Melé Café

10 Things to Hate on a Given Wednesday:

2009-05-26T13:24:00.004-05:00

10. Middle School Boys
9. A not so "Quick Lunch" out on a busy day
8. Falling behind on program prep
7. Unseasonably cold weather for a pool party
6. Middle School Boys
5. Phone calls during program
4. 14 Senior Highs whilst flying solo
3. Dogs eating cat shit
2. The displaying of a blank face when asked to help clean up
1. Cleaning up after the blank faces when they "Have to Go"

Nights like these, a good beer at the pub is medicating.
The Cards are on the TV, and beating the Cubs... there is a silver lining to PITA* Wednesday's.

*PITA - Pain in the Ass

A Recipe of Love in a Time of Grief

2009-04-23T09:30:00.004-05:00

“Spam”

Take one Dog:
Mix in a unique blend of differing breeds:
Body of Lab
Stance of Corgi
Legs of Terrier
Snout of Dachshund
Personality of Cat
One ear to stand up like the ear of a Boston
One ear to fold over like the unclipped ear of Boxer

Add a desire to bark and attack fellow K9 breeds, regardless of size, and welcome any feline company (particularly those of the “Black” variety).

Fold with loyalty and recognition of any family member, despite the time of absence.

Dash heavily with:

Joy: When family or really any human arrive, pup welcomes by standing on hind legs, front paws waving as she eagerly awaits acknowledgement by a simple pat of the head or rub of the ears.
Excitement: At the mere sight of one lacing up shoes, she will dance by the front door, slight whimpers turn to happy yipping as the sight of the lead appears from the closet. She will hardly contain this anticipation, as again the standing on hind legs, front paws waving, she thinks she is assisting in the connection of the leash. The exhilaration is so great, she will hold on to her own leash as she prances along her walk.
Energy: Even in old age, you will recognize the eternal puppy in her soul as she bounds up and down the stairs, wagging her tail for all situations, and looks at you with that knowing eagerness as you grab the coveted bag of treats from the pantry.

This little creation has a highly unique, not so secret, ingredient: The pup must be one orphaned at an early age by a deeply loved owner, whose entire family whole-heartedly has adopted this little dog. Her original “pet” human gained her initial admission to the home with the simple phrase: “How could you say no to that face?”

Who would have known “that face” would give years of comfort and joy to the surviving family after her owner had left this world?

Finally, once all is thoroughly mixed, love for over 15 years. The result will be the happiest pup, as she is certainly a genuinely jovial little dog. This can be recognized by the constant tail wagging, couch cuddling, and continuous (often underfoot) presence. After 15 years of love, and when her health can no longer sustain her life, gently send her home to her original master. There she will again play and wait in peace for the rest of her family, each of whom she will enthusiastically greet: on hind legs, front paws waving.

Time Continues...to Fly Away

2009-04-01T20:11:00.005-05:00

I come and visit my post almost daily. It is like dealing with a sick pet. You really don't know what to do to help or heal. The dog cannot bark it's displeasure, informing you of the cramp in it's belly. Sometimes the continual licking of a certain area leads you to the thorn in the paw, but this blog has yet to show me where it is hurting.

It is a site more for my own entertainment. A place I can write about topics which fascinate me. I do not write to make a fan base, I just write to write. But as I visit my own place each day, two things cross my mind:
1. Maybe I can make it a full year without posting.
2. I need to rekindle my site.

I see other sites and feel the uninspiring tug of my own brain fester like an infected oyster cut. It hurts... but then again, it'll heal. I will get a spark of inspiration someday...I hope. Until then, I can live with the scar of an 11 month hiatus.

But what to do? How can I make my postings more fun for this site I once envisioned years ago? I do not want this to be a site of journaling, telling lonely passerby's my life stories. Not only because they need not know my busniess, but perhaps because it'd bore them to tears.

I have got a hatchling brewing in my brain of some creative menu's for the Mele Cafe. Patience, my dear blog, we are under renovation. We will soon have our grand opening, complete with daily/ weekly specials. I have an idea, and that is what this cafe has been waiting for the past long months...

More is certainly to come.

Time Flies

2008-05-10T16:00:00.008-05:00

When you are having fun.

I've noticed lately how time has gotten completely away from me. It is here one minute, then in the blink of an eye, it is a month later. Technically, more than a month in posting time. How does this happen?

I will not get into the scientific and revolving explanation of the sun and earth and stuff. Rather, I will shed light on this second slipping reality by blaming it on a “someone new” disrupting life’s routine. Assuming you are genuinely happy with this someone new, time can sneak away without warning while you rearrange your life to include this extra body. Nor do you mind taking that time to blissfully dance around this new lifestyle. (Right cuz?)

But it does bother me to think about this in relation to the inspiration aspect of writing. Why is it we are only really inspired to write when we are stressed or bugged or depressed or in a negative frame of mind? In other words, why, when in lags of writing, do we (I) resort to that excuse of happiness disrupting the muse? Are optimistic thoughts not worth the time to write and read about?

Why must creativity be motivated through melodramatic misery? I know it is not always this way, but there are so many good things to talk about…like unicorns and rainbows and little dancing gophers.

Ok, so happiness can tend to lack in motivating topics and skills. I still think it sad that society can lean more towards the negative aspects of life than the good stuff. When you read the news, there are stories of people dying, war raging, children hurting. Folks inflate drama to gain pity for some misfortune that has befallen their space. Games seek unhealthy modes of competition so one can feel good through the defeat of a weaker link. TV emphasizes the losers in reality based shows. It is no wonder we forget the good out there when we allow this negativity impact our days.

I mean really, it is truly amazing waking up to a blue sky lightly dotted with cotton ball clouds. It is amazing how sliced apples and cheese can tickle the senses. It is amazing feeling the breeze of spring tussle the hair from a car’s open window. It is absolutely amazing running through the smells of mountain air. It is even amazing admiring the bruises incurred from a great game of soccer.

Admit it: life is much more fun to live when you look at the world through rose colored glasses. Seemingly mundane moments now erupt with the simple shape of childlike joy. Then the time passes and you realize it is a month later. The memories are still in connection, and your past days look more like a photo album rather than a blob of wasted time. Not to mention: YOU ARE STILL SMILING!!!

So, the dance of trying to reconfigure this happiness is not necessarily a bad thing. We are just going to have to look to new directions for inspiration…like that class I took this past week, making some amazing knife handles.

It's Two AM

2008-04-02T10:05:00.003-05:00

Actually, the time has rolled past two AM. You are still lying there, wiggling your toes under the covers; eyes open to the ceiling, millions of thoughts rushing through your mind. Those thoughts, comprising of all things positive and all things negative with the other souls whom surround your life: the golden ones, the young ones, the close ones, the past ones, the new ones. This is not the first time you have watched the hours tick by while you lay awake, toes wiggling with the same velocity as your minds racing. Funny how you think your toes are connected to your brain, measuring its thought waves as a seismograph measures the earth’s rumblings.

You know one of the main reason your mind races is because of “he.” There are too many he’s in this world who have rattled your mind from the darkest hours of dusk to dawn’s wakening flash. He’s who have hurt you, confused you, teased you, pleased you, comforted you, annoyed you, loved you, hated you. He’s who have spun you in circles and he’s who have propelled you down different lanes in life. Why does it always have to be stupid he’s!! You are too old to let him get under your skin…but you forgot to tell your toes this, as they are still wiggling under the covers.

“Remember the European?” they wiggle in Morse code. “Tall dark and handsome. The first to pay any attention to you since you ate divorced waffles for breakfast.” Yes. You remember him. In love with you the first night, hugging you, holding your hand. You did not think this single life would be so bad. Yet there you were, the night after your first date, staring at the ceiling, toes wiggling, brain running an all night marathon. Thankfully that round ended soon, with his prompt boredom of your life and the casual cessation of communication. The dating game, round one, ended with a score of You – Zero, Team of He – One.

“How about that one kid who was a friend from the past?” Your toes wiggle next. The night you called to plot that rendezvous… yep, following the phone call, you were here with cramping toes and dark eyes. Then the he who served you divorced pancakes, he has a hard time letting your mind rest easy. The he who was young and refused to accept the hint that you were trying to back out of this Game of He. The he whom a sympathetic mother put on your path.

I thought you swore off this anxiety riddled mess.
Yet here you are, and there is no rest for your toes tonight. Have you upset the Sandman? Why has he neglected to come and sing you to blissfully sound slumber? That is definitely a he whom you need to dance with on the plain of good terms. He sets your mind to dreams of flying along the water’s edge, it’s waves crashing just under your sailing being. He stops the racing minds day dreams from working overtime into night dream’s domain.

Great, your toes have wiggled too much tonight and now you have a piercing cramp in your right arch. May sleep or sunrise come soon.

Dear Prudence...

2008-03-24T13:47:00.004-05:00

Won’t you come out to play.
Dear Prudence,
Greet the brand new day
The sun is out, the sky is blue,
It’s beautiful and so are you
Dear Prudence,
Won’t you come out to play.

Prudence: Wisdom. Insight. Knowledge.
Not the action, but rather the motivation for appropriate action at a given time and place. The exercising of sound judgment.

Should I stay or should I go now? (Clash)
With or without you? (U2)

Three songs, all relating in someway to the same question we all face from time to time: now what?

Should I stay or should I go now?
Have I been in the same place so long that it is now time to move on, to go out and play? It is so easy to want a change of scenery. Possibly Prudence is here to show me that where I am is where I need to stay, perhaps a move is not in the picture…yet. Or maybe that is Prudence packing my bags, hinting to me that it is time to go.

With or without you?
Do I go it alone? Am I in a life that needs another to help, or will the other hinder? Do I seek this other for comfort? Is it love or am I settling because I have not yet found a Better Man (Pearl Jam)? Perhaps Prudence is holding up a mirror to show me I am beautiful enough a person to continue it solo. Or maybe Prudence is singing out so I recognize the person in front of me is truly my mate, sans mirror of course….

Dear Prudence,
Open up your eyes
Dear Prudence,
See the sunny skies
The wind is low, the birds will sing
That you are part of everything
Dear Prudence,
Won’t you open up your eyes.

Prudence is inside each of us…docilitas…an open mindedness. Prudence helps us to recognize true variety of things and situations. We turn to others for advice because Prudence needs the input of others who have lived, who have the experience and authority of a given idea.

Dear Prudence, open my eyes so I too may see the sunny skies. I need that clear day coaxing me out with promises of warmth and adventure. I need to hear the birds calling me out to relish in beautiful surroundings. Dear Prudendce, I want to know where it is I need to be, so I can truly be a part of this life.

Dear Prudence, open up my eyes.

Look around, round, round, round, round….

Choices. Bombarding from every direction. Dear Prudence, open my circumspection. Help the battling choices creating chaos in my mind work out a way to peace. Make the answers more clear just as the days for which you want me to join. Dear Prudence, don’t make the day sunny and bright, yet cold and crisp… the sun’s heat better felt through closed windows. One choice may seem simple, yet wrong, like shorts on a blustery day. Close my eyes to those tricks. Dear Prudence, Look Around. Where can I go?

Do I stay inside today, or do I go out into the world?
Where are my sunny skies? Where are the birds calling me to be?
Like a little child on a new adventure...
Open up my eyes to see where it is I can go to play.
Dear Prudence, I would like to smile again.
Dear Prudence.

(Dear Prudence - John Lennon; The Beatles)

Take Me Back to New Orleans

2008-03-11T15:43:00.004-05:00

Life is a journey. Not meant to be stagnant, lived in “rut”ful worry about what tomorrow might bring. Sure, I am one to give advice, but not one to live the advice. Yet this weekend, I did something out of line with type “A” thinking… (which I am certainly not “Type A”…nor “B” for that matter…)

Sunday night, I travelled to New Orleans for a concert at the House of Blues. I did not have tickets for this concert, certainly not for lack of trying. Nor did the website once advertised a sold out show. Was I a fool to head to the “Big Easy” for a show sans guaranteed entry to the musical festivities? Many thought yes. And sure enough, upon reaching the box office with hopeful anticipation for tickets, I and my small group of fellow travelers were confirmed in our fears of the sold out show. So off we went, to the “Gumbo Shop” to determine if we were truly disappointed in our failure to gain access to the House of Blues. The result remained part yes and part no, no definitive on either end of the line. However, Monday found us back to our scheduled plan: waking to chicory coffee and binets, wandering the galleries of the French Quarter, and picnicking on Whole Foods fare at Audubon Park. All in all, an amazing day...full of sunshine and great company.

So my question is: would we have still gone to the Crescent City knowing we would not gain access to the show?
I hope the answer would have been yes. Too often we miss great opportunities because we need an “excuse” to get to where we really want to be. Do we really need a reason to take a day off from work to wonder the streets of a nearby city, or lay on the beach during an unseasonably warm day, or sit at home in bed for hours finishing a really great book? Too often we feel guilty or selfish when we take the time to simply enjoy our existence. Why?
I can understand the abuse of these situations. But I also understand the opposing abuse: we too often feel like we need to be doing something “productive” – laundry, cleaning, yard work. We rarely do stuff just for us.
I love life, I want to live life. I don’t want to have to answer a “for what reason” question with much more of an explanation than: “because I want to.”

Why do you want to go to culinary school? Because I want to – I love to cook
Why do you want to move away? Because I want to – there is so much to see
Why do you have three dogs? Because I want to - they are my children
Why do you want to learn a new instrument? Because I want to – music moves my soul
Why did you up and go to New Orleans for the day? Because I wanted to…I love that place!

The "Season" of Lent

2008-02-29T11:54:00.007-06:00

It’s a Christian thing. Actually, I think it is more a Catholic thing. I grew up Catholic. I remember the season of lent and the importance my family put on the “prep time” for Easter. I remember the abstinence from meat on Friday’s. I remember going to the Knights of Columbus hall for the weekly fish fry (why was fish not considered meat anyway?). I remember my birthday ALWAYS happened during lent, so Friday birthday parties were cheese pizza and mozzarella sticks. I remember HATING lent.

Today, I love visiting my parents during this season going with them to the “Knight’s” hall for fried fish and beer. Today, I love the idea of self check and sacrifice. Today, I realize that Lent is actually the reason for my becoming vegetarian. And today, no longer a practicing Catholic, I have discovered in my peers a new focus regarding the season of Lent. And it kind of depresses me.

There are some things the Catholics do with success: instill feelings of guilt, worship with sensory appeal (you see the crucifix, touch the holy water, smell the incense, hear the word, taste the Eucharist), and faithfully practice their holy days (such as Easter, Christmas, Good Friday, the Annunciation, Christ’s Ascension). The Catholics have their "Holy Days of Obligation." People fast. People get ashes placed upon their foreheads. People abstain from guilty pleasures. People light candles. People confess sins to a priest. People pray the rosary. It’s a Catholic thing!

Outside the Catholic faith, this lent “thing” is a completely different beast. As I facilitate communications with my teens, I discover their view of lent models more a second go round at New Year’s resolutions. Their initial resolve to lose weight is lost with the coming of February or March. But hey, it’s lent, here’s an idea: I’ll give up chocolate. Why?
For the mentality of a teenager: "If I don’t eat chocolate for 40 days, I will loose 40 pounds."
Selfish bastards.

Kidding. So, since when did Lent become such selfish practice? Since when did these 40 days become a short term resolution testing ground? Now, I won’t stand upon my soap box and say: “Lent is a time to make sacrifices so you can become more in tuned to the ways of the true Christ.” Sometimes I think Christ would laugh at our over bearing piousness.

Here is my soapbox sticker for the Season of Lent:
Why do we need a sacrifice to make ourselves miserable “for Christ” during such a time when winter blahs are already at their height. I’ve mentioned before that the Chinese get it right by celebrating the New Year with light, bright colors, family and FOOD!
In my opinion, this is not a season to be miserable. This is a season for self improvement, but not defined by ideas of selfish gain. A personal belief in God is not my issue. My issue deals with the motivation behind “giving up chocolate” for forty days. To fast from something is great, but such personal sacrifice for self improvement should be done to: (A) become more spiritual (ask Buddhist monks about this) or (B) open eyes to the suffering of others.
Really, lent should not a time to renew New Year's resolutions. It works much better as a time to open our eyes to new ideas, lifestyles...a time to look outside ourselves and focus attention on those not as lucky to have the abundance of "chocolate" to "give up." It is a time to retune our soul, psyche, or essence if you will, to the world around and outside our immediate physical sphere.

That is all. I descend my soapbox.

Happy New Year

2008-02-08T10:27:00.005-06:00

again...

The 7th of February was the official beginning of Chinese New Year celebrations. It is the first day of the “new” year which contains the new moon. What a great way to start! The new year “begins” this day, because celebrations go on for fourteen days!! (Like our Mardi Gras, but shorter) They celebrate during the time when “winter blues” are at greatest height. The Chinese are genius! They surround themselves with light, bright colors, and family. Three things which help dissolve winter sadness that tends to occur during the shortest and coldest days of the year. Again, I say Genius.

So I officially bid you Welcome... to the Year of the Rat.

I love Chinese astrology. Much more than I like the known “signs” associated with our birth months. Chinese astrology is annually based. It simply astounds me to think that ALL those born the same year as I, all who are currently in their 28th year of life, are akin to me in some astrological attributes. Now I understand that, as with many astrological predictions and associations, the definitions are so vast that you are sure to find some similiarities to your “sign.” But I am not going to burst bubbles or blow secrets on Santa Claus. The stars make complete sense and are to be trusted; we should all live by astrological expectations.
Or, better yet, let us just have fun reading the zodiac’s characterization of personalities.

I am a sheep.
I am the “most artistic or creative sign of the zodiac.”
The sheep has a great sense of fashion (ok…missed that one…)
Is extremely beautiful (I think they mean inside…)
Tries not to hurt anyone’s feelings (true…)
Very sympathetic and at times can be too sensitive for the real world (again, true…)
Sometimes requires too much attention and impose too much on others (I don’t do that do I?? Hm, hm, tell me now…I need to know…do I impose?!? I’m coming over, I need to know. We need to talk about this!!)
Can be insecure (is this bad? You are still my friend right?)
Shies away from confrontation and pulls back when faced with heavy decisions (I really don’t feel too strongly either way in this matter…)

Are all 28 year olds like this? Again, I think the defining terms are so vast that we can all be sheep in our own funny little bleating way.

What really facinates me though, are the similarities between the different year rotations. There are 12 animal signs which cycle through the Chinese zodiac. So there is animal overlap through the ages.
For example: Both my mother and my older brother are Tigers. Why couldn’t I have been a tiger, how cool is that! My dad shares the Dog sign with my younger brother…hahahaha, dogs!
The fascinating part: In my family my ma and older brother were very similar, as well as my dad and younger brother. I was odd gal out -the “black sheep” if you will (but not in a bad way).

Those Tigers: warm-hearted yet fearsome, courageous yet yielding. They like visiting unusual places, enjoy first-hand experiences, assess situations prior to action, and are generally optimistic. I can see the “tiger” in my ma and bro.
And the Dog: loyal, trustable, duty bound. They can be stubborn and temperamental. Often they need warming up to others and can often be judgmental. Dogs also like hands-on activities. And again, I see this in my dad and younger brother.

So what shoes will the babies born in this year of the Rat have to fill? The Rat, by the way, is the first sign of the cycle. Rats are leaders. Charming, passionate, practical and hardworking. They are energetic and versatile and adapt to various environments easily. (Some of this sounds eerily like the real animal…)

I read this off a Chinese zodiac website: “Behind the smiles and charm, rats can be terribly obstinate and controlling. … These people tend to have immense control of their emotions, which they may use as a tool to manipulate and exploit others.” Sad, the rodent started out well enough.
I will not make assumptions from this sign in regards to the type of year we face. But I did shudder when I realized it is an election year. I wonder what “animal” will be chosen to lead our country by this year’s end.

Oh, and just FYI:
Hillary Clinton and Ron Paul are both Pigs
Barack Obama is an Ox
John McCain is a Rat
Mike Huckabee is a Sheep

Tofu Tamale Pie

2008-02-05T14:37:00.000-06:00

Yes, the love affair with tofu has not become official. It exists, and I, as a vegetarian, try my best to make peace with the soy product. I have had fried tofu which left much to be desired on the palate. In one experiment, I sautéed tofu in salsa. That was amazing, and a great siding to salad!

But I must say, I like my tofu cooked in real saucy dishes so as to absorb the flavor and add nice texture to what may otherwise be called “soup.” Take the Tamale Pie. You could add can after can of beans, but the tofu in this recipe really makes up for lack of filler and soaker uper of liquid! And in my humble opinion…it tastes much better than chicken!!
So, try it out. It was my food experiment for January…and won approval from three teenagers!

The Bottom:
.:Sauté in oil:.
¾ cup chopped onion
¾ cup chopped bell pepper
3 cloves of garlic
.:Stir in:.
2 Tbs Chili Powder
½ tsp cumin
.:Mix well then add:.
28 oz can crushed tomatoes
.:Bring to a boil, then stir in:.
1 – 2 cans kidney beans (2 cups cooked from dry)
1 can corn
1 pkg diced firm tofu (1 ½ cups)
Half to a whole chopped tomato…pending taste…

Simmer and season with salt, pepper, chipotle Tabasco, Louisiana Red Dot Hot Sauce, fresh chopped parsley…
Continue to simmer while you prepare the “Top”

The Top:
.:In a Large bowl, sift together:.
½ cup cornmeal
½ cup all purpose flour
2 tsp baking powder
2 tsp sugar
½ tsp salt
.:In a Medium bowl, wisk together:.
1 egg
1 egg white
2/3 cup milk (I used soy…it was good)
3 Tbs. melted butter

Mix wet into Large bowl of dry.
Fold in 1 cup shredded cheddar cheese

In a large casserole dish, dump in “the Bottom." Dollop corn bread mixture on top, smearing around so it covers the bottom. Have fun and garnish with rings of green peppers…be colorful and add rings of red bell peppers…toss on a couple of sliced black olives if you like em…

Bake at 400 degrees for 30 to 35 minutes, or until the top is brown and a stick inserted ONLY INTO THE TOPPING comes out clean. Spoon into dishes, dollop with sour cream, and serve!!

This was really good, if not better, the next day…just so you know.

Monday, Bloody Monday

2008-02-04T18:31:00.001-06:00

I hate Mondays
And Wednesdays.
Sorry. I don’t really hate those days. That would mean I hate the programs I both run and help run. Years ago, when I ran a Wednesday “program” for a different job, I would go out for an adult beverage with a friend and co-worker simply to defrag. But now, I am alone. I am not complaining because I A) have no friends, nor B) have no man to call my own. A) I have friends, and B) I could care less whether I have a man or not. Let me clarify that I am not concerned with the drama involved in dating.

No, I complain because I have no one who is able and willing to have a beer with me following such programs. And I understand. I have one friend whom I called this evening for a beverage, but his wife was preparing dinner and was expecting him home. I was invited as well. This is all fine and I understand her position; yet, I was not in the mood for home civilization and drink, nor was I in the mood for said wife to be pessimistic over my life.

Warning: a Digression::
Said wife IS my best friend, however, I am internally pessimistic enough and do not always need her telling me everything else which is “wrong” in my life. Further more, she constantly insists on pointing out how my decisions will eventually hurt me or put me in grave debt. Now, her husband is also a good friend, is allowed to go to the bar with me (pending permission), and can be decent conversation. All in all, it is a good arrangement: we can have a beer while joking and harrassing life. I love them both. Yet, neither one can freely go out for a beverage with me at the local bar, because she hates going out, and he is not allowed without wife’s permission.

So, back to my rant. I like the idea of going out with a friend for a beverage on either a Monday or Wednesday night. Not both, per say, but either. And on such a givin night, when I feel the desire for a drink, I have no one I can call. Now, I do go out by myself quite a bit. The reason is not antisocal, it is more because my friends:
Do not like going out
Do not have permission to go out,
Are pregnant, and drinking is just not healthy
Have children at home

Thus the dilemma with my age range…either married with children or married with children on the way. Go them…and thank the goodness I am not in their shoes - but that is another story.

So when a Monday or Wednesday kill me, you will find me alone at the bar.

Often, I sit at work after program with parallel thoughts in my head, thinking I’d be just as happy going home, should I make it home, but a beer would be wonderful just the now. My thoughts revolve around the idea that I have just run programs involving either children or teenagers. I would not call it glorified babysitting in respect to my high schoolers, but then again…I do have three or four whom I would gladly charge their parents a fee. The post program outings do not involve drinking away the woes and stress of the evening. Rather, they involve reemerging myself into the world which I should call my own: the world of a “pushing 30” year old. I want to go out to the bar for a drink or two with friends my own age. People I can relate with. People who think the same way, live the same way, drink the same way as me.

Now do not get me wrong, I love my kids. I really do. But they are teenagers. They do not understand what it means to be an independant gal with three dogs and a house payment. They do not get the realities facing a single woman whose parents no longer foot the bills. (And bless mom and dad for that...) It becomes a twilight zone of teenage ideology when they believe it their mission to “hook” me up with a parental’s single friend. But they are lost in the whole high school drama defined by the latest movie or song geared at their generation. I am above that. Sure, I befriend their parents, but not as buddies I can call late at night with a blue mood looming and ice cream and wine taunting from the sidelines. Their parents are adult alies faced with the same goal of raising their kids to be the best they can be in a world set on pushing them the opposite direction.

Being a youth director can be a pain! It limits the friends circle. People my age are either scared off by my work or are so super immersed in the in the life of the "church" that they would never find themselves in the places I like to call “Cheers.”

Sometimes I think that to survive my age, I may need to find a new life.

Note to Self

2008-01-31T10:13:00.000-06:00

It is unwise to drink a coffe stout, as good as it may taste, just before bed.

Last night, after "program," I resisted the urge and habit to stop for a beer at my local "Cheers." Instead, I headed to my house, with a short detour by the grocery store. I have been on a mission this week to regain control of my home. The herd has all but destroyed my serene living quarters with muddy paw prints, dog hair, and chewed up pieces of cardboard (what is the joy in chewing box?).

Finally, last night around midnight, I was able to sit back and bask in success. Floors were mopped, dogs were sleeping, my house was clean. Since I had not eaten dinner, and was in no mood to cook, I cracked open the only cold beer I had in the fridge, and popped a small bag of pop corn. I then proceeded to celebrate by sitting on my clean couch, and read. It was nice...

Until I crawled into bed 45 minutes later and discovered that as good as a coffee stout may taste (I had two), it IS in fact made with real coffee...complete with caffine...
and I do not have enough space to tell you where my mind has been.

Save it for a Rainy Day

2008-01-30T12:29:00.000-06:00

In the winter months, there is nothing better or more comforting than a cup of amazing soup and a grilled cheese sandwich (with sliced tomatoes). And since this is a "cafe," I thought I would share my favorite soup invention:

Triple "T" Soup:
a can of Tomato soup
half can milk, half can water
(i like soy milk, but that's just me)
one can Tomatoes
(Del Monte Diced - any style)
a handful or two of Tortellini

Dump the soup, milk/water, and tomatoes in a pot. Cook on medium, but DON'T bring to a boil. Add the Tortellini...it's best to use the refrigerated kind, it won't take as long to cook.
Season if you like: with pepper and Chipotle Tabasco (my kitchen staples!!)
To me, the triple "T" of this recipe is the tomato, tortellini and tabasco. However, if you are not a hot sauce fan, you can call it triple "t" for the two tomato ingredients and tortellini...you won't hurt my feelings.

Grill your cheese sandwich...
If you are feeling ambitious, put cream cheese on one slice, and cheddar on the other slice, and throw a couple of tomato slices in the middle. Again, sometimes I put a couple of drops of hot sauce on the cream cheese. I love that stuff!

I am also a sucker for Parsley. If you have fresh, chop some up and put in your sandwich, in your soup...it's not just for garnish!

The other day I made this soup, and had so much left over, I threw it in the fridge. In two days, the tortellini had soaked up most of the liquid. I reheated pretty much tortellini with a tomato gravy...
It's amazing stuff.

On Being a Youth Director

2008-01-28T13:44:00.000-06:00

Page One

Nothing is better than watching a seventeen year old male youth, and popular high school senior, completely drop his guard and act the jester in a crowd of younger teens. Picture said youth, Mr. High and Mighty, Good Looking and Confident, squirming around on his stomach like a snake in front of his peers. It all went something like this:

The night starts as I drive four kids two hours down the highway for a conference. They are assigned to lead the opening services, so in our rush we miss dinner. When the youth portion of the conference begins, I allow those four teens grace time to gulp down some McDonalds. As a result, all walk in to games a wee bit late. Now, “Dude” walks in to the room seeing the other teenagers preparing for a game of Ducks, Butterflies, Snakes, and Pterodactyls (in this game, basically each person is assigned one of the four animals. When said animal is called, person must switch spots with another of the same animal...all while acting like assigned animal).

RW: Dude, join the game...yer a snake.
Dude: What's it do?
RW: It hisses and crawls across the floor on it’s stomach.
Dude: On it’s stomach!?
RW: Yea, *snicker* on its stomach.

Dude sees the smile on my face. Dude knows my sarcastic humor. Dude is not fazed by any of this. I call out "Snakes" just because I know he will do what I have instructed...not because he fears my reigning superiority, but because he knows the joke. So while everyone else is walking to their new space, hissing and using their arms for the snakey motion, Dude drops to the floor and squirms to his new spot. I love that kid. Sure enough, laughter erupts, and he wins gold stars for being such a ham.

Page Two

The mascot for youth ministry these days is the pterodactyl. Now, in your image, the pterodactyl is a flying sort of dinosaur with a long pointed head and massive bat like wings. But as the keeper of teens, and the player of “Pterodactyl,” this dino of yore would just as easily be associated with those little velociraptors from the movie “Jurassic Park.” (By the way, in this game you vocally pass around the word “Pterodactyl” or reverse the word by screeching like the dino, all while keeping your lips secure over your teeth. No teeth are allowed to be seen or you are a dead “Pterodactyl”…who COMES UP with these games!!!!)

When we play this game, the shield of inhibitions is removed and soon all kids are forming their own velociraptor-pterodactyl personalities. Again, examples:

“Dude” from page one and “Pooh-Bah” are in a screeching contest, serious and absurd, each wanting to succumb the other in fits of laughter. Arms are raised, eyes are bulging, mouths are open. Their lips are secure over their teeth making these two teenage boys resemble some form of toothless alien intent on making conversation but only peals of “GRRAAWWKKK” are emitting. Finally, after the battle cry is passed a few hundred times, each time growing in intensification, Dude succumbs, falls off his chair in a wide toothed grin, gripping his stomach in mock death…all while we adults wipe tears from our eyes.

“Tarv” is a tall lanky kid with a dry humor…I love dry humor. He is sitting back in his chair, legs outstretched, arms crossed, hat pulled low, hair sticking out in all directions. Pterodactyls come at him from all directions, the words, the screams, the outstretched arms…the boy is under attack from younger raptors. Yet, he passes the word with no emotion, and succeeds in causing peals of laughter from his unsuspecting neighbors, when he returns their “Pterodactyl” with a simple look and a nonchalant, “gaw.” Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Monotone-a-saurus.

Then there is “Dot,” the leader of this game. She bats her eyes, cozies up to her neighbor and coos: “Pterodactyl.” Watching this show, you envision in your mind a cartoon dinosaur complete with a giant bow and absurdly painted lips. But what really fits the bill is when Dot goes true to her feminine, dinosaur nature. She cozies up to her neighbor, bats those eyes, cunning as a siren. Then, as you expect her to pass the word, she lifts her arms and scares the pants off the poor kid with a screech fit for a banshee.

I love absurd games.

Page Three

Back at home, on a Sunday morning, we are standing around refreshments. During this time, I usually go around trying to convince youth to stay for Sunday School. This is always fun because their parents are all hovering around the food, antsy to slip out the front door once the start of classes is announced. I do not understand this habit…but what can I do.

So I am talking to “Smiles” (a kid no matter how much I fuss at him, he still comes out with a smile). I am trying to entice him to come upstairs for Sunday school. He is standing there with his dad watching me plead like I’m an organ monkey asking for change. I know I will not win them over. His excuse is priceless: “I have to go home to clean my room for the cleaning lady…”

Now excuse my soap box, but seriously…these thoughts cross my mind:
“The CLEANING LADY IS KEEPING YOU FROM SUNDAY SCHOOL!! What a biatch… Does she work on Sunday? It is presently 9:30 in the AM. Are you telling me an additional 45 minutes will make or break the clean room?? You will probably go home and play video games anyway until dinner time, not really cleaning your room until 9:30 tonight, right before you hit the hay for sleep!! Are you kidding me!!?? Your room is seriously so messy that you have got to jettison out by 10 am just to have enough time to clean!?!?”

Ok, enough. Like I said, I know I am not going win this one. So I small talk the dynamic father and son duo. The comment comes from my mouth, “Haha, you have to clean the room for the maid? I remember that from growing up…”

And snap. My mind has officially flown off to never, never land where I am a teenager and my mother is telling me to clean my room because: “the maid is coming.” My eyes glaze over as I remember arguing with her the absurdity of that comment. My mouth continues the oration of this story. My mind is so lost in translation, that editing my words has ceased…and I hear myself repeat to Smiles and his dad my mother’s response: “the maid can’t clean with all your crap lying around.”

Are you allowed to say “crap” at church?

Real Men of Genius?

2008-01-23T09:33:00.000-06:00

Last month my brother and I were talking Christmas, and of course, gifts. We each asked for gifts the other would have logically requested...then again, we are of a different sort.

My request: a dart board. Not an electronic one, mind you. A real one, complete with cork and steel tipped darts. There is something to be said about throwing little projectiles.

His request: a book. I kid you not, ladies and gentlemen. My little brother, the king of sleep and all things lazy, asked for a book. Not a picture book, book on tape, or even the book inspired movie. A real life, turn the pages and read, paper back book.

Of course I am going to get him requested book. I am a book reader, lover, occasional snob. I would rather dive nose first into a book with an adult beverage of choice sitting next to me, than hover in a social arena staring at walls (which I do anyway...it is good for my wandering brain).

So I order the book...in January.
I was tickled he wanted a book, but not to the point of rushing out and making the purchase. "Hello, my name is RW, and I am a procrastinator."

The book comes in and immediately I know why he wants this book. It is the drinkers bible. No, not a book on the different beers of the world. It is an autobiography of one man, turned drunk, merged writer. I refuse to say he has turned writer, because said author still goes out, gets completely inebriated and somehow lives to tell the story. He is the king of heavy drinking, obnoxious behavior, and constant fornication. He is the god, and my brother wants in the club.

Now, his short stories are not entirely shocking. One story, he refers to a "that guy." I am sorry, but this writer is a "that guy." I know "that guy" because every man has a friend who fits the bill...the "never has a steady girlfriend because he is also screwing three other girls." The "let's have a drinking contest, do shots and see who vomits first." The "hey, punch me in the face! Seriously, don't be a wuss, just do it!"
Yes, we all know "that guy." We hear him a mile away when we go out to the bars. If you are not careful, and have the gall to turn down HIS advances, then you are either a dike, a fatty, or a whore (which makes no sense...if I were a slut, then wouldn't I FALL for your advances!)

"That Guy" does not bother me. Usually "that guy" is not interested in me anyway because I am dating his friend and will tolerate his presence. Heck, I will even laugh along (though usually AT him, never really WITH him). But I do not want my brother to become "that guy." And he is dangerously close. When I told him my discovery of his reasons for wanting the book, he confirmed my fears and suspicions immediately: "Dude, I want to be just like ... THAT GUY!!!"

The book is hilarious, if you can stand toilet humor and sexism ruling the day. If you can read a book without letting it get under your skin, then it is truly enlightening. I think it more as a guide book on how to avoid "that guy." I would gladly raise my glass to "that guy" and then gladly turn down all his drunken advances! So, we salute you, "that guy." For you have the uncanny way of making all other guys look great just by being your own obnoxious, inebriated self.
May my brother never fall in your footsteps, because frankly, I do NOT have the money to post his bail.

If You Can't Run with the Big Dogs...

2008-01-17T09:37:00.000-06:00

Leave em at home.

Last Tuesday, I went running. I love to run. It feels good all over. And I have the best running buddy. He is a 5 year old, allergic to everything, fun loving, bird chasing, pace setting, black lab. He loves to run almost as much as I love to run. And he has the energy to keep up, if not try to set my pace a little faster than I like to move. But he is sympathetic to my pokiness and will trot along beside me. To be honest, he runs better without his leash. I believe he treats it like a lifeline. When we run with the leash, he pulls because he knows I am at the other end being dragged along behind. But without it, he plods along at my heels, almost insecure because he cannot feel that connective pressure. Sure, occasionally without the leash, my dog is prone to bouts of ADD when a squirrel zips across our path, or a bird swoops overhead. Off he goes on his mini adventure, returning shortly saying in his doggy way: “Hey mom, checking in, how is the jog going? It sure is a beautiful day to be … holy snap a deer!!”

I love my big dog. I also love that he is incapable of catching said wildlife. Alas, he is only allowed to jog “naked” when we are on a wood trail and there is little chance of others out and about. Do not get me wrong he is a big friendly dog, and he WILL be glad to greet you. But I am sure it can be a bit intimidating having 100 pounds of barking and sniffing under your sombrero.

Now, I have more than the one lovable beast. I have a herd. In addition to my running buddy, I have Vinnie Jones, the aptly named Boston Terrier. He is 20 pounds of “I ain’t putting up with yer crap” dog. Never tell him he cannot do something. Case in point: when his beloved Frisbee is floating out in the bay, he WILL go get it, and sink in the process…(20 pounds of muscle mixed with little legs makes for bad buoyancy). He is not allowed to run with me. As much as he really wants to go, he just cannot keep the pace. The other dog, of course, is Molly, the Boxer pup. She is not my favorite running partner because she likes to jump, go right, go left, what’s that behind us, oh look a bird, yippee another dog, crap, it’s attached to a person, bark bark bark… Yet with all that energy, she needs the run, because then when we get home, she is out…asleep, thank you for coming, exit stage left!

So last Tuesday I went running. I love to run. However, I made the mistake of taking BOTH my ol’ running buddy and the hyperactive puppy. I returned home with a pulled muscle and I believe a broken toe.

I can keep up with my big dog, but coupled with that little bundle of energy… no, only one at a time, please. So now my dilemma: Which dog gets to go and which stays home? I have thought about taking turns with the two…Molly certainly needs the run as does Smokie, but I hate the idea of leaving one behind. I run today. It is my usual route. I think Smokie. When I do speed training, Molly will make a great race.

My best friend says the only way to make her run is to put a pack of wild dogs after her, I have one that may just fit that bill…and I have the blackened toe to prove it!

Ten Things I Hate About...me??

2008-01-15T08:52:00.000-06:00

Monday, January 14, 2008 9:41 pm

Hate is such a strong word, but the reality is, we are our own worst judge, and we certainly do hate certain aspects of our own existence. In our own eyes, we tend not to be smart enough, handsome enough, thin enough. Yet, to others, we are certainly slender, handsome, intelligent beings. Why are we so hard on our own image?
I cannot answer that question for you because I know I am just as guilty as the next. Which is why, in light of the New Year, I have decided to offer a note regarding one thing I hate: resolutions. Call me the “bah humbug” for the celebration of “wiping the slate clean” or “starting anew,” I just cannot come to peace with the idea of facing myself in the mirror, naming off the things I hate about the image reflected and resolve to change.
Sadly, soapbox aside…I have succumbed to the band wagon. Here I offer my ten things for the New Year. And I plan to take ALL year to work on my ten things. My little list has no major life changes (like running away to Boston for culinary school), because I do not yet know what fate beholds in my tarot cards. In addition, I refuse to reflect TOO much on 07, because frankly my dear, it sucked. Besides, you cannot change a “should have done.”
So with out further ado, Ten Things I Hate …

1. I hate my routine…or lack there of one. I like the idea of knowing what I am doing each day. Monday is Riverwalk Jazz, Tuesday is House, Wednesday is program, Thursday is ER… you get the picture. I had it going for all of three months in 07. I knew what to expect each day, not down to the minute, mind you, but each day was defined. My house was clean because it was all part of my routine…then it hit: a horrible slap in the face by Miss Reality. I was single - Sugar Honey Iced Tea… Sweet Holy Intimidating Turf...
"Folks to your right you will witness the miserable, unmotivated train wreck once known as a comfortable existence." How long would it take YOU to clean up the mess. Thankfully, I think I am getting back on track. I am finally cleaning up the pieces and shoving the leftovers under the bed and MOVING ON. That is: Moving on back to a simple routine. And it is a nice comforting blanket in winter.

2. I hate that it has been three months since my last post. I really have been writing, Mrs. Pemberton, honest. My journal is filling each day with jots of ideas and run on paragraphs. But for some reason, the little gnomes have not come out at night to transfer those tid bits to my computer screen. Call me old fashioned, but I like writing on paper. If I deserve any slack what so ever, it is due to the fact that I do not have internet at home. That, and the elves do not have my forwarding address.

3. I hate that I am becoming my dad. Do not get me wrong, he is a wonderful person…albeit a grouch from time to time. I find myself complaining WAY too much. And it is usually about the same couple of people. Since when have I become such a donkey? Where the hell has my “Seek Peace and Pursue It” attitude gone? (look back to parts of 05 and 06 and you will see where it started to erode, then notice in 07 the rush of acid rain). I do not like to be bitter. I do not like holding this chip of a redwood on my shoulder…it hurts. Get ready world, please welcome back to the stage Miss “so optimistic it makes me want to vomit”!

4. I hate that I am not in touch with my history. Je suis Francais. J'apprendrai francais cette annee.

5. I hate that I do not write enough. Ok. I do write every day. But my writings are very private. I would like to share my jottings more, in the form of correspondences, posts, emails. I miss the days of snail mail.

6. I hate that I have become a routine cook. There are times when routine is good and boring. For an artist in the kitchen to be preparing the same song and dance, or rice and beans, every night, well, it is time to extend the palate. I have several cookbooks awaiting my experimentation…like tofu tamale pie. Um, yeah. I do not really know about that either, but it IS an experiment.

7. I hate that I am so lax with my running. I do my 5 k’s throughout the year, but then it is so easy to decide not to run. I do not feel crazy enough to kill myself over a marathon, but if that is what it will take to motivate, then look out Washington DC. In October there is a marathon that may be calling my name!! If not 26 miles (because really, I get bored doing 6!!) then certainly a half marathon will be in my cards this year.

8. I hate that my dogs miss me. Really, they love the quality time. Well, they love the walkies. And since my job insists on being so demanding, something has got to give. To be honest, the herd is more important. I will get home at night in time to take them for their roam of the neighborhood…besides, I think Molly likes to flirt with the rotties on the corner.

9 and 10. I hate the state of my home. No hurricane need come by this way. I, with the “herd’s” help, have succeeded in making the mess worthy of any category 4. But, to revert back to number one, I have worked back to my routine. My house is falling into a cleaner array. My weekends, when such a time exists, can be devoted to those “honey do’s” I have. For example, I love to paint. Though I could not paint you a landscape to save my life, (I do kick butt with some stick figures however) my walls have been screaming for some color. Especially that peach and toothpaste green on my exterior, making my house stand out like rotten fruit in a still life. And really, it is time to cover Molly’s excavation sites in my back yard. It is becoming a hard hat area back there. She is a money hungry pirate searching for buried treasure in my yard. Honestly, for her effort, I hope she finds some, and shares!
I plan to host a fish fry this summer: on a brand new patio, with the herd safely padlocked behind a new little fence. My hibiscus will once again be in bloom, from the front yard! And my regrets to Molly’s archeology career.

So, not too bad, hm?
Come back next week to see how goes number two.

PS.
A side resolution…
I resolve to take down my Christmas stuff BEFORE the ides of March. Really. I never like putting out my Christmas, because I know I will have to take it down again in a month. Yet reality sets in with my procrastinator attitude, and I am dancing around the May Pole with a Christmas tree twinkling from my back bedroom. Maybe 08 will see that stuff put away by Valentines?

Positively Pessimistic Pondering Proverbial “P’s”

2007-10-30T14:20:00.000-05:00

Monday, 29 October 2007 8:36 pm

Tonight I sit with my dictionary open, pondering the 7 P’s

Passion: A beautiful bowl of mixed nuts. Let us begin with the theological ideas associated with the passion of Christ, or the “oratorio based on a gospel narrative of the Passion” aka – Christ-like “suffering.” Um…let us venture to the more “worldly” definition ranging between ardent affection; the strong desire for / devotion to; a sexual desire; an outbreak of anger.
So…a range from anger to love to lust to deep religious sufferings. In a nutshell, let us just all get emotional.
What am I passionate about? According to our friends from Merriam Webster, any strong feeling I have could be passion. I can certainly say there is no strong sexual desire in any direction. Nor a strong suffering passion as one felt by the Christ in moments of self sacrifice. A strong desire for or devotion to…when I sit and think, I believe I must be off track somewhere because I do not feel such a strong desire for or devotion to anything. Standing outside my own shoes, many could say I have a passion for my job, for my kids. I mean, I do spend considerable time with and for those who seemingly take such a “passion” for granted. No. I cannot say I am passionately devoted to that work, unless we retreat back to that religious sacrifice thing, but... um, let’s not go there. I feel more drain from trying so hard to provide a positive environment for these kids who fight so hard to make this faith thing fit within their own individual agendas. They love the ideas, but only when it fits tucked away neatly within their sporting events and sleepovers.
A passion for my life? No. I would trade it easily. Satisfaction would fit, yet that does not begin with P. I think my passion would be more fitting as an “anti-passion:" those things which I would truly do well in their absence. Like television. And reality shows. And litter bugs. And those who would rather sit inside watching reality shows on television than enjoy the sun shining outside. A short digression of a story: the other day was a wonderfully brisk October day, not too cold as to keep you shivering in your jacket, yet not too warm as to illicit sweat as you walked three steps. So off I went with the mod squad, my three dogs, for a walk, accompanied by my friend and her little mop of a dog. As I walked around one of Pensacola’s great parks, I noticed there were not that many folks outside taking advantage of this great clear skied, October Saturday. Those who did venture out were sitting on park benches while their four legged “children” romped around in the water with the other dogs. Can we not enjoy the uninhibited play that our dogs so willingly enjoy? I do not know where my passion lays, perhaps one day I will figure it out, but as for me and my herd, we are passionate about these clear, crisp fall days in Florida which are few and far between.

Purpose: an intention, a resolution. An aim to oneself.
Ha. I must be in some form of rut. My purpose is to continue making house payments! In a perfect world, I would like to be a writer. Yet I know my writing is mediocre. Gosh. What is my purpose? It feels like trying to answer the age old question: when I die, what will I be remembered for? “Yep, that was a girl who sacrificed her social life for lives of teenagers. She owned a house, bought for the comfort of those mangy dogs. She kept and cared for her brothers crap, both literally and figuratively.” I could think of many ways in which I could have purpose, but as of current reality, my purpose does not really extend further than keeping my house clean of animal hair, the laundry done, the dishes wa"r"shed, etcetera in the domestics department.
Optimistically speaking, my purpose is to find happiness, both with others and within my own being. Watch out Buddha, here I come to sit a spell and ponder this whole happiness thing.

Pursuit: Don’t get me started on the pursuit in relation to that weeping willow of a writer in the “Eat, Pray, Love” vomit city. Pursuit: To follow up or proceed with. To engage in. Here’s my favorite: to Haunt. Oh what fun it would be to “haunt”
“To proceed with, to seek, to aim for as in a goal.” I can resemble this. I just have get my sights set in one direction. I do want to move on from this rut. And I would love to say I am active in my perusal, that pursuit
being the Mele Café. I would love to own and cook for a café all of my own and it be a wonderful commotional mingling of food, music, literature, and art. All things, ...brace for the backtrack… all things which hold my passion. Yet, I feel passion is too strong a word because when it comes to the four listed, I know mostly about food. I know some literature, but not enough, and ditto for music. As for art, we are not well acquainted. But that does not mean I would like to abandon all perusal of knowledge. I would like to reopen my sponge of a brain and begin soaking in those areas which interest my heart.
Warning… another sidetrack: Years ago, I got a degree from a university…a little no name college chosen because it was “close to home.” I got, for my person, a useless degree chosen because it was “easy.” Now don’t get me wrong, psychology is a perfectly admirable field of study. But could I do it over again, I would. I would go a more writing, journalism, artsy direction. I would study art history and try my hand in the creation of art. But my art is my cooking. And sometimes, when driven, my art is my writing.
For the final ingredient in my café: my feature of “local” flavor: local artists, musicians, writers, and such. Local talent is too easily overlooked for the pop culture trends…so there – welcome to my “five year plan.”

Position: why all these words with long definitions ranging from small to huge! Ok, let us take the easy route, and rather than dealing with the physical nature in the hierarchal arrangements of crap. let us commit our focus to the definitive point of view.
Call me Desperado, and no, I will not come down from my fences. I am proud to be a fence sitter. My Quote: “I do not feel strongly on either side of that issue.” I am my own “Devil’s Advocate.” I have no problem offering an opinion on either side of the position. I am an indigreen republicat. Don’t ask me about liberals and conservatives, I don’t know what those words really mean, and I will not pretend to care. I believe in our earth and will do what I can to help her out. I like to walk and ride my bike. I value the human life and the lifting of emotions; the building up of esteem. But I will not bomb an abortion clinic. I believe in peace. And my position will aim in that direction.

Pummeling…WHAT?? To pound or beat? What pummels me? Myself. That is easy. I am never satisfied. I feel like life has put me in a rut, and I am pummeling myself for getting here…but not to the point of never making that change. Well, some days sure, but some days no. Yea, my worst pummeling comes from me.

Progress…this is truly a joke. To proceed. To develop to a higher, better, or more advanced stage.
This comes two fold. I have progressed in the ten or so years since high school. I have a job with potential of career. I own my house. I have three farting dogs. I have progressed. I went from one job which broke me down to another job in a better situation. Yet, personally, I don’t like where I am. I could think now to many other paths I would have preferred had I taken the time to stop and think and really follow some instincts. Though I cannot honestly say those “passions” were apparent when I was in my younger 20’s. I feel they have surfaced in the past four or so years. So when you look at those realizations of passions over my recent history, I have progressed none at all. I am still in a job that wears me out, praying that it DOES NOT become career. But trudging along because I need that house payment. Since when was that sufficient motivation for an “X-er”?

Personality…the quality or state of being a person. I love Merriam Webster, state of being a person, "I think, therefore I am." Here we go…the complex of characteristics that distinguishes an individual or a nation or group. The totality of an individual’s behavioral and emotional characteristics. I love it, “the totality”
Are we ever totally fit within our personality? It changes with our situations. I can be a lighthearted air head not caring about what others think of me. Then I can be a sarcastic conversationalist wanting others to think of me. Then I can be a defensive brat denying what others think of me. And I can be a solitary ghost not wanting others to think of me. And I am happy on all levels, pending the mood, the situation, and the company all match like bed in a bag special at Wal Mart.
My personality: I am generally a happy, sarcastic giver who will do anything for another with good ol’ southern hospitality, but given the opportunity, would be just as happy cozying up on the couch with a good book, sans company save the farting dogs. I think I am easily liked, when you can crack an initially shy outer covering. I do not have many friends, but the ones I do have will be around for a long while. I can fly by the seat of my pants, so long as I can bring the herd or find them a sitter, I am truly game for just about anything. Though mind you, do not make me choose, because as I said before, I really do not have a strong opinion either way in the matter. My personality is about as complex, yet adaptable, as these “P” definitions in the Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary.

Thank you, and good night.

From the Halls of Montezuma

2007-09-25T13:20:00.000-05:00

Tuesday, 25 September 2007

War. Now there is a tiny three letter word with controversy buzzing around it like flies around...well, you get the picture. War. It is all around us..."This means war!" "Battle of the Sexes" "You gotta fight for your right" "Halo 3."

We live in a nation that fought hard for independence, that fought hard to preserve the rights of individuals being killed for their religious beliefs...we fought because we wanted claim to land we "discovered," we fought because we believed others "needed" our help. We fought, sometimes for right, and we fought, sometimes for wrong.
When our enemies attack, flying over our own soil, killing thousands of innocents simply because we are "Americans," we retaliate. We reach out the large hand of American Power and slap those enemies to submission, showing we are not a country to disturb…
Yet…
We have also gotten that war lust glint in the eye, leading to senseless massacres of thousands of innocents guilty only of living upon “enemy” soil. It makes me wonder, whatever happened to turning the other cheek?

Now, do not get me wrong. I do at times understand the necessity to protect and preserve a freedom we fought hard to gain. But when does it cease to be a war of rights and turn to a war of power?? We have all seen the headlines. The media goes on feeding frenzies around politics, world leaders, who is "in" and who is "out" and why everything is wrong. I want our military to come home, but I also do not want our country put at risk of being shot in the back by cowards...again. But mostly, I do not want more senseless killings to continue on either side of the ocean. There is nothing worse than death for greed. And I just pray that neither side continue for this sick lust.

I do not know enough about the politics of war to continue these thoughts without sounding like an ignoramus. What I do know is that wars can get out of hand, like a sibling fight “She’s hitting me,” “He hit me first,” “I barely touched you,” “You didn’t have to hit me twice.” I remember the ol’ days with my two brothers, I know how it all goes. Little bro hits, you hit little bro harder, big bro offers a right- left combo to your face, you reach for a baseball bat…

NO!! That last bit was an exaggeration…though I cannot count on one hand how many times we have had to visit the emergency room…

Anyway, back to today. What is going to happen? That is my question. We were hurt. We retaliated. They can possibly retaliate further (wait, did we actually find any W.M.A.s…) So before they have the opportunity to retaliate, let us continue to push down with all our force. For how much longer? Why do we have to keep sending…when will they come home, duty done, world safe (well, I guess never would be the answer to that last one).

I do not like thinking about conflict. It hurts. But what hurts more is the fact that he, an “ex” with whom I have spent 8 years of my life, will be flying over to Iraq around midnight tonight. I fear for him. Do not get me wrong, he signed up for this… It is by his choice. Which is where I have a hard time offering sympathy when he calls with the “if I do not make it back” conversations. It is where we are divided. He says he will die with pride, I say he will die with stupidity. He is excited, I am sick to my stomach. He has chosen his path, and I will pray for his safe return… that is all the support I can offer.

May this marine go, may he stay strong, “…may (he) keep the courage to be proficient in (his) daily performance. Keep (him) loyal and faithful to (his) superiors and to the duties (his) Country and the Marine Corps have entrusted to (him). Help (him) to wear (his) uniform with dignity, and let it remind (him) daily of the traditions which (he) must uphold. If (he is) inclined to doubt, steady (his) faith; if (he is) tempted, make (him) strong to resist …
Guide (him) with the light of truth and grant (him) wisdom by which he may understand the answer to (his) prayer.” {portions taken from “The Marine’s Prayer”}

Bird by Bird

2007-09-21T13:07:00.000-05:00

Thursday, 20 September 2007

I have not yet been able to begin.
I have tried several times to just start, but as I look at the blank screen, I know that nothing I type feels right.
It reminds me of being in school, and a paper is due the next day. I know what to include in the body of the report, I even know how to illustrate the conclusion, but I sit, and look at blank sheets of paper. All because simply, I do not know how to begin. You know what I'm talking about. Some call it writers block, but don't you have to at least be moving before blockage occurs? What do the proverbial “they” call it when you cannot even begin: writers stall at the go line?

Anne Lamott tells a story of her brother. He had a paper to write. The assignment was something to do with North American birds, and like a normal student, he waited until the night before to begin writing. With a panic rising in his chest, he turns to his father the writer, asking, pleading, hoping, I assume, for his dad to write the paper for him. But his dad offers simple advice, advice which later Anne borrows to title a book I love to turn to in my own moments of writers fuzz. Dad says simply, “son, take it bird by bird.”
My cousin emailed me the other day, well, in light of my proficient ability to procrastinate, it may actually have been a month ago…alas my brain wonders…
Anywho, my cousin excitedly messaged me that her English class had discussed an excerpt from said Lamott book, ma cousine remembering my winds of praise over the book during her past visit. Thus a spark of inspiration. Luckily, said spark lasted over a month - with me, staring at a blank sheet of paper trying still to figure out how to begin.

I have them, several little birds of ideas fluttering about in a spiral, waiting to be drawn upon with letters, paragraphs, grammar, syntax, rhythm, vocabulary, WORDS. And I just need to put them out there, bird by bird, topic by topic.
Yes, they are there, nesting in my spiral. Such snippets come and run circles around my imagination while I am trying to sleep, the time already ticking WAY past my bedtime. Better yet, they come while I am driving and cause serious road faux pas as I try to write (yes, write…writing and driving, I do not suggest) a quick word or phrase to re-spark that train of thought when I am in much safer writing conditions (sitting at a red light). Or my mind is moving so quickly between one idea and the next item on my to-do list, the next program plan for my youth, or the next song lyric, which reminds me of that sensational idea I had yesterday for a title, what was I going to say about it? hm…the spaghetti squash needs to be cooked tonight before I forget…did the dog just fart again, phew he reeks…now what was I just thinking…

Think my mental flashes are job hazards in and of themselves, just wait until I pull out my soap box. I think a major excuse for me not posting my little birds is that lurking soap box, graffitied with ideas and opinions like an old sea trunk plastered in travel stickers. It is true, each of my topics stand alone…with me perched at some point upon a box with a “now here is my issue with this situation…” This actually does scare me because I do not like sharing a strong opinion in any direction, except to those friends and family whom I trust will offer decent conversation rather than degradation. Really, I would rather not share some thoughts on a public blog site so every person’s mother’s uncle can read and think me ig-nant. And really, I do not mind you having your own opinion, it is just that I would really hate to tell you how wrong and ig-nant YOU are!
Just Kidding.

My birds are there, I hear them fluttering in my head. Often, though I sit, and words fail. Getting these birds into readable print proves difficult. But when they do light inside my spiral, I will gladly toss them on to you…and though I will try to keep the soap box under the nest, I cannot guarantee I will never stand tall when something really pulls at my feathers. Just allow me to my opinion, as I will allow you to yours.

So, do you grow weary of the bird-brained vignettes? I promise to quit chirping about it tomorrow, when the early bird finishes her worm.