Brilliant Television

I rarely watch t.v. these days because there's so little of value on the telly and the amount of advertising is mind numbing and frustrating.

Occasionally, though, there is a gem that bears Netflixing and enjoying sans commercials. Recently, I've been watching episodes of Boston Legal and I have to say, that has to be some of the most intelligent, witty writing out there. James Spader and William Shatner are brilliant!

Another show that was a gem is The Carol Burnett Show. The talent of Carol Burnett, Harvey Corman, Tim Conway, and Vicki Lawrence was superlative. The Bob Mackie designs were amazing. Who can forget that scene where Carol Burnett, in spoofing Gone with the Wind with a sketch called Went with the Wind, descends the staircase of Tara wearing a velvet drapery with the rod still attached mocking Vivian Leigh's drapery-made dress? As she gets to the bottom of the stairs and Harvey Corman compliments and asks her where she got the dress, Carol replies, absolutely deadpan, "I saw it in the window and I just couldn't resist it." Brilliant!



Monday night, I was watching a PBS series called American Masters and they featured Carol Burnett. At one point, Bee turned to me and asked, "Do you ever think the variety show will make a comeback?" I thought for a moment and then said, "I doubt it." In a country where instant gratification, soundbites, skankiness, and crude repartee are the hallmark of so much television and entertainment, a show like Burnett's wouldn't have a chance in today's world. Which is really lamentable.

Did I mention that what's missing from television is brilliance? Oh, I did? Just wanted to be sure.

So, what shows do you think are brilliant?

Video clip courtesy of YouTube.

Every Chance I Get

I took a walk in the rain one day on the wrong side of the tracks
I stood on the rails till I saw that train
Just to see how my heart would react
Now some people say that you shouldn't tempt fate
And for them I would not disagree
But I never learned nothing from playing it safe
I say fate should not tempt me

I take my chances, I don't mind working without a net
I take my chances, I take my chances every chance I get

****

Chance. Opportunity. Risk.

Driving today, these were my keywords.

****

If you watch enough of the Discovery Channel or National Geographic or Meerkat Manor, you know there are--with rare, extraordinary exception--no second chances in the animal kingdom. Get bitten by a snake, mauled by a lion, hit by a car and your chances are slim to none you'll live through the night if you're the unfortunate meerkat, pronghorn antelope, or urban squirrel. If you aren't killed outright, the best you can do is slink off, lick your wounds in futility, and wait to die. And then the vultures and hyenas and maggots move in to make short shrift of you. Not a pretty picture, eh?

****

As humans, we're a little luckier. We might be wounded, but we'll likely live to see another day. We might even come out stronger from whatever it is we've encountered or chosen.

But why is that? I mean, why do we get second chances?

I asked Bee that last night and in her usual bent of optimism she said, "Because the universe is a kind place and God is merciful."

At first I thought she was being ironic, but when I retorted she countered and said she was being serious. For the first time in my life, I didn't know how to respond.

Which makes me a cynic, I guess. Certainly, there was a time when I might have or actually did feel similarly. Although, there was also a time when I didn't think about second chances because, well, not to be arrogant or anything, I didn't pay attention to whether I was getting them or needed them. Life just moved from day-to-day and me in it. I felt accomplished and, in a bit of hubris perhaps, self-confident enough that even if I dropped a ball or if life threw me a curve ball it wouldn't be a struggle. I'd just go with the flow.

****

I sat alone in the dark one night, tuning in by remote
I found a preacher who spoke of the light but there was brimstone in his throat
He'd show me the way according to him in return for my personal check
I flipped my channel back to CNN and I lit another cigarette

I take my chances, forgiveness doesn't come with a debt
I take my chances, I take my chances every chance I get

****

Chance is a a double-edged sword, if you like. A coin with a face and a fleuret. On the one side, chance is what someone give us. On the other, chance is what we take. The one, an opportunity; the other, a risk.

Opportunity is often comfortable, predictable, reassuring. It frees us from worry about most of the vicissitudes of life. Risk is scary, unknown, exhilarating. It, too, frees us. Risk requires creativity, ingenuity, flexibility. Sometimes, what looks like an opportunity actually contains an element of risk.

But that's a fine line, too. In embracing opportunity, we might start out taking a risk, but over time, we may find ourselves enmeshed and losing our vision as we acquiesce to the necessities afforded us by virtue of this side of chance. In tossing the coin, we have an equal probability of ease or exhilaration. The question is, which one has the better outcome?

****

Today's world seems infinitely more complicated than the world of my 20s and risk seems scarier and harder than it did when I was younger. But I've often played it safe, because that's how I was brought up. I played it safe because I had more than just myself to think about. And while that's noble and good, I suppose, it also means I haven't really taken a lot of non-calculated risks (there's an oxymoron, right? Calculated risk?)

As I approach my 40s, I'm realizing life presents us with second chances as an opportunity to take risks and stretch again. To look at the world with wonder again. To realize anything is possible if I just put my mind to it and I'm willing to be uncomfortable for a little bit. To know that the universe is kind, God is merciful, and there's more to living than just another day.

****

I've crossed lines of words and wire and both have cut me deep
I've been frozen out and I've been on fire and the tears are mine to weep
Now I can cry until I laugh and laugh until I cry
So cut the deck right in half, I'll play from either side

I take my chances, I pay my dollar and I place my bet
I take my chances, I take my chances every chance I get
I take my chances, I don't cling to remorse or regret
I take my chances, I take my chances every chance I get
I take my chances



I Take My Chances, Copyright Mary Chapin Carpenter, 1992. All rights reserved to her.

Photo copyright: D.C. Confidential.

Drink Up, Me Hearties! Yo Ho!

I confess. I stole this one from Creole in D.C.
Seems appropriate for Halloween! Enjoy!

My pirate name is:

Captain Morgan Flint

Even though there's no legal rank on a pirate ship, everyone recognizes you're the one in charge. Like the rock flint, you're hard and sharp. But, also like flint, you're easily chipped, and sparky. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
part of the fidius.org network

The Reality of It All

I don't watch a lot of t.v. When I do watch t.v., I don't watch a lot of reality shows. In fact, the only one I watch with any regularity is The Biggest Loser on NBC. American Idol, Survivor, Big Brother--can't stomach any of those.

Lately, though, I've started watching snippets of Dancing with the Stars. This season especially so because Marie Osmond is one of the stars.

Growing up in Provo and Orem, Utah, the Osmonds were huge for so many of us. They added a level of glamour to Mormon culture that otherwise didn't exist, unless you thought the Mormon Tabernacle Choir was glamorous and glitzy. Before there were gated communities, the Osmonds were a gated community. They lived in a lovely mansion on a mountain bench above Provo on a street called Osmond Lane and, I'm not ashamed to admit, we drove past it to stare. It was like our own little version of the Hollywood Homes of the Stars tour, only ours was just Home of the Stars, singular. Still, it was pretty heady for us.

My senior year in high school, I worked for Albertson's as a courtesy clerk. One day, one of my fellow baggers came running up to me and said, "Hey, guess who's in the store?" Having not a clue, I said, "I haven't a clue." Breathlessly and conspiratorially, he replied, "Marie Osmond."

Prior to my days at Albertson's, the closest I ever came to Marie Osmond was several years before when I attended a taping of the Donny & Marie Show at their studios in Orem. It was a Christmas special and my aunt, who is a friend and colleague of their former art director, had wrangled us tickets as part of the live studio audience. Additionally, I had a drum I had received when I was five right after I had my tonsils taken out. The studio did a "prop call" for drums for this particular show and my aunt volunteered mine. It wasn't used in the sketch, but Donny and Marie both signed it for me. I still have that drum with their faded autographs.

But getting back to Albertson's and Marie... She shopped at our store location quite a bit and one of the times she came in, I was her courtesy clerk and helped her to her car with her groceries. This was during a rather sad period in her life. She was an American darling and Mormon royalty and she was going through a very public divorce. It seemed especially poignant for her because, in Mormonism, divorce is not looked upon favorably and was considered scandalous. Not only was Marie going through the pain of divorce, but she was being watched by her adoring fans and fellow Mormons. I can't imagine how difficult that must have been for her.

In helping her with her purchases, I spent only as long as it took to get from the store to her car, but in that short time, I met a woman who's humanity was abundantly apparent. You could see the vulnerability in her eyes and I remember thinking how sad she looked then. As the years have progressed, I'm still of the impression that life has not been easy for her, but she has approached it with all the grace she can muster. Which is why I'm watching Dancing with the Stars and cheering for her.

I may not participate in the faith of my upbringing anymore, but I'm still Mormon enough to cheer for members of my tribe. It's an oddity, I'll admit. But I also know how odd Mormons look to so many people. And while I may not agree with all of their doctrines or sociology and while some of the misconceptions about Mormons are nothing but their own doing while others are just bad information, I also know there are a lot of genuinely good Mormons out there trying to do what the rest of so many of us are trying to do: lead good, productive, successful, honest lives.

That's why I'm cheering for Marie. Because deep down, despite all the sadness and challenges she's publicly faced, I know she's a good person and I want her to succeed. And she's one of my tribe and that makes her family. For that alone, I'll cheer.

Reason #367

As if I need one more reason why living in the D.C. area is largely unappealing, but here's reason number three hundred and sixty-seven:

The sound of planes at odd hours--including jumbo jets and military hardware.

It's 12:05 a.m.

National Airport should be long closed for the night. And yet, I just heard a big plane. Most peculiar. The other day, I watched a big plane fly across the Mall headed east toward the Capitol and I knew this was a wrong picture. In fact, out loud to myself in the car I said, "That can't be right...."

****

A couple of weeks ago, NORAD announced it was conducting drills over Washington. These aren't rinky little drills done in simulators. These are the real deal with fighter jets. You know, the type you only see up close at air shows. The scary part is, in these drills, you hear the fighters long before you see them--if you see them, that is. They're so far up and moving so quickly, you're lucky if you can get a line of sight on them. All you know is, you can hear them bearing down on you and you have no clue where they are. You just know they're there.

Just a week's worth of these exercises is enough to leave you with some semblance of empathy for the citizens of Iraq (or anyone who lives in a war zone) who hear that sound every.single.day. It must be totally unnerving to hear the scream of a fighter jet and know that it may be followed by the delivery of munitions meant to kill. Frankly, I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of an F-16 or any other high velocity fighting machine in the American arsenal.

****

Supposedly, after September 11, aerial surveillance was a daily occurrence in the skies over Washington. I moved back here six months after that fateful day. I remember the first time I drove along the perimeter of the Pentagon. Bearing down on the roadway was an armored personnel carrier with a gun-mounted turret manned by a soldier who had the aforementioned gun trained on the road to fire on any vehicle that chose to deviate from its course or that might present an immediate threat to the perimeter. It was the most unnerving feeling to see that and know that the soldier with his finger near the trigger was trained and willing to engage any one of us if we so much as flinched wrong.

****

I can't help but think sometimes how crazy it was to move back to a city where terrorists flew a plane into the side of a building and to know that, in the event of a nuclear attack, this city is a prime target and therefore it's toast. It's equally unsettling to think that it's only a matter of when, not if, before this city experiences what other metropolitan cities have dealt with for decades: car bombs, bus bombs, suicide bombers.

****

For a long time after September 11th, when I'd watch a plane bank on approach, I would gasp in horror. All I could see in that instance was the image of that second plane banking and flying into the north tower of the World Trade Center. Eventually, I mostly got over it, but occasionally I still gasp in horror.

And this is why, at 12:05 a.m. on an otherwise peaceful night, I sit up in bed at the sound of a jetliner because somehow it just doesn't seem right.

One Day, This Cat is Gonna Win Me Some Dough

Apparently, the Dirty Bastard Cat tried a new approach today to the window in the office. Seems he wanted up there so desperately he was willing to risk life and tail to make it. Didn't matter that there was a jade plant on the cabinet or that the desk was covered in CDs. He found a way around.

And that way featured a shredder.

A shredder that is covered by a cloth when it's not in use.

He landed on it unwittingly and set it off.

He made it onto the window sill, but not without first being totally and completely freaked out by the whole experience.

He didn't stay on the desk for long. Seems he jumped onto Bee's shoulders and wouldn't get off. When he did finally climb down, he spent a good hour under the desk with eyes as wide as saucers. And he hasn't been back in the office since!

Where was the video camera? We coulda won America's Funniest Home Videos, dammit!

Dirty Bastard Cat on the shoulders of Bee. Not an uncommon sight in these parts. Enticing for him. Not so comfortable for Bee.

What If God Was One of Us?

Today's Thoughts While I Commute is brought to you by Joan Osbourne and her one-hit wonder and by Nanet Nano from iPod. By the Holy See, which reminds you to call home often. And by readers like you.

Thank you.

****

If God had a name, what would it be
And would you call it to his face
If you were faced with him...
What would you ask him if you had just one question

One question only?

This has to be good, I think to myself, as Joan continues to sing her ballad in the background while I negotiate rush hour traffic heading home.

Of course, the most obvious would be, was I wrong about church and all that stuff?

But that seems simplistic and like I'm doubting my choices, not to mention limiting God to one institution.

No, it has to be a question that shows an equal balance of humility and audacity.

It has to be a question that, when God hears it She will laugh heartily and with delight--in a manner that is comforting without being patronizing or demeaning.

But what to ask? What to ask?

****

What if God was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home

What if God is one of us? Just a regular, day-to-day dude going through the same ups and downs we each experience. What if she's that woman on the bus next to us who, in the morning, is hopeful and energetic and, in the evening, is worn down and deflated?

Is God in that stranger next to me on the train, in the diner, at the bookstore? Do we find God in church or just the idea of it? Is she in the face of the poor, the homeless, the downtrodden? Or does he live in gilded mansions decked out in silks and crystal and avant garde art?

Maybe God is one of us, just trying to make his way home, like the song says. Isn't that what we're each trying to do every day? Just make it home to that place that is our sanctuary?

****

It’s not that usual when everything is beautiful
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

The sky knows when its time to snow
You don’t need to teach a seed to grow
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

Life is like a gift they say
Wrapped up for you everyday
Open up and find a way
To give some of your own

The iPod moves on and through the speakers I hear the strains of Sarah McLachlan singing about miracles.

Maybe God is just one of us (or all of us) and maybe every day is a chance to find a way to give some of our own.

And that, I think, is what I would ask God: What have you given of your own today?

Isn’t it remarkable?
Like every time a raindrop falls
It’s just another ordinary miracle today...

Copyrights: Joan Osbourne and Sarah McLachlan.

A Couple of Days of Dead

Do you ever have days or weeks or months where you want a respite that is a little beyond a vacation or a sabbatical, but isn't totally permanent. As in stone, cold, forever dead?

I do.

I don't have a death wish and I'm not suicidal, but I do have days when I think dead sounds nice for a little bit. There's something attractive about it. Something liberating... And yet, I'm not at all interested in its permanence. I like being alive—even when it's painful, draining, and demoralising—because I know the good outweighs the bad, and because love and laughter exist and make it all worth it at the end of a shitty day.

****

I grew up in a religion that teaches its adherents that we—the human race—lived before this life and that we will live again after this life. (Granted, my religion also teaches that the afterlife is a multi-level marketing scheme of glories and exaltations, but no religion is perfect now, is it?)

For many years that was comforting for me. It was a knowledge I carried with me from a young age when my first grade teacher—Ms. Bills—died of a brain tumor and it fell to my mother to explain the vagaries of life and death to a six-year old.

Ms. Bills, she told me, had gone on to a spirit world where she was at peace and happy and where everything was beautiful—a place of effulgent spring mornings with fields of tulips and chirping robins and warm sunshine. She was free, my mother explained, from earthly cares and concerns and had been reunited with her loved ones who had preceded her in death.

I held on to that notion for decades, and sometimes—despite my lack of participation in the faith of my mothers and fathers—I still believe that. That there is more to this life than just simply being and dying.

Other days, I think, this is it. When I die, I die. The end. All I will be is six feet under pushing up daisies, as the television shows say. I'll be worm food. Microbial fodder. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Of course, having paid a lot of tithing over the years into the same religion that told me there was more to death after life than just being dead, I'm hoping it's a little more of the former than of the latter, because if it isn't, I want my money back, dammit!

****

But getting back to that idea of being free from earthly cares and concerns, being unfettered by those things that make us and those around us mortal—"only human," as we like to say—and therefore prone to cause one another pain. That idea of freedom holds a certain appeal...

The other day I told a friend, I sometimes wish I could have a clean slate. Especially when life has been particularly gunky and agonisingly grown-up. She said, we can never really have a clean slate because we are part of that slate.

Ah, the rub. We can be our own worst (or best) asset.

And yet, she's right. And try as we might, our slate will never be entirely devoid of chalk dust or gouges.

****

How does one reach a place of eternal rest and repose without actually cashing it all in?

I’m reminded of a story about a talented young man who was horribly injured and lost the ability to practice his craft. A gifted musician, he found himself unable to play the violin any longer and he began to drift into bitterness and anger. His therapist began engaging in art therapy with this youth and one day, the boy drew a picture of a cracked and broken vase to describe how he felt about his mangled body. The therapist filed it away and continued to work with him over the next year.

Eventually, through ongoing physical and occupational therapy, the young man became less bitter and angry and he started to move forward. A year after his accident, the therapist pulled out his file on the young man and extracted the drawing of the vase. Placing it in front of him, he asked about the drawing and his feelings about himself then versus now. In reply, the young man picked up a yellow marker and began drawing lines from the cracks and chinks in the vase. The therapist asked, “What is that?”

“That,” said the young man, “is where the light shines through.”

****

Perhaps this feeling of wanting some kind of release and repose is really more indicative of having forgotten that the cracks and chinks in my vase—or the dust and gouges on my slate—are really the places where the light shines through.

In a world that sees only the cracks and not the light, though, that presents its own special challenge. Namely that I have allowed myself to believe others when they tell me I am nothing but a worthless, cracked vase.

So, again, I ask: How does one reach a place of rest and repose without cashing it all in? How does one deafen the roar of the cynics and the critics and the dismissive and let the light shine through?

Because right now, I feel like I’m just six feet under pushing up daisies and I want my money back, dammit!

Por qué?

It's fall, which means the humidity has disappeared, the temperatures are comfortable, and I like to open the windows and let in the fresh air.

A month or so ago, a very nice family moved into the house across the alley. An Hispanic family. But today, I'm thinking not so nice, because...

They have their Spanish oompah-pah music going at a volume that means we all get to listen to it, whether we want to or not. And one of the guys out in the backyard has a booming baritone when he talks, adding to the unwanted noise pollution.

I'm glad they're enjoying their music, but what makes them think the rest of us want to spend our Sunday listening to this stuff, too? I've just had to shut the windows, it's that loud. Ugh. I hate inconsiderate behavior.

I'm suffering from a head cold today, which means I'm not feeling very charitable. I'm going to call the police, I think.

Update: Okay, Cele is right. I should have just walked over and asked them to turn down the music. But I didn't (see aforementioned comment about "sick," "cranky," and "not feeling...charitable.") Instead, I just shut the window, crawled into bed, put an earplug in my good ear, and took a nap. By the time I woke, the music had stopped.

Still, inconsiderate behavior ticks me off. So, how do you handle unwanted noise in your neighborhood, in sickness and in health?

Gaelic Dreams: A Reprint

Today's post--a solo "In the BIN"--is brought to you by a friend of mine who blogs in the Mountain West. She prefers to remain anonymous, so I won't link her from here, but she was gracious enough to let me feature her writing on my blog. She recently returned from a vacation in Nova Scotia and has been sharing lovely stories with us. I love writing that is evocative and this piece is certainly all that and more. Thank you, friend, for letting me pass this along.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Oh, Peggy Gordon, you are my darlin’
Come sit ye down upon my knee
And tell to me the very reason
Why I am slighted so by thee.

Cyril McPhee’s voice lilted across the tourist- filled lounge of the Keltic Lodge in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia the night I was there. His Scottish accent was entrancing, and I couldn’t help jiggle a foot in time with his strumming on the guitar. One of his feet kept the rhythm with a quick bounce and a kick as if he were pedaling an invisible tricycle. Most endearing of all is when he lifted his head up to scan the audience and let his gaze rest on me, his eyebrows in that happy, comical arch over his sparkling eyes. I smiled back, pretending I was the one he sang to.

I know, I know – musicians flirt with their audience so they can sell more CDs. In fact, I heard him call out to a woman in the audience right before I came into the lounge,

“When your husband falls asleep, give me a call!”

I’m usually a boring realist, but sometimes I allow myself a fantasy or two. If you can’t fall in love with a fantasy, when would you ever fall in love?

I know, I know – I’m already married to a beautiful, funny, responsible man whom I fell in love with 25 years ago. I intend to remain married to him. To be fair, I told my husband I thought Cyril McPhee was the cutest thing this side of the border, bald head and all. That way, my husband would still hold the title of Cutest Thing In the U.S.A. And that way, I could imagine a parallel universe where I live in Cape Breton, am of Scottish ascendance, and am destined to meet up with Cyril McPhee, the famous Nova Scotia folk singer and member of the band, “Brakin’ Tradition.”

A small group of people seated on the couch behind me sang along with some of Cyril’s Celtic songs of fishing and romance, giving themselves away as fellow Cape Bretoners.

“Ah, it’s so good to hear ya,” Cyril said after one song. “Ya know, if someone from Cape Breton likes you, he’ll say, ‘Ya fuggin’ fuggers, I could puck you in the eye!”

I laughed hard, but the couple that my husband and I were traveling with only smiled weakly. Our friends are strictly religious. Their religion testifies that their country is the center of the universe, where the original Garden of Eden was, and where Joseph Smith’s teetotaling followers are building the kingdom of God for everyone else’s benefit. These friends of ours are nice company, but sometimes I don’t want nice. I want laughter, profanity and drinks.

A waitress from the lounge bar stopped by our couch and asked if we wanted anything. “No,” I lied. “Yes,” I thought to myself, “ – a nice Merlot.”

Having gone through the first 45 years of my life without having a glass of wine, I’ve spent the last five years trying to make up ground by getting to know the subtleties between the various red wines. I am no lush; I hardly ever drink. About once every other month I get together with a girlfriend and enjoy intimate conversation, pointless laughter, and a feeling of complete relaxation. One glass of wine makes me hear – really feel – the music. It makes me love the one I’m with. It makes me let go of the anxieties I stubbornly grasp between my cold, nearly dead fingers. A glass a day, news articles claim, keeps the heart attacks away.

One glass of wine makes the room spin for me, however. I elect not to drink it in front of religious people who equate drinking as one of the seven deadly sins.

After Cyril’s performance was over, he began packing up his guitar and speakers. My husband and friends bade good-night and headed for their rooms. I hung behind in hopes I could get a chance at the one publicly accessible computer in the lodge. A whole week off of work made me nervous that I would miss something important that only I could take care of. I figured somebody from the office would point out any catastrophes to me via email.

There was a woman on the computer, and it looked like she was going to be there a long time. I headed for my room, making sure to walk past the hotel lounge one last time. Inside the lounge I saw Cyril McPhee join the group of fellow patriots. One of them held a drink out to Cyril, and he accepted it with a grateful laugh. They all sat down in a comfy couch huddle. Oh, the stories gilded with Scottish accents, and the beer-enhanced laughter that would ensue. Ah, spontaneous kinship. The night was young for them, and for me in my parallel universe.

The night for my friends was at its end. They would spend the next 15 minutes complaining about their lodgings and the dinner we had that night. They will complain about aches and pains. They will say their prayers and thank God that they are the chosen ones. And they will turn the lights out.

Ambivalence

I love you…
I love you not…
I love you…
I love you not…

My relationship with Washington, D.C., and its environs is much like a lovelorn, twitterpatted, starry eyed young ‘un pulling petals off of innocent daisies in an effort to divine the true state of my inner bliss.

I moved to D.C. at the end of the 1980s and, barring the awful humidity, fell immediately in love with this provincial town and cosmopolitan wannabe. The history, landscape, museums, politics—all of it reeked with atmosphere and importance. And not just pretentious importance but real gravitas. The world happens here. Every day. It was heady and exciting! And I loved it!

I’d grown up in Utah and the most exciting thing we had approaching cosmopolitan was Salt Lake City. We could have moved to Keokuk, Iowa, and that would have been more exciting than Provo. But we moved to the D.C. area and I was in love! I worked for a year, then toodled off to Austria for 18 months. When I came home, it was at the end of the First Gulf War. I enrolled at George Mason U, graduating in 1995.

Shortly after graduation, I packed three suitcases with clothes and five trunks with books, bought a ticket on United Airlines, called UPS to ship my trunks, and I was off to California for graduate school. I was still in love with D.C., but excited to try a new venture. My plan was to stay in California only long enough to finish my master’s degree. Two years. That was all I was going be away.

I ended up staying for seven years. In that seven years, I cheated on Washington and, at about year four, broke up with this sultry southern town in favor of the beauty and abundance and joie de vivre that is San Francisco and its northern environs. I fell madly, hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with the Bay Area. And when I left in 2002 to come back here, I became a cliché. That’s right. I left my heart in San Francisco,/ High on a hill, it calls to me….

And now, here I am, back in the city I once adored despite its awful traffic, god-awful weather, and back-then-only-sometimes rancorous partisan politics. I broke up with D.C. in a bad way and left it bitter and angry with me. I’ve spent the last five years trying to at least achieve an amicable reconciliation, but this town won’t give me the satisfaction. Oh sure, it teases and entices me with things like the National Sculpture Garden and the tromp l’oeil of Lincoln across from Ford’s Theater. It indulges me with little treats like Rock Creek Cemetery and the Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens. It lets me occasionally escape its confines and regroup in places like Widewater Gap on the C&O Canal or Skyline Drive in the Shenandoah Valley.

But then it smacks me down in the 9-to-5. In my experience, this is a town that cares more about appearance than it does about performance, more about process and less about results, more about politics and less about ability. It is an often pretentious, conflated town with a lot of pretentious, conflated people.

Maybe I’ve just been unlucky in work, but I’ve kissed so much ass in this town, I’m starting to feel cheap and tawdry. I’ve worked for more egotistical, insecure people in this city than I care to count, and it makes me wonder if there really are people around here who actually want to get things done in a timely manner devoid of holding meetings to discuss ad nauseum whether to parse periods and commas in policy statements or just leave them as they are.

But enough about me and my skewed perceptions and broken-record affections for the West Coast. My point—and I do have one—is, I know I’m not alone in my ambivalence when it comes to this place. I know others who are in the same love/hate relationship, as well as an equal few who either totally, unabashedly, euphorically love this town or who totally, with utter rancor, deeply hate it.

So why does it work for some of us, but not for others? What is it that separates the sycophants from the sincere?

Getting back to me--which didn't take long, might I add: I love Washington, D.C. That is to say, I love all that it has to offer to stimulate the senses. I love finding hidden treasures and visiting old favorites. I love the variety and international flavor. But it's not enough to convince me it's worth staying.

Damn You, Apple! Damn You!

I'm always a little behind when it comes to the latest and greatest in gadgetry, especially if that gadget involves ear buds. Since I only hear in one ear, things that have ear buds--like iPods and MP3 players and such--just don't make a lot of sense for me. Actually, I talk all of that back. A couple of years ago, my sister lent me one of her iPods and I discovered that you can be 50% deaf and still enjoy an iPod. I've been meaning to get one of my very own ever since, but I keep putting it off.

Then, this summer, Apple released it the iPhone and I decided, screw getting an iPod. I'll just wait for the third or fourth generation of the iPhone, which doubles as an iPod, and then I'll get one.

Well, today, Apple announced its new iPod line up. And damn them, they made it delicious and highly desirable. And now I'm salivating again.

Damn you, Apple! Damn you! Now I want an iPod.

Crap.

"No Subject" Emails Should Always Be Approached with Caution

At least once a day, I get an email from Bee. This morning, I got an email that had me snorting (I couldn't laugh out loud because it's my week to person the reception desk and I have to maintain a certain decorum.)

Let me back up, though, and explain why today's email from Bee is particularly worthy of mention. A couple of weeks ago, I got a catalog in the mail. That's right. Me. I got a catalog. I know? Bizarre, huh? Okay, I'll stop with the dripping sarcasm aimed at the paper industry and retailers and their systematic annihilation of the world's forests. So, I got a catalog from a company called LTD Commodities. It's one of those general store-type catalogs that carries things that have no useful purpose but to clutter your house with more crap Made In China.

This catalog was special, though, because it had a dog water bowl in it I just had to get. It's a pet bowl in the shape of a toilet! How classic is that? So, I ordered one for my parents' dog (this was before the whole brouhaha you read about in the previous post.) Said toilet bowl arrived in the mail yesterday. I opened it, had a good laugh, and then set it aside.

Today, this is the email I got from Bee:

To: J.M.Tewkesbury@bigcompanyname.com
From: Bee@generic_isp.com
Date: August 29, 2007
Subj:

There's a toilet on the dining room table....



Maybe this is one of those "you had to be there" moments, but I died!


P.S. I accidentally ordered two of them. Bee wants to take the second one and either put brown M&Ms in it or unwrapped Tootsie Rolls. She says she almost made soup for dinner tonight and served it in these! Could you imagine a dinner party with these as the serving dishes? Hee hee hee.

Survivor

In a very unsolicited moment this past week, I learned a valuable lesson about myself: I am a survivor.

Many of you don’t know this about me, but seven years ago I shared a pivotal piece of information about my life with my family. I grew up in a highly conservative religious setting and my personal revelation clashed with their theology. The result was two years of hateful rhetoric and estrangement that was incredibly painful and quite damaging. It was a period fraught with bitter irony because the faith tradition in which I grew up places a heavy emphasis on the importance and eternal nature of families.

Eventually, I took a job in D.C. and moved back to the area. My parents and siblings live in Northern Virginia, but I approached being in their vicinity with great caution. I consciously chose to live in the city proper as a means of putting a little physical distance between us. I’ll admit, too, the idea of having the Potomac and a bridge separating us also helped me feel a bit secure—like I was living in a castle surrounded by a moat with a drawbridge as the only means of entry. In other words, not so far away that it was impossible to see them, but not so close that it was convenient.

Over the last five years, I’ve worked very hard to build some semblance of an adult relationship with my family members. They have continued to worship in their religion “according to the dictates of their conscience” and I have respected that. I choose not to participate in the faith of my upbringing and I have asked for, but not always received, reciprocal respect for my choices. My lack of activity in church is a point of disagreement for my family, but it is one I choose to largely ignore.

This past Friday, my brother participated in a series of religious rituals that constitute a rite of passage for faithful members of the church they attend. These rites represent milestones for each individual; their equivalent would be like attending hajj as a Muslim or visiting Lourdes or the Vatican as a Catholic. The purpose is meant to raise the participant to a higher plane within the faith and distinguish them as “one of the washed.” (I wrote my entire master’s thesis on this, by the way.) Just as a Muslim becomes known as a hajji and is elevated in status within the Muslim community, so, too, are Mormons elevated in status once they have been “endowed” by participating in temple rituals.

I knew my brother was preparing to participate in these rituals and I respect the importance and significance they hold within his faith community. I may no longer participate in those rituals myself, but I respect them for what they mean and the sociological role they play within the community of believers (see aforementioned note about thesis.) Regardless of my lack of participation, I was genuinely happy for him.

So, where am I going with all of this?

As I mentioned, this past Friday, my brother participated in these rituals, but chose not to include me by failing to call me and tell me he was going to the temple for the first time. While I am not able to physically go with him, due to my lack of active church participation, I would at least like to have known so I could tell him how happy I was/am for him. As it was, I found out after the fact, which left me pissed. I’m still not clear on why he didn’t tell me beforehand, as he has yet to call me or email me and set up a time to talk. What I do know is, I was incredibly hurt and angry at having been deliberately shunned.

I’ve spent the bulk of the weekend being emotional—angry one minute, weeping the next, baffled in general, sick to my stomach in particular… Name the emotion, I’m sure I’ve covered it in the last 96 hours. I was suppose to have my family at my house yesterday for Sunday dinner, but I canceled. I just didn’t have the energy to make the kind of effort I put into my cooking and entertaining. My heart was burdened with other things and any cooking I would have done would have been poisoned by the effect of their actions.

But last night, I had an epiphany.

I’d raged and ranted. I’d even hit a wall (note: hitting things is a bad idea. Your hand will really, really hurt, especially if what you’re hitting is almost 100 years old and made of plaster and lathe.) I’d cried and lamented. I’d thrown my anger around at myself, for thinking I could have a relationship with my family after being estranged; at my family, for so deliberately doing something they knew was wrong and would be hurtful; at the church, for indoctrinating their members in such a way that something like this could even be possible and might even be seen as acceptable.

Eventually, I dried my tears, blew my nose, and realized I am a survivor. I had been through this range of emotions and conflict before with my family and, while I was bloody and bruised previously, I wasn’t broken. I managed to get through the horrific rhetoric and hatefulness and still live. This weekend was horrific and hateful again, but I pulled through and I’m going to be okay. I still love my family, but I’m much clearer on the parameters of my place in their life. As a result, I’ll be modifying my parameters regarding their place in my life.

My therapist often use to say two things to me during those years gone by. First, “you are not broken.” And second, “I know you feel icky now, but you’re not always going to feel this way.” This weekend was pretty icky, but somehow I’ve arrived on the other side of it a bit more impervious to meanness. I’m still angry, but I’m not seething with bitterness. I’m glad I’m not always going to feel this way. More than that, though, I’m glad that I can not only survive, but thrive.

The Demise of the Thank-You Wave and Other Thursday Thoughts (Posted on Saturday)

Is it just me, or is the thank-you wave dead?

I remember when I moved to D.C. the first time, back in the very late 1980s. I'd grown up in Utah where driving and courtesy do not always go hand in hand. So, imagine my surprise when, as a pedestrian, cars would actually yield at crosswalks or, as a driver, when I would let others merge in front of me, I'd then be rewarded with a hearty "thank you" wave.

Lately, though, I'm noticing that the thank-you wave is being given less and less and many drivers seem to care only for their own destination and the rest of us--fellow commuters and pedestrians--be damned!

I'll admit: I'm not always the world's greatest driver. I take stupid risks and engage in shoddy maneuvers. I can drive like a shithead. But I always remember, when someone has let me merge in front of them or stopped to let me cross, to give a thank-you wave and mouth the words "Thank you." That said, I'm rarely reciprocated when I extend the same courtesies.

What's up with that? Are we getting so damn lazy and self-centered, we can't even take a second or two to wave and be appreciative?!

So, hey, DC/MD/VA drivers! Yo! The next time someone let's you merge or cross the street without running you down, give a little wave. I can guarantee you, they'll be grateful.

****

Mean people suck. I've had a mean people week. And the worst of it is, the mean people who suck in my life this week are the last people who should be mean and suck.

Ironically, I'm actually looking forward to work on Monday for a change.

****

Seems lots of friends are dealing with meanness and duplicitous people these days. One friend is struggling with a relationship in ways that are ironic and painful. Another is dealing with nasty work stuff. We've been 'talking amongst ourselves,' trying to console one another and be supportive. The other day, though, one of the friends--finding herself at a loss for what to say about a certain situation--said, "I'm so sorry, but I'm just tapped out."

And that's when I realized, I'm tapped out, too.

****

I'm at a point where I'm ready to hang a map on the wall, throw a dart at it, see what sticks, and move to wherever the dart hits. At this stage in my tenure in D.C., I have absolutely nothing to lose, so there's no risk. This town has sucked me dry and left me a shell of my former self. And I don't like that.

I don't like feeling tapped out. I don't like this hopefully-not-permanent, piercing ache between my shoulder blades. I don't like working in fear. I don't like not being respected by people I believe should respect me. And it's all adding up and making me a not-nice person. I don't like the person I'm becoming here--bitter and angry. And tired. Very, very tired.

****

I keep trying to think of one thing that makes staying in D.C. worthwhile and all I can come up with is 'free museums.' It's a valid reason, I'm sure, but lame nonetheless.

The bottom line is, I think it's finally time to leave 'cause this town is a bust.

Lines and Other Existential Musings on a Wednesday

Today was an Al Hirschfeld sort of day. It seemed every person I passed on my commute—the woman in the gold Mercedes SUV applying her eyeliner, the man hawking newspapers at the intersection of 9th and Massachusetts, the woman on the scooter wearing her helmet so snugly it looked like a part of her natural features, the gangly guard at the entrance to the parking garage—could have been or had just jumped out of a Hirschfeld. At any moment, I expected strains from Modest Mussorgsky’s (1839-1881) Pictures at an Exhibition to burst forth from the radio and underscore my oddly illustrated world.

****

Do you ever wonder about the lives of others?

Normally, at the intersection of 9th and Mass is a woman hawking the aforementioned newpapers. She’s average in height, thin. Her hair is long and often looks stringy and unwashed, except that I think perhaps she’s just come out of the shower and is going with the wet look. Probably in her fifties, though she may be younger. It’s hard to tell. What does seem readily obvious is, life has been hard for her. It is etched deeply in the tanned, creased lines of her face and the hollow vacancy of her eyes. I often wonder what her story is and what she once hoped her life would be. If her dreams were dashed, I wonder what she hopes each day will now bring. There is a seemingly contradictory mixture of resignation and tenacity about her that worries and awes me and it begs this existential question: If life is meant to be meaningful, what is the meaning for her?

****

On my way into work every morning, I pass a coffee shop—Breakwell’s—in the struggling-to-gentrify area around the new D.C. convention center. Some mornings, one of the baristas is taking a break. She sits in a cane-backed chair, casually smoking a cigarette and intently reading her latest literary choice. She looks serene and content and I ask myself the same question I’ve asked myself for years. Why can’t I do something like that and be content?

****

There are a million little proverbs and sayings that have been bandied about for decades, if not centuries, in one form or another—each meant to inspire, uplift, give hope, bring perspective. When life hands you lemons, says one of the more cliché, make lemonade. It seems so straightforward and simple. And yet, I’m lousy at making lemonade. All that keeps me from being a sourpuss is love and laughter. My sanity/insanity is a mix of quiet desperation and outright panic tempered by rational thought about cause and effect. Somehow, perhaps merely by the grace of God, I hold on and function aptly. But is it enough?

****

I’d like to be the barista at the coffee shop, but I worry that one day I might be the woman hawking newspapers, cars streaming past me in a perpetual procession of hurry and scurry. Those in the cars will drive by without noticing, save at least one person—a person of heart and conscience, a person of kindness and thought—who will drive by and wonder, “If life is meant to be meaningful, what is the meaning for her?”

Illustration copyright: Al Hirschfeld. All rights reserved to him, may he rest in peace, and his estate.

Lame *ss Duck?

So, with Karl "I'm-the-President's-Brain" Rove leaving the White House at the end of the month (can I get a "Hallelujah!" for that, please?), I suppose this could officially make George W. "I'm-the-Decider" Bush a lame (ass) duck.

Aaaaaaaaah. Joy.

It's as if a breath of fresh air blew into Washington yesterday, leaving behind blue skies and a feeling of hope again. Granted, unless the Dems win in '08, the hope may be short-lived. But hope, nonetheless, has descended on this sultry, swampy, sinister, cynical, southern town.

Of course, Bush II only has 17 months to tidy up his worldwide mess and improve his legacy. I'm not holding my breath, though. And by the way--is it possible that years from now, historians will look back and label the period from Sept. 11, 2001 to whenever-it-is-we-get-out-of-Iraq as "World War III"? It's not all that far-fetched, you know.

To steal a phrase from Eugene Robinson in today's Washington Post, "Hey Karl, don't let the door hit you where the dog should have bit you!"

Yep. It's a happy day in Washington. As fellow blogger Cele pointed out in a comment elsewhere, Texas is slowing getting back its village idiots. Somewhere in Crawford the breezes are blowing, the tumbleweed are tumbling, and if you hold George's head up to your ear, you can hear the sound of...

Silence.


Photo copyright: Thomas Hawks' Digital Connection