Those Books and Their Covers!

Perhaps not the ultimate people-watching opportunity but certainly a reminder of the "melting pot" status of the good ol' USofA is Mardi Gras in Galveston. For one thing, it's not New Orleans so we're not talking "Girls Gone Wild" video footage in the making. Families enjoy this parade.

On Saturday night I was struck by four distinct forms of family.

The first group was a Hispanic couple with their almost 3 year old daughter. She was dressed in a fluffy white coat -- which they said would stay white since she was such an obsessive child about cleanliness, totally contradicting the fact that I had just watched her dig her little index finger in the dirt along the crack in the sidewalk. We learned they were from Houston, in Galveston for the weekend, they'd not been to a parade since the baby was born, etc. As usual the child was a bead magnet with every float falling in love with her and dishing out all manner of prizes to the mom. We LIKED them.

The next group was an African-American family that include a tall beautiful mom, a shorter and stocky dad, a maybe 5 or 6 year old son that they kept pulling back from the chaos at roadside, and a 7th grader who was the nicest young man of that age I've been around in a while. At first quiet, they warmed to us and we definitely LIKED them.

A surprise was the five or six Hispanic youth who had "don't mess with us, we're trouble" written in invisible ink on their bandanas and t-shirts and what not. Initially fearful of them, something possessed me to stand up for my inability to stand tall and when they almost fell on me for the sixth time as they crowded in front of me to grab the thrown beads, I loudly declared, "I'm short and I'm older than you so move on down the road and give me some room." What I loved about that moment is that they stopped in their tracks, looked at me and did exactly as I said. Even the African American mom was impressed with me. Once they moved out of my way, I even LIKED them.

And then there was THAT group . . . the ones who came late, crowded in, chain smoked around the children and kept downing coke and crowns as if they were going to stop producing liquor any minute now. They were all heavy set, all unkempt, all near or close to three sheets in the wind and we did NOT like them.

I was sort of amazed at the diversity. And how each group was so very distinct. And then I began writing this and realized that any one of these groups might have relished describing my little band as well. Three men and one woman, middle aged, gregarious, talkative, obviously very comfortable with one another and not one of them looked married to the other . . . hmmmmmm wonder what their story is????

Can't judge a book by its cover, can you?

A True Tale of the South

A Louisiana-born friend of mine tells the story his father told him:

Seems there was a young woman in the small LA town of my friend's birth who in the 1930s found that she was pregnant and unmarried. The church, concerned about her spiritual well-being suggested that if she were going to act un-church-like, perhaps she shouldn't be considering herself a member of their congregation. She repented and they kept her in the fold on her promise that she would "do better" in the future.

A few years later and still unmarried she had twins . . . the town dubbed them the "do better" girls.

He Asked

"How's it going?"
He asked with genuine-ness,
taking his seat at my otherwise empty table.

One of the good guys,
he refrained from empty
platitudes and
showy gestures.

So I answered.

"Do you see those two young men
at the end of the table?
The ones who look as though they
just entered college?
Do you see the crowd surrounding them?
Do you hear the excitement in each greeting?

"They were invited to this all-male
gathering of priests and pastors.
Pleas went out for this next generation
to participate.

"They were invited,
And I'm allowed to be here.

"So under the circumstances,
allowing for that . . .
it's going well."

Hand Me a Towel

Run away thoughts race
through my mind

Not from
family and friends
But to
The next adventure,
the new idea.

Yet the only pavement pounded
is treadmill like in its routine
Fears of stumbling
still securing my hands and feet
to that which is sure.

I refuse to release.

"Someday soon"
I tell myself
As I sweat through the too familiar
And only
Imagine the idea
Of the not-yet-to-be.

Mine Would Be Red

I said I'd meet a physical challenge this year
And I have.

I said I'd plan a trip to somewhere I've never been
And I have.

It's only February
And I'm restless
for the next big adventure.

If this is a mid-life crisis,
couldn't I just buy a car
and be done with it?

Tied

I want so much to be poetic --
For succinct profundities to purge
themselves from pen to paper.

Yet I'm tied
To too many rules
To freely let my spirit dance and sing and
play across the page.

Constrained by the unspoken criticism
I'm sure awaits me,
I avoid the jeers of my peers,
Keeping to the lines and borders
Never nearing freedom
Forever taunted by benign bullies
of my own making.

Sometimes They Just Rhyme

Would you let your imagination
take you to places
I'd like you to go . . .

Places dark and lucious
with secrets
you've yet to know?

Would you trust my hands
to guide you
as you take
each step blind?

Would you relax
with me beside you
and trust
I'll help you find . . .

Mysteries and magic
Still unexplained,
Delectables and delights . . .
The line between pleasure and pain,
Groans and utterings
Held too long within,
What some see as faith
and others call sin.

Would you?

J Says I've Not Posted in a While

5 Days! Between sickness, travel, and going to see a bad movie that was truly not worth my time (but did net me my first post in 5 days), I've been silent for a while.

Believe it or not, sometimes I have nothing to say.

When Does a Trailer Become THE Movie?

Saw a movie last night (won't say the name because to do so will perhaps make this very blog the kind of spoiler I'm about to rant against) and exactly what I feared would happen did indeed happen. The trailer that I'd been seeing for the last week gives the twist ending away. While simultaneously imploring viewers to not tell the movie's "secret," some stupid marketing guru determined that they should also slip in the one scene that would insure even a not-so-astute movie goer would be able to easily put the pieces together.

ARGH!!!!

Mindless entertainment draped in the facade of making me think . . . is that too much to ask?

Saturday Morning Satisfaction

attention
and utter abandon
collide
as an almost four-year-old
attacks the rainbow sprinkled chocolate iced donut
she's dreamt about
since hearing of its possible arrival
one evening prior.
eyes shining,
her tongue loosens each sugar compressed tidbit
from its cocoa nest.
though her focus
appears singular
she shuns appearances
with a sudden oohing
and pounces
securing the chocolate droppings from the wrapper
to her catlike paw
suddenly she is queen and servant
with head reared
and mouth wide
she both washes and dines
digit by digit
satisfied
for a moment
she smiles

then with eyes smiling and suggestive
of future torments
to lovers
friends and
family
she beckons
silently
sweetly
and then simply,

"More?"

Ah Choo!

I have a cold. Or my allergies are acting up. Either way, I can't breathe and my cough sounds like I'll be losing a lung any day now. Plus I have bed hair and there is an abundance of tissues surrounding me. Don't you want a picture of this?

Well . . . you'll just have to use your imagination. And while you're at it, imagine me a bowl of soup that I don't have to fix myself!

Come On In, the Water's Fine

This week a man in his late 20s told me that he wondered if he'd ever find someone given that as a minister his "pool" was so limited.

I laughed and then explained that he knew nothing of shallow pools, "My pool as a 43-year-old woman is a drop of condensation on the backside of a leaf deep in a forest that I can't even get to from here!"

Thought that was a good line. I've used it three times since. So I'm sharing it with you. How vast is your pool?

Jules is offline

She introduced me
. . . to instant messages and avatars and smiley face icons that wink and wave
. . . to a Texas honky tonk band and conversations that freely flow from one outrageous topic to the next
. . . to an honesty in the workplace I hadn't quite seen before
. . . to lol
and more.

Now she's taking on a new role
In a different place

I wish
Her well
I wish
Her growth
I wish
Her continued presence on IM

I wish . . .
Change didn't hurt so much.

When's the Last Time You Showered with 2 Women?

This post may net a few Googlers who have something entirely different in mind when they search for "women in showers" but there's nothing Girls Gone Wild about this one. So if you're here for such a stop on your journey, click away, you're going to be disappointed.

I volunteer at an AIDS hospice. Yesterday I met a 32 year old mother of three whose husband gave her the disease then left town and left her off his group insurance. Sounds like a fine fellow, doesn't he? Now she's awaiting a spot in a nursing home since she's truly not bad enough to be in a hospice but with the left side of her body paralyzed, she can't care for herself either. So we're the in-between place while folks who do this kind of thing hunt for a more permanent space.

When I arrived, I was told she needed a shower. When my friend and cohort arrived we prepared for the experience. Except, really, how does one prepare for something like this? Remember . . . we're not professionals. We've been doing this for almost ten years but we aren't there on a weekly basis, more like monthly. So, yes, while I once helped moved a paralyzed six ft seven inch man from bed to bed chair, I wasn't exactly studied-up on all that was involved in working with those who can only partially help themselves.

First mistake . . . I mentioned that inexperience.

I thought that with her independence having been ripped from her, she might enjoy giving some orders and that by telling her she should direct me, I was giving her a gift of some kind. What I did was scare her. She knew, just knew, that my friend and I were going to drop her, allow her to fall out of the shower chair, or cut her with the razor. She knew it.

We made it through the disrobing and transfer of wheelchair to shower chair fairly well so I thought we'd perhaps reassured her but no, that was not to be. Instead when we arrived in the shower room (barely enough space for the three of us and the chair and the various showering articles that are needed for shampooing, conditioning, shaving, et al.), the tension began mounting. The water temperature wasn't cooperating, the shower chair was secure enough, I slipped in a puddle prior to bending for yet another adjustment in the chair, as I bent over to position myself for shaving her legs (rather difficult while wearing latex gloves) the water from the shower head had a sudden leak and my pants were completely soaked.

But we accomplished the goal. Wet and weary, we shampooed those long locks, shaved those long legs, and insured that she maintained as much of her dignity as possible when you're the only one sitting naked in a room of strangers.

I worked up a sweat when we arrived back in the room to put on her clothes and work through the tangles. I tackled the lined sweat pants (did you know that you need to treat such pants like panty hose in order to get a paralyzed leg all the way through without tangling it up in the material?) and my buddy took on the hair. One HOUR after we started, she was dressed and coifed and I was dripping from both my forehead and the seat of my pants.

At some point, we didn't exactly gain her confidence but we did gain something. She seemed to see more than our awkwardness, hear more than our questions, and feel more than our anxiety. She grasped that we thought ourselves no better or worse than she, and throughout the day, she called me by name -- a great gift when often we are simply, "Volunteer! I need a volunteer."

We were getting her ready for a visit from her children. But three hours later they hadn't yet arrived and after a few calls, she thought perhaps the arrangements for transportation had fallen through and that she might not see them at all on this day. My heart broke to see her 90 pound frame -- which I had earlier held in my arms as her sole support -- sitting alone in that huge recliner, resigned to yet another disappointment. And I wanted to take her in my arms again . . . give her . . . I don't know . . . something more than one hour of exertion, something more than what simply had to be done, something of me.

Instead, I looked into her eyes and said goodbye. My shift was over.

It's Raining Men

For almost ten years I worked with nearly 100 women and about 17 guys. Breaks, lunches and sometimes even vacations were spent with women. I was married to a quiet man so even at home, conversations were usually on the phone with women.

Today I realized that my life has taken a 180 degree turn. It's raining men.

Oh, I have girlfriends and we get together when we can. But they often have families and/or other commitments that consume a great deal of their time and prevent them from the kind of spontaniety I've come to enjoy. The men in my life are far less constrained (and yes, I could go into a whole philosophical rant at this point about male/female roles in family life but that's not what this post is about and most of my friends are doing a fine job of figuring that out for themselves).

So I spend a great deal of time with men . . . a great deal of time. I have male friends at work who I can count on for stretching my mind about the issues we face in ministry. They are married . . . happily. They are also the kinds of friends I can trust and so I share an openness with them that is built over time and is quite pleasant. We challenge the whole "When Harry Met Sally" line of thought regarding the inability of men and women to have friendships.

I have gay friends who compliment my clothes when they're working for me and stay sympathetically silent when my clothes are wearing me and I really should have spent more time in front of the mirror. These friends can be counted on to hear my secrets . . . and my secret thoughts . . . hear me without judgment and love me unconditionally. They think deep thoughts and we actually TALK about issues, but they also can pick up and go at the mere mention of a possible adventure.

This weekend the male factor was at the highest it's been in a while (unless you count the shower I took yesterday morning with two women but that's yet another post). The cause of the increased testerone was due in part to the emergence of a couple of other categories of men in my life that I haven't engaged with in a while. On Thursday I went to dinner with an acquaintance of some years back. Again, he's married and happy but we never had the kind of intimate conversations that I have with such folks today. Still when he suggested we hook up while he was in town for business, I said yes.

We had a nice dinner. We caught up on the status of those with whom I used to have contact regularly and now have to take time to conjure up a face to go with a name. He told me about his impending grandfather status and his recent weight loss and the fun he and his wife were having hiking. We laughed. And at least four times during the evening he told me I was beautiful.

At no point did that feel improper. At no point did I feel uncomfortable. But I did find myself smiling alot. Because he seemed to think I was going to be offended or that I somehow needed to hear it (because, after all, I'm divorced and another divorced woman he knows had gone into a depression about feeling unloved and unlovely, so therefore, I MUST be going through something similar) or he seemed so genuinely compelled to tell me. One friend I told about it thought he was making a pass, but I was there and I can honestly say that wasn't what was going on. Maybe it was the time that had passed between us and he hadn't seen me since I'd lost so much weight. Maybe it was because he felt slightly uncomfortable and repeating himself took up conversational space. Maybe he's just a nice man and knows what compliments can usually do for a woman's ego. Or maybe . . . just maybe he sees the peace in me and perceives that as beautiful.

Friday night I went dancing. The male/female ratio wasn't even so we tended to just all get on the dance floor at one time. I wasn't the object of anyone's attention. But on occasion, one male friend and I had a "moment" in the same space. He's a guy with whom I've had a rocky ride but as I told one buddy, "He may be an SOB, but he's my SOB, and I'll always keep him in my life." On this night, I realized that I wasn't the prettiest woman in the room, nor the sexiest, but I had very little of the gnawing anxiety that once accompanied me whenever I found myself in mixed company.

Saturday two guys and I walked the park. We were all looking at the same scenery so we would go silent when certain runners made their way past us but the conversations in between those art appreciation breaks turned to inner peace and happiness. Again, I was told that what was going on inside me showed.

And today, I had a date. We met for brunch. We laughed. We chatted. And we parted with a kiss on the cheek. Sparks aren't flying. I'm not sure if anything is even warming up at this point, but enough is happening that we've agreed to meet again. When debriefing the experience with my friend-who-is-like-a-brother, I had to confess that it's absolutely unfamiliar ground for me to not have total transparency. I've come to rely on it. I've come to expect it from my male relationships. And while I know it's premature to think that's possible at this point, I want it, because never again do I want to live the daily lie.

All this said . . . I feel blessed. Friends, brothers, pastors, confidantes, laughing links, lovers(?), fans, challenges . . . it's raining men and I love the flood.

Pleasant Pleasures

I waited a day to reflect on Tuesday's party because initially everything I thought of saying sounded like some drippy food critic at a small town weekly trying to seem sophisticated as she oohed and ahhed over the Dairy Queen's newest burger offering.

Ok, maybe it wasn't that bad but I was tired and the prose I was concocting in no way measured up to the concoctions that made their way from my kitchen on that glorious night and into the bellies of some of my favorite people. Today, my apartment has been restored to its original state, coffee and wine stains have been bleached away, and with a clear and unfoggy head I can proclaim, "Damn, that was a good party!" (Ok, so now you know I've totally given up on sounding sophisticated.)

I'm not going to recap the whole evening because, really, you'd only wish you'd participated and then I'd have to feel guilty about not inviting all of you and I am not going to sully this experience with guilt. But I will offer a few morsels . . .

I gave of myself for this event. Helping R&R out prior to the guests arrival, I showed yet again why I am not the next Martha Stewart as I grated both my knuckles and the carrots for one of the three salads that later exploded with flavor as they hit my tongue (more than making up for the fact that I was dining with a Tweety Bird band-aid wrapped around my middle finger . . . obviously I was selective about who I showed said band-aid to).

The initial solemnity of the crowd amused me. They walked into the candlelit room quietly and met R&R as gracious guests, listening intently as our experts set forth the idea for the evening and introduced the first sparkling wine. I kept wondering when someone was going to laugh because such seriousness is not customary for us. Soon I had my answer as we sat at our assigned seats and comfortability had guests harrassing one or more of the Rs at the same time they dished out both sarcasm & the courses.

Questions flowed as easily as the wine and soon conversations were overlapping, seats were switched and switched again. One person helped out with the food prep, others took turns with clean up after each course. A definite party atmosphere prevailed.

At one point, B declared, "The gauntlet is down. You've raised the bar for our get-togethers. The challenge is on." I look forward to see what he comes up with, 'cause frankly, I'm not sure we could surpass this one!

My surprise of the evening was the root puree. We might call it "mashed potatoes" back in Tennessee but there were lots of other roots in there and they packed a wallop in every forkful. The salads proved that you cannot go wrong with fresh herbs and lemon or lime juice. They simply tantalize. The shrimp dish was rather mild but the beef and its accompanying rosemary simply sang a symphony for our nostrils and our tastebuds. Wow! And I'm not a big beef eater.

I'm not on my way to being any kind of wine critic but I did learn quite a bit Tuesday evening. I'm thinking two, three, four or more of these events and I may even sound knowledgeable when the next waiter hands me one of those 30 page wine lists we get in Houston restaurants. And then again there's always the house white!

Dinner with KC & Friends

Though you can't be with us in person, I thought I'd invite you to a little virtual party at my place tonight. The non-virutal guests and I are attempting a bit of a wine and food pairing. A couple of friends of mine are serving as wine experts and chefs. Other friends are arriving at 6:30 p.m. and they will dine and drink the following:

Sparklers – Sesame sticks and honeyed pecans, seasoned
Scharffenberger, Champagne, NV, California
Bianchi, Champagne, 2002, Argentina

First Course – Asparagus Risotto (Arborio rice, asparagus, asiago, leeks, white wine, stock) dusted with minced chives and lemon zest
Villa Maria, Sauvignon Blanc, 2003, New Zealand
Whitehaven, Sauvignon Blanc, 2004, New Zealand

Salad Course – Trio (roasted beets with thyme, fennel with lemon, carrot with tarragon)
Belvedere, Chardonnay, 2001, California

First Entrée – Hot Confetti Shrimp & Avocado-copia (garlic, sweet and hot peppers) finished with a cilantro-lime garnish
Santola, Rosé, NV, Portugal
Alexander Valley, Gewurztraminer, 2004, California

Second Entrée – Black pepper-marinated Texas Flank Steak with Rosemary Hill Country Claret reduction and root puree (celery root, russet and diced sweet potato)
Sonoma Ridge, Merlot, 2002, California
Dante Rivetti, Barbera, 2003, Italia

Cheese Course – French Brie, Artisan Chevre & Oregonzola Bleu, with dried fruit (black mission fig, Argentinian apricot and Washington pear)
Argyle, Pinot Noir, 2003, Oregon
Giacu Mus, Nebbiolo, 1999, Italia

Dessert Course – Cognac-macerated blueberries with whipped cream in a baked pastry shell
Vignaiola di St. Stefano, Moscato d’Asti, 2003, Italia

il sigh felice – Decaffeinated French roast coffee with almond wafers

We'll be educated as to aromas, flavors, sensations, etc. But most of all, as my expert/chefs pointed out we'll follow the main wine rules of "explore and enjoy, and discover what works" for each of us. Buon Appetito!

Dreams Yet Unrealized

I want to believe that the dream MLK offered us decades ago is possible in my lifetime. But the sad truth is that here in Houston those who want to celebrate the idea of unity in the midst of diversity have two choices of parades . . . organizers for the two events could never agree on one approach that would work for both sets of dream supporters.

13.1 Miles? No Problem!

Actually at mile 12 when those tricky race planners had us shuffling toward the George R. Brown Convention Center and our goal was in sight and then turned us for an extended block or two of torture, I wasn't quite sure that I'd make it but I did.

Did you get that? I completed the half marathon! Not only completed but did so in much less than the time I had calculated it would take me. Two hours and 43 minutes and 38 seconds from the time my shoes went over the start line, they crossed the finish line and I was still in them!!! That put me at a 12:28 pace and the BIG thing for me was that for the most part I jogged. I had told myself that powerwalking at my rate was acceptable and that if that was what it would take, ok. But I only powerwalked about 4 miles of the route.

I'm tired and my friends agree that I'm walking like I had WAAAAAY more fun this weekend than a race would offer but hey . . . I'm a funny-walking half marathon FINISHER!

(P.S. Thanks to Amanda who commented on my query as to whether I should register for this or not and was the voice of encouragement that pushed me over the edge and ultimately over the finish line.)

I'm Half-ing It

My bib number is 27097 and tomorrow morning when the gun sounds I'll be standing still with the 16,000 other race participants Houston is hosting. (You pretty much stand still until those in front move out of the way and you can finally cross the starting line.)

I'm nervous. I want to believe that I can do this in the time allotted. I just finished a 5.2 mile jog/walk and averaged about 13 minutes a mile. When I was through, I had energy to spare. I'd better. I'll be doing 13.1 miles tomorrow.