He cried the first time he read his story out loud. She said it was because he was "sensitive”. I'm not sure that's true. Death is a topic that brings many to tears and most Americans are busy practicing "active denial". Though all of us are headed there, the journey is the only thing people want to talk about. Bring up death at your next dinner party – or over your next beer – and see what I mean. You'll be branded depressed, moody, and dark. Your next invitation will take awhile.
Death is the unspoken surprise we are all waiting for. Maybe each of us believes that by not talking about it, our most certain destiny will be altered. The superstitious refuse to say the word out loud. They fear that "death" will hear its name and suddenly appear. Close calls, accidents, and family deaths are all reminders of our own mortality – and of all those we love.
The fear of death robs us all. By not integrating this experience into our being, we rob ourselves and each other, of an awareness that will encourage lives well lived. By making the word and the discussion part of our everyday experience, we honor that we are here for a spell and understand that one day we won’t be. Nobody knows what happens next, but knowing that one day it will all be over makes every sunset you see, just that much brighter.
©2007
Friday, January 5, 2007
the cube
I’ve always been interested in how people think, and I sometimes daydream about having dinner with interesting characters. What do they feel was their greatest achievement? How did their families change them? Who had they loved? Though I have many possibilities, my first guest would be the designer of the infamous gray corporate cube.
If you have escaped the talons of corporate America, bravo. If you live 60+ hours a week in a gray cube, then you know that of which I speak. You arrive at work refreshed, enter the building, turn into your aisle and immediately join the drones in the “gray zone.” Gray is the standard – and dull is the workforce. Inspiration leaves in a flood. What the hell was that designer thinking?
People need a rich environment for inspiration and creativity. High-level executives do not hold strategic sessions in cafeterias in Detroit. They hold them in Aspen or Santa Fe. Executives clearly recognize their creative thinking is inspired by environment. They just don’t believe in the cost of inspiring their workforce.
I say revolt. Choose a Friday, stack ‘em up in the parking lot and burn baby, burn. On Monday, put your laptop on an apple crate, decorate your imaginary 6 x 6 foot space with your goldfish and make it your own. Nod at your co-conspirators. Remember why the hell you were hired in the first place and then write the best piece you have ever written.
©2007
If you have escaped the talons of corporate America, bravo. If you live 60+ hours a week in a gray cube, then you know that of which I speak. You arrive at work refreshed, enter the building, turn into your aisle and immediately join the drones in the “gray zone.” Gray is the standard – and dull is the workforce. Inspiration leaves in a flood. What the hell was that designer thinking?
People need a rich environment for inspiration and creativity. High-level executives do not hold strategic sessions in cafeterias in Detroit. They hold them in Aspen or Santa Fe. Executives clearly recognize their creative thinking is inspired by environment. They just don’t believe in the cost of inspiring their workforce.
I say revolt. Choose a Friday, stack ‘em up in the parking lot and burn baby, burn. On Monday, put your laptop on an apple crate, decorate your imaginary 6 x 6 foot space with your goldfish and make it your own. Nod at your co-conspirators. Remember why the hell you were hired in the first place and then write the best piece you have ever written.
©2007
it's the coffee
I blame it on the coffee. Nowadays, caffeine can give you an immediate out of body experience. People rarely sit for a cup and the caffeine seems to exacerbate our lifestyle. Fast cars go faster when fueled by a one-handed driver with a latte. Since it takes two hands to signal and drive, nobody signals anymore. Like a school of fish, everyone depends upon automobile telepathy as they weave in and out of traffic.
The news is filled with stories that make you wonder about caffeine. Could it be a substance that contributes to the craziness in the world? I began to think so.
So, I tested my theory and stopped drinking caffeine for a week. I did notice that I wasn’t in such a hurry. I also had a headache the size of Texas. I felt as if I’d joined the NASCAR circuit and my car was stuck at 50. Coffee in hand, drivers tailgated, cut in front, and sped at unbelievable speeds – I feared for my life.
So knowing that we won’t be celebrating a “CAFFEINE FREE” Day anytime soon, I’ve rejoined the masses. The difference is that now I am aware. I drink my coffee before I get in the car and I use my blinkers when I switch lanes. I don’t drive as fast and I’m still annoyed that people risk my life to get to their job on time. I blame it on the coffee.
©2007
The news is filled with stories that make you wonder about caffeine. Could it be a substance that contributes to the craziness in the world? I began to think so.
So, I tested my theory and stopped drinking caffeine for a week. I did notice that I wasn’t in such a hurry. I also had a headache the size of Texas. I felt as if I’d joined the NASCAR circuit and my car was stuck at 50. Coffee in hand, drivers tailgated, cut in front, and sped at unbelievable speeds – I feared for my life.
So knowing that we won’t be celebrating a “CAFFEINE FREE” Day anytime soon, I’ve rejoined the masses. The difference is that now I am aware. I drink my coffee before I get in the car and I use my blinkers when I switch lanes. I don’t drive as fast and I’m still annoyed that people risk my life to get to their job on time. I blame it on the coffee.
©2007
motor on
For those of you in the midst of the mysterious throes of menopause, I offer my sympathy. At 55, I understand. While there are those that tout the benefits of women being older and wiser, I believe they should also understand that the transition to this new way of being takes some time.
Do you remember learning to swim when you were a child? In summer pools, anxious and full of energy, you pulled an inflated tube around your waist and kicked wildly? It didn’t seem to bother us as children that this ring circled our middle. It kept us buoyant and safe. Life was good. Happily – we motored on.
I thought of this the other day as I crawled behind the wheel of my car. I was suddenly aware that my body had changed. Significantly. A newly grown tire was sitting around my middle and this time, I couldn’t take it off. I wondered how the new appendage could have grown in such a short period of time. It didn’t look like me and it surely didn’t feel like me. I had always been a girl with a waistline. And now, I had the sit-down shape of a cylinder.
While riding in my car each day continues to remind me of my menopausal condition, I’m trying to get comfortable with the new me. I’ve discovered that much like swimming as a child, all I can do is – motor on.
©2007
Do you remember learning to swim when you were a child? In summer pools, anxious and full of energy, you pulled an inflated tube around your waist and kicked wildly? It didn’t seem to bother us as children that this ring circled our middle. It kept us buoyant and safe. Life was good. Happily – we motored on.
I thought of this the other day as I crawled behind the wheel of my car. I was suddenly aware that my body had changed. Significantly. A newly grown tire was sitting around my middle and this time, I couldn’t take it off. I wondered how the new appendage could have grown in such a short period of time. It didn’t look like me and it surely didn’t feel like me. I had always been a girl with a waistline. And now, I had the sit-down shape of a cylinder.
While riding in my car each day continues to remind me of my menopausal condition, I’m trying to get comfortable with the new me. I’ve discovered that much like swimming as a child, all I can do is – motor on.
©2007
my man, Johnny
Johnny Cash once talked about his life before he found God. With a face like that, you knew it was no picnic. He talked about his burning addiction to drugs and alcohol, and how he felt he wasn’t worth a dime. He just didn’t see any way out and drove alone to the desert. Discouraged, he crawled into a dark cave and laid down, just waiting to die. Hours later, he realized he really wanted to live and he walked out of the cave and signed into rehab.
I didn’t know why I came to the desert alone. Lost love had sent me on an unexpected journey. Looking back, I realize that I wanted to see if my heart would stop, just like that.
I drove thousands of miles watching the clouds cross the wide-open plains. I watched skies change color from morning ‘till night. I didn’t talk to anyone and nobody talked to me. I never did lay down in a cave, and my heart never stopped.
Johnnie never knew it, but we were kin. We both became different people in the desert. When you think you are going to die, I believe that sometimes you do. And, sometimes you don’t. Maybe DNA forces you to go on, or maybe God has a different plan. What I do know, is that last year Johnnie took another chance and laid down to die, and this time he didn’t get up.
I didn’t know why I came to the desert alone. Lost love had sent me on an unexpected journey. Looking back, I realize that I wanted to see if my heart would stop, just like that.
I drove thousands of miles watching the clouds cross the wide-open plains. I watched skies change color from morning ‘till night. I didn’t talk to anyone and nobody talked to me. I never did lay down in a cave, and my heart never stopped.
Johnnie never knew it, but we were kin. We both became different people in the desert. When you think you are going to die, I believe that sometimes you do. And, sometimes you don’t. Maybe DNA forces you to go on, or maybe God has a different plan. What I do know, is that last year Johnnie took another chance and laid down to die, and this time he didn’t get up.
french lingerie
I think women spend too much money on shoes. I think they should spend more on bras and panties. Van Morrison sang, “women walk by dressed up for each other.” In America they do. In France, women dress for men.
French women know the secret of wearing beautiful lingerie. If you’ve ever sat in a Parisian café, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, let me explain. French women are thin. They wear bare legs in the summertime and their ability to tastefully expose colored bra straps is a rare art form. A man’s imagination immediately runs wild. Do the panties match? Are they lacey? Do they tie up the back? Are they silk? or please, God, is she wearing a thong?
Men hail the fact that there are no French words for full coverage bras. They simply don’t exist. French bras push breasts into Renaissance shapes. Half-cups, lace-cups, low-cups, or stretchy-cups. Nipples pointed, cleavage aligned, with just enough lift. To wear French lingerie is to experience yourself in a whole new way. And when you pull on a pair of French panties, it is easy to make believe that Michaelangelo created them just for you. Women’s French panties feel engineered.
I suggest you try it. Women will take notice and men will stare. You may have to practice how to casually slip your bra strap off your shoulder, but I guarantee you, your effort will be rewarded.
©2007
French women know the secret of wearing beautiful lingerie. If you’ve ever sat in a Parisian café, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, let me explain. French women are thin. They wear bare legs in the summertime and their ability to tastefully expose colored bra straps is a rare art form. A man’s imagination immediately runs wild. Do the panties match? Are they lacey? Do they tie up the back? Are they silk? or please, God, is she wearing a thong?
Men hail the fact that there are no French words for full coverage bras. They simply don’t exist. French bras push breasts into Renaissance shapes. Half-cups, lace-cups, low-cups, or stretchy-cups. Nipples pointed, cleavage aligned, with just enough lift. To wear French lingerie is to experience yourself in a whole new way. And when you pull on a pair of French panties, it is easy to make believe that Michaelangelo created them just for you. Women’s French panties feel engineered.
I suggest you try it. Women will take notice and men will stare. You may have to practice how to casually slip your bra strap off your shoulder, but I guarantee you, your effort will be rewarded.
©2007
honey do
There are reasons I'd like a man around my house and sex is not in the top five. As a single woman, a man with mechanical abilities, and a hefty tool belt, is always is of interest. If he has all that and a desire to please, well, I'm a goner.
Last night the chirping began at 1:30 am. The smoke alarm went off every 20 seconds indicating the alarm needed a new battery. Naked and rummaging though the junk drawer, I discover every other kind of battery, but no 9V. So, back to bed with my head smashed between two pillows, I count chirps like sheep. At 5:30 am, silence is a priority and I crawl up to pull out the battery. Not being mechanical, I did not know that the alarm continues to chirp without a battery. With no recourse, I pull on my clothes and madly race to Safeway, where I purchase a dozen batteries. From now on, I will always have a 9V in my junk drawer. As I pull into my driveway, I can now hear multiple alarms chirping in 20-second cycles.
While I believe that stopping hormones is a good idea. This morning I'm wondering the wisdom of it all. I feel the blood rush to my face and I instantly imagine myself running like a mad woman through the house beating each and every one of the alarms silent with a broom. The thought that I might set off the entire alarm system keeps me paralyzed. Now I start to cry.
The “Honey Do” man is my next call. I’ll pay the money. And I guarantee you that my first party question to that man of interest will be, “Say, are you mechanical?”
©2007
Last night the chirping began at 1:30 am. The smoke alarm went off every 20 seconds indicating the alarm needed a new battery. Naked and rummaging though the junk drawer, I discover every other kind of battery, but no 9V. So, back to bed with my head smashed between two pillows, I count chirps like sheep. At 5:30 am, silence is a priority and I crawl up to pull out the battery. Not being mechanical, I did not know that the alarm continues to chirp without a battery. With no recourse, I pull on my clothes and madly race to Safeway, where I purchase a dozen batteries. From now on, I will always have a 9V in my junk drawer. As I pull into my driveway, I can now hear multiple alarms chirping in 20-second cycles.
While I believe that stopping hormones is a good idea. This morning I'm wondering the wisdom of it all. I feel the blood rush to my face and I instantly imagine myself running like a mad woman through the house beating each and every one of the alarms silent with a broom. The thought that I might set off the entire alarm system keeps me paralyzed. Now I start to cry.
The “Honey Do” man is my next call. I’ll pay the money. And I guarantee you that my first party question to that man of interest will be, “Say, are you mechanical?”
©2007
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