Harley Magic

This one's for our friend TomC.

Today, The Man and I are driving around trying to get some things done.

We're on a four lane highway with a posted 40 mph speed limit.
In the slow lane there's a really slow moving vehicle going about 30 mph.
I move over into the passing lane and find myself behind not one, not two
but THREE Harley Davidson riders.

This is okay.
It's Saturday.
Cruisin' Day.
I understand.

BUT THESE GUYS ARE ALL GOING ABOUT 35 MPH...IN THE PASSING LANE!!!
AND THEY'RE JUST SITTING THERE...GOING NOWHERE...SLOWLY!!!
AND THE MAN AND I HAVE A DESTINATION IN MIND
AND WE'D LIKE TO GET THERE THIS CENTURY!!!

Now, I realize I'm kinda trapped.
There's no way around the...blockage.

But, I'm not pushing these guys.
No, I wouldn't do that.
I never tailgate, especially motorcyclists.
So, I'm really screwed.

The Man senses all this.
He tells me, "Don't be bitter."
This was an expression the janitor at Channel 4 used to say,
a nice old guy The Man used to know.

"Now, don't you be bitter."

And this reminded me of a Buddhist teaching I read one time.
I have it written down but all too frequently forget to remember it.

It goes like this:

"Imagine that every person in the world is enlightened but you.
They are all your teachers, each doing just the right things
to help you learn perfect patience, perfect wisdom, perfect compassion."

In other words, those Harley drivers were actually enlightened beings
who materialized just for my benefit. They came to give me much needed
lessons in being patient, paying attention, and taking my time.

The Man is one of 'em, too.
He's got the toughest "enlightened being" job there is.
He has to be with me 24/7.

Those Harley guys got off easy.

Baby Bird

My niece, Lane Michelle aka "Laney-Bird"
(or, as in my previous post, "L-Bird"),
gave birth to a 7.5 pound Baby Bird on July 23, 2008 at 4:45 a.m.

Mother, Father and Baby are all happy and fantastic!
Baby Bird was born on her mother's birthday.
Baby Bird's name is Lane Elizabeth and they'll call her "Elle."

This was hard for The Man to understand.
"Why'd they name her Lane if they're going to call her Elle?"
I explained, "Because her first name is Lane...starts with "L"...Elle...get it?"
He didn't get it. His faced was all scrunched up in the huh? position.
"And," I continued, "her middle name is Elizabeth..."E"..."L-E"...Ellie...get it?"
He didn't get that either and I think this is where he swallowed his tongue from
thinking so hard.
"So, you can call her Lane, Elle or Ellie, or how about Baby Ellie-Bird?"
But, I don't think he heard me, what with all the choking going on.

I received email photos of the baby this morning.

There's just something about the face
of a newborn that takes your breath away.
It grabs you and pulls you into a stream of
consciousness and contemplation beyond words,
to a place of awe and mystery,
a place of astonishment.
of wonder,
of purity.

I just love miracles.

And, baby miracles are the best ones!

Talking To The Walls

I made a startling realization this morning.

I asked The Man to go and make us an espresso.
He goes in the kitchen and then it starts:
"Don't we have any coffee?"
"Where's the coffee?"
"Where's the coffee maker?"
"I can't get the lid off this thing!"
"What? There's no milk!"

Now, in the past, upon hearing this litany of questions and exclamations,
I would stomp in there, tell him "Geesh! You can't even make a coffee!"
I'd grab everything and do it myself, saying "If I suddenly died you'd stand
in here like a cow in a box canyon and helplessly starve to death."

Then I'd hand him his coffee and walk out in a big huff.

HOWEVER, this morning, I figured it out!

I have been so wrong!

All these years I've been assuming that The Man was talking to ME when he
went into the kitchen to do something.

WRONG!

He was talking to the CUPBOARDS!

And, he frequently talks to the refrigerator, as in "I thought we had
peanut butter in here!"

He talks to the cupboards the way I talk to my plants!
It makes perfect sense, when you think about it.

So, I owe The Man a big apology.
My perceptions have been all topsy-turvy.
I am sooooo sorry.

However, I think my "box canyon" theory is correct.

Sixty-Five Years Ago

July 20, 1943
Lomita, California

Sixty-five years ago today.

Middle of the war.
Her twenty-first birthday.
He's shipping out with wings.

Brave young faces
willing to face the unknown
in an uncertain world.

Just like today.
Still facing the future together.

Congratulations, Mom and Dad.

Happy Anniversary and Happy Birthday.

The Bacon Tree

The Man and I are vegetarians.

Until we see a plate of bacon go by.

After swimming in the morning we usually head over to
The Star Diner, our favorite place to have breakfast.

It's the kinda place that hardly exists anymore.
Funky charm, noisy locals, fried food that is so bad for you,
but tastes so good.

There's only about eight tables,
or you can sit on a stool at the formica counter.

We enter thinking we're going to order oatmeal.

Ha!

I even bring a little vial of my special soymilk.

Double Ha!!

As we get comfortable in our seats we look
around at what the other diners are eating.

Eggs with chicken fried steak, omelettes with an
orange or white cheese-like substance melted on top,
trash potatoes covered with sausage gravy,
pancakes with blueberry sauce and fake maple syrup,
and BACON!

Honestly, I usually order the oatmeal.
But, when I succumb to my desires and have bacon
I convince myself that it's not animal.
"They pick this off the bacon tree," I tell myself.

In fact, the next time I'm at our local greenhouse
I'm going to inquire about a Bacon Tree.
I'm sure they'll have one.
They have everything.

Go green!

One Good Thought

Inside my head there are all these depressing thoughts.
Big ones, small ones, fat ones, skinny ones.
They're all kind of scruffy, like they need a shave.
Their t-shirts have holes in them and their shoes are untied.
There's a bunch of them, I swear.

They all get together and hang out, sitting around on naugahyde
recliners, sipping Wild Turkey, in the dark basement of my mind,
reminding me of all the things that are wrong with the world
and my life.

I have one good thought, though.
But it's a loner and has a hard time expressing itself.
In fact, this one good thought is the only thing that
gets the bad thoughts riled up.
All that good thought has to do is stick it's head in the
door and all the bad thoughts start yelling and having a fit.

It's like that old carnival game "Whac-A-Mole."
Good Thought pops up it's head
and Bad Thoughts hit it with a mallet.
Whack! Whack! Whack!

Bad Thoughts are very strong and persistent.
But, once in a blue moon I actually step in.
I take Good Thought outside in the sunshine
and I say, "Okay, you've got ten seconds.
You better make it good, Good.
Can I call you 'Good'?"

Meanwhile, Bad Thoughts are boiling mad.
They're stomping up and down.
They're banging on the door telling me to get back in there.
I glance back and I see smoke and a red glow coming through
the crack in the door.

Good Thought looks up at me and blinks it's eyes slowly,
like a mourning dove.
It says, very simply,
"Rejoice! You are one of the luckiest people alive on the planet."

Then I cry.
I cry because it's true.

Later, after a lot of self-recrimination,
Good Thought and I are out in the garden
pulling weeds and whistling along with the birds in the trees
and feeling the sunshine on our backs.
We're rejoicing.

We rejoice when I pull out a dandelion and get all the root.
We rejoice when we find a Coral Bells seedling.
We rejoice when the the big "night crawler" worm goes in the other direction.
We rejoice when the breeze blows the scent of the Star Gazer lily our way.

Every once in a while Good Thought pats me on the back and kindly says,
"It's okay, Stupid. You'll get it one day. Just keep trying."
"Okay," I say.

Bloodletting

I went to the doctor today because I was convinced
I was dying again and I wanted an official diagnosis.

See, last time I went ahead and diagnosed myself
with some fatal malady, after reading all the horror
stories online I could find, and I think this made my
D.O. mad. He had his secretary call me back with
the message, "the doctor will see you in the morning,
in the meantime "STAY OFF THE INTERNET!"

I don't know why it is, but whenever I get ill my mind starts whispering things
in my ear, like "This is it, Dave, you're history." and "Feel that ache, Dave? It's
probably terminal." And, it uses the voice of the evil computer in "2001: A Space
Odyssey;" hence the "Dave" stuff. I think it's some kind of mind game. But, it's
really mean.

Why is that? I don't attack my mind when it does something goofy like forgetting
where it put the car keys, or making itself up and then changing itself. I mean,
I speak my mind, for crying out loud. What more does it want?

So, I go to my appointment having written down all the things that are wrong
with me. I read it to the doctor and he listens and nods his head and types stuff
on his laptop, and his beeper goes off not once but TWICE during my consultation,
which really made me nervous, but I didn't say anything because I was trying to
get him to understand how sick I really was and it was hard to do that while
wondering just who was sending him secret messages on his beeper!

Anyway, it all ended with him telling me that I probably just have a "bug" and
that it'll go away in a few days, and that I need some happy pills and how he's
got free samples and I can try them out and see how it goes (he's my Tambourine
Man, I'm his Judy Garland), oh, and that I need to have a few blood tests.

Now, if there's one thing I know it's that I don't want to have blood drawn
WHEN I'M SICK! My blood really likes being right where it is - slugging it out
in my veins. It doesn't like to come out. Every time they try to get some, it
becomes an event worthy of the Olympics, with special marksmen, contortionists
and highdivers and lots of ooohs and ahhhhs from spectators.

Today, the first Olympian was a nice young girl who started apologizing right
away....and never stopped. She must have said, "I'm sorry" about thirty times...
and that was before she even did anything. I was doomed. She tried twice, each arm,
but could only manage one measly vial. She left the field in defeat and Nurse Diesel
came in to give it her best shot. She wasn't apologetic, but she didn't get any blood
either. So, after strapping, tapping, jabbing and fishing around with the needle,
they decided that the amount of blood in the first vial was enough for all the tests.

I was a good patient. I just put my head in my hand, scrunched my eyes shut
and tried to imagine a field of sunflowers wafting in a warm summer breeze.
I think they thought I'd passed out. They kept asking me if I was okay. I could
only make peep sounds in response.

But the funny thing is that after walking back outside (where The Man patiently
waited, discovering the joys of Conde Nast Traveller and Allure magazines), I
suddenly started feeling better. I felt stronger than I'd felt in days. By the time
we got to the car my nausea was gone and so was my headache.

Which made me think that maybe those medieval guys were on to something.
That a little bloodletting is an excellent physic.

Either that or I was just so happy to be out of there I experienced a spontaneous
healing.

That good ol' doctor of mine. He saved me again.
I think I should send him a beeper thank you message.

Nomenclature

L-Bird. She's my eternally-ten-year-old niece. In the last few years, she's graduated from high
school, gone to university, then on to medical school. She's now an award-winning D.O.ctor and if
I lived in the Denver area I would want only her to treat me, but she says she can't because I'm
family, which makes me really mad and is the reason I don't live in Denver.

However, I think that if L-Bird and I were shipwrecked on some island with like one palm tree
sticking up in the middle of it, and say I happened to find an old soggy piece of Oreo cookie stuck
to the bottom of my flip-flop and ate it without sharing, and then say it got lodged in my throat
and I started choking and turning blue and rolling around in the sand, well, I think L-Bird might
administer the Heimlich Maneuver. Although she'd probably sit on a coconut and think about it
for awhile, NOT about the ethical consequences of treating a family member...but about whether
or not she should save someone who would actually scarf up the last piece of Oreo and not give
her any.

L-Bird got married a couple of years ago and is now expecting her first baby. I don't know if she
and her husband,E-Man, have decided on a name but I spent the better part of my day
yesterday giving the matter serious thought.

I like naming things and I think it would be great fun to be the official "Namer" in my clan.
Family members with newborns would make a pilgrimage to my cave, bearing fruits, animal
skins and Oreos, and say "Oh Great Namer, we beg you to bestow a name on our child." I'd take
the baby, place it on a Quija Board-type thing, use his or her little pointed head as a planchette,
move it around and then say, "O hear me, my people. The child's name is....."YES."

"Oh, come on, Great Namer, that's a lousy name!" the crowd would cry.
"Do it again! Or we're taking back the Oreos!!" they'd threaten.
Geesh, okay, okay. Then I'd put the kid back on the Ouija Board, move it around the letters this
time and come back and announce, "O my people. The child's name is "FLARTMEERK."
"Hooray! Hooray!" the people would yell.

Yesterday I was dallying with the idea of what I would name my children; before I sent them off
to a lifetime of military academies and finishing schools, that is. (Just kidding.) Here are my Top
Four choices in reverse order, girl names first:

• Tabbouleh. I like the sound and it's what I had for lunch. Nickname: Tabby or Boo (and speaking of "Boo," any name from To Kill A Mockingbird, Atticus, Scout, Boo - those are all good names.)
• Diamond. Any of the precious gem stones are good, Opal, Pearl, Lapus Lazuli is especially good, or Topaz, the more precious the better. Nickname: Di or Sparkle.
• Sunday Gay. I had a friend once with this name and I think it's the happiest name in the world. Actually, any of the days of the week are good, with the exception of Thursday. But, it would be fun to say things like, "What day is it Wednesday, Friday?" and "Hey, I gotta date with Tuesday on Thursday!" and stuff like that.
• Buttercup. This is my all-time-most-favorite girl name. It's a name that fits any age, from Baby Buttercup to Gramma Buttercup, it always sounds sweet. (And, for those of you thinking, "Hey, that's the name of Dale Evans' horse!" Well, you must be really old is all I have to say!)

Now for the boy names:

• Firefly. I just like fireflies. They're magical. Plus, I think it'd really be neat to hang out with some guy named Firefly. Nickname: Fly or Glow Worm
  
• Horatio. It's an heroic name, a leader's name. It's strong. The kind of name you'd give a kid who would go out and slay dragons in the backyard, find secret pirate messages in his bowl of Alpha-Bits cereal, and win the Soap Box Derby with a car that fires cannons from the port side. Nickname: Ray or Rat, depending on my mood at the time.
  
• Aldous. I don't know how the Huxley family came up with this, but it's a winner. Nickname: None. You have to say it in it's entirety every time.
• Comet. I mean it, this name makes me want to run out, get pregnant and come home with a baby boy. I want to say things like, "Get your tail in here, Comet!" Nickname: Com, Halley
  

Okay, that's it. The Great Namer is tired and needs rest...a good long rest.

Not Talking

We were driving.
Actually, I was driving.
The Man was riding.

We were talking.
Er, I was talking.
He told me to "stop bitchin'."

I stopped alright.

After a few minutes he asked,
"Are you pouting now?"

At the moment he asked that, my pack mule and I
were about eight miles down the trail in Pout Canyon,
alone except for the turkey buzzards
circling above Relationship Valley

Without glancing in his direction, I calmly told my life's partner
"You know, I'm not going to talk anymore. Forever.
I've been thinking about stopping for several days.
Now seems like a good time.
These are the last words you'll hear come out of my mouth."

He paused while those words oozed into the thick part of his brain
Then he responded with a "Ha!"

So, I stopped talking.
And it wasn't easy.
I had to listen to him say things like, look at the coal in those train cars,
wow, that's a lotta coal, where's it going I wonder, etc. etc., all the while
knowing it WASN'T COAL, IT WAS IRON ORE!!!
But, I didn't say anything.
Let him think it's coal.
What difference does it make.

Meanwhile my compulsion to speak
was banging me on the head with a sledgehammer,
jumping up and down with steam coming out of its ears .
But I bravely ignored it with a sniff.

Then I had to ignore it again...and again...and again.

It was like lassoing and trying to break a wild mustang.
It was rearing, bucking and would have bit me if it could.
I needed a horse whisperer!

I was being beaten down by a relentless desire to utter.

I started thinking how I needed to alter my oath,
especially the "forever" part.
There would be times when I would have to speak.
Greeting people would be difficult, otherwise.
And what about answering the phone?

It turns out that "forever" is a relative thing.
Two hours was forever in this case.

But, I learned a lot.

All things in moderation...
Being non verbal is liberating.
Holding one's counsel is a path to peace.