may your heart be light

I hope you’re having a happy Christmas. And, if Christmas isn’t your thing, I hope you’re finding a reason to celebrate as we move from one calendar year into the next.

Speaking for myself, which is pretty much what one does on a blog, I’ve had lovely holiday thus far. I’ve gotten another few months reprieve on moving (hallelujah!) and work is going reasonably well at the moment. And while I haven’t had much in the way of vacation this year, I am receiving some comp time as we wind down post-Christmas Day.

For those of you who may not know, the year started with work on the Presidential Inaugural Prayer Service. Mid-year, I was working on the 76th General Convention of The Episcopal Church. Since August I’ve been in a constant whirlwind of weddings, funerals, Sundays and special services, concluding with a major revamp of print materials for Christmas services in addition to writing what amounts to promotional copy for ministries and services.

So, yeah, big year.

Oh! I almost forgot; one of my poems made a public debut as, well, sacred text. I wrote it as a hymn text and shared it with a friend who chose to include it in a Benedictine worship event. There’s been a little noise about setting the complete text to music. I don’t put a lot of stock in that. We’ll see what happens.

I think that’s most of the major stuff that I did this year.

Oh! And I saw Hair in New York with Plug and we ended up dancing on stage at the end. After all these years, we finally got our big break and performed on Broadway. We were fabulous and received a standing ovation as the sun shone in.

Okay, I think that really is all of the milestones for this year.

There are also a couple of things that I’m not doing. I’m not singing in a choir this season. I’m still taking voice lessons, but—for the moment—I’m not doing any choral work. There are a lot of reasons for this, but basically it boils down to my deep-seated belief that singing in a congregational choir should be ministry in relationship with God. If it’s not ministry, one that serves a broader community while nurturing the community of the choir, then what differentiates it from a civic choir or the opera chorus? It was pretty clear to me that the desire was to have a volunteer choir that functioned as a professional choir, in the sense that a professional chorister is a person doing a job, without feeling, without motive beyond a paycheck, and certainly without God. Obviously, I can go on and on about this, but I won’t.

I will say that singing with this group did a lot to improve my singing. I’m probably singing better now than I ever have. My voice coach, Kayo, warned me at our last session that my voice is about to get a lot bigger. That scares the crap out of me; my voice is already much larger now than it was a couple of years ago. Kayo did, however, commend me for my decision not to sing chorally this year. She says now that I’m not trying to match my idea of what a director is looking for, nor trying to “blend” with other unhealthy sopranos, my real voice is beginning to emerge. Kayo is also suggesting, firmly, that I step down from the excruciating heights of high sopranoland—not that I don’t have the notes, but that’s not where my voice is at its best. Kayo’s promising to come up with some interesting challenges for me for the Spring. I can’t wait to see where I end up.

The other thing I’m not doing at the moment is regularly attending worship. Heresy, I know. I jumped into singing with the last choir because I needed, NEEDED, a place to sing, but I always knew it wasn’t the right place for me to pray. Now, I’m taking my time. I’ve been strongly encouraged to dive into the deep end of Latino mission in the diocese. This is where my heart has been for a long time, but I’m trying to be cautious about choosing my next commitment; I know all too well how quickly I will find myself up to my ears in new congregational commitments, this time in two languages. Part of that is the nature of the beast that is the Church; the other part is all me—I’m too competent by half!

I actually sat down today to do a quick recap of this year’s Christmas gifts. As you can see other things got in the way, but now for a quick rundown (because I’m braggy and you really want to know).

First, there is the wonderful and highly anticipated page-a-day calendar that my office mate gave me. This is the third year in a row on this gift. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. This is the calendar, which this year has provided us with the fabulous word BUNGFUNGER, meaning to utterly confound. I have found this word to be extremely useful around the office. I highly suggest you add it to your functional vocabulary.

That meeting left me completely bungfungered.
She’s managed to bungfunger everyone involved with that project.
The boss is in the conference room bungfungering the new interns.

See what I mean? It’s so useful. I can’t wait to see what this year brings.

I received two Christmas ornaments from co-workers: one inviting peace, and one reminding me that there’s no place like home. I desperately need peace, and I really miss home sometimes. We left work on time one evening to see the 75th anniversary movie theatre release of Wizard of Oz. Terribly digitized, but we saw soooo many things we’d never seen before.



My boss gave me paper dolls and chocolate. Yippee! Two of my faves. Another co-worker gave me some lovely stationery. I also netted a pint of fresh salsa from one of the vergers and a slice of rum cake which has worked it’s way into my Christmas Eve ritual. I work both services, get home about 1 a.m., call Lit and talk with her while I open my presents and then unwind with a slice of the famous rum cake.

Yum!

I also got a big kiss.


After carefully thinking it through, I determined that this was not cause for a sexual harassment complaint.

From Santa this year I received a slew of effort. You know, times are tough for everyone. There’ve been layoffs at the North Pole. The workforce is smaller, but the demands are higher than ever. That’s why you have to really appreciate the tremendous time and energy that went into presentation.



Paint bucket lip gloss wrapped in a weird paisley bag,



a book which mocks my paragon of a mother was wrapped in glitter tissue,


a vaguely anti-Semitic, candy striped apron (Oy veh!) wrapped in what I believe was originally a wine bottle gift bag,



and the piece de resistance—a ballpoint pen wrapped in a toilet paper roll.

(Santa’s helper would like to interject at this point that it was not a toilet paper roll, it was custom cut from a wrapping paper roll.)

True. I have made sport of Santa’s efforts, even though I know that this kind of gift giving doesn’t just happen. Real work goes into it, and more importantly, love. Thank you, Santa!



This came from Dagromm, Taz, and company. Thank you all so much! It’s EXACTLY what I asked for. The cold dry air up here is murder on my hands and I went through quite a bit of hand cream on Christmas Eve alone. This shea butter stuff is fabulous. And the OPI Meet for Drinks nail color is gonna be a lot of fun, too. I have plans for a manicure over the weekend. Oooeee! I’m living it up big time now.

From Lit, who is the unrivaled queen of weird gifts gleaned from estate sales, I received everyone’s favorite board game


That’s right, it’s Scripturama! To see, to play, to learn, to enjoy—or so the game box tells me. I haven’t read through all the rules yet, still I have no doubt that my friends and I will have hours of fun with this. As you can see it comes with a full complement of exciting game cards for loads of scriptural fun.

And, as if Scripturama wasn’t enough to keep a party going for hours, she also sent along a perennial favorite gambling rodent dice game


Skunk! I have no idea how to play, but I’m sure we’ll figure it out next time you come for dinner. It comes with scorecards, chips, and rodent dice—it MUST be fun! The fun never stops at the Goo Factory.

Lit also sent along a food processor. We are currently in a hot debate about whether or not all of the parts were included when she sent it. She says yes, I say not so much. I believe there is an adaptor shaft missing. This belief should not suggest that I am ungrateful, but I wouldn’t bring the subject up with Lit unless you plan to take sides.

My final gift from Lit was a nativity set. Mary and baby Jesus (check out that full head of hair!) are pretty clear, and the guys down front are most likely shepherds—one is clutching a sheep (or just really shy) and the other is blowing a pipe (insert off-color shepherd joke here). Anyone care to explain the two homeboys hanging out at the back?



I love this set! They have such character, such panache. This may have to become my new office crèche. Lit has been hanging onto this set for years. I don’t remember her buying it, but I remember the Beard estate sale from which she purchased it. I don’t know if she was waiting for just the right year, or put is away and forgot about it until now, but I think it’s terrific.

Of course, the gifts I can’t show you are some of the best gifts of all: the cards, emails, and phone calls I’ve received over the last couple of weeks. Some of the gifts have come in the form of much-needed hugs, or meals, or just time hanging out with friends. This year my dad and stepmother are gifting me with a four-hour performance workshop with the Neo-Futurists. Thank you, both, very much! I’m doing that this Saturday and looking forward to stretching some muscles I haven’t used in a while.

That’s my recitation of Christmas fun. I know there’s more yet to come and hope your Christmas has been wonderful, too.

baa baa baa

My friend Bonnie made too many sheep.

Probably not the sort of sentence one gets to write terribly often, so I think it's worth repeating. Bonnie made too many sheep.

As I understand it, in the process of building a nativity scene Bonnie went a little overboard on the sheep. She made entire flocks. Prior to slaying Goliath, David didn't tend this many sheep. There were lots and lots of sheep. More sheep than a chronic insomniac could hope to count. Okay, maybe I'm beginning to exaggerate slightly, but seriously, there were a lot of sheep.

Then, of course, after Christmas you have to figure out what to do with all the sheep. Bonnie's solution was to give them away. She took photos of all the sheep (imagine this as a sort of cross between passport photos and mugshots) and then passed the contact sheets around among various friends and invited everyone to choose one. Three or four contact sheets, sixteen or twenty photos per page, three or four animals per photo--LOTS of choices!

By the time I saw the photos, several of the little creatures had already been adopted. I must admit, I was more strongly inclined to choose a sheep of color. The white ones were fluffy and cute, but the black and grey and mud colored animals just seemed more interesting. Then I saw the goats. If the black sheep, with all of its cultural implications was tempting, the goat and its biblical import was an even greater lure. Oh, did I like the goats? I could choose a goat if I liked. Or an angel; there are angels, too. Everytime I decided that I really liked the texture of this one, I'd notice the horns on that one and change my mind. Then I'd see this one over here had a fabulous tilt to it's head, only to find that the one in the next photo had so much character! (When I reread this while editing I got a chuckle at the image of horned angels, but decided you'd appreciate the image also, so I left it.)

If you're having trouble understanding why it was so difficult to just pick a sheep and say, "Thank you, Bonnie" and get on with my life, you should know that Bonnie taught animation for several years. And although I met her through singing, I don't think there is any artistic expression she hasn't put her hand to at some point. Being presented with photographic vignettes, pictorial essays of ovine social structures, made it almost impossible to select a single example of her work. Choosing any one meant breaking up a scene. How do you decide which single one will continue to charm you without the interplay with the one next to it. Finally, I told Bonnie I couldn't choose for myself, but, yes, please, I'd love to have one. This is the truth. Had I been forced to choose from the photos, I can almost guarantee that I'd be disappointed with my own selection and wonder endlessly if I couldn't have made a better choice.

Last Friday Bonnie came by my office to borrow my Pantone book and brought with her a selection of five sheep from which I was to choose. She brought two white sheep, two brown sheep (one medium brown, one camel-colored), and one dark grey-black sheep. While I loved the caramel colors of the camel and the mix of colors in the medium brown, they didn't convey the personality of the others and were quickly eliminated. And while I very much admired the striking looks of the darkest of the sheep, I wasn't as enamored with him in person as I had expected to be from the photos. In contrast, the white sheep which I had written off at the outset were the most engaging. They had much more depth of color than the photos indicated and their expressions were charming. My co-workers were brought in to help me make the final choice. And although I was very much taken with a fat little sheep with floppy ears and a pleading expression, my co-workers felt that that sheep was too needy for me. I suspect they think I lack in the tender depth of feeling necessary to meet the emotional needs of four-inch-tall inanimate creature. (If I worry about this too much I'll end up injured by their judgment. Crap. Now I've put it in writing and I'm sure that's what they were implying!) Anyway, they felt the fifth of Bonnie's sheep was the one meant for me, the one best suited to my temperment.




I believe there was a certain level of determination, nay belligerence, conveyed in the tilt of this little sheep's head that my co-workers believed made it a perfect match for me. Not they would ever suggest I maintain these qualities. Merely that they thought the presence of this fuzzy guardian at the gate of my workspace might invite others to think twice before inviting my attention. Hmmm...

Now we need a name for my little baby. Post your suggestions in the comments. I won't guarantee that I'll choose from the submissions, but I will agree to consider them all.

PS Bonnie is now making MORE sheep (and goats, and giraffes, and who knows what else). There's been discussion of a gallery show. Really, my photo doesn't do justice to her work, but in groups they are truly outstanding.

monumental 2.0

I got some good feedback--thanks!--and I've incorporated much of it. Most of the feedback hit on the same points that I had privately noted for myself. That's good news for me in that other people try and convince me I'm hypercritical. Now I know I'm just right. :) Here's where it currently stands. It looks like it's working toward becoming a clumsy sonnet, but I'm not feeling bound by literary conventions at the moment.

What monument to thee, my God, could convey thy grandeur,
What lofty height of man’s design impart thy grace,
What sparkling glass reflect thy splendor,
Or carvéd rock reveal thy face?
Such follies do men build for thee,
And treasure stores amass,
To mimic thy heavenly beauties
Which all earthly work surpass.
No, no monument to thee will I offer
Nor semblance of thy state will I effect,
But thy image marked on me to all I proffer
In hope thy vessel thou wilt perfect.

I was in bed with the lights off trying to put myself into a happy dreaming attitude and had to get up out of bed to work on this some more. Grumble, grumble, grumble...Great. Now the phone's ringing! Aaargh!!

monumental

What monument to thee, my God, could convey thy grandeur,
What lofty height of man’s design impart thy grace,
What sparkling glass reflect thy splendor,
Or carvéd rock reveal thy face?

No monument to thee will I then offer
Nor semblance of thy state will I effect,
But thy image marked on me to the world I proffer
With hope thy image in me thou wilt perfect.

I wrote this yesterday while sitting at the Navy Memorial. We've been subject recently to some poor writing at work in which WNC was referred to as a "monument". Needless to say, that kicked off a round of argument from our departmental point of view. I think, the juxtaposition of that internal document and my having a few free minutes at the Navy Memorial is what brought this on. I feel like it needs a transitional second stanza, but know that I also have a tendency to overwrite. Thoughts?

overload

So, I’ve been having stress dreams. It’s not so surprising, really. I’ve been working ‘round the clock for the last few weeks, lots of late nights and not much down time. In addition, all the extra time spent working (a special convention project that I was asked to contract for) has completely derailed me from all the good habits I’ve been cultivating since Lent. Don’t get me wrong, I can get back on the good-living train, but it has seriously pissed me off that I was thrown off the tracks. With all the extra stressors it’s no great surprise that I’m having stress dreams.

Now, I don’t know about you, but my stress dreams usually come in two varieties: the ones that are just extensions of the things causing all the stress to begin with, and the “classic” stress dreams. The former freak me out because I wake up at two a.m. worried that this hasn’t been done or that that was done wrong, but I find them to be totally normal and fairly easy to deal with. Go to work and see where things stand, then it’s dealt with. Of the “classic” stress dreams, I’ve long been prone to dreaming that all of my teeth fall out. I’ve had several versions of this dream over the years and it’s always super creepy and takes me a couple of days to come down off of. I have a very clear, dream-based sense memory of each tooth coming loose in my mouth, usually followed by the very specific feeling of spitting them out. Gross, right? Sometimes they all fall out all at once and sometimes it’s one at a time, one after another. Trust me, there is no better version of this dream. However, over the years I’ve grown – somewhat – accustomed to the dreams and can usually realize that they are dreams as I’m having them.

Recently, just before Pentecost, I, for the first time, had the classic “undressed in public” dream. I’ve heard about this all my life, but I haven’t ever had it before. I dreamed that I was in the south transept of the Cathedral during a major service at which I’m supposed to be a chalicer. In the dream, I’m so tired and spaced out that I suddenly realize communion is almost finished and I haven’t ever moved from my seat. Not only have I screwed up, but I’ve created a situation where other people are having to scramble to cover for me. I get up and begin walking toward mid-nave to apologize to the vergers and see if there’s anything I can do to help fix the problem I’ve caused. About halfway to my intended destination I suddenly realize I DON’T HAVE ANY PANTS ON and make a quick about face and head for one of the side chapels. As I’m going up the steps into the chapel (ass toward the congregation), I pass one of my co-workers and hiss, “Why didn’t you tell me I don’t have any pants on?!” To which she responds, “We thought you knew.”

It’s okay, you can laugh at my pain. It’s only dream pain and I laughed when I told the same co-worker about the dream the following day. At which point she tells me, “Yeah, that probably would be my response.” Great. If I ever do lose it and start showing up for church only half-dressed it’s unlikely anyone will tell me because they’ll just assume I’ve made a daring fashion choice. This realization does nothing to alleviate the stress, let me tell you.

In the meantime, here I am working lots of extra hours on the Big Project. Allow me to interject at this point that while, yes, I am complaining about having a lot of work, it is in no way lost on me that a lack of work is a major crisis point for lots and lots o people at the moment. Most of my stress dreams have been the easier to deal with work-related sort. The panic about them is straightforward. Sometimes I just boot up my computer in the middle of the night, or the early morning hours, and check my e-mail to look for answers. Other times, I call my vendors at eight in the morning or send a text message late in the evening to check where things stand. As a last resort, I go in to work earlier than usual, or on the weekends, just to make sure everything is as it should be. But, I’m stressed out and not sleeping well, nor eating as well as I should, and hardly getting out to play much at all. Can someone reassure me that the sun still exists?

In fact, I was so tired that I made it casual Tuesday this week. Exhausted and unable to come up with any sort of rational reason why I needed to wear office clothes to work, I decided to go into the office in jeans and sandals. I didn’t have any meetings Tuesday, why really did I need to wear grown up clothes? It was, of course, then inevitable that Tuesday was the day I ended up having an interview with the FBI. Yes, the freakin’ Federal Bureau of Investigation. Completely wacked out from sleep deprivation and dressed in baggy jeans and a blouse that I hadn’t bothered to iron, I got ushered in to speak with an agent because I was the only one who would admit to having worked with Mitch Feinberg, who has applied for a position with the State Department. (The better part of this story is that his name is NOT Mitch Feinberg, but, although Mitch has been sucking up to the bosses with tremendous enthusiasm, the executive who came looking for anyone who could speak with the Fibbies regarding Mitch repeatedly got his name wrong—and he reports directly to her.) So, there I am being presented with the agent’s credentials just the way the do on TV, but I think in my exhausted haze I stared at them a little too long. Then I handed the little leather wallet with the plastic window back to him and said, “I feel like I should give you something now.” I proceeded to answer his questions as best I could, dancing diplomatically around the tricky ones. I have no first hand knowledge of Mitch’s penchant for dancing topless in gay bars, his pattern of dating foreign nationals, or what the hell he does on his trips to South America. And, yes, while I am aware that in the wake of the last round of Cathedral layoffs he purchased a new BMW, I have no idea whether or not he lives within his means. I am not aware of any history of drug use or mental illness, but I do know that he sings. The FBI agent asked me if I’d ever actually heard him sing? Absolutely honest response, “Yes.” Is he any good? Now, I have no idea why the quality of Mitch’s singing would have any impact on his background check for an overseas post with the federal government, but I wasn’t going to attempt to roadblock the FBI. Yes, he is good. As is his brother, they both sing in the opera chorus. Their mother sings also, they do a little annual recital in Virginia. Yeah, I got real chatty with the FBI about Mitch’s singing. I’m helpful that way. And freakin’ exhausted.

So, it caught me a little off guard Tuesday night to have a stress dream unlike any of my previous ones. In this dream I came face to face with a former beau whom I haven’t seen in ages, one I haven’t even thought about in quite a while. If it had involved the FBI I could have made sense of it, but an old boyfriend? Really?! I woke up depressed and tired and angry with someone I haven’t seen in forever BEACAUSE OF WHAT HE DID IN A DREAM. I totally get that this is irrational, but it continues to bother me. Even days later, I’m still upset with him and trying to figure out if the elements of the dream that so upset me actually upset me, or if it’s all just a big pool of stressed out emotional garbage that doesn’t mean anything more than I need to get some sleep.

So Wednesday I turned the corner on the Big Project, and Thursday I was able to go home at a normal hour for the first time in weeks. I stopped at the grocery store on the way home to buy fresh fruit because I had completely run out. I spent twenty minutes in the store and came back out to find my battery had died. Yeah. Just what I needed. Seriously, it could have been so much worse than it was. It was daylight, and I was three blocks from home, and a freaking shuttle bus would take me free of charge from the grocery store directly to the front door of my building if I needed it to. Had this happened two days earlier at ten p.m. in a sketchy part of town it would have been so much more difficult. So, after a few attempts to see if one of my local pals could help me out, I prevailed upon the kindness of a total stranger to get a jump. She was a very sweet Georgetown student, but we eventually figured out that the battery of her macho SUV wasn’t putting out enough juice to jump my little Honda’s battery. Mall security had by that point come along to help and brought around a sedan and jumped it very quickly. Despite all the horror stories, strangers can sometimes be good people. Sure enough, my battery was dead again by morning, but I anticipated that and planned to take it in to the garage Saturday morning.

Stella and I have a standing Saturday morning brunch date and this week we were going to meet up and window shop all the new luxury stores that have opened up in the district between her home and mine. This was my suggestion last week and I was really looking forward to it. I called the garage Friday evening to make sure I wouldn’t have any problem bringing in my car on Saturday morning. It would take less than an hour to install the new battery and then I would go home and walk over to meet Stella at ten. I took the car in (after getting one of the maintenance guys in my building to jump it) and it died just as I pulled into the driveway of the shop at eight-thirty a.m. I went next door to the drug store to kill time until my car was ready. Can anyone explain why CVS has a Kama-Sutra Weekender Kit on clearance 50%off? When the mechanic hadn’t called by nine-fifteen I got a little nervous about our plans and Stella and I came up with a contingency arrangement. She came and got me, and then we headed north and found a place to have breakfast. Just as I ordered an egg-white omelet, the mechanic called. The $150 charge I had expected for the battery and an oil change was going to be sooooo much more. New alternator, new belts, new brake pads, soooooo much more. We talked about what needed to be done immediately and what I could put off a couple of months. He held firm about what really needed to be done now and came down to a price that was (barely) within my range.

Stella and I had a yummy breakfast (and got the hard-sell to “come back soon” (what can I say, we’re cute and we smile a lot)), then we went to the mall to kill time. I’m not much of a mall-person, but it was raining buckets and I needed distraction. We wandered through the stores with an arresting fixation on shopping for accessories. Not that I was spending any money, mind you, I had just agreed to give all my liquid assets to the guy fixing my car. But I did a mighty fine job of encouraging Stella to spend and every dime was a balm upon my stressed-out, beleaguered soul. The best sales staffs in the stores we went into were at Bloomingdale’s and the Coach boutique. Correct me if I’m wrong, Stella. She now has some fab new pieces to accessorize her life. I’m jealous. She makes mall shopping tons of fun. She’s also a great friend because when she took me to pick up my car, she stuck around until I’d made sure that everything was going to work out – that the car would start and the plastic would clear. She even checked in on me an hour later as the panic of having released all of my cash to a grease monkey, while not knowing when I would get paid for the Big Project, began to sink in. She then berated me for not having gotten a written contract for the Big Project. Like I said, she’s a great friend.

After checking my accounts online and assuring myself that everything really would clear, I placed a pre-emptive Father’s Day call. We had a nice chat and I told him what I was up to and proceeded to get almost hysterical on the phone with him about my finances. Like I said, the charge is going to clear my account. The car is running much better now (I hadn’t realized how rough it had gotten). And I anticipate a sizeable bit coming in from the Big Project. However, I got increasingly panicky as I talked with him on the phone. I think all the stress I’d been carrying just hit the breaking point. I could hear myself talking faster and faster and hear the pitch of my voice getting higher and higher and I finally just caved and asked if I could borrow some money for a couple of months. It could be that I get paid very quickly once the work on the Big Project is all complete, but we’ve still got some proofing to do, and there’s one day they are going to attempt “paperless” (but I’m anticipating being prevailed upon to put in some hours on it). The length of time between my bank account being emptied and the new influx of cash refilling it suddenly seemed to be a black unknown stretching into eternity. I felt pathetic and ridiculous succumbing to the cliché of borrowing from my parents, but I also knew in that moment I wasn’t going to sleep at all until I had things under control again. I’ve been so relaxed and happy the last few months—clear of debt, able to pay all my bills without worrying about juggling the checkbook, finally able to begin saving again—and in one moment I had gone from stable and secure to on the brink of a complete disaster. I leave it to you to figure out if I’m talking emotionally or financially, because I don’t know that I can see a difference anymore.

He agreed, by the way. He’ll front me some money and I’ll pay him back as soon as I can. I don’t like debt. It drives me crazy. It’s the constant stressor that follows me everywhere. I keep reading about how this is exactly the kind of situation that spins people out of control. First the car breaks down, then they get sick (oh my god, what if all my teeth fall out?!), then they lose their jobs (because the car is unreliable and they can’t get to work on time and the illness leeches away all their energy). Once they lose their jobs, the debt grows exponentially and then they lose their homes. Next thing you know I’m walking around church naked. God, I really shouldn’t have watched ten minutes of Oprah talking about people living in tent cities! I mean, I’d already read about tent cities, but I should know by now that ten minutes of Oprah can completely skew one’s world view.

Breathe.

Really. Everything is fine. I’ve got a job. I’ve got more money coming in. I’ve got a short-term family loan to help me sleep at night. My car is repaired and I’m not extended beyond my ability to repay. I’m just a little overloaded.

jealousy

What follows is what was, perhaps, the most thrilling part of my Monday. Mind you, not all of my Mondays are this fast-paced and exciting. But this was, I thought, worth sharing.

From: Stella
Sent: Monday, June 01, 2009 12:18 PM
To: Goo
Subject: Well?

Okay.
Doug won’t let me stay in DC with the children*. This could be a deal breaker.
I think maybe I made him my backup and now he’s calling me on it. But we have a few years to work on this.

I ate Korean food last night. Here’s a picture.

From: Goo
Date: Mon, 1 Jun 2009 12:27:06 -0400
To: Stella
Subject: RE: Well?

I’m jealous.

I’m jealous that you have a backup.
I’m jealous that you have a few years to work out the details.
I’m jealous that you ate Korean food.
I’m even jealous that you took a picture.
I’m just a seething, writhing mass of jealousy.

Toodles!

From: Stella
Sent: Monday, June 01, 2009 12:35 PM
To: Goo
Subject: Re: Well?

1. You haven’t met Doug. You would not be jealous.
2. The Korean food had hidden spiciness that turned evil. You should not be jealous.
3. The picture is remarkably poor quality. You could not be jealous.
4. Don’t seethe. It’s bad for your skin.

Toodles?

From: Goo
Date: Mon, 1 Jun 2009 12:48:07 -0400
To: Stella
Subject: RE: Well?

1. You know a man who talks with you about marriage and child-rearing. Doesn’t matter if it’s a joking fantasy or a ring and a bassinet. I’m jealous.
2. The genius of Korean food is the hidden spiciness. I am jealous.
3. The photo shows chopsticks and four billion little dishes someone else prepared and someone else will wash. I’m jealous.
4. My skin is looking pretty damn good these days. Be jealous.

From: Stella
Sent: Monday, June 01, 2009 12:53 PM
To: Goo
Subject: Re: Well?

1. Marriage has not been mentioned. “Ocala Christian Academy” has. (Shudder.)
2. The spiciness HURT. I was NOT enjoying it. I didn’t taste food for like 15 minutes. Just the epic burn of “spiciness.”
3. The little dishes of not immediately identifiable food were nice, I’ll say that.
4. Your skin has been looking wonderful lately. I AM jealous.
5. I have roots already. A WEEK, it lasted. A WEEK.

From: Goo
Date: Mon, 1 Jun 2009 1:48:27 -0400
To: Stella
Subject: RE: Well?

1. The Ocala Christian Academy will not admit the bastard children of people who defy the will of God by living in sin. If he mentioned the school, marriage was definitely implied.

2. I think what you refer to as “epic burn” is what the Buddha meant by “attaining enlightenment” and what the Hindus refer to as “nirvana”.

3. Well, I think we’ve pretty much exhausted that.

4. I appreciate your covetousness and only wish I had your legs.

5. Look at it this way: even when you die, your hair keeps growing. You’d have roots even if you were dead. You are not dead and will be able to do the upkeep to maintain your current bombshell appearance. Life means growth; death means growth. Any way you slice it you still end up singing Hakuna Matata.

6. NO ONE is paying the kind of microscopic attention to your cellular hair growth that you are. Get over yourself.

Now that I look back over this, I retract my earlier statement. My Mondays are pretty typically this earth-shattering. Be jealous.

*NB: The children are hypothetical. Doug is not. At least, I don't think Doug is hypothetical. Wow. If Stella has a hypothetical guy trying to strong arm her into sending their hypothetical children to Evangelical boys' schools, I really am jealous and I may need to plan an intervention.