Last night I met Paul McCartney, Heather Mills, and Annie Lennox. I was at an Annie Lennox concert when several concert goers and myself heard that previous to the concert, a new music video was going to be filmed in the empty building across from the venue. Many of us slipped across the wet street and climbed the stairs. We commented among ourselves at the lack of security; however grateful for it.
Our group of about 50 people stood against the walls. The stairwell was closed after our arrival. They decided to incorporate us into the video, so they told us to begin to dance on the side lines and that Annie would come along and randomly grab people to dance with her. I was picked!
Read more The Best Concert » Display Comments »O.K. Enough of Shrill Brill. I found this via Daryl Cobranchi at
Homeschool and Other Education Stuff. It is an inspiring story of giving back
not with just a pen and a check, but with effort, service, and love. I believe
we will be going through our closets this week. Thanks for sharing it, Daryl.
The perfect gentleman has come to my virtual aid. Thank you, Jeff.
Dean- a liberal I can love.
Beth- not a gentleman, a gentlewoman.
And finally, Doug, who left a
terrific comment at The Right Christians and on my blog.
This is what is being said by "Allen" at The Daily Kos....
"The Modern Republican Woman: Let Bush Have 'em
by rightchristians Sat Mar 27th, 2004 at 02:37:36 GMT
Bloggers "meet" interesting people electronically. Over the past several weeks, I've had a persistent commenter at my blog, The Right Christians, who first appeared as an antichoice advocate. Today, she expanded her dissent when I attacked the Bushies as people who never had to say they were sorry. She left her weblog address and it turned out to be fascinating.
At top is her disclosure that she's currently reading "Confessions of a Shopaholic." Then she exults in the fact that she's #5 on Yahoo's search engine for "spring lipstick 2004." Earlier, she agonizes over shoe shopping versus book shopping. Frankly, I began to think this must be a parody. There are some voters you should not try to attract. Let Bush have them. "
Oh, and also published in the comment section of The Right Christians post
that posed the question: "Has there ever been an administration that has
trampled on honor, dignity and right more than this one?" I pointed a few (one
Democrat, two Republican) that I think have acted in far more despicable ways.
These were Allen's thoughts about my comments:
Check out La Shawn Barber...what an eloquent intelligent woman (something the liberals would have us believe doesn't exist unless she is one of their own).
Display Comments »A lovely Saturday morning and I am sitting here thinking of blog fodder for the desperate.
Careful guys and gals-spin exists (reading or blogging about anything other than politics is "illegitimate" and completely discredits your opinions and intelligence) in the blogosphere.
Quick! Schedule a head-to-toe wax; a facial; a quick relaxing massage; then hurry off to the nearest department store to charge a new outfit (accessories, too). Skip your bag laden bum over to the shoe department and complete your set. Then grab a complimentary bag. Don't forget to nick a Grande Skinny Mocha with extra whipped cream (no sprinkles). I think only by doing such things will one be adequately prepared to face such adversaries.
Display Comments »A book loving girl always delights to get her hands on a
new dish to consume. My very good friend, V, graciously loaned me Shopaholic
Takes Manhattan. I have been restored by the languishing laughter it produces
for the past two days. Ahhh, what a good, superfluous book will do for one's
constitution.
Attending the Republican Precinct Caucus this evening was rather
interesting. I arrived late and quietly took a seat in the back. The next thing
I knew I was being nominated as a delegate for the State Caucus, May 8. Wow! All
the nominees were asked to give a brief speech introducing themselves. I
proceeded to tell a bit about myself and thank those who gave my name. Alas, I
didn't win, but it was very honoring to think that of the 50 people present, I
was considered worthy to represent the Republicans from my precinct in our state
elections. Our girls go with me everytime the polls are open. I recall toting E
into the booth when she was only two. She came away very proud of the "I Voted"
sticker the "mature" election judges placed on her little coat. Several years
later, I had three little girls that I took to the country church that smelled
of musty basement. They watched in awe as I slipped behind the curtain with my
No. 2 pencil. Their noses were just over the table top and eyes gleaming as I
slide the paper into the box. I loved the questions the process prompted from
their wee, but astute minds. This year, I submitted my name for election judge
and this year, as in all election years previous, I will be bringing my
daughters.
Moving away from a support system is always challenging for anyone, but
especially the extroverted female; as in this extroverted female. R requested
that I travel with him when he came out here to interview. I was looking forward
to the demi-vacation, but knew that I would need to check things out around the
town. The first place I went, other than for coffee, was to the library. A
community is only as good as it's library. I was a bit disappointed. Not by the
1950's architectural structure, but by the overwhelming literature devoted to
the local religion and the complete lack of new releases and classic books. I
was told that they were in the middle of constructing a new building in the
park. I supposed that was to appease my questioning about the lack of books, so
I smiled and answered with feigned enthusiasm. The next questions I asked were
answered with skeptical tones: Is this a city or county library? What is the
approximate budget? What portion of it is designated for the purchase of books?
One woman smiled, seemingly pleased with this inquiring outsider. I left a bit
disappointed. So, this year opened the Library in the Park. It is a beautiful
building that incorporates the natural rock of the area. The interior is
decorated in a mix of deco/retro fixtures. It is lovely to behold, but, what
about the books? I have a hard time understanding how there simply isn't room in
the budget for the purchase of new literary material, but fifteen new computers
are burning away the retinas of our youth. Still, we go. We dig and we
occasionally find treasures. I am told that they are working on increasing the
budget in the coming year. I have sworn my allegiance to campaign for any tax
increase; any bond issue; anything to get more books on the shelves. While my
list of complaints about the athenaeum are long, I have benefited from it in one
specific way. Not long after we moved the family out here, I took K to the story
hour (not a pleasant experience either, really, as the books that were being
read to the 2-5 year olds were way to long to hold their attention). Afterwards,
we went upstairs to peruse the titles and find something to take back with us. I
heard a woman with an accent call for her daughter. I thought that it sounded
like she spoke Spanish, but I wasn't sure. I listened again. Yes, I was sure of
it. I followed the voice and found a beautiful woman sitting next to the
check-out desk. I was desperate to make a friend and she seemed like an
approachable person. Sitting down next to year, I asked her "Habla ud.
español?" She answered yes and we began a tiny conversation of polite
exchanges. We chatted for a few more minutes and then switched to my native tongue. It
was pleasant. We exchanged phone numbers. It was then time to leave and I felt
that maybe the library did have something to offer. The next week, I called to
ask her to go see a movie. There was one playing at the dollar theatre that I
had been wanting to see (Four Feathers). It was short notice, but I wanted some
company. She met me there and we went for coffee afterwards. It was a delightful
evening. She returned volley by calling a few days later inviting me to meet her
and a few other friends for lunch. Thus began the friendship with V. We shared
similar interests in cooking (good cooking, not casseroles), literature,
shopping, music. It was lovely. Starting in the fall, we saw less of each other
as she took a part-time job and I began teaching again. We became busy with our
own lives and saw a bit less of each other. But when we got together, we
realized how much we missed the company of one another. I forgot about a date we
had set up and made other plans one evening. She was enojado. Rightfully so. I
apologized. She accepted. None of this passive stuff- call a spade a spade and
play the next card. About a week ago, I got an e-mail from her with a link to
her blog. It is terrific- if you can read Spanish. I sent her an e-mail inviting
her over for coffee and blog-talk (i.e. template manipulation). She came over
Saturday and we had a fabulous time. Messing around with the settings is like
trying on clothes. It's like choosing an outfit after going through several;
deciding on the perfect set; then going to pick the accessories (fonts, font
colors, sizes, hover and link colors). We had such a fun time together. Thank
you, my friend.
I came downstairs this morning after the normal routine and found the
girls all curled up watching The Sandlot. There are a few words that I don't
necessarily like my girls hearing, but it's all French to them anyway. I love it
because it makes me miss being a kid in a time when we went barefoot; sunscreen
was a hat and chainlink was the only thing between us and the world. We played
across the neighborhood from sunrise to sunset. At dusk parents would step out
onto porches to call us in: a yell; a special whistle; a cow bell. We would then
begin our sprint home hurdling the fences, avoiding dogs on chains, and hit the
front stoop in time for dinner. After a bath that left the water gray, we hit
the sack while it was still light out, making plans for the next day's
adventures. It was a different time. We knew nothing of 17% interest on home
loans, the Middle East Peace Crisis, or Billy Carter's embarrassing antics. We
played outside everyday and we grew stronger because of it. I think after the
movie is over and we've tackled history, we'll be getting out our ball and
gloves, bike up to the school playground, and hopefully make a memory of the
days of "freedom from."
Each night that I put my little girls to bed, I sing them a song. It
is of Irish origin and my absolute favorite hymn, "Be Thou My Vision." It is the
most succinct and yet descriptive way that I personally feel about God. The
memory of their mother singing will return to them until their dying day when
they hear it. I desire not only for an overwhelming warmth to flow through their
veins because of remembering my alto voice and all that came with "mother," but
also a comfort in the truth of the words to sustain them.
Ahem....I am 5th on a Yahoo
search for Spring Lipsticks 2004 out of about 7,010 web sites searched. Being
the very feminine woman that I am, I am quite honored. I mean, I outranked OPI
and Bobbi Brown (cosmetic queen, not Whitney's joker). Well, I must celebrate by
purchasing some new spring lipsticks of 2004 for myself. If one hasn't enough
new spring lipsticks of 2004, then one will not be properly attired for stepping
out into Spring 2004 in one's new fashions. (I wasn't too obvious, was I?)
K sleepily
stumbled into our bed earlier this morning. I love listening to my children
breathe next to me. She still has that sweet breath untainted by age and
cynicism. Her dimpled hands found my hair and she gently stroked it. She once
told me that I must always keep long hair so that she may feel it whenever she
has need. "It makes me feel better when I can touch your hair, mommy." It
succors her discomfort and fears. Last night, we all lay across my bed reading
Peter Pan. When we came to the description of Jas. Hook, K found a piece of hair
not tucked away behind my ear, slipped herself between my skin and bone, and
soothed herself. It was soon let go when we reached the lost boys frolicking in
the little house in the ground. She finds my hair or her way to it anytime she
needs a very real sense of my presence. I shall never cut it too short to be
felt between the fingertips of my little K. Perhaps it is my comfort in keeping
the innocence of her childhood within grasp. I know that when she touches my
hair, momentarily, I will return to these nescient days.
The final round is going on over
at Blogmadness. It was so fun of Manny and Pete (a fellow Bush supporter) to do
this. Perhaps taking a moment to go vote would be nice....
People are still dying in
service to this country, whether civilian or military. Being married to a former
Marine (true, though: once and always) has made me far more aware of the
sacrifices that are made on behalf of the American people. Now I can't sing the
Star Spangled Banner without crying. Really, I get weepy. The same tears that
flow from my eyes for respect and gratefulness for the Marines, Soldiers,
Sailors, and Airmen come just as easily when I hear of a couple who, so eager to
provide a child with a wonderful life, after many heartbreaks, find the fullness
of her womb filling their hearts. I see them interconnected: the sacrifice of
one brings safety and freedom for the other. Cruising around all my regular
stops, I happened upon Baldilocks. My heart is full as I think of a family that
is welcoming back their loved one in quite a different manner than they hoped
and prayed. My sincere condolences. Meanwhile, over at h-o-b-b's, Kenyon and
Julie and Zachary are listening to baby Elliot's heartbeat (K and J, I think
it's a girl, by the way, so please tell her that Aunt Rae has been eyeing all
the pink things at Baby Gap). So, my prayers have been full of thanksgiving for
life and for the comfort of peace. The former making way for the latter's life
to be lived in peace. Thank you.
The other night I took the girls to see Peter Pan at the
dollar theater. What a deal- five tickets and treats all for $20! It had been a
busy day and my curly hair was pulled into a big clip; I was totally au natural
and so looking forward to seeing my all time favorite children's movie. Anyway,
when pulling to the curb to park, I thought I may have drug the tail pipe
against the fender of a car behind me. After putting mine into park, I quickly
hopped out to peek at the other car. I could see that the bumper had a small
crunch, but knew that wasn't from me. It looked more like a rear-ender. Hmmm,
there were two dark marks- could've been from my rear bumper. Wasn't sure. So, I
asked this couple with their two young children if they saw me hit the car. They
looked at me with blank expressions. I thought they must have been tourists from
Canada and didn't speak the language. I wrestled with what to do. If I simply
left my name and insurance info, I could get nailed for the front bumper- which
I definitely didn't do. If I didn't try to find the owner somehow, it would
appear that I was irresponsible. So, I decided to wait until after the show.
When I went in, I asked the kids behind the counter if they knew the owner of
the little white convertible. Again, given blank stare. I was beginning to
wonder if I was the tourist. So, I went on into the show. (Terrific- must be
seen- I am a purist and this is the best film adaptation I have ever seen). When
the fun was over, I saw a very annoyed looking young lady staring at me in the
theater lobby. This was interesting. I took the girls to empty themselves of the
sodas consumed and we headed out the door. Angry young lady followed and stood
at the perfect brooding distance. I loaded the children into the van, and
sighing, reached for my insurance info. I put on a happy face and walked back. I
introduced myself and explained that I wasn't sure what had occurred, but was
glad to see her as I couldn't determine the owner of the car. She told me that a
very polite couple came in and (with a perfect British accent) told her staff
that the white van had just hit the little white innocent cute convertible. They
immediately alerted her. She had been seething during the whole movie. I
commented on how interesting that was, as I had asked a couple before going in
if they had seen anything. I also asked pimpleface who took my money if he knew
who owned the vehicle. I assured her, that unless it was by telepathic wires, I
was told nothing by anyone. She asked if I had planned on driving away. I
pointed to the crunchy bumper and said that I wasn't sure about that. She
coughed and stuttered a few mili-seconds and told me that was "a previous
occasion." I asked her to show me what new damage she could see. She pointed to
the two black marks I had seen earlier. I smiled and said that it was quite
possible that I had made those marks. I penned out the insurance info and then
asked her to sign a small note inserted that stated that the bumper damage had
occurred "on a previous occasion." She agreed to sign it. I thanked her for
patiently waiting for me and told her to call if she had any questions. Guess
who never contacted the my agent? Uh-huh. Fast forward to yesterday afternoon: E
and I are exiting The Passion. It being Sunday, I wasn't so earth mother as I
was the last time I visited the theater. I see Angry Young Woman. She politely
smiles at me. Oooh, she doesn't recognize me (fun and frightening, actually,
that I can appear so altered). I may have a bit of fun with this. I say hello
and smile. She returns a wide grin. I wrestle my fleshly desire ( and this time
win) to have her on and walk by.
There are times when I see R interacting with our girls
that I wish that I had experienced the love of a daddy. Someone who would kick
anyone's ass who messed with me but hold my hand like it could break if held too
hard. There is a place in my heart that keeps a black and white photo never
taken of us together: me in a dress of indistinguishable color sitting on his
lap, both of us laughing at something the camera can't still long enough to
capture. I wish that I could have met him at least once. Of all that I have
struggled to forgive my mother, this has been the hardest. The hill became a bit
steeper last year when several of his relatives contacted me and told me stories
of his love for me from afar. I cannot hold the scale and allow it to measure
justice blindly. I want sometimes to place my finger on one side or the other,
depending on who I am listening to at the moment. "Crying because all he wanted
was to see his little girl" is a bit flip side of "a manic depressive sadistic
jerk who told me he hated me one minute and then couldn't live without me in the
next." I have no idea how Jack squeezed the life and love out of my mother's
heart. It happened though. He broke her spine and left her paralyzed and
disabled her senses. I have no idea how this same monster could have bawled at
my picture and ached and raved over not seeing me grow up. I sometimes wish that
I could have known who he was, his habits, and just shown up one day somewhere
in his routine. Just a pretty girl sitting at the counter. I envision a drink
shared; a few stories. I would have prompted him to tell me about himself,
secretly knitting such small pieces to my soul. I would be committing every part
of him to my memory- the green eyes my mother has always sworn she was looking
into when she glanced my way; the wavy, rebellious curls; the broad toothy grin
with lips that quivered when excited. I would watch his movements for
reflections of my own; taking mental note of the physical similarities: the
broad square shoulders, the long fingers that tap out the Morse code of nervous
energy. We politely chat of nothings. He finishes his coffee and cigarette. For
once, I am undisturbed by the smoke coming from his lungs- I want to breathe it
into my own and feel like we shared the same air if only for a second. Standing,
he nods and wishes me a good day. I mirror his smile and return the thought.
Outside, a woman says goodbye, inside a little girl cries, "Daddy don't go." I
walk out in the street, the sound of my feet on the concrete and the smell of
exhaust take their place in the recipe of city sounds. Looking to my left, I see
a man, taller than the rest, who once held the ability to make a woman feel
loved and a little girl secure, but he fades away into the crowd far from either
the woman or the blonde headed child that look after him.
While driving to choose a bottle
of Cabernet Sauvignon to go with the delicious pot roast I am preparing, I, of
course, was listening to NPR. Myrna Blyth was discussing and defending her new
book Spin Sisters: How the Women of the Media Sell Unhappiness and Liberalism to
the Women of America. It is definitely on my list of must haves. I think I shall
purchase it for perusal during my travels back to the motherland of Missouri
next month.
A cosmopolitan and ribeye are waiting for me somewhere in this town. R prefers a
salad tonight as he feasted on the company's dollar the last few trips. He needs
to beef up on his ruffage. Ahhh, yes, R has arrived home and we are off to
commune over the fruit of the vine and the yield of the field. I so desperately
love this man. The wonderful thing? It is a love of reciprocity.
Am listening to
newest Norah Jones CD Feels Like Home. I am no genre snob. She is jazz. Her
voice is the absolute perfect tubbing voice, summer-evening-on-the-deck-voice, a
small-party-with-wine-and-an-open-window voice. I finished off the White Zin
this evening while cooking dinner, so am without a lovely vino to accompany this
relaxing massage of my soul. I think the tub is calling my name...will take
Norah along. Sleep well.
When selecting the names of our girls, we took into consideration
our last name. It is beautiful. I have realized that our girls will not always
have this lovely surname. It hit me that all our hard thinking may be for naught
should one marry a man named Lipschitz. Recently lamenting this possibility to
my mother-in-law, she suggested they could always hyphenate. Maybe replace the
middle name with the maiden name? Not take the future husband's name at all? R
did not like any of these ideas. While he is rather proud of his last name, he
is also very traditional. His daughters loyalty to the name he gave them is
admirable in his eyes, but taking the name of her husband is even more so to
him. It is his sense of respect for tradition that we choose the girls names.
When I must call all of them home from the bliss of the neighbor's yard, it
sounds like I am reciting the names from a Jane Austen book. We filled the
requisite middle names with those from female relatives. When asked by their
friends if they could change their name, the girls answer resoundingly yet
casually, "No, I like my name." I go to bed very satisfied on those evenings
when I have been privy to such conversations of growing girls.
What was in the cup? I
ordered decaf!
A few years ago, while driving to get green chilies for my chicken
enchiladas, I happened upon a Saturday interview with Mason Jennings on NPR.
When I arrived home and threw the green chilies into the mix, I turned on the
computer and looked up the artist. The site was easy to cruise and I quickly
found his tour venue. Columbia, Missouri was next on the list so I called one of
my best friends and invited her to come to a concert with me and invited myself
to stay with her. I became a fan while driving down Missouri State Highway 160.
It was cemented at Mojo's. He came with little entourage and even less
pretention. I'll admit that at first he reminded me of a better looking Adam
Sandler- one that had been tweaked here and there. And, since I am being honest
about first impressions, his voice made me think of Adam when singing his
creative little ditties. As I listened though, Adam faded and Mason made himself
known through the recipe of creative lyrics and blues infused music. His set was
superb. The laid back smoking and drinking that surrounded me was reminiscent of
my college days when we would get into the bars to see the comedy sets and then
dance 'til close. Well, and maybe bum a smoke and a buy a beer or two. I was
really thrown through time as I walked into the bathroom: plywood stalls and
band posters of local gigs wallpapering the cinder blocks. After the music he
hung around and talked to people and politely signed CD covers, napkins; on
anything that a person presented he nicely penned his name. His music has
matured a bit since the first CD: varying instruments add depth to his creative
acoustic fingers and back-up vocals give fulness to the voice. The music still
comes across as simple, but that comes from good mixing as a careful ear hears
the subtle complexities in the picking and playing. Guess who is going to be
swinging through (o.k., so it's really 210 miles away, but close enough)? Next
week, I hope to be arriving in time to see Mason again at Ego's. Wanna know if
he's gonna be near you? Check out his site for a taste of his music (Ballad for
My One True Love, Isabel, Forgiveness, and Sorry Signs on Cash Machines are my
personal favorites). You won't be disappointed.
Kenyon and Julie and Zachary are
expecting a bundle of hard earned joy! Please go congratulate them! I am soooooo
excited for them. Kenyon has been my blogging mentor for many years. I think he
has one of the coolest sites on the 'sphere.
Parenting is the most challenging thing in the
world. When I stand back and consider the magnitude of being responsible for the
lives of four human beings, I wonder what in the world made me think I could do
it. How did I think this was going to be accomplished? Occasionally, I am
reminded of Scarlett O'Hara who awakens one morning to the sound of a crying
baby. She thinks "Why is there a baby in the house?" realizing seconds later
that it is her own. When did I have four children?
So, after visiting Zombyboy, and finding
out what's new in the world, I am thrilled to know that the makings of Narnia is
in the works. I am a little skeptical of Disney doing it, though. It goes down
on the list of movies to be on the lookout for. E and I ventured into the
wardrobe together when she was seven. I begin reading chapter books to my
children when they are three. It's my attempt to wean them off of picture books
and train their palate early for the tastier morsels on the shelf. We became
busy and she became eager to move on from The Magician's Nephew to The Lion, the
Witch, and the Wardrobe. So, I encouraged her to read on. It was the beginning
of her love for fantasy. She inhaled the rest of them and then re-read them.
When we saw the radio theatre CD version at our local discount
mom-and-pop-stomper, we purchased one a week until we owned the entire
collection. I found our mint condition set of books at the local used bookstore.
Rob's parents used to own a beautiful antique oak armoire. It sat peacefully in
the room with their fireplace and huge windows. I would often look at it while
lying on their sofa, listening as the fire popped and hissed and crackled it's
way through a log. One day A and I were cuddled up together, hypnotized by the
fire and the sounds of the local NPR station. For the first time, she saw the
wardrobe. Her eyes glittered as she asked me, "Mommy, is that a magic wardrobe?"
"Of course," I told her it was. She continued staring at it. I dozed to the
music and flames. My mother-in-law called me downstairs a few hours later. As I
descended the stairs, she touched her index finger to her lips to quiet me and
pointed over the railing. Looking over I saw A and her sisters and cousins. A
was excitedly telling them that the wardrobe was, indeed magic, and she was
going to climb in and go see Mr. Tumnus. She was politely extending the
invitation for any who wanted to accompany her to Narnia to see the faun and
Aslan. My heart warmed and I knew then that it was right to tell her the armoire
was enchanted. Since being blessed with that peek into A's playtime, I have
never regretted affirming my daughters voyages into fantasy.
Was informed this morning by
E (the authority you see being the oldest daughter and so haute couture) that
the picture previously posted, while good, was not as flattering to me as the
one now posted. So, I changed it over to please her, but will alternate them
occasionally, to please them both. Always someone not satisfied especially in
this house of females. It's such a girls club, poor R. I sometimes wish he had a
few boys to take along into the garage and get greasy and talk shop and enjoy
it, not bear with it.
The craving for plane tickets, a packed bag, and travel trash is
overwhelming me. I am going to see MFK in April and I can hardly wait. Nothing
gives a girl a buzz better than jet fuel, a bag loaded with new clothes, and hot
cash burning in her hand. Well, at least this girl. O.K. So, there are a lot of
pleasant things in life, but nothing more so than getting what you want when you
desire it. It hits me every February and August. After a few hours of analyzing
(and a glass of white zinfandel) I still can't figure out why. I even put in a
call to my mother wanting to ask her if she used to whisk us away at these times
of the year. Alas, she didn't answer. I would text her, but she has know idea
how to return text. I have decided that texting is the whisper in the cellular
world. You know, the private communication in a public setting. Speaking of
trips and texts, I once had an interesting conversation with a man in the Vegas
Airport. He was sitting with his left side to me. His assistant ( he was in a
wheelchair) kept politely grinning at me. I grinned back and continued the
exchange. I answered some strange questions and he gave me a few unusual
replies, but I thought it went rather well. That is, until he told me to meet
him in the office on Tuesday of next week. I stalled a bit, I mean, I am
married. As I started to reply that although this was a pleasant conversation, I
really didn't care to meet him in his office, he thanked me, calling me David
and stated that he needed to take another call that was coming in. Another call?
I quickly made for the boarding queue and hoped he wouldn't be on the flight.
P.S. My daughter A took the picture that is posted on the sidebar. I loved how
she made me look. She loved how I put it on my blog.
I...am...exhausted. R was gone
for the past five days. He returned home last night. He is leaving tomorrow at 6
a.m. I don't know how people do this. On a more positive, frugal note (er, sort
of)...as I am low on funds, I have found about seven articles to download and
print. I thought this may be brain fodder and tubbing mind occupation since I
have no extra dinero to purchase any desired books. I plan on seeing The Passion
of Christ tomorrow. R and I wanted to see it together, but since he is traveling
so much, it is impossible. Since we live in this particular section of the US,
it is only showing here for two more days. I hear that we were fortunate to have
even gotten it for a week. It took a bit of pressure from the Catholic Priest
(yes, only one parish in this town) and a group of Protestant Ministers to
persuade the theatre owner to show it. Nothing like a Mel Gibson movie to stir
the hearts of religious leaders to ecumenical unity. He has been sold out every
night, so at least he is getting his mammon out of it. I don't anticipate this
being a Milk Duds/Popcorn/Coke/Jr. Mints kind of movie. He is getting his money
back in ticket sales even if the refreshments aren't exactly being sucked and
slurped down during this feature. Must go to bed. Still have a few things to do.
Am going to miss R desperately this time- perhaps less in a carnal manner than
in a very practical one. Already missed him in a Valentine way last week. Every
time he is gone, I am convinced even more that it takes two to do this job and
my awareness and empathy are raised for single parents. The trick is to remember
this feeling and act on it by reaching out to support or help those who have no
relief or partner. Ahh, feelings are good but only if they get out of our head
and heart and into our hands and feet.
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| 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 |
| 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 |
HammerHead
