday. On Saturday, it was worse. She woke up feverish, hoarse and achy. The Tom Cat took the kids and the laundry. I took The Lovely Cats. By Sunday morning, her fever had broken. By Sunday afternoon, mine had risen. The Tom Cat took the kids and the laundry. The Lovely Cats took me. What a pair we make.
The Princess Kitten and I had a miscommunication. She thought I was awake. I thought I was asleep. My assessment of the situation was the more accurate of the two. Until she pounced. At which point, I was brought around to her way of thinking. Now, waking up is not something I do under the best of circumstances. Having the flu is not the best of circumstances.
She pounced, as kittens are wont to do. I, believing it a giant, mutant spider attack (which I KNOW is being planned against me), start screaming. The Princess Kitten, not knowing what was going on but suddenly hearing her beloved Aunt Mame screaming like a banshee, started screaming. The Lovely Cats, oblivious to the miscommunication taking place in the other room, only aware that suddenly we are screaming, starts screaming. I came to my senses first, which is saying something, and slowly the screaming stopped. Eventually, we will laugh about it. At the time, there was just screaming.
Eleven hours of sleep last night instead of the drive back to Boston and I'm human again. The Princess Kitten was glad to see me feeling better this morning and only a little disappointed that I had chosen a school day to recover. My laundry was done, courtesy of The Tom Cat. The Pobble Mobile has returned me safely to Boston. It wasn't the weekend any of us expected. But I'm sure we will be able to laugh about it all...in another ten years or so. ;)
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
The Princess Kitten and I had a miscommunication. She thought I was awake. I thought I was asleep. My assessment of the situation was the more accurate of the two. Until she pounced. At which point, I was brought around to her way of thinking. Now, waking up is not something I do under the best of circumstances. Having the flu is not the best of circumstances.
She pounced, as kittens are wont to do. I, believing it a giant, mutant spider attack (which I KNOW is being planned against me), start screaming. The Princess Kitten, not knowing what was going on but suddenly hearing her beloved Aunt Mame screaming like a banshee, started screaming. The Lovely Cats, oblivious to the miscommunication taking place in the other room, only aware that suddenly we are screaming, starts screaming. I came to my senses first, which is saying something, and slowly the screaming stopped. Eventually, we will laugh about it. At the time, there was just screaming.
Eleven hours of sleep last night instead of the drive back to Boston and I'm human again. The Princess Kitten was glad to see me feeling better this morning and only a little disappointed that I had chosen a school day to recover. My laundry was done, courtesy of The Tom Cat. The Pobble Mobile has returned me safely to Boston. It wasn't the weekend any of us expected. But I'm sure we will be able to laugh about it all...in another ten years or so. ;)
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Snapshots v. Reality
Part of what I love about blogging is "meeting" new people. Getting some insight into others lives, thoughts, dreams, ideals. It's a lovely snapshot of anoher person. What is hard sometimes is to remember is that we are not meeting. We are seeing one or two facets of a (probably as most of us are) truly multi-faceted person. It is a snapshot. And it is a snapshot without any nonverbals to help us along. Just because I choose to post on one aspect of a situation, doesn't mean I am oblivious to or cannot see the logic in its opposite. If I write the words with a certain tone, how do you know which tone that is? Perhaps you are reading it with a completely different tone. And of course, how do you know I am reading (both literally and figuratively) you correctly? You don't. And, the point is, neither do I.
I hope that I am so much more than the person presented in this blog and my comments on other blogs. I hope my favorite bloggers are more than their blogs. I hope we all have nuances and subtlties and variations that make us More than anything we can capture on a computer screen. Everything here is honest and real and a very important part of me ~ and it's not all that I am. Dear God, please don't let me be only what I can write here. How horribly dull that would be.
I am liberal, conservative, a Constitutionalist, a woman of faith, a woman of doubt, angry, happy, dissatisfied, satisfied, searching and found. And so much more. And amazingly stable and comfortable in all of these things. We live in such an either or society. I feel like a great big AND. I expect other people to be great big ANDs as well. At least it's never dull.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
I hope that I am so much more than the person presented in this blog and my comments on other blogs. I hope my favorite bloggers are more than their blogs. I hope we all have nuances and subtlties and variations that make us More than anything we can capture on a computer screen. Everything here is honest and real and a very important part of me ~ and it's not all that I am. Dear God, please don't let me be only what I can write here. How horribly dull that would be.
I am liberal, conservative, a Constitutionalist, a woman of faith, a woman of doubt, angry, happy, dissatisfied, satisfied, searching and found. And so much more. And amazingly stable and comfortable in all of these things. We live in such an either or society. I feel like a great big AND. I expect other people to be great big ANDs as well. At least it's never dull.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
A Sign of Intelligence
One of the professors I respected the most when I was in school defined intelligence as the ability and willingness to change one's mind when presented with a better arguement. Not necessarily a more eloquently presented one, but a truly better arguement. (Personally, I always thought it would take a respectable amount of intelligence to differentiate the two but that's neither here nor there...) That has been my personal measuring stick ever since. Am I being intelligent or am I being stubborn? Generally speaking, I do pretty well.
Unless it's something that makes me really, really passionate. At that point, I tend to not only ignore other arguements (eloquently presented or not) but also facts themselves. *Sigh*
On this topic, my biggest fear is that I will become as closed-minded as the people whose voices I try to counter. Because yes, even liberals can be closed-minded. I know one man who is so liberal he's consevative. He is always Right. He never misses a chance to try to prove his Rightness. Whereas, if you have read this blog previously, you are aware I also know a woman who is as consevative as he is liberal and as open-minded as he thinks he is.
I have two heros ~ John Adams (making his second aprearance in this blog) and Nelson Mandela. Talk about passionate men. Passionate, stubborn and idealistic men. And by whatever definition you use, whatever measurng stick, they were intelligent. They recognized the facts, even when the facts weren't what they wanted the facts to be. They kept their passion ~ and their intellgence.
There have been several things recently that have tapped into my passion and I have been Right about them. Don't give me facts. Don't give me statistics. I'm passionate and I'm Right. *sigh* If it were only that easy. On days like that, I envy the man who is always Right. He never has to question or listen or learn. Then I remember my professor. I read a particularly Jaded and Opinionated blog. I think about John and Nelson. And I decide I would rather be Intelligent than Right.
It's not easy. I'm not terribly good at it, honestly. And I will keep trying. Keep listening to the arguements and weighing the facts and, hopefully, growing.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Unless it's something that makes me really, really passionate. At that point, I tend to not only ignore other arguements (eloquently presented or not) but also facts themselves. *Sigh*
On this topic, my biggest fear is that I will become as closed-minded as the people whose voices I try to counter. Because yes, even liberals can be closed-minded. I know one man who is so liberal he's consevative. He is always Right. He never misses a chance to try to prove his Rightness. Whereas, if you have read this blog previously, you are aware I also know a woman who is as consevative as he is liberal and as open-minded as he thinks he is.
I have two heros ~ John Adams (making his second aprearance in this blog) and Nelson Mandela. Talk about passionate men. Passionate, stubborn and idealistic men. And by whatever definition you use, whatever measurng stick, they were intelligent. They recognized the facts, even when the facts weren't what they wanted the facts to be. They kept their passion ~ and their intellgence.
There have been several things recently that have tapped into my passion and I have been Right about them. Don't give me facts. Don't give me statistics. I'm passionate and I'm Right. *sigh* If it were only that easy. On days like that, I envy the man who is always Right. He never has to question or listen or learn. Then I remember my professor. I read a particularly Jaded and Opinionated blog. I think about John and Nelson. And I decide I would rather be Intelligent than Right.
It's not easy. I'm not terribly good at it, honestly. And I will keep trying. Keep listening to the arguements and weighing the facts and, hopefully, growing.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Instead of a Comment
1. I have added new links. These are not every blog I have read. They are the ones that have touched me, moved me, made me think, made me love. I won't make that comment to all of them. I hope they read it here.
Those are Pobble (and Nemeria's, Cats's, CrackerLilo's, GMH's, Jaded's and DonDon's)Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Those are Pobble (and Nemeria's, Cats's, CrackerLilo's, GMH's, Jaded's and DonDon's)Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Friday, September 02, 2005
An Open Letter to W.
Dear Mr. President ~
Why? Why are the people of New Orleans disposable to you? Why are their lives worth less than yours? Is it because they are poor? Is it because they are black? Is it because they didn't vote for you? Tell us, please.
There are people who are angry you haven't gone to New Orleans yet. Honestly, I don't have a problem with that. What would you do there besides eat food that no one else has, drink potable water that no one else has and use flushing toilets which no one else has? But why, Mr. President, is not every single helicopter in this country not evacuating people out? Why aren't more of out National Guard soldiers here, guardng our nation? And why aren't you in the Astrodome serving turkey dinners to YOUR citizens who have become YOUR refugees as they finally make it to safety? Might you actually have to look them in the eyes?
You must know, as the rest of us do, that the US responded faster to the tsunami than we have responded to one of our own states. You must know, as the rest of us do, that the people who are still left in New Orleans are the ones who were too old, too weak or too poor to leave. You must know, as the rest of us do, that women are being raped. You must know, as the rest of us do, that "survivors" are dying.
These people, these black people, these poor people, these female people, these weak people, even these dead people ARE INDEED PEOPLE, Mr. President. And, last year, you stood up and took the responsibility of making them YOUR people. Do you know, as the rest of us do, that they are none of them, not a single one of them, disposable? Are you willng to know?
From ~
~ The Boston Pobble
Why? Why are the people of New Orleans disposable to you? Why are their lives worth less than yours? Is it because they are poor? Is it because they are black? Is it because they didn't vote for you? Tell us, please.
There are people who are angry you haven't gone to New Orleans yet. Honestly, I don't have a problem with that. What would you do there besides eat food that no one else has, drink potable water that no one else has and use flushing toilets which no one else has? But why, Mr. President, is not every single helicopter in this country not evacuating people out? Why aren't more of out National Guard soldiers here, guardng our nation? And why aren't you in the Astrodome serving turkey dinners to YOUR citizens who have become YOUR refugees as they finally make it to safety? Might you actually have to look them in the eyes?
You must know, as the rest of us do, that the US responded faster to the tsunami than we have responded to one of our own states. You must know, as the rest of us do, that the people who are still left in New Orleans are the ones who were too old, too weak or too poor to leave. You must know, as the rest of us do, that women are being raped. You must know, as the rest of us do, that "survivors" are dying.
These people, these black people, these poor people, these female people, these weak people, even these dead people ARE INDEED PEOPLE, Mr. President. And, last year, you stood up and took the responsibility of making them YOUR people. Do you know, as the rest of us do, that they are none of them, not a single one of them, disposable? Are you willng to know?
From ~
~ The Boston Pobble
The Rev. Dr. Weenie
Several blogs ago, Cracker Lilo was sitting on her front porch (with a glass of cold, sweet tea or a mimosa, I like to think) when she asked me when my dad died. I have been mulling that answer ever since. Now, the factual answer is easy. The Rev. Dr. C. Rex died on December 26, 1997 between the hours of 9:30 pm and 11:00 pm. I was the last person to see him alive and I was the first person to see him dead. That's why I know the time. His last words (as far as anyone knows, anyway) were to me, telling me he loved me as I went to bed. The last words he heard (as far as anyone knows) were me telling him I loved him as I went to bed. This doesn't suck. It was a massive stroke, very fast, and so major we are actually quite relieved he didn't survive.
So what's hard about answering this question? Because I won't talk about his death without talking about his life. And how do you capture a life like his in a blog ~ even a long one? Let's try anyway, shall we? :)
Daddy was a presence. He loved a good, long laugh, a strong drink, a cigarette and a beautiful woman. I called him a Weenie and told him he was being weenie-istic. He adopted it as his personal nickname from me and would sign cards to me that way. He was more willing to love and accept than anyone I've ever known. In his office, he had a sign that read "Feminism Spoken Here." Physically, he was a cross between Santa Claus and Col. Sanders (of the fried chicken fame). He was a college professor, a minister, a public speaker, and a singer. These four professions made for some interesting personality traits. As a minister, he was about Love and Acceptance. As a professor of communication studies, he was about communicating. His favorite line was "Never stop communicating. Communicate at the top of your lungs if you have to but don't stop communicating." As a public speaker, he was about meeting his audience where they were, not where he wanted them to already be. And as a singer, he was about passion.
We could play cribbage for HOURS as the world moved around us. He instilled in me a love of classical music and the tall ships. He was a sailor at heart and used to say he'd fought with Nelson at Trafalgar. He had originally wanted to be a Navy chaplain but, back in the day when rotator cuff surgery was still only a fantasy, failed the physical so often they finally told him to stop coming back. For which we are all eternally grateful because that's why his first love wouldn't marry him ~ she wanted to be an officer's wife. He was my staunchest defender, even more than I knew at the time. Once, one of his students asked me if I was ever jealous of the love and attention given to his students. All I could do was laugh. Because if you took all the love and attention he gave all of them ~ over 20 years worth of students ~ and added it all up, it still wouldn't come close to the love and attention he had for me and my sister.
He never hit me. Didn't believe in physical discipline. In fact, at one point we were doing a show together and had been cast as father and daughter. The director told him to swat my butt as his character shooed me off stage. He refused. He said "I've never hit her before in her life; I'm not going to start now." The place froze. The director took a deep breath and said, "Well, can you raise your voice and shake your finger in her face?" We all laughed as Daddy said "Oh yeah. I'm really good at that." So that's what he did. And the man could sigh in a way that would make me want to climb in a hole. Whenever I got in trouble (and did I ever get into trouble!) he would send me to my room. Then, after things had calmed down, would come in and sit on my floor with me and talk ~ just to make sure I understood why I had been punished. When I decided to get divorced, I told people my mother and sister would eventually forgive me but my father wouldn't have ~ because there would be nothing to forgive in his mind.
At 17, my mother found me crying in a corner of my room. I wouldn't move; could barely speak. She called my dad and he canceled his classes and came home. Slowly, he talked me into letting him come in, letting him sit on my bed, letting him sit on my floor with me, getting me to move to the bed, and then, finally, oh so finally, got me to a place where I could leave my room, with him holding my hand. I was hospitalized for depression the next day ~ and Daddy wrote me everyday we didn't have visiting hours.
He taught me to keep score in baseball, sing tenor in barbershop, and to know the difference between a fun practiacl joke and a cruel one. I know 7x8 = 56 because of his infinite patience.
Now, don't get me wrong. The man could get on my very last nerve. He was NO saint. Yet when we got pissed with and at each other, we dealt with it. As a minister, a public speaker, and a singer, the man had Lungs. I mean, you wanted sustained volume, he could give you sustained volume. When I was a child, I would start to yell because I was angry and he would ask "Do you really want to get into a yelling match with me?" And I would calm down and we would talk. Then I grew up and became a public speaker and singer myself. The next time he asked that question, I took a deep breath and answered back "Hell yes 'cause I'm Pissed!" And we went at it. We argued many times after that but he never asked that question again. I could hold my own.
Still, he managed to raise two daughters ~ one a Pagan and one bi-sexual and accept us both to the point of nonchalance. To the day he died, I'm not sure he understood how rare that was. To the day he died, I'm not sure he knew how rare He was.
In the almost eight years since he died, I have done things that I wouldn't have done while he was alive. Some of them good, that would make him very proud. Some of them not so good, that I know would make him sigh. Yet through it all, I know he loves me. That was NEVER even a question I had to ask. Still don't.
So, that's my dad. The Rev. Dr. Weenie. If you knew him, you're life was better for it. And if you never had the opportunity to meet him, just wait. You will. He's waiting on the other side. Go up, introduce yourself. He'll be the one who looks like a cross between Santa Claus and Col. Sanders. You'll be met with a hug. I promise.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
So what's hard about answering this question? Because I won't talk about his death without talking about his life. And how do you capture a life like his in a blog ~ even a long one? Let's try anyway, shall we? :)
Daddy was a presence. He loved a good, long laugh, a strong drink, a cigarette and a beautiful woman. I called him a Weenie and told him he was being weenie-istic. He adopted it as his personal nickname from me and would sign cards to me that way. He was more willing to love and accept than anyone I've ever known. In his office, he had a sign that read "Feminism Spoken Here." Physically, he was a cross between Santa Claus and Col. Sanders (of the fried chicken fame). He was a college professor, a minister, a public speaker, and a singer. These four professions made for some interesting personality traits. As a minister, he was about Love and Acceptance. As a professor of communication studies, he was about communicating. His favorite line was "Never stop communicating. Communicate at the top of your lungs if you have to but don't stop communicating." As a public speaker, he was about meeting his audience where they were, not where he wanted them to already be. And as a singer, he was about passion.
We could play cribbage for HOURS as the world moved around us. He instilled in me a love of classical music and the tall ships. He was a sailor at heart and used to say he'd fought with Nelson at Trafalgar. He had originally wanted to be a Navy chaplain but, back in the day when rotator cuff surgery was still only a fantasy, failed the physical so often they finally told him to stop coming back. For which we are all eternally grateful because that's why his first love wouldn't marry him ~ she wanted to be an officer's wife. He was my staunchest defender, even more than I knew at the time. Once, one of his students asked me if I was ever jealous of the love and attention given to his students. All I could do was laugh. Because if you took all the love and attention he gave all of them ~ over 20 years worth of students ~ and added it all up, it still wouldn't come close to the love and attention he had for me and my sister.
He never hit me. Didn't believe in physical discipline. In fact, at one point we were doing a show together and had been cast as father and daughter. The director told him to swat my butt as his character shooed me off stage. He refused. He said "I've never hit her before in her life; I'm not going to start now." The place froze. The director took a deep breath and said, "Well, can you raise your voice and shake your finger in her face?" We all laughed as Daddy said "Oh yeah. I'm really good at that." So that's what he did. And the man could sigh in a way that would make me want to climb in a hole. Whenever I got in trouble (and did I ever get into trouble!) he would send me to my room. Then, after things had calmed down, would come in and sit on my floor with me and talk ~ just to make sure I understood why I had been punished. When I decided to get divorced, I told people my mother and sister would eventually forgive me but my father wouldn't have ~ because there would be nothing to forgive in his mind.
At 17, my mother found me crying in a corner of my room. I wouldn't move; could barely speak. She called my dad and he canceled his classes and came home. Slowly, he talked me into letting him come in, letting him sit on my bed, letting him sit on my floor with me, getting me to move to the bed, and then, finally, oh so finally, got me to a place where I could leave my room, with him holding my hand. I was hospitalized for depression the next day ~ and Daddy wrote me everyday we didn't have visiting hours.
He taught me to keep score in baseball, sing tenor in barbershop, and to know the difference between a fun practiacl joke and a cruel one. I know 7x8 = 56 because of his infinite patience.
Now, don't get me wrong. The man could get on my very last nerve. He was NO saint. Yet when we got pissed with and at each other, we dealt with it. As a minister, a public speaker, and a singer, the man had Lungs. I mean, you wanted sustained volume, he could give you sustained volume. When I was a child, I would start to yell because I was angry and he would ask "Do you really want to get into a yelling match with me?" And I would calm down and we would talk. Then I grew up and became a public speaker and singer myself. The next time he asked that question, I took a deep breath and answered back "Hell yes 'cause I'm Pissed!" And we went at it. We argued many times after that but he never asked that question again. I could hold my own.
Still, he managed to raise two daughters ~ one a Pagan and one bi-sexual and accept us both to the point of nonchalance. To the day he died, I'm not sure he understood how rare that was. To the day he died, I'm not sure he knew how rare He was.
In the almost eight years since he died, I have done things that I wouldn't have done while he was alive. Some of them good, that would make him very proud. Some of them not so good, that I know would make him sigh. Yet through it all, I know he loves me. That was NEVER even a question I had to ask. Still don't.
So, that's my dad. The Rev. Dr. Weenie. If you knew him, you're life was better for it. And if you never had the opportunity to meet him, just wait. You will. He's waiting on the other side. Go up, introduce yourself. He'll be the one who looks like a cross between Santa Claus and Col. Sanders. You'll be met with a hug. I promise.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Time Out
You know, when my dad died, I remember pulling a friend into my bedroom and sitting there, holding her hand. We didn't talk or cry or rage. We just sat, holding hands. On 9/11, I finally pulled a trashy romance novel off my bookshelf and went to a restaurant I knew didn't have televisions. When my ex-husband was fighting his cancer, we took a day and went to buy little Christmas decorations for our room at Walter Reed.
The more stressful a time is, the more important time-outs are. It's a pretty fucking stressful time right now, friends. We are a nation at war ~ and are divided over it. We are facing one of, if not the, greatest natural disaster our country has ever known ~ and are divided over it. Our melting pot is beginning to crack from the heat of so many different peoples ~ and we are divided over it.
So here's a time out. These are things, people, events that have brought me amusement over the last few days. Let's take a time out.
* Men in bow ties. There is very little sexier to me than a man comfortable enough in his own skin to wear a bow tie in this day and age. Men who wear fun ties are a close second. Yes, I like the sexy-geek thing. I admit it. And, if you agree they're sexy or not, you gotta smile and admire them.
* Kids in Burger King crowns. Does it get better? You're six, you just got your favorite foods AND you get to wear a crown.
* UPS delivery trucks. I know, they double park, they block the street and they never come at convenient times. But you know what else? They are one of the few things that can make a little quiver in my tummy wondering "ooo...might it be for me? I wonder what it is????"
* Street kids holding their crotches. This is not something you see unless you live in an inner city (at least I've never see it anywhere but in major cities). I have, however, seen it in every major US city I've ever been. These young men walking around with a death grip on their penises. Between the ages of 16 and 21, is there a risk of them falling off that I, as a female, am unaware of?
* Extreme fashion sense. I'm not quite sure how to explain this. I'm not talking about the perfectly coiffed (sp?) man or woman. I'm talking about people with their own styles. People that ignore fashion trends. Or follow them religiously and somehow make them their own anyway. I'm talking about the people that make you think "Damn! S/He's got it going on!"
* Chance encounters. I was on the T (the Boston subway) and there stood a young woman dressed in rebellious city chic. I, on the other hand, was wearing my khaki pants, my blue silk blouse and my navy loafers. I could have been named Muffy. But I remember a time when I dressed just like her. As I read over the buttons all over her bag, I noticed one read "I do not consent to search." HOW COOL! So I mentioned it to her. She looked at me like I had three heads but managed to mumble her thanks. Then she looked at me again. And noticed the Eloise design on my briefcase. And smiled and told me it was really cool. And suddenly Muffy and the Goth Girl had more in common than the casual observer would have expected.
* Running out of toilet paper. I know, this isn't amusing. But when it happens (happened) to me, I have no one to blame but myself. I live alone. It's all my fault. And if you can't find amusement in waddling into the closet, muttering curses under your breath and hoping not to drip, then you need your pulse checked or a really strong dose of Valium.
* Fuzzy slippers and comfy pajamas. Big fan. Big. Huge. The other night, it was just all too much. I changed into my purple pajamas (XXL men's thank you very much) and my fuzzy pink slippers and felt better before the hot cocoa was even off the stove.
There. I hope you enjoyed them. Even more, I hope they triggered a thought, a memory, an experience from your own life that can make you smile. If we can't be united by crises, maybe we all need more time-outs.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
The more stressful a time is, the more important time-outs are. It's a pretty fucking stressful time right now, friends. We are a nation at war ~ and are divided over it. We are facing one of, if not the, greatest natural disaster our country has ever known ~ and are divided over it. Our melting pot is beginning to crack from the heat of so many different peoples ~ and we are divided over it.
So here's a time out. These are things, people, events that have brought me amusement over the last few days. Let's take a time out.
* Men in bow ties. There is very little sexier to me than a man comfortable enough in his own skin to wear a bow tie in this day and age. Men who wear fun ties are a close second. Yes, I like the sexy-geek thing. I admit it. And, if you agree they're sexy or not, you gotta smile and admire them.
* Kids in Burger King crowns. Does it get better? You're six, you just got your favorite foods AND you get to wear a crown.
* UPS delivery trucks. I know, they double park, they block the street and they never come at convenient times. But you know what else? They are one of the few things that can make a little quiver in my tummy wondering "ooo...might it be for me? I wonder what it is????"
* Street kids holding their crotches. This is not something you see unless you live in an inner city (at least I've never see it anywhere but in major cities). I have, however, seen it in every major US city I've ever been. These young men walking around with a death grip on their penises. Between the ages of 16 and 21, is there a risk of them falling off that I, as a female, am unaware of?
* Extreme fashion sense. I'm not quite sure how to explain this. I'm not talking about the perfectly coiffed (sp?) man or woman. I'm talking about people with their own styles. People that ignore fashion trends. Or follow them religiously and somehow make them their own anyway. I'm talking about the people that make you think "Damn! S/He's got it going on!"
* Chance encounters. I was on the T (the Boston subway) and there stood a young woman dressed in rebellious city chic. I, on the other hand, was wearing my khaki pants, my blue silk blouse and my navy loafers. I could have been named Muffy. But I remember a time when I dressed just like her. As I read over the buttons all over her bag, I noticed one read "I do not consent to search." HOW COOL! So I mentioned it to her. She looked at me like I had three heads but managed to mumble her thanks. Then she looked at me again. And noticed the Eloise design on my briefcase. And smiled and told me it was really cool. And suddenly Muffy and the Goth Girl had more in common than the casual observer would have expected.
* Running out of toilet paper. I know, this isn't amusing. But when it happens (happened) to me, I have no one to blame but myself. I live alone. It's all my fault. And if you can't find amusement in waddling into the closet, muttering curses under your breath and hoping not to drip, then you need your pulse checked or a really strong dose of Valium.
* Fuzzy slippers and comfy pajamas. Big fan. Big. Huge. The other night, it was just all too much. I changed into my purple pajamas (XXL men's thank you very much) and my fuzzy pink slippers and felt better before the hot cocoa was even off the stove.
There. I hope you enjoyed them. Even more, I hope they triggered a thought, a memory, an experience from your own life that can make you smile. If we can't be united by crises, maybe we all need more time-outs.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Updates
Just to follow up with everyone:
...dondon009's crew is alive and well. my understanding of it is that the amount of damage is still unknown (as is the case for everyone). however, everyone is alive.
...Brandon's grandparents have checked in and are with friends
...still no word from Robert and Sharon but they may be out of the country completely; that happens sometimes
Hallelujah and Blessed Be!
And, if you are in the Boston area, my fabulous salon, Salon Red, is doing a "cut-a-thon" on September 18th. Here's what they have to say:
On Sunday, September 18th from 11AM-6PM, the staff at Salon Red & Spa will host a cut-a-thon to help raise funds for those who have lost so much in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.
Salon Red & Spa will be offering haircuts with blow-drys for a $25.00 donation. Salon Red & Spa will also be raffling off gift baskets and selling Hurricane Katrina Relief Bands for a $5 donation.
100% of all money made on September 18th will be donated to the American Red Cross.
"The staff and I have made it our goal to help those who are in need, anywhere in the world. We have been touched by what we have seen on television and if we
can offer just a little time and talent, maybe we can brighten someone's life".
- Arthur Harris
Owner of Salon Red & Spa
Whenever I feel blue, I just add "Red"
Salon Red & Spa
144B Newbury Street
Boston, MA 02116
617.267.1800
To make an appointment call 617-267-1800.
Salon Red & Spa is located at 144B Newbury Street, at the corner of Dartmouth and Newbury Street in Boston. Salon Red & Spa is accessible by the T via Copley stop.
Now, before anybody starts to wonder, No. I do not have any financial stake in Salon Red. They just really are that good a salon and that neat a group of people.
Glad to be able to write some happy stuff here.
Those are Pobble (and Salon Red's) thoughts. That and $25 on September 18th will get you good karma.
...dondon009's crew is alive and well. my understanding of it is that the amount of damage is still unknown (as is the case for everyone). however, everyone is alive.
...Brandon's grandparents have checked in and are with friends
...still no word from Robert and Sharon but they may be out of the country completely; that happens sometimes
Hallelujah and Blessed Be!
And, if you are in the Boston area, my fabulous salon, Salon Red, is doing a "cut-a-thon" on September 18th. Here's what they have to say:
On Sunday, September 18th from 11AM-6PM, the staff at Salon Red & Spa will host a cut-a-thon to help raise funds for those who have lost so much in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.
Salon Red & Spa will be offering haircuts with blow-drys for a $25.00 donation. Salon Red & Spa will also be raffling off gift baskets and selling Hurricane Katrina Relief Bands for a $5 donation.
100% of all money made on September 18th will be donated to the American Red Cross.
"The staff and I have made it our goal to help those who are in need, anywhere in the world. We have been touched by what we have seen on television and if we
can offer just a little time and talent, maybe we can brighten someone's life".
- Arthur Harris
Owner of Salon Red & Spa
Whenever I feel blue, I just add "Red"
Salon Red & Spa
144B Newbury Street
Boston, MA 02116
617.267.1800
To make an appointment call 617-267-1800.
Salon Red & Spa is located at 144B Newbury Street, at the corner of Dartmouth and Newbury Street in Boston. Salon Red & Spa is accessible by the T via Copley stop.
Now, before anybody starts to wonder, No. I do not have any financial stake in Salon Red. They just really are that good a salon and that neat a group of people.
Glad to be able to write some happy stuff here.
Those are Pobble (and Salon Red's) thoughts. That and $25 on September 18th will get you good karma.
There is at Least One
Well, it's happened. The Religious Right has blamed the gay community for Katrina and the devastation in New Orleans. I am shocked but not surprised. We all should have seen this one coming.
Now, I speak as someone who is no longer Christian but was raised one ("I'm not a doctor but I play one on t.v." and of course, there's always "I don't have any problems with them; some of my best friends are Christian." Okay, sorry. It's late and I'm tired.) And I was raised by deeply faithful, deeply committed and uber-liberal Christians. So much so that when I chose a different faith, it was accepted to the point of being a non-issue.
However, I was also raised in Jerry Falwell's hometown. This was fun. We even called ourselves "the other Christians." But here's the thing...
...there is one.
She grew up in Thomas Road Baptist Church. She went to the elementary school and the high school before graduating from Liberty University. She worked for the high school for a while before getting married to a man who works there still. They attend Jerry's church most Sundays. So why am I writing about her now? Because there is one.
We've been friends since early college. And what we've been through. Being raised so differently, we've had all kinds of discussions about faith, belief, politics, women's rights, gay rights, children...You name it, we've talked about it. And we don't often agree. She's a conservative Christian and I'm...well, I'm really, really not.
But the thing about her is her Love. That's the core of the message Jesus speaks to her. Love. She has no real use for tolerance. It's too limp a word, too fickle and uncommitted. You tolerate a head cold or corn pops when you really wanted apple jacks. That's not what you do with people. Christ's word was Love so that's her word too. She doesn't make judgment. She doesn't condescend. She doesn't patronize. And most importantly, for me anyway, she doesn't pray for the rest of us to be "fixed." What's the point, she'll tell you, when we have all been made in God's image so we must be just fine the way we are?
Okay, she and I disagree on George W., when life begins, a woman's place in the home and world, and the existence of Hell. And, throughout all the disagreements, she completely and totally respects my opinions and the choices I make. The "sinner" isn't the person who commits adultery or the thief or the homosexual or the doctor who performs abortions (or the woman who gets one). The "sinner" is the person who abuses children, who ignores poverty, who disrespects the elders of our community. It's called Love.
Now, she loves me, too. With a lower case "l" the way we all love our friends. And, she Loves. She Loves me, you, the people in New Orleans, the soldiers on both sides of the war, the stranger on the street, the drag queen in sequins, the priest, the rabbi, the shaman. She is a role model for other conservative Christians. Hell, she's a role model for all of us.
Luckily for us, she also a role model for her children. Which means she is the one raising the next generation of conservative Christians. These two little beings give me Hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, there is room for all beliefs, opinions, and interpretations. Hope that maybe we don't all have to think one way before those of us who are labeled "different" or "wrong" or "sinners" can simply be ... Us.
It's not an enormous wish. It's not even a huge reason to Hope. And it is all I can offer at this time when there is so much pain being caused in the name of Jesus Christ. When these rich, straight, white men start shouting, know that there is at least one. And Hope.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Now, I speak as someone who is no longer Christian but was raised one ("I'm not a doctor but I play one on t.v." and of course, there's always "I don't have any problems with them; some of my best friends are Christian." Okay, sorry. It's late and I'm tired.) And I was raised by deeply faithful, deeply committed and uber-liberal Christians. So much so that when I chose a different faith, it was accepted to the point of being a non-issue.
However, I was also raised in Jerry Falwell's hometown. This was fun. We even called ourselves "the other Christians." But here's the thing...
...there is one.
She grew up in Thomas Road Baptist Church. She went to the elementary school and the high school before graduating from Liberty University. She worked for the high school for a while before getting married to a man who works there still. They attend Jerry's church most Sundays. So why am I writing about her now? Because there is one.
We've been friends since early college. And what we've been through. Being raised so differently, we've had all kinds of discussions about faith, belief, politics, women's rights, gay rights, children...You name it, we've talked about it. And we don't often agree. She's a conservative Christian and I'm...well, I'm really, really not.
But the thing about her is her Love. That's the core of the message Jesus speaks to her. Love. She has no real use for tolerance. It's too limp a word, too fickle and uncommitted. You tolerate a head cold or corn pops when you really wanted apple jacks. That's not what you do with people. Christ's word was Love so that's her word too. She doesn't make judgment. She doesn't condescend. She doesn't patronize. And most importantly, for me anyway, she doesn't pray for the rest of us to be "fixed." What's the point, she'll tell you, when we have all been made in God's image so we must be just fine the way we are?
Okay, she and I disagree on George W., when life begins, a woman's place in the home and world, and the existence of Hell. And, throughout all the disagreements, she completely and totally respects my opinions and the choices I make. The "sinner" isn't the person who commits adultery or the thief or the homosexual or the doctor who performs abortions (or the woman who gets one). The "sinner" is the person who abuses children, who ignores poverty, who disrespects the elders of our community. It's called Love.
Now, she loves me, too. With a lower case "l" the way we all love our friends. And, she Loves. She Loves me, you, the people in New Orleans, the soldiers on both sides of the war, the stranger on the street, the drag queen in sequins, the priest, the rabbi, the shaman. She is a role model for other conservative Christians. Hell, she's a role model for all of us.
Luckily for us, she also a role model for her children. Which means she is the one raising the next generation of conservative Christians. These two little beings give me Hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, there is room for all beliefs, opinions, and interpretations. Hope that maybe we don't all have to think one way before those of us who are labeled "different" or "wrong" or "sinners" can simply be ... Us.
It's not an enormous wish. It's not even a huge reason to Hope. And it is all I can offer at this time when there is so much pain being caused in the name of Jesus Christ. When these rich, straight, white men start shouting, know that there is at least one. And Hope.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
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