Project Blog It: Treat

I haven't blogged in two months, and when I read this week's prompt, I first started thinking about treat in relation to "trick" and as something fun and unexpected. No original thoughts here, but treats can have a dark side, or at least fail to live up to expectation to some degree.

I continue to slowly but surely whittle my physical being down ever smaller and in that pursuit much of what I used to treat myself with is now verboten. A brownie is no longer a treat, but a morass of temptation that will not only add to my ass but would take over an hour on the treadmill to burn off. Not so much a treat anymore.

I treated myself to a massage last week, and had conjured the image of a large and strapping Swedish man or woman prepared to remind my beat-up body that it isn't all about pain. It was a treat, but the experience was less than what I'd imagined as the masseuse was a nerdy guy named "Stuart" or something like that, and was about 5'7" and 110 pounds.

When in California last month, I treated an old friend of mine to a birthday dinner. It was wonderful to see him, but for the first 15-20 minutes together he was still glued to his Blackberry and headset. When we kissed each other goodbye--I felt as much sense of melancholy and potential loss as I did "treated."

I'm dying to treat myself to a new car, a new laptop and a trip to Dallas in January to cheer on Shmonkey in the marathon, but I must first treat myself to replacing a cracked crown, which will be less than a car, but more than a plane ticket. But then again, my Mastercard company just treated me to a bigger credit limit.

It is a treat to now offically live in a blue state, but that's really only on paper. Had there been anything anti-gay equality related on the Colorado ballot as in other states, it would've passed here too. (Although, the proposed constituational amendment that would've given a fertilized egg the same legal status as a born person went down in flames, which was surprising). It is a treat to know Sarah Palin has taken her happy ass back to Alaska, but you know we haven't seen the last of her. Trick or treat indeed.

Politics For Our Times (or Sunday Morning with E)

Shorter Sarah Palin

(Did you notice I'm not wearing a manpantsuit?)

JOHN MCCAIN

I'm fecund! (cue to family members, including the not mentioned but frequent camera subject "how-the-hell-did-I-get-here" boy-fiancee) and my GUY kicks ass on a snowmobile!

JOHN MCCAIN WAS A POW!

Barak Obama just a pansy-assed community organizer elitist who might want to protect the Constitution!

Alaska has all the oil we need--come and take it!

Why isn't all America White like us?

JOHN MCCAIN!

I'm FECUND (cue to family again--mental high-five for audience aahhing when daughter who will partly raise the baby licks her palm and smooths the baby's head).

JOHN MCCAIN IS A MAN!

Project Blog It: Certitude

I was certain I'd never get around to posting this week. However, yesterday I recalled the words of a man I briefly dated post-divorce: "certainty is the death of creativity." In retrospect, I think he was primarily making a case for never committing. However, this idea has been on my mind.

Some of the most mentally and intellectually sterile people I've ever known are people who live and work out of their certainty that the world as they see it is absolutely reflective of objective reality. It will come as no surprise to those who know me well that this sterile group is composed of a wide variety of Christian evangelical folks. Smart? Kind? Compassionate? Many of them, yes. But creative? Not as much. It is hard to think outside of the box when you believe your box is the only one that matters.

I worked for a woman who was (and likely still is) certain that she was the world's greatest boss, when in fact her likely Axis II diagnosis made working for her an almost daily nightmare. She knew how to make money and she depended upon employees when creativity was needed.

One of the few real certainties in this life is that we all die. Of profound uncertainty of course though, is how and when we will die. For patients referred to our palliaitve care program, a physician needs to comfortably say that he/she wouldn't be "surprised" if the patient died in one year or less. The physicians I work with are never certain that the morphine, oxycodone or methadone they prescribe will adequately manage pain--it requires clear communication with the patient about his/her personal goals and needs as well as creativity and the willingness/ability to think broadly or narrowly as required. I am certain that every time I pick up the phone to call a patient, his or her story will be different and determining an outcome that will best help the patient's position of uncertainty requires creativity on my part.

The High Five Club

What, really, is with the high-five? It happens to me all the time, but here are about a week's worth of personal high fives:

1) Today, when I set up a Saturday meeting with my personal trainer (I know, I know), he high-fived me, and I hadn't even done anything impressive yet.
2) Last night, when I went to upgrade my membership to the new 24 Hour Fitness SUPER sport club next door, the "consultant" high-fived me when I politely laughed along at a lame joke. It wasn't really even funny, so my for my part it was a pity high-five.
3) I was high-fived by a colleague for arranging for a patient to get a hospice consult.
4) A friend and exercise buddy high-fived me after a really great work out.
5) I was high-fived by another friend when I made an acerbic comment that made her laugh.

High-fiving doesn't come naturally to me--it is during high-five moments that I feel painfully the full weight of my NPR-listening, New Yorker-reading, White self. However, I go along with it during moments that feel more appropriate for the gesture: after a good workout or a particuarly sarcastic but funny comment that puts front and center my cleverness and wit. These days, the good workout happens more often than the cleverness. But when I get high-fived just for doing my job, or when I'm 1/2 of a peer pressure high-five, I inevitably end up looking incredibly dorky (ever seen an "air" high-five?). I'm dorky enough--I don't need the added pressure.

To high-five or not to high-five--am I just anti-social?

Project Blog It: The Function of Art

All I'm up for right now is thinking about how art has functioned in my own life. I confess there have been times that my exposure to certain art forms made me feel set apart from the riff-raff. Growing up in the sticks, I'd return home from a summer in Dallas after going to the art museum, the the symphony and the theatre and would look down my nose at the poor souls condemned to life within the boundaries of crusing up and down Hwy 281, hanging out at the Bowling Alley Cafe, or drinking beer at Wayne Smith dam. I didn't completely outgrow that sense of superiority--more than once I've inwardly sneered at people who wax rhapsodic about the "art" of Thomas Kinkaid--one of the richest hacks of all time. "Painter of Light" my ass. But I digress.

Art has brought me solace. Years ago I had a dream in which I was completely alone in the Kimbell Art Museum. There was no sound and it was blissfully cool. I use the memory of that dream as self-guided meditation now when I'm stressed or grieving. At times I "see" particular pieces on the walls, but most of the time, it is about Louis Kahn's building itself.

Art has pissed me off. Art rather bungled has made me laugh (bed rolling across the stage while Rodolfo sings his heart out to the consumptive Mimi) and it has moved me to tears. I have felt closer to friends because of art and I've faced personal demons and false assumptions because of art. I have been provoked and aroused by art.

After all, it really is all about me.

Project Blog It: The Seven Deadly Dwarves

Greedy

S'envy

Lazy

Fatty

Haughty

Horny

Pissy

Snow White thinks they're all going to hell.

Maybe There Is a Magic Pill After All

Project Blog It: Strawberries

A few years ago, Shmonkey came over for a brunch, and I had some strawberries in a bowl on the table. My memory has it going like this:

1) I note with regret that the strawberries are starting to look a bit gone, and that if they were going to be eaten, that was the time.

2) Shmonkey declined, recalling a scene from "Hills Like White Elephants" in which a bowl of iffy strawberries sit on the table.

Now, I haven't thought about this moment in years, but for some reason it popped into my mind when I read that this week's prompt is "strawberries." Here's the thing about memories though--I just re-read the Hemingway piece, and for the life of me I cannot find mention of strawberries! I'm guessing Shmonkey's actual reference wasn't "Hills" at all, but this is my memory. Anyway--I also remember laughing about it--and is a welcome memory at the end of a hellacious week.

My favorite way to eat strawberries? Currently, I get them for use in my favorite smoothie:

Blend together the following:

1 small/med banana
1-1.5 cups blueberries
1 container non-fat blueberry or strawberry yogurt
6-8 strawberries
Skim milk as desired
1 T honey

It makes a lot! Whip some up when expecting some friends for brunch.

Project Blog It: Pure and Utter Nonsense Edition

Yesterday, a physician I work with, while taking an early morning walk with her husband and daughter, got back to the vacation rental home in Oregon at which they were staying in time to see the house explode knowing their two other children were asleep in the house, and probably dead.

They did die.

Other forces at work in the universe other than pure, unadulterated randomness?

Nonsense it purest form.

Miracle Food

Reason No. 4,293 Why This Country is Going TO HELL

Via I Blame The Patriarchy--sentiments expressed there pretty aptly reflect my own.

Satire and Class

Unless you've been under a rock today, you've heard the bit of buzz generated by this week's New Yorker cover. I have to confess my initial, gut reaction was "omigod!" Satire, yes, but while this was visual representation of accusations made about Michelle and Barak Obama that we've all heard before, I still found it rather shocking. However, what I have found most interesting is the discussions about who gets the joke, and supposedly who doesn't. Some have suggested that the editors figured they'd get a free pass on this because Joe Sixpack is the consumate racist, sexist xenophobe AND he doesn't read the New Yorker. And, Joe Sixpack is pretty dumb, yes? He doesn't know what satire is. But the folks who are able to get the joke are nonetheless condemning the illustration as offensive and just plain bad satire. Some criticism has centered on the fact that the perpetuators of the crap that is the subject of this supposed satire are not represented w/in the drawing itself. But is this really needed (especially since only all us smartypants will get the joke)? I mean--about all that's missing is an aborted fetus.

So what of it? Offensive? Bad satire? The New Yorker's craven need for attention and publicity? I've had too many problems uploading the image here--but you haven't seen it already, you can check it out here.

A History of Bliss

At the risk of being accused of jumping on friends' blogging bandwagons, I shall offer my own thoughts about bliss. The first word that came to mind is "fleeting." My experience with bliss is that never lasts very long and is often followed or preceeded by experience or feeling that is painful or pedestrian. Because of that fleeting thang, it hasn't been easy to think of that many specific moments that stand out in memory. Here are a few:

My father's parents used to live in a house at the end of a long, tree-lined driveway in Dallas, and I can remember enduring the long drive from Blanco, but the moment we turned into that driveway (usually late at night as we'd leave after my Dad finished work) I was happy. Those initial moments of being wrapped in my grandmother's embrace, seeing the lights from the house, being allowed to stay up late with my grandmother and watch The Tonight Show--bliss.

There was a distinct moment, in the summer of of 1981, after the Mayflower van had already begun the trip to Ft. Worth and after all the good-bye parties had come and gone, and when my family drove north on Hwy 281 out of Blanco, that I felt a real sense of freedom and possibility of my own life. Not as much fun realizing how much I've screwed it up since then--but the remembrance of the moment and that feeling? Bliss.

Riding in my first "real" boyfriend's Chevy Impala, thigh to thigh, listening to Foreigner--but the real bliss would occur for the two minutes or so during "I've Been Waiting For a Girl Like You" and he would squeeze my hand. Uh huh. Foreigner.

One of the few moments of bliss during my marriage--we lived in a house on a lake--and occasionally on Sunday evenings we would sit on the dock with our feet in the water and laugh about how out-of-place we felt in that place and in that church. It offered rare moments of true companionship. I also had a beautiful garden at that same house, and I swear I grew the most fabulous vegetables. I would go out early in the a.m. and pick tomatoes to take to people at work, and then come home and cook squash, tomatoes, and onions that I picked from my own garden just minutes before. Utter bliss, I tell you.

When I watched my nephew being born--bliss followed by terror realizing he had poor respiratory function followed by hours in the ICU, then bliss again (and still some terror) when I held him and knew I would love him all of my life.

When Sophie was 10 weeks old, she decided to go on a little camping trip without me, and was missing for two days. Shmonkey was driving around with me in the rain, looking for her, when a woman called me saying she saw a puppy matching Sophie's description dead in the road, and then ten minutes later another woman calling to say she saw her in a place only 2-3 blocks from where we were. Sure enough, we rounded the corner, and Shmonkey was out of the car before I came to a complete stop, running across the street and scooping her wet body into his arms. Holding her in my lap as we drove back to the Manor--Bliss. And Shmonk--I will love you forever for that moment alone.

That weekend with ____, and that weekend with ____. Bliss was VERY short-lived-but memories still bring a smile.

Standing on the top of Enchanted Rock just before I left San Antonio, my marriage, others' expectations of how I was supposed to live my life, and an entire, and mostly painful, chapter of my life. Fear before, and I knew more doubt and fear was waiting for me when I climbed down, but for those moments of feeling secure and right in my decision--bliss.

Crawling into pre-warmed sheets in the wintertime. Bonus bliss points for when I don't have to get up for work the next day.

We had our first almost-100 degree day here in Colorado last week, and while we do not have high humidity to worry about, the sun can be pretty intense. But by sundown, the temperature usually drops 30-40 degrees and by the time I take Soph out for her last walk before bedtime, the air is cool, but also blissfully soft.

If you have read this far, my apologies. I linked to Shmonk's bliss post, and I think he is one of 2-3 people who read this blog, so if by chance there are others, you can find links to Skajlab's as well as others' bliss posts from there.

Philadelphia

Am off tomorrow to Philadelphia to see the sights--back on the 5th. Dreading heat and humidity. Update on my triathalon-er pal--all seems to be well--probably pneumonia, but things could've been much more grim.

Triathalon: Not all Fun and Games

One member of Team Sarcasma is in hospital tonight with pulmonary edema and without, as yet, an identifiable cause. Daisy was swimming the first leg of a triathalon today and ended up at the ER. We're told she will be fine, but it has been sobering for her and her friends to think about how quickly and unexpectedly it all happened.

These days I'm pushing my own body harder than I ever have before. Am I daft to think I'm capable of being prepared for a triathalon in August? Granted, it is a relay and the plan is for me to take only one leg of the race, but I only got on a bicycle again (after years of not riding) last week. I'm in better cardiovascular shape than I have been in years, but I'm wondering if I shouldn't exercise a bit more caution. Or not. I'm more aware than ever how life can change in an instant and as a main goal is to enter my mid-late 40's in great shape and hopefully better equipped to work and remain active as I get old(er), I'm still more inclined to challenge myself.

I resisted the temptation to give Daisy too much of a pep (get back up on the horse) talk today--the reality is that if she has heart failure or something equally serious, she may have to restrict her activity for awhile. But her self-confidence has taken a hit, and she's had medical professionals looking at her today likely wondering why she was in that water. I can tell you this though--no matter if I'm physically and mentally ready for that relay triathalon--if I dream that I'm mowed down by a fast-moving peleton--I'm staying in bed.

Et Tu, Triathalon?

Somehow I have found myself agreeing to participate in a relay triathalon with my friends (for the sake of internet anonymityI shall refer to them as Taz and Daisy) and I think I'll be responsible for the cycling leg. Only 12 miles--so I think I can handle that--but I haven't been on a bicycle in a very long time.

To that end, I have begun "training" for this and took my first spinning class today. Somewhere in the bowels of hell one of Satan's evil minions is laughing as his invention's latest victim. The class lasts an hour--I lasted 30 minutes. The instructor advised Taz and I to "stay in the saddle" for numerous sessions until we got the hang of it. I've been doing a lot of hiking, so my legs did pretty well, and my heart and lungs were hanging in just fine at the 30 minute-mark. But, Jesus, Mary and Joseph--my lady-bits were screaming. And not in that good way, either. The instructor would tell us to keep our sit-bones on a certain part of the seat--but that only gave temporary relief.

Event is in late August--just before or after the Democratic Convention here in Denver. We only found out about it yesterday, so training is beginning a bit late in the game--but I'm going to give it a go.

We are Team Sarcasma.

Eat This

Not sure why this is so funny to me, but it expresses a certain je ne sais quoi that a dog just couldn't get away with. Thanks, Natalie Dee.

Gratitude, Part 2

We are inching toward the summer season here, at long last. I love it here this time of year! Only a few days ago it was still snowing in the mountains, and last weekend we had our first day where the temp reached the 9o's. But as hot as it can get during the day, the air is practically humidity-free and it cools down at night. Sophie and I just returned froma short after-dark stroll and it makes me want to put a hammock on my patio and sleep outside.

On an unrelated note--Soph and I are watching "Manufacturing Consent"--documentary about Noam Chomsky, and there is tape of Chomsky on a panel with an ancient Jean Piaget. Sipping some beverage out of a demitasse. Oh to be an aging, but respected public intellectual. I'm just aging.

Homophobes Given Another Reason To Hate California

The California Supreme Court decision that struck down legislation prohibiting legal marriage between same-sex couples has made a lot of people happy. I recently "officiated" at a commitment ceremony for two wonderful friends, who happen to both be women. I hardly told anyone, primarily because I work with one of these friends and she is particuarly protective of their relationship and is careful with whom she shares details of her personal life. Even though the company I work for is considered very progressive and extends health insurance and other benefits to same-sex couples, there are individuals who would stand in judgment. I love my family, but had I told them, there would have ensued the rolling of the eyes and an expression of "first it was those two gay men in Dallas--now she's taken up with lesbians--where did things go SO WRONG?"

But here's who I was absoutely DYING to tell: members of former churches in which I was Spouse-In-Chief who would count this as absolute that I'm on the express Chattanooga Choo-Choo to hell.

It was a perfectly beautiful day and I'm still amazed when people find another person they could imagine being with for the rest of their lives. If Colorado ever follows California's lead (uh huh), perhaps we can do it again, and I can use the phrase "by the authority granted me by the State of Colorado." The ground down south underneath the Focus on the Family compound would surely tremble then. I'm sorry--but spending just one day tormenting religious fundamentalists just isn't nearly enough.

By the way, graphic above is from www.someecards.com