Magical Sunday

I'm overwhelmed when I least expect it. Today, I watched the movie Practical Magic with Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman and one of my favorite actresses -- Stockyard Channing. The movie is more than a story of spells of course. The real story is the power of hands held tightly together in love.

Something in that film made me know that the time has really come for me to leave. Perhaps the focus on finding one's heart's desire prompted it. Maybe it was the lessons learned even in the mistakes made (and Nicole's character was a definite screw up). Possibly, I longed to believe in something again with the absolute "rightness" that the "aunties" believed in themselves and the power of their family. Or maybe I just want to find my own Aidan Quinn!!

What I know is that you can't truly leave by running away and for the most part, I'm not. I also know leaving wouldn't be possible for me without the promise of arms outstretched to embrace me at each return. Those arms are not the arms of a lover, partner, husband or anyone committed to me by words. But each day, I'm reminded that I am not alone. And that un-aloneness makes the idea of a few goodbyes so much more bearable.

If I could conjure some magic, I would cast a spell so that every time I thought of someone I hold dear, they would smile. Then we could share that moment no matter how many miles separate us.

Smiling even now . . . .

Happy Bday 2 Me! Happy Bday 2 Me!

WARNING: You may tire reading this birthday account. Perhaps you should sit down. Breathe. Now hold on ....

My friends really came through for me this weekend. Miss "e" worked on making me a pretty girl all Friday afternoon. After she got through with me, I had a new color on my hair, my eyebrows and CURLS!!!!

I went home and slipped into the most cleavage-bearing dress I have ever worn in all my 46 years!!!!

Then Shane and Brit escorted me to a downtown restaurant where about 25 folks showed up to wish me well. Most of them were shocked that I'd gone the girly route. I must admit to varying degrees of amusement watching their reactions!

After good eats and conversation, we walked over to the Alley where we saw a play called The Gospel According to Tammy Fay. She was an icon in the AIDS community and among gay folks since she was so accepting early on when many in the church were more focused on condemnation. We found out Sunday that she died the night we saw the play! Wish I could brag on the play but what I can do is not pick on it so I'll just tell you that several of us (we'd lost a few and gained a few more at the theater) went on to the Chocolate Bar after the first act of one hour and forty minutes was over.

At this point, my wonderful escort Shane also took me to get jeans casual. A woman of my age can go the girly route only so long, you know?

Now back to the evening ... Imagine if you will a place where vanilla doesn't belong, isn't even allowed to enter! Candies, cakes and ice cream all featuring chocolate -- ahhh!

Chatted there a while and lost a few more but gained a few too and soon we were headed for a country and western dance place. Not much dancing going on there however because there weren't that many people either. So we packed us up and tried another locale. FUN TIMES!!!

We actually closed that place down or close to it and Brian was gracious enough to offer his place as our next stop. He's got a pool, hot tub and extra suits. We agreed and ended our "night" around 4 a.m. on Saturday morning.

Saturday was all about getting ready for a more intimate dinner party Roger and Brit were throwing at my place. Since I like to cook I served as her sous chef. Mostly that meant I chopped.

I left the premises at 2 p.m. for errands and to allow my humble apartment to be transformed by Geary, Bob and Roger. When I re-entered, they had created a bistro! Four linen clad tables with linen napkins, centerpieces that stood at least four feet tall with white flowers and a single butterfly in each (because Dian said that was the perfect representation of my new life), candles, and lanterns softened the room. We even had a cocktail bar where my dining table usually sits and my leather sofa made for a warm cozy corner.

Geary was also the culprit behind some yummy mojitos. Brit had worked on some olive stuffed cheese balls and also had out edamame and cheese and nuts.

First course was two salads -- grape tomatoes with mozarella and basil in a balsamic vinegrette alongside one of my concoctions of English cucumbers and red onions with champagne vinegar over avocado.

Next came a cold pasta dish with Asian dressing and shrimp and vegetables.

After that we paused for a bit. The next course was butter chicken with Indian spices and vegetables over basmati rice.

Dian and Cyndi cleared plates each time and kept the kitchen tidy. Brit and I plated. The conversations kept going as we occasionally mixed up the seating.

Dessert was Stan's famous carrot cake with cream cheese icing (he even brought me my own container of that yumminess) and Brit's family recipe for an almost flourless chocolate cake that would just make you cry if you weren't so happy to indulge in it!

Several wanted to return to the country and western place and so some did and this time I got in at least three dances! Woo hoo! and Yee Haw!!

Sunday we restored my apartment to its sanctuary status and I drove out to Tomball to do something I've wanted to do for quite a while -- give my friend Becky the massage she was due back when she helped so much when my international friends were in town. She's down 30 pounds so we celebrated with my longest massage to date and some of the best conversation we've ever had.

AND I had a very, very, very happy, happy, happy birthday weekend!!!!

*We even shared in the festivity by calling my mom on Saturday during the dinner and singing to her for her 77th!

Happy Birthday to ME!!!! (and my twin brother and my mom and ...)

Kelly came out 20 minutes earlier than I did so someone's been around me from pre-emergence into this world. May explain my love of a good party. I have a feeling he and I may have had a little cake in the womb before we decided to say hello to the rest of the world.

My mom's birthday is the day after ours. At no point growing up did I ever have a non-shared birthday.

As an adult, I was amused at the idea that finally I would know what it was like to be the center of attention ... until I started working my very first job post-seminary and the executive director of the more than a million strong organization had the exact same birthday. Ahhh ... thanks to buddies I really never suffered from a lack of a good time at the mid-July point when we were usually traveling with workshops but still ...

Last year, I was once again on the road for the actual day. And as I sat and chatted with the young man who had been such a terrrific host to a bunch of would-be emerging leaders, he revealed that he was having a birthday ... at the exact same time that I was.

Sooooooo .... (looking around for any evidence to the contrary) .... I think .... that I am actually celebrating without anyone else to share the limelight. And you know what? I'm nervous!

But tonight I plan on sharing good times with a loads of folks I love as we eat, drink, laugh and then make our way to a production on the life of Tammy Fay (yep, that one) that will help support one of my favorite local AIDS support networks. Who knows what will follow? And tomorrow we're going to keep the party going with a smaller dinner at my house.

Today, I woke up to torrential downpours and darkness. I decided then that I was going to be the warmth in people's lives today that we've been missing in these parts. I've shared my birthday wishes with those who have sent any kind of acknowledgement and I've fashioned each wish for the person who sent me their good thoughts. I figure that if I'm getting older there has to be some benefits and wishes to share is one of them.

So here's wishing you warmth, friendship and the joy of knowing there's always someone to share your birthday with.

Actually Happened

Waiting for a fresh pot of coffee to drip its last drip this morning, my boss asked the office manager how the switch to the new database was going. Good news was not forthcoming.

"I can only see one envelope when I open the program."

"Maybe there's a glitch and the others just aren't visible but there."

"I don't know"

As they begin to explain the scenario to me, I semi listen, recognize a response is in order and say:

"Oh ... sorry ... and I realize this is totally inappropriate but while you guys were talking I just realized my toenail polish totally matches one of the colors in this blouse."

I am sooooooo outta here!

Big News! Big Changes!

I'm leaving my job ... and in many ways, my career.

There! I said it. Whew! I feel better.

Actually, I feel great. Those who know me well know that for the last couple of years, I've struggled with feeling somewhat like the proverbial fish out of water. I loved the work environment that I was able to enjoy every day. I was good at my job. But the idea of working for institutional church life and especially working somewhat closeted about some of my convictions that would just not please those who I serve ... well, that troubled me.

I kept waiting for something to be "done unto me". I thought that the next right job would come about because of my connections with charities or organizations with which I easily agree.

Nothing.

Then I realized that I wasn't really that interested in simply changing my environment. I already had a great one. I realized that I couldn't fathom doing yet another newsletter.

That's when the convergence became noticeable. My lease on my place was about up. I was planning a short trip on a sailboat with friends and one of them mentioned rather playfully that I should just take off and work as the ship's cook for a while. I was asked to fill a very public volunteer slot with a very public organization that my place of employment would not be pleased if I accepted.

And I knew.

So I have no plan other than take a year and see what happens. Ok, I actually have several plans. (Again those who know me will appreciate the emphasis on options that continues to be a theme in my life!)

I may work on this boat at some point. The captain and I will chat in detail when we set sail at the end of July.

I am checking on doing some work with AIDS orphans in Africa.

I know when the two courses that would insure I have the proper certification for ESL occur and have all the paperwork at hand for applying.

And several friends have already offered their guest rooms. Since these friends extend from California, to Washington, to New Mexico, to Alabama and right here in Houston, I feel fairly sure I'll have a place to put my pillow.

I would love to see a novel come out of all this. I'm already writing much more than previously. Feels as though the freedom has unleashed a bit of creativity as well. I need to explore what it would take to make a living as a writer for magazines and such. I need to "try on" some roles and see what works best on me.

My stuff goes in storage to wait patiently for my return at the end of the year.

I tell the leadership at my work (my bosses and co-workers already know) in less than an hour. So I thought I would tell the folks who sometimes read this blog the news first.

Big news, right? Big changes? Definitely. Let the adventure begin!

7 on 07-07-07

While someone has already suggested that this was just a bit too dorky for their taste, I have to brag on my buddies and I for how we chose to recognize the numerical phenomena of the past weekend.

Having planned on an hill country exploration for the post-July 4th weekend, we gave up when the hills were alive with the sound of rushing floodwaters! Then after checking out our options, we discovered that the Austin area stood a better chance of being dry than any other drive-to locale near Houston. So we decided to pack the blow up bed and descend on our friend Geary who is studying in our capitol city.

Roger, Brittany and I made it over on Friday night and on Saturday morning over coffee, Brit, Geary and I determined that we should somehow observe the day's significant 7 nature.

"Let's do at least 7 things," I think our Austin virgin Brit was the first to say that one.

"And each thing has to have 7 in it."

"Like we'll see 7 major sights."

"And each of us have to do 7 things we've never done before."

"How about 7 meals?"

"As long as they're small ones."

"And we talked about going to a winery so we'll taste 7 wines."

"We are also going to Pedernales Falls so we'll take 7 photos there."

"And I want 7 trashy souvenirs," again this from our virgin.

"And then at 7:07 tonite we'll do something related to 7, ok?"

So the plan was set. Roger, who had been in the shower, had no argument against it and we set off.

The Magnolia Cafe was our first stop and there I did something I have never done before. I engaged Brian our waiter regarding his tatoos (that I have done) and then requested his help in accomplishing our goal by assigning him the task of locating 7 things in his kitchen that he could give me (that I've never done). He willingly and thoughtfully complied with a to-go box that even included a pink crayon because the cafe used to be known for the pink flamingos the staff wore on their shirts.

We had made our first 07-07-07 convert.

By the time the day was over, the two waitresses in the wine bar had come over to our side as well. Lisa changed the way they do wine flights at Cliffords outside Dripping Springs to comply with our request for 7 tastes. And when the alarm went off that 7:07 p.m. was approaching, Jessica let Roger leave without signing the bill so he could join in our recognition. When she heard what we were doing, she asked to join us (bringing the credit card slip) and her own word to add to the seven words of kindness we were speaking into the universe on a Texas hillside.

"Grace."
"Peace."
"Gratitude."
"Passion."
"Forgiveness."
"Friendship."
"Us."

And, Jessica added her favorite, "Love."

Mt. Bonnel, the capitol, Lake Travis, The Drag, UT campus, Amy's Ice Cream, and the State Cemetery were the sites we chose to note as our 7.

We didn't quite make 7 meals but since the last stop was a 7/11 just before midnight and we were at number 6 by that point we thought we would give ourselves points for the location alone!

Asking folks to get involved with our little project on at least three occasions was totally outside of what I might have done once upon a time. Eating at the South Congress Magnolia Cafe and standing in the waters of Federnales Falls were also first-time events for me. The Mansfield Dam, which I'd never seen before, had four flood gates open to deal with the rising waters that had so threatened this area. And I saw at least 7 famous Texans graves in the State Cemetery. Ann Richards still doesn't have a stone by the way!

When I shared the story with e, she pointed out that by the time we had enlisted the help of others, our merry band of 4 had become another complete 7.

Call it "cheesey" or me a dork, I love that we took a holy number and made a holy day of it!

Yep .. what he said ...

William Falk in the July 13 issue of The Week writes:

It's such a reassuring notion. Imagine a Supreme Court in which the justices do not make their decisions based on partisan biases, personal whims, or constitutional "penumbras" and "emanations" perceived by the justices alone. "The Constitution means what it says," says Justice Antonin Scalia. "You figure out what it was understoond to mean when it was adopted and that's the end of it." In practice, this philosphy of "originalism" or "strict constructionism" sometimes proves more vexing than it sounds: Did the Framers understand the right to bear arms to mean that every citizen could own a musket, or were they also guaranteeing the right to wield semiautomatics with 50-round clips? How about machine guns? Bazookas? When the Framers said Congress could not infringe on the freedom of speech, did they really mean "speech," as in words, or does speaking freely include the right to hand a 6-inch-thick pile of $100 bills to senators to do your billing?

Being human, you and I might succumb to the temptation to answer these questions to suit our own desired ends, and then reason backward to create a constitutional justification. (That's how justices get "penumbras" and "emanations.") But not Scalia and the orignalists. They know what the Framers intended. In its rulings thus far, the new Supreme Court has sided with religious groups, corporations, developers, the current president, and the white males, and against students, women, blacks, and atheists. Now, this is a wholly legitimate change of direction: The Constitution empowers presidents to appoint judges who share their political prejudices. Pretending that the court's rulings -- or for that matter, the rulings of any previous group of justices -- represent anything but a raw exercise in power, however, is transparently silly.

Can't help but read this and think about those who say the same kind of things about interpreting scripture . . . how they somehow also know what was intended . . . how equally transparently silly that idea is.

Clicking My Heels ...

"There's no place like home."

'Course for folks like me, just exactly where "home" is poses a dilemma. When I'm in Houston, I speak of going "home" to Tennessee to visit my family -- as I did this past weekend.

When I'm in Tennessee, I look forward to returning "home" to Houston where my other family -- the chosen one -- primarily reside.

Today, I landed in the Houston home after an extra night in Nashville due to bad weather and/or questionable practices of my favorite airline (c'mon, TWO plans had to cancel because of weather that no one on the other end of my cell phone said was really all that bad????).

As we touched down, I exhaled -- that soothing sigh that comes when comfort and joy are within reach -- comfort in the form of people who know and accept me in all my eccentricities just as I do them ... joy in the utter surprise each day holds as you brave I610, discover a new ethnic edible, watch God's great diversity actually reside side by side and revel in the enormity of a urban center that feels so much like the small town I just left behind.

No matter how far I roam ... Houston is definitely one of my best-est homes.

If You Had a Convertible, Wouldn't You Be Smiling?

And if your friend has a convertible, you might muster up a grin as well, don't you think???


Come one, come all, 'cause night time in Houston is the time to use this little Beetle!!!

I Forget

Why don't I remember . . .
the name of the first boy to ask me out on a real date, where we went, and if I enjoyed him as much as I did the idea that I was on a date,
the literature I read in college and what did and did not move me (other than the frustration I felt at Sozenhitzen's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denosovitch upon realizing it really was just about ONE day),
every vacation I have ever taken . . . in detail and including the views I knew in that moment I'd never forget?

Why don't I remember . . .
movies that brought me to tears,
those after school TV shows that were supposed to teach me moral lessons,
the reason for each time I walked the aisle and rededicated my life at First Baptist in Greenfield,
how it felt the first time I was truly loved?

Why don't I remember . . .
a night of wining and dining has a morning after,
would-be lovers say things I want to hear and real loves don't always hear what I have to say?

Why don't I remember . . . that I don't always remember?

NOTE: If you like poetry -- and even if you don't like mine -- check out Ellen Bass. Her Pray for Peace rocked me!

Coming Soon to a Dream Near You

Early this morning in that space between the end of the dream and the reality of the clock glaring its get-up message at me, I was overwhelmed with a sense of dread. Usually, I make myself conclude the dream, resolve the story line. But today . . . I realized I just didn't care.

The locale of my slumber-induced experience was something like a seminary classroom. I did mention this was a nightmare, right? I was taking over for a professor and using Powerpoint to teach the class, except the presentation was giving me trouble. So much trouble, in fact, that I had lost my place and was scrambling to multi-task -- fix the slide order issue and keep the class engaged in conversation.

But mostly, I was filling time. I knew it and soon enough they did too.

Some distant part of me wanted to give those preacher boys their money's worth, challenge them with the news of the changing environment they were planning on serving. But mostly, I wanted the commitment to end, the class to be over, and me to be free.

Can you say "foreshadowing"?

Surprise! It Worked!

My friend-as-long-as-I've-been-in-Houston Cyndi turns 50 next week. Her family asked me a few weeks back if I would host a surprise birthday party for her. I hesitated only on the "surprise" part. Experience has shown me that usually the only surprise is how early they discover there's a surprised planned.

We did it!

Last night, Cyndi thought she, her husband, and I were going out to dinner. She called to tell me that my chariot awaited and I told her I wasn't quite ready and asked if they could come in for a few minutes.

One of the guests (who were all now standing in my dining area, eyes glued to the window and the gate that Cyndi would be entering) said that the ease with which she heard me lie kind of scared her.

Surprise! Freckles buy me more trustworthiness than I probably merit!

They entered and before she turned the corner into my den she knew something was up. Could have been the Warning: Someone's Turning 50 crime scene tape covering the foyer or maybe the explosion of color and balloons the family had decorated with, but that was the first clue she had. She truly didn't know.

We shouted. We sang. We ate (my contribution was a buffet menu based on some of her favorite things to order in the restaurants we frequent). We played a trivia game about her life (I knew that one of her first boyfriends later got a job as an exotic dancer but I didn't know why she'd been kicked out of church camp). We even decorated flip flops (her shoe of choice) for her to take home.

Cyndi wasn't the only one surprised by the evening. I had fretted that it wasn't going to be received well or that the mix of folks might not work, but I was totally wrong.

And I'm NOT lying when I say I had a great time celebrating a great friend.

610 Salutations

I'm driving on 610 yesterday and in a jovial mood, listening to tunes, checking out the surrounding vehicles for storylines I could fabricate on the way home when a white pick up pulls alongside me. The driver isn't visible but his "voice" can certainly be heard.

In the back of the truck, this guy has created his own billboard. It's probably three or four feet higher than the cab's hood and runs the length of the truck bed. White, pristine even, the visual announcement includes an encased-in-glass American flag in one corner. The rest of the white board is dedicated to proclaiming the following:

When terrorists kill terrorists and Muslims kill Muslims, the world is a safer place.

America the Beautiful got a bit uglier the moment I read the words. I'm thrilled that he has the right to say what he thinks. I'm even happier that I have the right to think he's an asshole.

Mind in the Gutter

Note: If you are easily offended by innuendo, do yourself a favor and stop reading now.

Writers and editors have long known how violent editorial-speak really is.

Clark Kent may have been working that "mild-mannered" persona but in all likelihood he knew he was Superman long before he donned those tights. He had to deal with deadlines and the knowledge that his story could be killed on a whim. His points would often be made with bullets. Long stories could bleed.

You non-writers might have thought it was all keyboards and white space but I'm telling you, it's a violent, violent word world.

And then ... there's the sleazy side.

One must avoid the gutter in print but we don't hesitate to ask for two more inches to fill the hole.

Oh if it were only that easy!

I Can See Clearly Now

I'm often asked how I have happened upon the friendship network I enjoy. The question sounds innocent enough when read, but how it sometimes should be translated is, "I can't stand some of the people you know, how do you enjoy them so much?"

I was toying with that when it hit me. I don't see what others see.

Now mind you ... if I were to walk into a bar (sounds like a set up for a joke but it's not) I could be just as superficial as the next person. I can objectify a man or woman in minutes.

"Nice chest." "Nice ass." "I'd do him."

See? Crude-avoidance is not what I'm talking about here.

While I can see physical attributes and hone in on the ones I like, I have also trained myself not to see both physical and pyschological characteristics that might be glaringly obvious to others.

Just as I once had to be told that my best friend had shaved his beard (a week later and after years of knowing him with it), I would have to pause for a minute to conjure up a list of any reason why I wouldn't want to hang out with someone.

Because I think I see the essence of people . . . and their potential.

I liken it to women I know (and for some reason it's only women) who see auras eminating from individuals.

I don't see colors, but I think I do see hearts. I see what people want to be, and I'll do everything within my power to help them realize it. I recognize the efforts. Trying matters to me. Even when I am on opposite sides of an argument, if the person truly believes, I applaud their passion.

I learned this from loving my brother (not the twin, but the one who died). We were on the extreme opposites of a theological spectrum. I had friends who could slice and dice and then deep fry others of his particular slant. But I couldn't. Because I saw that while I totally disagreed with almost every belief he held dear, I held dear his belief. He was in and in deep. I had no desire to take it away from him.

Sometimes I entertain the idea of change and, as I said, I am more than willing to walk alongside the transitioning on the path toward realizing their potential, but it's not what drives me.

I don't think that lots of people look at people in this light.

But it's a bright shiny place and I find it warm and inviting.

My Massage Table Is Here!

I love getting massages. I love giving massages. I'm pretty popular at parties when I turn a chair around and start working on backs. A while back I decided a great gift to give myself was the gifts of massages to all my friends. So I enlisted a therapist to "train me up in the way I should go."

Today, the table I ordered weeks ago arrived.

Ahhhhhh...let the relaxation begin.

Playing It Safe on the Ark

Last night I went to a screening of the new movie Evan Almighty. The marketing gurus must have decided that to insure they didn't get any flack from churches concerned with Hollywood envoking God stories (and perhaps not getting it EXACTLY right) they would give out freebies to local pastors and let them see that respect for God and country were evident throughout the flick.

Shame they kept the respect and left out the comedy.

Oh, it's cute enough, but the cleverness of Bruce Almighty is totally absent. Physical humor must trump a good line and bird crap seems to be what someone thought would have us rolling in the aisles.

There's only so much crap you can take before the whole movie smells.

And mostly it smells because everyone was playing it safe -- the writers, the actors, the producers. I think the animal wranglers may have been the only edgy ones in the bunch and even then I'm wondering if most of the two-by-two ensemble were computer generated!!!

Seems "Thou Shall Not Offend" was written on everyone's contract before production began.

And thus, saith the Karen, "it was not good." (Still I love Morgan Freeman and I'll take him as God whenever he's willing to take on the role.)

Wouldn't it be a good day, a day that maybe even the Lord hath made, when Christians could laugh at themselves and remove their righteous indignation and need to protect God (hello!? omnipotent ring a bell?) long enough to encourage artistic risk-taking and maybe even applaud it?

I'm not holding out much hope for a flood, but a cup of cold water for the creative efforts of others wouldn't be too much to ask.

Demolition Therapy

When the Longs first told me they were going to try and save some money on their new house by doing their own demolition work before the remodeling begins, I volunteered to help out. I had no clue what I was committing to, mind you. My "building" experience is limited to roofing under a summer sun on numerous mission trips with youth. I know how to sweat. I don't know that much about tools and what exactly one is supposed to do with them.

But, as an enabler who is very self-aware of her family issues, I was more than willing to "help" -- whatever that might look like. The first glimpse at what I'd signed on for happened the first week. We were tearing out the kitchen cabinets. These stained fortresses to the kitchen gods were built with a bit more care than the ones I've encountered in the apartments I've lived in the last few years. I pushed. I pulled. I figured out leverage might come in handy and grabbed a screwdriver to wedge the hinges loose. I continued to push. I continued to pull. Soon I was playing a blues song in my head as I wondered if anyone was noticing that the non-handy-woman was still on the first assignment as they were removing large portions of dry wall and entire countertops.

When the sweat began dripping off the end of my nose, I found some new resolve and eventually, those doors came off!

Next we took on a bathroom and I held my own with a crowbar as the ceiling came down on top of my dirt-covered, sweat-soaked breasts.

This weekend we did the upstairs bathroom. Now catch that if you will, ok? "Upstairs" translates into trips both up and down, up and down, up and down as the various cabinets, wall fixtures, tiles, and bath tub pieces had to be removed and placed in the dumpster on the street.

This time I traded in the crowbar for a sledge hammer and took out three walls of tiles from Spain. I probably didn't look like a pro while in action but I got the job done.

Breathing was a priority in the heat-always-rises level of the slowly evolving home. Conversations were limited to "excuse me, did I hit you with that?" And/or "sorry ... so quiet ... just ... trying ... to breathe."

I must say that while there were definitely stresses and strains to the body, I was mildly amused at how much satifaction I found in destruction.

As I left the culprits who had engaged me in service to the final stages of the tear out, I had to laugh. "Thanks for saving me a couple of hundred dollars in therapy costs!" was about all I could muster.

They grunted and hit the tub one more time.

I Love the Way . . .

• Preschoolers stare at my freckles. Someone suggested it was my earrings but I'm convinced they are actually trying to connect the dots.
• When people are invited to mingle and cross cultural, socio-economic, or religious barriers in a spirit of true openness, they do. (Don't believe me? Come to one of my parties!)
• How one funny line delivered well can change everyone's mood.
• My friend Stan tells absolutely corny jokes and I laugh every time. "Three legged dog walks into a saloon. Crowd goes quiet. He speaks. 'I've come for the man who shot my pa(w).'" HA!
• A man in a crowded restaurant will look at a woman when she enters and choose to either acknowledge that he's looking or pretend he's fascinated with the sign above the door. Today, he acknowledged . . . and he had a really nice smile.
• If you tell people you love and who love you that you are in a not-so-good-place, they listen, they care, and they remind you that you are not alone.

Visualizing Something Better

When your life begins to resemble a plot twist in a "hope we get to Sundance independent film that features b-list actors and the word quirky in the tagline", it's time to re-think your choices. Of late, I feel like I've been banging my head against a relational wall and looking around for who I have to pay for the pleasure of the pain!

Am I complaining that my own choices have netted me too many nights listening to the non-silence of apartment living (what are those people building on the second floor?)? Well, yes and no. I'm weary of waiting for the next phase of my so-called love life, or maybe I should say lack-of-love-life. But I have no delusions going that anyone else is responsible for where I am other than little old me. (And if I keep on this self-sabatoging path "little" will have little to do with describing me and "old" will look truer than it has in quite some time.)

So this morning when I was assessing my life in my favorite assessing place -- the shower -- I decided it was time to kick ass -- my own. I am not giving up on me or allowing myself to let go of wanting something more. I am not going to accept some script fashioned by someone other than me. I may not be a great writer but I know this material better than anyone.

And just like those independent film folks, I intend to be a triple threat -- writer, producer and star.

I am ready for my close up.

OK . . . I Thought It Was Funny

Justin and I were texting. He's often a bit silly in that tiny space of lighted characters and shortened speech.

J: We need 2 shun Jerry. I just found out he's a Methodist.

Me: It's worse than that. He was a Baptist.

J: We shd strt a club and Jerry and Gary (NOTE: another Baptist and a preacher we know) can't be members.

Me: Anyone with the -ary sound in their name can't be mbrs!

J: We cd have cool t-shirts.

Me: And we wd be called the missing-arys!

(I crack myself up sometimes!)

Why My Definition of "Family" Is More Expansive

When someone
has no one
near
to help her
face
her fears,
she needs
to feel
welcomed
here.

Thirsty?

I usually say I'm a "glass is half full" kind of person. But recently I thought if I were really honest I'd have to add, "with the slight expectation that it's going to start leaking any minute."

My Blood Pressure Just Shot Through the Roof

Read this one today:

Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary President Paige Patterson suggested an attack like the Virginia Tech shooting wouldn't happen at his school because students would ovewhelm an attacker -- even if they died trying. Patterson told students in an April 18 chapel sermon that if a shooter attacked classes at the Fort Worth school, he was "counting on" male students to respond. "See, all you had to do was have six or eight rush him right at that time and 32 people wouldn't ahve died," Patterson said. "Now folks, let's make up our minds. I know we live in America where nobody gets involved in anybody else's situation. That shall not be the rule here. Does everybody understand? You say, 'Well, I may be shot.' Well, yeah, you may. Are you saved? you're going to heaven. You know, it's better than earth." -- Baptist Standard, April 30, 2007

Please note the irony in that this religious-leader-holding-incredible-power-in-his-obviously-ignorant hands was quoted in the same publication as Ira Glass (Jewish guy who hosts NPR show) with the following, "Evangelical Christians are the most incompetently portrayed group in America -- in TV, in fiction, in the news. When Christians say the media gets them wrong, Christians are absolutely right."

Except of course when we make our own fat selves look like idiots!!!!

Birthday Muses

On Friday night as I was helping a friend host six 6-year-olds for a birthday sleepover, a 29-year-old mom of one of them began describing a weekend party she was going to in the hill country.

"Lots of music," she said. "And everyone camps out. It's great. Thrown by this older guy. He's 50 and has been ..."

My glare interrupted her.

"Or maybe 60, probably 70 or 80. That's what I meant by 'older' really!" she stammered and smiled at being caught in the backhanded ouch she'd sent my way.

Four years from now and I'm her version of "old."

Today I picked up some books about generations. I'm teaching a class in a couple of weeks and thought I might need to do some catch up. One is called Leap. Written by a one-time in demand writer, the book chronicles lots of Boomers reflecting on getting older and specifically the question What Will We Do with the Rest of Our Lives?

So far it's been kind of a downer! She's talking about how Carly Simon, Tom Hayden and herself have dealt (or not) with rejection at their age. Famous people ... getting older ... feeling less than ... yeah, cheery reading alright!

I must admit that the last few months I've noticed lines I hadn't seen before. I'm wondering about choices made and squandered. But overall, I'm not really hating this aging thing so much.

Since I never had a tight ass I don't have the same issues with my body as Christie Brinkley. And, frankly, I'll take the wisdom I've gained over my cheeks being perky any day.

In fact, one of the party games I played inside my head Friday reflected just how much I do value where I am. I sat looking at the diversity of personalities in each of those 6 year old faces. I noted that the special needs kid was totally accepted in the other girls' play, without question and quite possibly without notice of her special status. I watched them in their pre-bitchiness, that thing that happens to girls and then women that makes us eat our own. And I marveled. I marveled at what would become of them. I marveled that it would take 40 years for them to catch up to where I was at that very moment. I got a little misty eyed considering their possibilities and what they might do with them.

Then I thanked my Creator for my now and got ready to dance one more dance to Hannah Montana.

A Matter of Perspective ... Yet Again!

When I told my friend about the young woman dying of AIDS who had been born with the disease (see previous entry), I thought her gasp was a similar reaction to mine -- shock that the disease has been around long enough for "babies with AIDS" to now be adults and regret for the life the girl had lived/endured.

Instead, she began to tear up and finally said, "We dreamed of this day. Actually, we thought we were dreaming too big to dream of this day."

"We" in this case were she and her friends who endured the early days of the relatively unknown plague that was taking folks each week in the 1980s. "We" were the ones who were agreeing to abide by their friend's wishes and either not be there to tend to the diapers or definitely be there to see them waste away. "We" were the tired but relentless heroes who found yet another way to bury someone and celebrate their life when the world wanted only to ignore they had come and gone.

She's not as active anymore in the fight. But she shouldn't have to be. She's the retired general who can agree to the televised interview or go tell the now curious to go screw themselves. She's earned the right to gasp and even to celebrate that what was once considered the impossible dream is now very much a sad reality.

'Course one other person I told shared the bright side to this story (yet again, another perspective). Seems she's got a friend who adopted an HIV positive baby several years ago. That baby is now a teen. That baby has just been told that so little of the virus remains in her system that she too will one day have babies of her own.

God bless us everyone.

Similar Diversity

Just read that my friend Shannon went to Stratford-upon-Avon in Warwickshire* this weekend and saw "A Midsummer's Night Dream" performed in English and Bengali. The moment I read that line I stopped. You should too. In fact, go ahead, read it again ... Shakespeare in English and Bengali. . . that's kinda like the King James Version read by a hillbilly. Nothing wrong with it but definitely taking on a whole new flavor with sound alone.

Diversity must have been the word of the day for this weekend on the Universe planning calendar.

On Saturday I was struck by the spectrum of personalities, professions, and backgrounds represented at the AIDS hospice -- A veteran shares a room with a formerly homeless man (and isn't it ironic that someone without shelter finally finds it in his dying days). A man whose Indian relatives want to fly him home even though he's being eaten alive by cancer in the most gruesome way you can imagine is in the next room. A mother and grandmother who barely looks old enough to be the mother part of that is there as is someone who most likely earned her living on the streets (and I don't mean collecting cans). One man has the happy knowledge that he's just there for a few weeks since he gets to soon go home after we make sure he's really ready to be back on his feet. And then . . . there's the 18-year-old who was born with AIDS. I had to gasp when I heard. Is it possible? Yes. Was I ready to hear that AIDS babies were now grown ups? Not really.

So position my Saturday morning in the midst of my Friday and Saturday nights when I was delving into the world of politics and social activism by way of private parties and big events and you've got quite the diverse weekend. Add in my stop by my community in Tomball and one more late night gathering of "folks representing the spectrum" at some friends' house and well . . . Shakespeare in Bengali might not seem so strange.

One more thing ... if you've never danced with a partner who is wearing a feather boa, then you've not really attended a charity event like I get the pleasure of experiencing.

You might not want my life, but you certainly would have a hard time arguing that it's not interesting!

*Please note that this post has been edited because of the diverse knowledge base of this blog's readers (see comments). . . Not much of a surprise that I was once again geographically challenged!

Easily Impressed?

You people know I come from a small town, right?

My sister and brother-in-law are visiting from Tennessee and we enjoyed a nice "first meal in the city" on the patio of one of my favorite coastal Mexican food places in Montrose. I was listing a few of the folks I'd met at the gala on Saturday and providing their roles in city and state politics by way of explanation of how diverse the group had been -- city council, state representatives, the city comptroller and several other politicos were on the list.

She was growing in her appreciation of the impact this gathering might have had . . . until Roger showed up.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "But Moses* dropped by . . . "

She interrupted, "You people know EVERYBODY!"


Say a prayer for our chaplain friend Moses if you do that kind of thing. He and his mom just lost everything in a fire and he's about to be ordained in a couple of weeks.

My Thighs Are Killing Me OR The Downside of Volunteering

Imagine 950 gift bags bearing an obscure representation of Saks' logo. Imagine numerous pieces of propaganda that must be inserted into said gift bags. Imagine having a few hundred ready and waiting for only one missing advertisement, when you're told, "Oh, yes, there's one more thing. . . the ad has to be placed directly in the program and not just dropped in the bag . . . and oh, one more thing, each bag must be placed on this ad that must be placed in each seat . . . and oh, yes, there's that whole thing about we're going to run out of the actual "gift" that is in the bag so you'll have to move about hundred bags you've already placed in the ballroom to the seats up front so the folks who REALLY paid will have a full bag."

Imagine that I don't have to imagine. Because I was there. Perfecting my version of a downward facing dog position as I continuously packed bags for three hours.

Did I mention my thighs are hurting???!!!

I did eventually get in my zone. I smiled politely whenever anyone added a new assignment for these evergrowing then shrinking bags. I nodded with vigorouse affirmation that indeed we would pack these bags to order. Then I continued with what I had been doing.

No way in ... here or anywhere else that may be equally as hot as I was on Saturday ... am I going to unstuff a program to move an ad from the front to the back.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

As far as I know, the volunteer uprising did not result in any furious propaganda readers' abrupt exit of the premises.

I know. We can all breathe a collective sigh of relief!

As for the event ... very interesting. I was none too thrilled with this gathering last year as I had worked hard and never even been asked my views on the organization or encouraged to join.

This year it was run by people who actually believe in the cause more than the party that encourages support. This year I saw chairpersons get down on the floor and stuff those bags. This year we "lowly" volunteers weren't the only ones sweating.

This year I didn't mind the pain because this year, I think we really did have something to gain.

A Pause to Celebrate

Someone I know had a baby today.
Someone I know started an adventure beyond my comprehension.
While I will not be there to watch the daily growth,
The journey launched this very day is one I dreamed of.

God bless the child.
God bless the family.

God bless the dreamers.

Epicurean Enrichment

Last night, I, the woman who as a girl in Tennessee broiled a Spam wannabe for suppers, who recently blogged about adding Cheez Whiz to a casserole, that woman, engaged in an in-depth conversation with a James Beard nominee.

I've often said that as a young person I didn't possess the capacity to dream of the life I now lead.

Can't wait to see what comes after the next fork in the road.

I like this paraphrase . . .

One particular four-year-old prayed,
"And forgive us our trash baskets
as we forgive those who put trash in our baskets."

Amazing And More

Today I was reminded of what grace looks like. Today, grace took the form of a middle-aged woman who is enduring her own personal hell. But in the midst of living out the harsh reality of what it means to be a member of the "sandwich generation" -- caring for both parent and child while trying to maintain one's own sanity -- she gifted me with the wish for freedom.

To not be free, for me, is to maintain the status quo.
To not be free is to conform to what I expect is expected rather than explore the unknown.
To not be free is to no longer be the me that I've become.

She had the power to tighten the chains. Instead, she gave me the keys.

I've not used them just yet. But the gift is amazing.

Grace, indeed.

Been a While

Busy days with lots of caring, lots of sharing.

Stan called at 7 a.m. last Tuesday ... since most of you don't know Stan, this might not shock you as it did me, but Stan doesn't do 7 a.m. He barely does 11! I didn't even waste breath on "hello."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm sick," the words sounded like they were painful for him to utter.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Come here. Call my doctor."

"I'm there."

I tried to make the shower quick and wished later that I might have taken a bit more time on the face, because when I left the apartment to dash across the parking lot to his condo, I wasn't going to see the place again for a while.

We were told to go to the emergency room and two hours after arriving there we got a triage room. Seven hours later, I knew he was about to get a real room and I could leave without worrying there would be no one there to hold the tub if he had to once again throw up what little was left on his stomach.

I told him at one point that he'd given me enough power that should there be a question of pulling any plugs, I was in control!

He told me, throughout the day and in so many ways, that we were family.

I agreed.

Easter weekend the family gathered at my place. The meal was a West meets South adventure. My new friend Brittany brought her California cuisine to my kitchen. As she added dried cranberries to wild rice, I opened the Cheese Whiz for the broccoli cheese casserole. When she was dicing carrots that would be covered with orange juice, zest and pistachios, I was adding a half cup of Crisco to the red velvet cake batter.

I couldn't convince her that a lick of that blood red mixture was tasty. She declared that food was not meant to be that color.

On Easter Sunday, she ate not one but two pieces! Ha! We Southerners might not win battles with ammunition but we can do a number on your arteries!

The activities that day included all the grown ups around one table -- which had to be extended to handle the collection of souls. Then we dyed eggs for the Long children and three of our elders hid them. Later the children returned the favor for the adults, some of whom got in a throwdown about just who had more in their makeshift baskets -- I recylced Christmas gift bags for the occasion to add to the festivity!

A few folks determined we hadn't allowed eggs to be the subject of fun quite long enough so they suggested an egg toss. Two completely mature individuals agreed it was worth their efforts and we cheered them on in the parking lot.

People kept coming throughout the day and by the close of the door, I'd insured that I wouldn't be eating leftovers for the next three weeks. Baggies of takehome were the party favors and eagerly embraced by all.

The next day I received at least four calls calling it "one of the best Easters ever."

That's what families are for.

Remembering When

We climbed the steep, narrow stairs each Sunday.
Our teachers waited in the room of straight edges and few windows
with good intentions and a lack of understanding
that 5th graders require more than rules
to touch their hearts
more than guilt
to push them along the path
more than words
to ignite them to action.

God knows
they tried
they prayed
they talked.

But so did we
and usually our topics included
games, school, and who was being mean and/or nice
to whom (only we would have said who because let's see we were 5th graders).

The Sunday Morning Endurance Race transpired
9 a.m. to 10 each week, rain or shine.

We never realized the power we held . . .
more of us, less of them.

Now
we are
Them.

And the thunder roar of 5th grade feet on stairs
is enough to give me chills and prompt prayers.
I pray that they too hold their power in ignorance
I pray that their Sunday morning chatter focuses on fun and not fears
I pray that guilt is never used to guide them
I pray that their bright eyes and wide smiles
remain innocent just a little longer.

Sex Leads by a Nose

"The number of Web pages dealing with God and religion is booming. Religion, in fact, is now nearly as popular an Internet topic as sex: A search for "sex" on Google returns about 408 million hits; a search for "God" yields 396 million." -- from The Week quoting The Washington Post

Belated Discovery

I've been doing some soul-searching.

Good news:

I think I found one.

Famous for a Cause

Aimie Littler (beautiful inside and out friend of mine) is quoted in the London Times and I'm so proud of what she's done to get on those pages. Noting that The Truth Isn't Sexy she's gone after the demand side of human trafficking. She's taken the lead on a project and given more hours than most folks would ever consider for FREE!!!! I love that I know people with this much passion and commitment. Check out the story . . .

Evidently Size Does Matter

The Houston Chronicle offers up an excellent resource for all things Houston in a publication called The Source. For instance, they include a sidebar with all the OTHER names for the major roadways here. (If you've ever tried to listen to a traffic report in Houston, you'll know what I mean. Took me years to discover what the Pierce Elevated was -- I45 going through downtown.)

They also provide some fun facts that just might support the working theory that Texans are a tad bit over-focused on size:

Houston has the third-largest number of consular offices outside Washington, D.C. (after New York and Los Angeles).

The city is named for Sam Houston, the larger-than-life president of the Republic of Texas, governor of two states, U.S. senator and military hero.

Houston’s Texas Medical Center is the largest medical complex in the world.

At 570 feet, the San Jacinto Monument is about 15 feet taller than the Washington Monument.

Houstonians eat out more than residents of any other U.S. city.

The largest evacuation in U.S. history occurred in 2005 when more than 2.5 million Houston-area residents fled Hurricane Rita.

Biggest or smallest -- doesn't matter to me. I love my city not for its size but for what we do with it.

Does Someone Know Someone???

This art exhibit is provocative and worthy of more time in the public eye. Stacey Chinn has much to say about the cost of dowry in the lives of women around the world. Check it out. And then, someone tell me how I can get it to Houston or Austin??? Does anyone know anyone with a gallery? How about connections at a women's study program??? Anyone????

What Dante Didn't Tell Us

Last week I traveled to the home state of a good friend and we enjoyed her family and the beauty that is Kentucky for a few days before driving home to Texas (16 hours if you're interested in stats like that). She has three kids and the trip was possible in a day if we shared the driving burden. Actually, with DVD players, Ipods, and earphones, the day was long but enjoyable.

A couple of really cool things happened while in the state known for its love of horses, basketball and bourbon. I got a behind-the-scenes tour of a race track -- an old one with a clubhouse that felt like some man in a smoking jacket would be coming around the corner any second with a cigar and a brandy in hand. The horses were doing an early morning workout and it was cold. The snorting and hot breath were both audible and visible. I loved it.

I also saw an incredible art exhibit which I want to come to Houston (see next post) and enjoyed hanging out with my friends's cousins and sisters. Have you ever seen a Kentucky fan during March Madness? Wow!

But my biggest grin came when my friend's five-year-old got her first glimpse of the wilderness themed water park from the second story of the similarly themed lodge where the entire family was staying for the night. She pressed her face against the window pane that gave a bird's eye view of the plastic trees, buckets of water pouring into other buckets, spewing/spitting/spinning water trails, inflated tubes and pools -- lots and lots of pools. She was quiet for a moment and then said as though hypnotized, "I've always dreamed of this."

When we made it down to the first floor and I walked into the heated chasm and began to take in the three stories of children running wild I had a slightly different reaction:

"I'm in hell. Dante forgot to mention the theme park level."

Of course, as soon as I was pulled away from my cynical state and climbed the tower for my first excursion down a shaft of water on top of an inner tube, I had a bit of a change of heart.

Maybe it wasn't my dream, but it wasn't a nightmare either.

And by 2 p.m. the next day when I discovered the 21 and over hot tub, I was a much happier camper!

Would I Heed the Warning?

They paint the tree roots orange when they interrupt the dirt and gravel oak-lined path on which I powerwalk.

Too bad there's not some similar warning system in the journey we call "real life."

I wouldn't mind some orange aura showing up when the next step is going to guarantee I trip, fall and experience pain.

We Walked

Speechless ... I hate the sensation. And, yet, love what produces it.

I always want to say something incredibly profound after experiences such as the AIDS Walk. I want to capture in words the gratitude I felt seeing my communities converge and walk side by side. I want to convey the beauty of thousands of colorfully clad advocates agreeing that taking a walk is making a stand. But I never quite get "there" in expressing all that happened both inside my head and around my blistered (bad shoe choice) heels.

Still I wanted to say something.

???

While listening to the song "What if God were one of us?" from a few years back, I found myself responding the question posed within . . . If you could ask God just one question, what would it be?

My reply: Why?

And if I were the type to use language like this on a more regular basis perhaps I wouldn't feel so strange saying it . . . but it was almost as if God immediately answered because I distinctly heard:

Why not?

What are you looking for?

The Right Answer or a right answer for right now?

Stilling Accepting Contributions!!

Just wanted everyone to know that I'm walking in the AIDS Walk, March 11, and if you want to walk with me, by all means come along. If you want to help Bering Omega and see 75% of your contribution go to the great work of that organization (including the AIDS hospice where I volunteer) with the other 25% going to an equally great group, the AIDS Foundation, you can make a donation on my personal page.

T'ai Chi and Tea

Sunday I traded Jesus for Buddha.

A buddy asked if I wanted to go to a t'ai chi class with her. While I had been told earlier in the weekend that Sunday was the New Year, the two of us hadn't let it register that if we were going to a temple on that day, we might encounter a crowd.

We did. Early enough (we thought) for tea, we sat down in the Tea Room and placed our order. Mine was to be a pot of lemon, honey and pomegranete-infused liquid. The panini like veggie sandwich rounded out the $5 order. The volunteer staff seemed slightly out of sorts with the size of their crowd. Several times they stopped by our table to tell us it would only be a "few more minutes" and apologize. Twenty minutes later, the sandwiches arrived. Five minutes after that, the tea was served. We had missed (we thought) our class.

We settled into the peacefulness of the place, the energy generated by families walking the grounds and enjoying the Tea Room. Then a young man stepped up to our table and let us know that if we were the ones interested in the class, we could still attend.

Thirty minutes late we walked in on the stretching. Not yoga but still nice.

The instructor was a small man with a tendency to break into laughter if he felt you might not be understanding what he was saying. The class was made up of five individuals who were all over 60 (and possibly 65 years of age) . . . 4 Anglos and an African American. They seemed unfazed by our interruption. The instructor even came to us during the break and offered to give us a "make up" for the 30 minutes we missed. By the time, the end of the class arrived, though impressed with his generosity of spirit and time, I'd had about all the slow-paced instruction for the slow-paced movements that I felt necessary so I left my buddy to take it all in.

I have to admit the pace was comforting and once I gave into the idea that I wasn't going to make the 45 minute trip to my faith community, I relaxed and did my best to follow his lead.

But ultimately, it was the contradiction that led me to know I wouldn't be returning (at least to the class . . . because the tea was EXCELLENT).

The moves are based on slow versions of moves one might make in combat. I couldn't quite align the idea of a peaceful meditation with defensive and offensive gestures, no matter how beautiful.

In the end, I missed my friends and family back in Tomball and once again wished the drive weren't so long. So it's Jesus 1, Buddha 0 on this round.*

(and no, I'm not really keeping score!)

(London)-- The Truth Isn’t Sexy (TTIS) is raising awareness amongst younger people about the realities of sex trafficking. The cross-party parliamentary launch of the campaign will take place on 20 March, 2007 to coincide with the 200th anniversary of the abolition of the slave trade. The launch is being sponsored by Lord Roberts (Lib Dem) and Louise Ellman MP (Lab) and supported by the Centre for Social Justice, a Conservative think-tank. We have partnered with the NUS to reach young people across the UK. Shockingly, there are more people traded in forms of modern-day slavery than at the height of the slave-trade. Between 600,000 and 800,000 people worldwide are trafficked every year, many of those into the UK.

In contrast to other agencies whose work is directed towards the victims or the supply side of the industry, The Truth Isn’t Sexy is addressing the ‘demand’ part of the sex market. We are starting conversations in an atmosphere that is neither judgmental nor moralising, but highlights the harsh realities at work within the global sex trade.

TTIS challenges increasingly prevalent attitudes that both normalise ending up in a lap-dancing club, brothel or massage parlour and even attach a certain social cachet to these activities. We are asking those who use these services to think about the wider impact of their choices; to consider that women may have been forced, manipulated or coerced into such work. When this is the case 'The Truth Isn't Sexy'.

To that end TTIS is launching a beer mat campaign to coincide with the anniversary of the abolition of the slave trade. Designed to catch the viewers attention by imitating telephone box calling cards; one side portrays an enticing image but the flipside shocks and highlights the brutal reality of the lives of trafficked women. In partnership with the NUS, the themed beer mats will be placed in Student Unions nationwide. This will build on the strong political, media and public interest generated by the bicentenary.

The Truth Isn't Sexy Campaign has been designed and developed by a group of young people who felt passionately about raising awareness for this issue. To date everyone has worked voluntarily and used their skills in organisation, design and networking to make this campaign happen. For more info refer to http://www.protest4.com/

TTIS is a great example of what can be done when a few people get together to try and change things. Alongside reaching young people through student unions and in London pubs and clubs we are working to get the funds needed to print and distribute the campaign in each major UK city, at the cost of £2500 per urban area.

The launch of TTIS also coincides with the release of the film “TRAFFIC” made by the same people who made “CRASH”, the 2005 smash hit, and we have been involved with this film’s editing process.


Contact The Truth Isn’t Sexy:
Campaign Director Aimie Littler (READERS NOTE: Aimie's a friend of mine!!!)
Tel +44 7970 854415
Email aimie@aimie.co.uk
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/5360624.stm
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2007/01/04/nslave04.xml

Could Mess with Your Trust Issues

An Argentine soccer fan has sued the man who tattooed an illustration of a penis onto his back instead of the logo of the fan's favorite team. Seems the tattooist was a keen supporter of a rival team. (The Week, 2/2/2007)

Found on a Friend's Fridge

i beg you . . . to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. and the point is, to live everything. live the questions now. perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer . . .

rainer maria rilke

Misc. Friday

Started the day with my usual end of the week catch up on reading (and, now because of podcasts also listening). Here's a few things I found thought-provoking:

Blogs are searchable and viral. Podcasts are more intimate but not as viral. And video is even better. Since yesterday I saw that a Houston-based award-winning film a couple of years ago only cost $218 to make, I'm wondering when we're going to see the surge hit the church world. I know there are signs of it out there, but we still seem to be shopping in the cheese section with our media efforts.

One woman described herself as "a priest without walls serving a variety of communities." I like that.

Stephen Baker at BusinessWeek Online proposes that the Apostle Paul was a blogging pioneer.

And today's joke in the Chronicle amused me (in much the same way as Rodney's comment about Valentine's Day being Single Awareness Day and Juli's joke buried in comments regarding the lust in space astronaut): I'm reading a book on anti-gravity and I can't put it down.

Fixed or Better?

Today I listened to a few men speak on how one might turn ordinary conversations into spiritual conversations. One man suggested the rather unique concept of listening. To preface his point, he said, "Women seem to already have a handle on the value of this . . . "

I try to stay away from generalizations about men and women and what one or the other group does or doesn't do. But I did have a follow up chat with a woman who heard the presentation and we made a distinction that I found interesting. (Again, this IS a generalization and I know it.)

Men seem to want to fix things. Women tend to speak more about "making things better." While a small distinction to be sure, the difference between whole and fixed and simply better is a pretty big deal, don't you think?

Bow Wow

He was angry . . . and therefore petty.

"I want the book I let you borrow back tonite."

Since he was dropping me off at my hotel at midnight and he was scheduled to be back to provide transportation to the airport in a matter of hours, I countered,"Can't you wait until tomorrow morning?"

"No, I want it now."

"Are you going to come up and get it?"

"No. Bring it to me."

And . . . God help me . . . I did.

On the walk back, I realized that the scene as it was transpiring had happened one way or another for far too many times in my life. My friends tried to point the behavior out as I moved in and out of relationships -- both friendships and more romantic encounters. But for the first time I saw it.

I didn't like what I saw. And I promised myself . . . never again.

This bitch is through with fetch.

What do you think?

My buddy told me before Christmas that he had a client he wanted me to meet. Seems this guy had thrown out one of those "don't you know anyone you can introduce me to?" after having finally come to terms with the fact that he and his former girlfriend weren't going to make it.

So Wednesday we all went out to dinner -- my buddy, his friend Christian that I had met only minutes before, me and The Guy.

The restaurant was good and The Guy picked up the entire tab.

Ok, that's the best part. It definitely goes down hill from here.

Wait . . . Christian was good, too. When he met me he said I looked fabulous and at least pretended to be shocked when he heard my age! Plus he rolled his eyes at all the right times when The Guy was on what he thought was a roll. He wasn't.

The Guy wasn't bad looking. In fact, I'm sure people tell him he favors Michael Douglas -- thinner, smaller frame but the hair and the angles of the face are similar.

He wasn't exactly rude either. He just never looked at anyone else at the table except my buddy -- the one guy he knew. He told long stories with no real punch line and he told everyone of them to my buddy. I can't emphasize this enough. It was as if my buddy's face had a magnet attached and The Guy's eyes were locked in some sort of force field.

When he left for a rest room break, we pounced.

"He's nervous! Don't you think?"

"He's gotta be. He can't talk to anyone but me!"

"Has he looked at you once, Karen?"

"That time he asked me what I did, then answered for me and began a new story which he proceeded to tell to YOU."

"Well, at least we know he's rich."

Dear Christian had to throw that in . . . after we'd heard about an Armani suit, a cashmere coat, a Mercedes, a condo in Houston and a place in Denver -- all details in various long stories with seemingly no real plot twists.

Once the boys left me alone with him while they took a "smoke break." He found the tabletop fascinating, asked about where I fell in my family birth order, told me I must be spoiled as a result of my status and then launched into a story about how his brother was one of the spoiled ones. He then wondered when the boys might be returning from what he deemed was at least a two cigarette break.

At least twice he touched my arm ... as if he was trying to let me know that he did realize I was there, or else checking to make sure I was.

So I'm left with choosing between "he's just not into you" or "he's really, really, really out of practice" or "he's socially inept." Which would you go with?

Trading in an Overcoat for that Swimsuit I Bought

The temperature is going to be somewhere around 20 degrees. I have two sweaters and a short coat. I'm crossing my fingers that my boots will keep me warm. But I'm still smiling because I'm going to New Jersey. Yep, New Jersey! Forget the movies you've seen, the caricatures that you probably default to. The people I'm going to see are great. The trip to NYC is a short one. At some point this weekend I'm going to hear jazz. And along the way, I'm going to do what I can to help a group of people achieve what they want to achieve.

Life is good.

Huh?

I spoke to an astronaut a few months back and asked how many other people in the world's history would be included in his ranks -- those who had found a home away from home for a brief time in space. He said about 500.

Imagine. You're one of 500 people in history and current times to do what you do. And one day you wake up and decide to throw it all away with a cross country drive that ends in disaster.

For love? Or was it more along the lines of the CNN headline -- Lust in Space?

Some NASA psychologist somewhere is hoping no one knows his/her name 'cause he/she's going to have some explaining to do.

Storytime or Maybe Not

I've often said, "It's all about the story." In the midst of a great adventure like hiking in Yosemite when you find your vehicle's tire is flat, that thought comes in handy and can put the experience in perspective. I've said similar things when I found myself walking alone in the rain on a dark street in Vietnam, arguing with personnel at a Thai airline counter that I could get into Turkey without a visa purchased in her fair city, discovering that it's less than ideal to take oversized luggage stuffed with missionary gifts through the Underground in London even if everyone is getting in a few hours of site seeing . . .

Recently though I've been playing with the lack of value in the "story." For every event there's what happened. Pure and simple. No added interpretation. No commentary. No assumptions applied. Just what happened.

And then there's the story -- the meaning and interpretation we give to what happened.

Apply this to relationships and some real healing can take place. My father didn't think less of me. He simply said, "If you can make As, do it." My friend didn't reject me. He stopped seeing me. The difference may be subtle but it's there.

And if you want a really good time take this thinking to the bible. Avoid interpretation and commentary and see what it leaves you. We did this as a staff this week and it was truly eye-opening.

Post Rejection Weekend

Driving to work this morning I heard Donna Summers sing, "Last dance last dance for love yes, it's my last chance for romance tonight . . ." I grinned, turned up the volume and sang along.

"I need you, by me, beside me, to guide me . . . " That's when I checked out the view . . . What was "beside me" was a fantastic view of the Houston skyline backlit by a cloud-infused sunrise color burst. And I thought, "not a bad way to be guided!"

By the time the song concluded I laughed aloud.

Which pretty much sums up how I feel about my post-rejection weekend. I'm laughing. I'm smiling. I'm singing. I have no evidence that things are better but I know they are.

Kinda of like what my little community talked about yesterday . . . We have no evidence. We sometimes don't have faith. And yet, we keep going. I left that group grateful that I'm "going" but certainly not alone!

Here's some highlights from the way I would always want to deal with life after having been rejected by someone who didn't really know me well enough to do so:

• I heard my favorite five year old play a violin before a crowd of 500 or more folks all supporting their Suzuki students.
• I dined with a friend from California who always challenges me to be better at my profession and gives me hope that soul mates do happen. (She's certainly a woman in love.)
• I exercised better and more than I have in a long time and could see the results.
• I prepped, shopped and cooked for 22 people and the meal came out hot, delicious and was every bit the birthday celebration of my best friend that I wanted it to be. Plus, I was surrounded and assisted by other friends who serve to remind me how blessed I am.
• I allowed myself to grieve, to rest.
• I spent time with a community who doesn't push answers but definitely has something going on worthy of my attention.
• I ushered at the theater.
• And I remembered that I can't wait to see what happens next.

Because I Can't Let It End There

If you read the blog post I just made (see below), you'll know that yesterday was not the most fun experience. And since I relish fun I can't let the weekend begin with that entry highest on this space.

Plus, you have to hear this one.

As soon as I got in my car I checked on who had called during the "dumping chat." Through the sobs (which I readily acknowledge were less about losing Mr. Right Now and more about the idea of having to start over, of losing what I had thought would be some great adventures ahead for us, etc.) I heard a voice from my past and my present but not my every day.

A few weeks ago, I had told this guy (the one on the voice mail) that we would have to re-negotiate a consulting gig I was going to do for his church in New Jersey because I was choosing to go on a trip. Yep, I chose Mr. Right Now over a job, over a commitment to a friend who I felt I'd always tried to accommodate and for once I wasn't going to. I offered several options to Mr. New Jersey but he would have none of them. We concluded our conversation with my resignation from the gig, his stated and obvious distaste for what I was doing, and my sense that I had tried to find the win/win and, though I don't like disappointing, I had finally chosen a "me first" option.

So to hear Mr. New Jersey's short message to call him was startling. The course of our friendship would have suggested that it would be months before we'd talk again and even then, I knew I'd be the one to have to call and make amends.

I returned his call immediately. The receptionist apparently remembered me from last year when I spent a weekend at this church and with great enthusiasm greeted me. When Mr. New Jersey answered, I launched into what had just happened in the dump chat.

He waited while I cried. He then asked all the right questions, tried to lessen the blow by doing a bit of name calling (totally not necessary but somehow cute), and, even started checking airline specials to see if I could hop on a plane and come to the city (he's a boat ride from NYC) this weekend so he and other friends there could console me with great food, great music and great theater.

I thanked him but told him that my weekend was already committed -- I'm hosting a kickass dinner party for my dearest friend at my other dear friends' house with all my wonderful friends and his surrounding us. Then I asked if the church would still want me.

"Absolutely," he said. And proceeded to book my flight for the gig I'd declined. Without knowing Mr. New Jersey and the fact that he has never been plagued with my dilemma of putting self last, you can't totally appreciate what happened next.

"So let's talk about what you want me to do there," I offered, sniffing loudly.

"Not now. We have time for that. Let's concentrate on you," he responded.

And that was enough.

So I got him to answer a few questions. We made some sketchy plans and by the time the phone call was coming to a close, I had a paying gig to make up for the lost weekend trip and the promise of some fun in Manhattan!

With plans in place, I started to conclude the call when I realized he'd been the one to first call me.

"Wait," I said. "You called me . . . What did you want?"

"Never mind," he replied.

"No really, what was it?"

"You won't believe me so it's ok."

"REALLY, what was it?"

"Ok . . . I called to check on you . . . . "

(I hope he didn't hear the intake of breath I offered up in shock.)

"I knew you would think that I'd be angry with you for quite a while about what you did and I just wanted you to know we were going to be ok."

"Well, you're right . . . I figured it would be months and me to make this right. I gotta give you credit. You're growing up, aren't you."

"Guess we all are . . . uh, Karen, you do know I love you, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do. Thanks."

A much nicer ending, don't you think?

I Got Dumped

I had been playing with a possible blog entry on how I wish I had an on/off switch for negative thinking. My sense was that something wasn't right with Mr. Right Now and I was ready to chat but he wasn't so I made up stories about why. My buddies were great in listening and most of them tried to steer me away from my doomsday prophecies.

Sometimes it's a bitch to be right.

We met yesterday for "lunch." But as we drove to the restaurant he was uncomfortable and rambling. When a break in his verbal barrier-building appeared, I inserted why I had come. I wanted to know what he'd been hinting at for a week but hadn't yet said.

"You want to know now or do you want to eat first," he said, still postponing.

"Am I going to get indigestion?"

"Probably."

"Then tell me now. Not eating will be good for my diet."

So he launched into how he had thought he could do "this" and now he knew he couldn't, how there was another woman who'd entered the picture and she was influential and could really help him meet the right people who would help his business grow, how his good friend had suggested that he needed to get past his distrust of women or he'd just continue to push the good ones away . . .

Then he offered me a second chance at doing lunch.

I declined.

While rejection is never easy, I thought I handled myself fairly well. I listened. I responded. I didn't try to persuade, convince, convict or anything else. I simply let him know where I was. Ok, I did insert a zinger or two but really, they were subtle and he would have had to really be paying attention to get them.

Strange that I didn't play the usual tapes in my head. I knew that this wasn't about my big hangup -- my physical attractiveness or the lack thereof. For the first time in my life, I knew that what I looked like had nothing to do with his decision. He made it clear throughout the drive away from and back to my car with comments, looks, touches, etc. that physical attraction wasn't the issue.

Guess I should be more upset that he was explaining it in such a way that it really sounded like he was "trading up." Since he's in the car business, it was hard not to hear it that way. But, truthfully, I was the best I've been in a long time with this guy. I had embraced my desire to have fun and adventure in my life and was living large with him. We had good times. And now he wanted those to end. I wasn't in love but definitely "in like." And, grieving for what could have been was already taking hold of me.

When we arrived at our stopping place and he looked me in the eyes.

"Wish I had a good exit line," I said with a not too forced chuckle.

"Think of one while I come around to open your door," he said, continuing to prolong the inevitable.

As I stood beside him, he looked a bit lost and asked if a hug was warranted.

I accepted the embrace as well as the light kiss and then I began the trek to my car.

"Wow," he said with obvious admiration at what lots of miles on a treadmill are netting my backside. "That looks so good to me."

And for the first time ever I tossed a line over my shoulder, "And it's walking away."

The end.

The Sun Is Shining, THANK GOD

Sounds Good to Me

"Madame Speaker."

We're Walking . . . We're Walking

Check out my AIDS Walk info. If you have already contributed, thank you. If you didn't know yet, the details are here. If you can't give money, send some good thoughts my way on March 11, ok? And, if you know someone I don't know that might be a supporter, feel free to pass along the link.

Not a Good Day . . .

Last night was not a good night.

Today has been less than wonderful.

So I'm using others' thoughts to shake up my own. I'm trying to remember to be the woman I want to be and not the one circumstances make of me. So I'm relishing others' words today:

“I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.” -- Jack London


And from a May issue of Newsweek on living a high velocity life (which is what I plan on doing):
"Every day you are confronted with new smells and tastes. Did you know what it tastes like to drink hot green tea in milk in February in Nara? Had you smelled the Namibian desert after a rainstorm? The high-velocity life not only rewards optimism, it demands it. If you get on each new flight thinking wherever you are going is worse than where you're coming from, then this life will empty you. And this is where a secret emerges: that the essential demand for a high-speed life is a kind of portable stillness. It's like that Taipei 101 skyscraper, which balances out too-frequent Asian earthquakes not by means of a deep foundation but through an internal damper that transmutes big shocks into small tremors. Stability comes from the inside."

Cup of Cold Water . . . well, it was lukewarm

I slept very little on Saturday night. The idea that in a few hours I would have to pull myself out of bed nagged at me even during sleep. After checking the clock every hour, the alarm finally sounded -- 4:45 a.m. The marathon would start in less than three hours.

Ever ready for a new experience, I'd said yes when Roger asked if I wanted to help at the water table Houston Community College had volunteered to staff during the run. The idea of watching 15,000 runners pass by in a matter of only a couple of hours intrigued me. So I layered up -- the weather was foggy and cool -- and we headed down to Studemont and Washington.

The assignment was fairly simple and the old hands were more than ready to tell us the best way to fill about 1000 cups of water that would be layered on our 8 ft. table. Three stacks high thanks to cardboard separating each layer. We filled ours a bit too much which meant handing the cups off took a little extra maneuvering but we were more than ready when the first runners started appearing.

The action was fast and furious so I really only remember bits --

• the questioning calls for "Water?" since Gatorade was at another table,
• the relentless responses of some of the volunteers as they took to simply repeating the word over and over again "water, water, water, water"
• the look of need in the runners' faces as they approached -- a need to grab the fluid without slowing their pace, a need to connect with my eyes to insure that I understood, a need to keep on going . . . no matter what . . . to keep on
• the countless "thank you"s that came from the grateful runners -- this thing cannot be done without volunteers and they knew it
• the incredible variety of body types and statements being made -- statements on health, battles against disease, friendships and more
• the feeling of inadquacy when the table it had taken an hour to prepare was emptied in minutes and then I stood with pitcher in hand for another hour or more filling cup after cup like some sort of neverending faucet
• the way those power packs of goo that runners love look so much like condom wrappers when they've been thrown on the asphalt and trampled
• thousands of cups that had to be scooped up (along with everything else that got dumped along the way) and bagged by those very same volunteers who had filled cups, offered them up and now would dispose of them
• and the best Mexican food breakfast I've ever had. Don't know if the follow up feast was so tasty because I was cold, wet and tired or because it was truly a great, cheap place to eat, but it was delicioso.

I did the half marathon a couple of years ago and felt afterwards that I had somehow been a part of something so much grander than a test of my endurance. This side of the excitement, I continue to feel that something more than physical tests were won that day. I love it when people prove we are not all out to surpass the next, but instead, we can run the race side by side and be grateful in the running.

Mark This Down

Tuesday night I created the possibility in my life of being adventurous, ready to embrace the moments that come my way as opportunities to live life to the fullest. And by Friday I already had . . . committed to pump up the volume on my AIDS activism, connected with two new incredible women who will most definitely add to my life, heard some kicking blues where the sax sounded like pure sex, planned a trip to the Bahamas, committed to working the Houston marathon this weekend and handing out thousands of cups of water, and stood up for myself twice.

I'm liking this possibility stuff!

Senior Moments

The woman looked her age today. The folds of skin beneath her chin were couched on her shirt collar. Her skin was pale and she'd pulled her gray (not white and not silver) hair back with a band exposing wrinkles and splotches she hadn't bothered to cover with makeup.

Her husband sat beside her at the meeting. He had a bit more color on his face, but his coat and tie in the casual setting suggested a link to days of old that he simply won't release. His bad arm hung loose at his side.

So easy . . . dismissing them as two old geezers would have been so easy.

Then she reached up. (His back was turned so that he could see the speaker.) And she rubbed her hand back and forth across his shoulders. Slightly startled, he turned toward her. She smiled. He smiled and, with his good arm reached behind to gently tug at her foot, the closest available appendage.

Married for 51 years, they still have moments such as these. And in those moments, they are beautiful.

Am I the Only One Who Thinks . . .

• If you're successful enough to be interviewed for an article on the status of something in your field you should come up with something better than "I'll be happy when we have more than just prom songs to Jesus sung by some effeminate guy on an acoustic guitar." Plllleeezeee . . . how much practice does it take to become that offensive? (see Relevant magazine's latest issue and certain Seatle pastor's response if you want details)
• If 1 comment is left on a blog shouldn't it say 1 comment rather than 1 comments?
• Rainy days should be deemed the same as snow days and everyone should get to go home early?
• The spam folks using scripture in their subject lines are playing with hellfire?
• No one has yet to replace the emotional impact (read that sex appeal) of Barry White singing?!

It's Juli's Fault

Juli tagged me. And only because I think she's an amazing woman am I fulfilling her request to tell at least five things about me that someone else might find amazing . . . (Since I sincerely doubt anyone who doesn't love me would give a hoot about what I'm about to say, I strongly encourage all mere acquaintances or friends who have not committed to longterm emotional involvement with me to skip this entry and read through my posts of the past or, better yet, link to some of my friends who are far more amazing and who you'll find listed on the right hand side of this page.)

1. I started working when I was 13 years old and haven't quit since. The Dairy Queen was my home away from home for five years and I spent many a late Friday night driving around Greenfield, TN with the windows down to try and eliminate the smell of french fries from my hair and clothes. I can still make that curly top on soft serve ice cream and practice any chance I get . . . usually at Jason's Delis and Chinese buffets.

2. I'm two degrees separated from the former pope. You know that six degrees of separation theory? Well, my former boss (in the 1980s) was a head honcho of a LARGE religious organization and she was invited to meet him along with lots of other head honchos. She went and did the meet and greet thing. Cool thing was the "souvenir" from the experience -- they sent our organization the chair in which she sat.

3. One book lists my name as an author. Another doesn't but was compiled and practically rewritten from other sources by yours truly. They are both rather boring pieces of curriculum and my own family (who own copies of the first) have acknowledged that they've never read them. Frankly, I don't blame them. (And having written this I think the so-called amazing part may not be that I'm published but that I can readily admit how boring an author I really am!)

4. I've gotten at least three standing ovations in my career. And, while I readily gave up that aspect of my work long ago and realize that I'm supposed to be humble and totally unaffected by such attention, I enjoyed every second of the experience.

5. I have incredible taste in friends . . . they are the best part of who I am. And "grateful" doesn't adequately cover how I feel to know and love them.

He Asked, I Answered, She Made Me Think Further

Him: Do you think pastors do what they do because of passion or is it just a job?

Me: Depends on the pastor. Most, I'd even go as far as to say most all, definitely get into it because of passion . . . they feel God has called them. But it can become a job. The good ones do what they can to keep the passion alive.

Him: Hmmmm (with a look of some disappointment on his face)

Me: You'd be surprised at how the work of the church drains the passion right out of them.

After recapping this exchange to my boss and friend . . .

She: I think passion is overrated. Commitment may not be as hot, but it's to be valued.