The Drive Home...

Retrograde Motion

Driving down the boulevard yesterday, I saw three very attractive young women in crack-hugging shorts and cleavage revealing t-shirts trying to entice male drivers into the local Hooters. The whole scene set the women's movement back a century. For so long, women fought to be seen as something more than sexual objects and baby-making machines... and here these young women stood, striking provocative pose after provocative pose... what a shame.

Intolerance

Two blocks away from the scene above, I see a pick-up truck bearing the following bumper sticker: "Kill 'em all -- Let Allah sort them out." This is the same grade of intolerance that defines the "Islamic extremists"... what a shame.

False Advertising

Another mile down the road, I nearly crashed my car at the site of a filling station with regular grade gas advertised for $2.92 per gallon. As I prepared to make a U-turn to go back, I realized that all of the Regular and Plus nozzles were covered with bags... they only had Premium for $3.19 per gallon. False advertising... what a shame.

Gas Wars

This morning, for about the hundreth time, I received the e-mail that encourages Americans to boycott American petroleum company ExxonMobil. For me, that's virtually an impossibility, because I've already boycotted foreign gas suppliers Citgo (Venezuelan), Shell (Dutch) and BP (British), in an effort to keep my dollars at home. That doesn't leave many other options, save the independents -- and I can't seem to find out where their gas comes from.

Perhaps I've become too much the nationalist here recently -- buying American whenever I can -- but given the significant impact that foreign products are having on my local economy (Norfolk Ford Plant to Close), I just can't see myself inflicting even the smallest of injuries to an American company. Perhaps I'm naive to think that my measly contributions to US companies could have even the slightest of impacts... but to sit idly by and watch industry after industry move overseas is frightening. We are already so dependent on foreign imports that our country could be paralyzed at the mere whim of a hostile nation.

I'm just saying...

Ohmmmmmmmmm

In an effort to reach a zen-like state and enhance my life experience, I have recently taken up meditation. The type of meditation I'm practicing (and I mean practicing, because I sure as hell haven't mastered it yet) is called Jappa meditation and it relies on sound to bring you into harmony with the universal energy. The sound for the morning meditation is "Ah". It is the sound of creation/pro-creation and manifestation. As pointed out by the instructor, the sound "ah" is a part of many of the different names for God, Allah, Buddah, Jehovah, etc. I do well for the first few minutes -- other than my obsession with matching the pitch of the man on the CD -- then, I find that I start to think about a zillion different things.

"Ahhhhhhhhhh... is my first appointment at 9 or 10? if it's at nine, I'd better cut this short and hop in the shower."

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh... (affirmation - I am unlimited in my wealth -- all areas of my life are abundant and fulfilling)... I wonder when that case is going to be released for payment... I really need a check next week. Dang it -- concentrate, Lauren!"

"Ahhhhhhhhhh... I am as successful as I make up my mind to be... I wonder if this stuff really works...

"Ahhhhhhhhhh... CRAP! I forgot to take the dog out -- I hope he hasn't peed on the carpet. Come on, Lauren, FOCUS, FOCUS!!!"

"Ahhhhhhhhh... hell, just forget it. I'm too ADD for this stuff!"

The nighttime meditation is working better... it's based on the "Ommmmm" sound... as in Shalom... or Peace. I actually manage to fall asleep doing this meditation. Somehow, I have the feeling I'm going to be a very peaceful person vibrating at odds with the universe and never fully manifesting the divine being that I am. Ah, well, that's life!

Blogger's Block

Sorry to have been away for so long, my faithful few! I must admit to staring quite blankly at the screen on several occasions thinking, "surely no one wants to hear these banal musings." I'm not entirely convinced that today's post is worth the bandwidth required to post it; however, I've determined that the only way to break through the block is to just DO IT!

Since last I posted, I have been cast in a dinner theatre show. It's small-time... mostly choral music with some solos and skits thrown in for good measure... and is being done as a fund-raiser for my choir's trip to Germany next year. I'm doing a couple of solos, a trio and a quartet. It's fun... and it's invigorating. I'd forgotten what a sense of wellbeing I get from being involved in creative endeavors -- especially where music is involved. I have to admit to a bit of nostalgic longing creeping in around the edges as well. I know there's no use in "if only, woulda, coulda, shoulda" talk, but I can't help but think what my life might have been had I taken the plunge and gone to New York against my mother's dire warnings of what the city would do to me. ("If you go to New York, they will CHEW you up and SPIT you out.") No good can come of these thoughts... so I try to banish them as soon as they appear.

At work, I closed my first quarter well short of my goal -- there will be no trip for me (at least not this quarter). I'm still working to hit the second quarter goal, but I'll have to practically triple my production. I'd much rather rehearse my music!

On the homefront, I'm planning some landscaping work for the spring -- if I can ever get the blinkin' contractors to return my calls. I have an appointment to have two trees removed and three others heavily pruned. Then, the back yard will be re-graded to alleviate the flooding problem and then a fence will go up. That should pretty well exhaust my home improvement budget for this year. Next year, I'll work on beautification!

Cheese and crackers, this is boring stuff!

Where's Paul Harvey when you need him?

I ask this because I (like my cyber-friend Kim) want to know the rest of the story on this Ports deal. It is a heaping pile of fertilizer that gives off a pungent odor, if you ask me.

I don't usually go on about politics on my site -- I have readers from both sides of the aisle -- some with very strong opinions I don't happen to share and I hate to argue! It's like my grandpa used to say, "never discuss politics or religion in polite company -- it's a sure-fire way to end friendships." This, however, has me feeling sick to my stomach. I have this sinking, gnawing feeling in my gut that this proposed deal is inextricably tied to the escalating nuclear "crisis" in Iran. If I didn't know better (do I know better?) I'd say that GW is trying to buy us an ally in the region so he can be properly positioned to strike when the time comes (and I believe the time IS coming... the war mongers are already beating their chests and making threats).

If this administration gets us into another conflict, I'm afraid I might just join the ranks of those with whom I've rarely agreed before and call for an impeachment hearing. We, the mighty Americans, who have weapons of mass destruction at our disposal... the ONLY nation that has ever used them against an enemy... we, the mighty, get to decide what free nations can do within their own borders, for their own protection? How is that fostering Democracy? And is it worth American lives to simply delay the inevitable? If a nation wants to develop these weapons, they'll figure out a way... be it now or AFTER we've blown up their cities and killed their families. Hmmm... I think they'd be more dangerous AFTER, don't you?

Can of Worms

Yesterday, I opened a can of worms. It was not my intent to open a can of worms... I don't particularly like worms in cans... I think they belong in the ground, tilling the soil and doing what worms do... but however inadvertently, open a can of worms I did.

I was having a conversation with a customer in his late-40's who seemed to feel that his $80k per year salary could be replaced with a $150,000 life insurance policy if he died. In trying to get him to understand that we are none promised a tomorrow, I mentioned the untimely death of Dana Reeve. The sermon that ensued set me back on my heels and I was so stunned that I could hardly speak.

Customer: "Well, I have religious issues with her and that husband of hers. The fact that they want to take stem cells from embryos and practically grow them as a crop to be harvested is just wrong" and on and on and on he went about the "evil" that Dana and Christopher perpetrated.

It sounded to my ears almost as if he was saying that the reason they both died was because of their beliefs about embryonic stem cell research. Surely that cannot be? Surely there are not people in this world who believe that God metes out a death sentence to those who dare push the bounds of science in an effort to save and restore lives.

Now, far be it from me to get into the bio-ethics of a concept so complicated -- that's not my intent here. I just never thought that in the course of doing business I would come face to face with such vehement, vitriolic "stuff" -- and this from a self-professed "man of God."

I guess I should consider the source, as this came from a man who referred to the prospectus for his funds as a precipitous.

Women

Overheard in a restaurant... (woman in her 60's talking to younger woman in her 40's):
"There are days when my husband is the perfect justification for why there are lesbians in this world."

I chuckled to myself when I heard this... and then I thought about it... and it made me wonder...

My best friends have always been gay men. I've never particularly gotten along with women -- especially groups of women -- whom I usually find to be petty, small and boring -- so that would seem to exclude me as a lesbian from the get-go. My most engaging and interesting relationships have been with my single female friends, gay men and older women whose children are grown and gone -- women who have outside interests like theatre, music and intellectual pursuits. Perhaps because I am childless, I am at a disadvantage with most women my age who talk about their kids ad nauseum and complain about their husbands daily. Neither subject interests me in the least.

But back to the lesbian thing... I notice that more often than not I am drawn to the female form. A recent example is this season's Dancing With the Stars -- I was completely enamored of Stacy Keibler and couldn't have given a rat's (*) about any of the men -- even the professional dancers. I remember watching Cider House Rules and saying out loud for my soon-to-be-ex to hear, "That is the most exquisite female body I have ever seen" as a nude Charlize Theron stretched out across the bed.

Maybe my newly acquired single status is getting to me... maybe I've had enough disappointments with straight men to last a lifetime... maybe it's nothing and maybe I'm just a well-adjusted hetero who is secure enough to appreciate beauty when she sees it... but I remember well the night in college when my best friend and I -- a little drunk and a little curious -- left the bar and headed back to the dorm where we pushed together two twin beds. Had she not had a serious boyfriend at the time, I think that something might actually have happened beyond passing out in each others' arms. I loved her -- that's for sure -- I still do -- I always will -- but she's one of my dearest friends, married with seven kids.

I know this is probably a shocking revelation for some of you who've known me on the "Trying to Conceive" and "TTC after miscarriage" boards. I don't know if there's anything to it... the statement just got me thinking. Tomorrow I'll probably be done with the inquiry. I have to say, however, that there's still something about a nice, hard... well... never mind (blush).

Am I My Brother's Keeper?

Last night, I visited a friend who lives in an apartment. As we sat watching a movie, suddenly, I hear shrieking, screaming, and the sound of violence from the apartment below. Immediately, I got a knot in my stomach... I think any woman who's experienced domestic violence does. I wondered at the choice to mute the television and listen to the exchange happening in the adjacent apartment... as the violence escalated, the child in the apartment started to cry and I heard the mother pleading, as if to prevent her child from being harmed. I urged my friend to call the police and was sickened at the response, "They fight all the time. I don't want to get involved." My mind was reeling... I heard what sounded like someone being forced up against a wall... a thud of human flesh against a solid surface... a sound I've heard before... an impact I've felt. I came unglued. I couldn't believe that we were sitting just yards away listening as if to the Sunday Night Movie of the Week and doing absolutely NOTHING.

Finally, reluctantly, my friend called 911. The police arrived and we heard them knock on the door. Within a few minutes they were gone -- things were quiet, save the muffled sobs of the woman wafting through the vents. Had our intervention accomplished anything? Were we right to call the police? I don't know... but I DO know that I view my friend much differently now... someone whose only thought was of the possibility of retaliation for being a "whistle blower." My only thought was that, if just for one night, mother and child were okay... I just wish I could tell her that it doesn't have to be this way... that she deserves better... that no one has the right to hit her or hurt her in any way. Her wracked sobs echo in my mind, "I didn't do anything, I didn't do anything..." and my heart breaks for her.

A bit o' fun for this balmy Thursday...

79 doesn't sound so bad... that's almost a whole 'nother life... plus, I really don't want to get TOO old.

A Sister for Caleb

I'm in a quandary today. A colleague took me to see a litter of miniature poodle puppies this week from the same mother as one of her pups. Her dog completely changed my opinion of poodles -- a breed I've never been particularly fond of. The puppies are adorable and, being my usual impulsive self, I put down a deposit on one of the little girls. Now I'm having second thoughts. Housebreaking a puppy while working 6 days a week and struggling with health issues and an irregular income stream... what was I thinking? Well, I was thinking that giving Caleb a little brother or sister would make his lonely days less so... but is leaving TWO dogs alone all day any better? Wouldn't the puppy be better off with a SAHM and some kids? Or maybe a retired couple who will love and pamper and cuddle it all day long? Is my guilt at leaving my beloved Caleb home alone clouding my judgment? Is that being MAGNIFIED by the cute factor of the pups? (Did I SAY how adorable the puppies were... Oh. My. Gosh. They're just precious -- this is what they'll look like in a few weeks) Is it possible to love TWO dogs as much as I love Caleb?

Oh, the questions... the sheer magnitude of the decision... I'm overwhelmed.

Cut to the Quick

Your best friend

The one you tell everything

The one who knows you best

The one who holds your heart in her hand

Can crush you with her words

Can shatter your dreams

Your worst enemy.

(c) L.M.B. 2006

All rights reserved

Yesterday, my best friend hurt me so deeply that I find myself floundering in a sea of mixed emotions. I am angry, I am hurt -- wounded to the very core of my being at her thoughtless, cutting words -- and yet I am unable to imagine my life without her in it. I want to lash out -- to say the things that love has never allowed me to say to her -- to lay low her dreams as she has mine... but what would that accomplish, save having her feel first-hand the pain she has caused me? I want to let it go... to move on... but I can't get past one question: why? Why would this woman I love so deeply, to whom I am connected not just by friendship, but by blood, betray me? Perhaps I will never understand. For now, I'm just keeping my distance... licking my wounds and wondering if we'll ever get back to where we were before this happened. The trust that took nearly twenty years to restore was destroyed with just six venomous words. That venom, though not fatal, courses through my veins, tainting heart and mind and spirit.

Married on Weekends

I have a friend who shares a unique relationship with her husband. He lives in another town -- about three hours away (he moved there for a job opportunity) and they only see each other on weekends and special occasions. They vacation together, they chat online during the week, they go to one another's company Christmas party. They're still legally married, with all of its benefits and tax advantages, yet sometimes they'll go a month or so without seeing one another. It seems to be working quite nicely for them. They're faithful to one another and have no plans to change their current situation.

She says that the sex is better than it ever was when they were living together -- kind of like early dating sex, where you can't wait to get one another's clothes off and then can't get enough of each other. She says the relationship is like getting the prize in the box of cereal without having to dig through the whole box to find it... she shares all of the good stuff with him and then they each go to their own homes and live the way they want to. Her home is decorated in French Country, his contemporary; she's a neat freak, he's a slob; she's a vegetarian, he's a steak and 'taters kinda guy; she loves opera, he loves Jazz; he lets the dogs sleep on the bed, she'd never hear of such a thing. All of the little annoyances of living under the same roof have been removed and all that's left is the good stuff. It's probably not for everyone, but it has me thinking... married on weekends... what a concept!

Black is Beautiful!

I just finished my 2005 taxes and I'm happy and ASTONISHED to tell you that I'm actually in the black this year! I was afraid that self-employment taxes would chew me a new one -- but thanks to the fact that I was a statutory employee for much of the year, it turns out that I don't owe any self-employment tax! (The reasons for that are sad -- I posted a loss for the year -- but at least I don't have to dole any moolah out to Uncle!) SE taxes will be a regular part of my existence for 2006, but today I'm celebrating a year of HAPPY RETURNS!

I think I'll celebrate with a bottle of bubbly and a nice hot bath... a little jazz on the stereo and some scented candles... yeah, that's the ticket!

Live and Let Live, except...

I'm pretty much a live and let live kinda gal -- except where rodents are concerned. It's not that I don't think little mice are cute -- they are -- but they're also NASTY and they carry diseases. Why is this important? Well, I partner with four agencies in my area and one of the agents is a member of PETA. Therefore, she will not do anything to get rid of the mice in her office, save trying to trap them and "humanely relocate them". This has resulted in quite a nice sized family of the critters taking up residence in this office (which, by the way, is FILTHY to begin with).

It's enough that I have to put up with the cigarette smoke, the dirty dishes in the bathroom sink, the smell of dog urine on the carpet, but I simply draw the line when, upon opening the microwave to heat up my lunch, I'm faced with...

MOUSE TURDS...

I tell you, I nearly tossed my cookies right then and there. Surely this has to be a health code violation. When does one draw the line? When does the hazard outweigh the income potential? And this woman wanted me to bring MY puppy in here today to play with HER puppy. I don't want my baby dining on mouse turds! ACK!

My skin's still crawling... I have to get out of here and go somewhere clean... preferably starting with a hazmat decontamination shower!!!!!

An Odd Compulsion

For the past 48 hours, I have felt compelled to set my affairs in order -- to write down my final wishes -- to appoint my executors and divvy up my goods. I can't explain this compulsion -- I'm not ill, I have no desire or plan to end my own life and I know of no plots against me... but not since the day of my grandfather's death have I felt such a compelling need to get something DONE. On that day, I was scheduled to attend a conference and I could NOT bring myself to leave the house. The prevailing thought in my mind on that day was, "I have to get my house in order" -- so I cleaned and did laundry and waited -- until finally the phone rang and my mother's voice on the other end made it all clear... my grandfather was gone.

So, this morning, I completed the document. My wishes have been made clear, my plans laid forth -- now I just need to get someone to witness my signature. I hope that I'll have a good laugh about this in a few months' time.

Funeral Reunions

It seems as we grow older that we often times only see our childhood friends when someone dies -- as our parents and grandparents pass, we all gather together, reminisce for a while and lament the fact that we only see each other at funeral homes and graveyards. Tonight was such a night... pictures of fifty years of marriage, children, grandchildren, memories shared... promises to keep in touch that will likely not be kept as we all get back to our busy lives. Still, it's nice, if even for a moment, to revisit those carefree childhood days... to laugh about our silly Halloween costumes, who believed in Santa the longest and to smile at the embarrassing tales told so often that we all know them by heart. Each death brings us all closer to our own mortality, which makes these forays into our childhood all the more welcomed.

Grace

Let me preface this post by saying that I don't think of myself as a "religious" person -- but I am a spiritual person. I'm also a musician and I express my spirituality by joining voices with other musicians in a choir -- a choir that presents beautiful expressions of God inside a church. Perhaps it's hypocritical of me -- because I obviously do not hold to all of the tenets of this particular church, as you will read below -- but the music draws me there and I find a connection with my Source within its soaring descants.

That being said, today's sermon was on grace...

Pronunciation: 'grAs
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Old French, from Latin gratia favor, charm, thanks, from gratus pleasing, grateful; akin to Sanskrit grnAti 'he praises'


Webster's defines grace as 'unmerited divine assistance given humans for their regeneration or sanctification -- a virtue coming from God -- a state of sanctification enjoyed through divine grace.'


Also, (2) disposition to or an act or instance of kindness, courtesy, or clemency -- a temporary exemption : REPRIEVE


Synonyms are APPROVAL, FAVOR, MERCY, PARDON

The New Testament reading was from Romans and the Hymn of Praise was Amazing Grace. I have to admit that the concept of grace is beautiful -- regardless of our sins, God loves us and forgives us. Isn't that what parents do? I think of the grace my parents have shown me... the grace I have shown others and others have shown me... but I get stuck on the whole "wretchedness of man" and "original sin" concept. I've always had trouble with that. You see, I believe that our energy (essence, soul, spirit) comes from the source of all energy (God -- "and God created man in His image and likeness and breathed life into his nostrils") and if that is the case, then man is NOT wretched simply because he exists... he is wretched when he exists out of harmony with his Source. I think that we are born with everything we need to exist in harmony with our Source and we spend our lives moving away from that knowledge with which we're born.

While I believe that we need to practice the art of grace (2nd definition) in our lives, I'm more inclined to believe that our 'salvation' if you will, comes from the knowledge of our Source and our willingness to become one with it (Him). Perhaps the path is similar -- turning away from things that take us away from our Source and concentrating our energy on being in harmony with that Source (turn from your sinful ways and follow God)... I just choose to believe that God did not create weak and wretched creatures, but beautiful, graceful expressions of Himself.

And it's a hit... hard and fast into left field...

Today something happened to me that hasn't happened for, oh, about six years... In fact, it's been so long, I wasn't entirely convinced that what I thought had happened had really happened. Meeting with a new client for the second time today, we exchanged small talk while I finished up some paperwork and made copies for him to take with him. As he left the office, he turned to me and said, "give me a call if you're ever down at the beach and we can meet for lunch." I stood there wondering if this was just a friendly gesture, or if he really was hitting on me. I mumbled something like, "yeah, I just might do that", which in retrospect and IF he indeed WAS hitting on me, was a green light answer, wasn't it? (Stupid, stupid me... I'm not the least bit interested, but was caught so off guard that I didn't know WHAT to say.)

At any rate, I ran the scenario by a few folks and asked for their thoughts... it was unanimous, "it was definitely a hit." I guess I've grown to think of myself as 'unavailable' and I really never gave a moment's consideration to how I might respond if someone showed an interest in me -- mostly because I didn't really think anyone would! I mean, I know I'm smart and can manage to be funny on occasion -- but I just don't think of myself as attractive to the opposite sex any more. Weird, huh? So, anyway, what do I do now????? I have to meet him again to deliver the policy. I'm leaning toward just pretending that it didn't happen. I'm quite the ostrich that way.

Oh, and did I happen to mention that he's SIX YEARS YOUNGER THAN ME?!? I don't know if he likes older women or if he thinks I'm younger than I really am. I'd prefer to think it's the latter, of course! LOL

Scenes from the Road

At seven this morning, I pulled out of the drive into a foggy street. My trip was filled with wonderful sights:

The morning sun reflecting off the water of the James River, while off in the distance, buoys were shrouded by silver fog.

The approach of the hills near Charlottesville... bare trees appearing like ghostly figures reaching out of the fog, as if to grab a passer-by and detain them.

The Jeffersonian, Colonial revival, neo-Jeffersonian or Greek Revival architecture prominent throughout the city... the stately buildings of THE University (as it's called here in the Commonwealth), with students scurrying to and fro.

Silver trees lining the roadway kissed by the descending orb of the sun... shimmering one moment and appearing as clouds of dusky smoke the next.

The waters of the James River at sunset -- silver with the reflection of the full moon and met by a dark, royal purple horizon, topped by pink and pale turquoise bands. It was truly stunning and made up for the image of the trucker who, when I passed him on the road, honked his horn, flashed his lights and then pulled up his t-shirt, grabbed his right titty and jiggled it at me... I swear, he needed a man-bra.

First Mouse

Standing at the barre is a ten-year-old girl in a black leotard and pink tights and shoes.
She watches intently as the regal Romanian prima ballerina leads the class...
First position, plie', second position, third, fourth, fifth, rond de jambe a terre
The instructor passes by and nods approval

The move to the floor brings the adagio, with developpe's and promenades in arabesque, attitude and passe'. At the end of class, the order at the barre is set for the following week and the girl is pleased to find herself in third position -- a real honor for one so young.

Finally, the day comes when roles for the annual production of the Nutcracker will be announced. The girl stands at the barre chewing her lip - a habit that annoys her instructors, but which she cannot seem to break. First comes the chorus of mice... the names are called and she waits... but does not hear her own. Her heart sinks. Then comes the announcement of the fourth mouse pair, the third, second and finally the first mouse pair. Everyone is staring at her... why is everyone staring at her? In a thick Romanian accent, her name is called again... she is a First Mouse! In her first year with the company, the girl has gotten a role, instead of being relegated to the chorus. She dances a little jig and tries not to be too proud of her accomplishment.

The part of the First Mouse is not extensive -- it consists of a ballet run to center stage to meet the other First Mouse, a furtive mouse-like gesture, a scurry back four steps, a turn and another mouse-like gesture, followed by a ballet run to the wings. Rehearsals are perfect, dress rehearsal is perfect and finally the night of the performance arrives.

The girl waits in the wings for her cue... she runs to center stage, makes her gesture and runs off... from the wings, she sees her partner executing the second mouse-like gesture and tears spring to her eyes. She has failed. Surely, she will never dance again.