Fun With Inflection #1

Worship Album "Intimacy" from the Why We Worship series:

Why We Worship Intimacy

Beauty Queen

Last Sunday my friends and I were discussing plastic surgery, right or wrong, neither, when to, when not to, why...

It's all clear to me now. If I were to have plastic surgery, I would want to have the physical characteristics of the persons I most admire.

So, when I have my surgery, I want deep laugh lines added around my eyes, and deep creases added to my dimples. I want wrinkles on my wrinkles. I want my skin to be almost transparent, I want my hair to be white as snow. I want to smell like my grandmother's scented handkercheifs. I want my posture to be slightly bent, and I want my hands to have that awesome loose skin over my fingers and knuckles. I want my facial features to fade enough to show off my bright, knowing eyes.

Of course, changing my features to make me beautiful outside does not mean I will have the same beauty within. If I'm to be honest, I guess I'll need to come by that the hard way, if I work hard and listen hard.

If I'm lucky.

Oh, The Humanity!

I hate it when my body betrays me as being mortal.

Not that I think I'm a super goddess. It's just that sometimes having my brain in my body is inconvenient.

I was in a business meeting this morning, to which, for reasons beyond my control, I was five minutes late. About 10 minutes into the meeting and after a sip of coffee (of course), I felt it coming...a big stomach growl. I find stomach growls to be deceiving. Because I feel them more than I hear them coming from me, I tend to think no one else hears me. Until they let me know they heard me.

Our Deputy Health Officer was sitting next to me at the table, and after my stomach growled he twitched his leg. Okay, I thought...he didn't hear me, he's just twitchy. Whew. Well, then came the second wave. Crap! Here it comes...RRRRROOOWWWW! At that point, he looked at me and grinned. Then, when I thought he was going to comment on my volume control problem, he asked me a business question pertaining to the subject at hand. My concerns being divided at the moment, I stared back at him blankly and stammeringly blurted a response that I think may have been coherent.

Then (oh yes, then), the receptionist popped her head in the door to ask me if I had an appointment with Al Kramer. Well, she got the name wrong (sorry Ali), and I was stimied because she was interrupting the meeting for a personal appointment I had with him. Again, I stammered something, and as she shut the door and eyes were just starting to turn away from me, wave three hit. RRRRROOOWWW!!!

At that point I just gave up. I growled through the rest of the meeting and all the way out. Deputy Bill snickered and told me to get some breakfast. Okay Bill.

So we have these meetings where we have to take our bodies and they might do things we wish they wouldn't. And we wish they wouldn't because other people with bodies that do the same things will think we're from outer space. It's really a game of Russian Roulette; who's stomach will growl, who will burp, or fart, or sneeze, or get a face twitch (oh yeah, that's happened to me too), or have a flake of snot hanging just outside their nose. No matter what a person has to offer at a meeting, their contributions will be minimized by their body betrayal.

"You know Pat, the one who had that idea about the phone system?"

"Oh, you mean the chic with the snot in her left nostril??"

Sheeeesh.

(Welcome to my audience, Al & Jenn!)

Because Life Should Be Sipped, Not Gulped

Sound familiar? It's on the Melita coffee filter box in my kitchen cupboard. Leave it to the coffee industry to come up with a profound slogan.

I love, love, LOVE coffee. Good coffee, that is. I'll choose a cup of good African coffee over chocolate or cheesecake any day of the week, rain or shine, summer or winter. It's comfort and energy rolled into one glorious dark cup. Ethiopian coffee has the typical African earthiness, with some incredible floral tones to it. I sip it because it's hot, but also in order to taste everything it has to offer. Mmmmmmmmmmm.........

Okay, I'm back - had to pour myself a cup of coffee.

I live a long way from my family and some of my dearest friends. The time I get to spend with them is limited, and never seems to be enough. Before I visit, I find myself making grand plans in my head of everyone I'll see, the catching up that will hurriedly take place, the meaningful conversations, the ingenius schedule I'll devise to do it - all in a few hours time. I stress out, STRESS OUT, over the task ahead. And I find when I arrive, I lack the energy to walk out my grand plan, and situations beyond my control force me to go with the flow.

Then, I am able to be in the moment. I can then enjoy the time with my Mom, my family, my friends. I can listen, observe, and tuck away in my heart memories that I can savor over and over again.

Alright, this is not to say that people are like coffee - good to the last drop, the best part of waking up, pure mountain-grown. Ick. I'm just thankful for a little morning reminder that the best parts of my life are the moments in which I'm engaged with the present, the person in front of me, the birdsong in my ear, the scent of wet earth after a hard rain. All that from the back of a filter box.

Easy Does It

I haven't driven a standard shift vehicle for about 20 years. I learned how to drive back in the '70's, when schools were still tasked with drivers ed. I learned on an automatic, probably because the teachers were not thrilled with instructing rowdy, mindless teens how to drive in the summer on Saturdays at 7:00 a.m.

Last Sunday I bought a nice older truck from my good friends. It will not only be handy for hauling things from Home Depot to my house, but will also help support the brawny image I'm cultivating for myself with my cement busting project. (My other vehicle is a '92 Jaguar XJ6, which I've used to haul studs by keeping my rear window open and resting an end on the dash - a vision of mobile irony.)

You guessed it; the truck is not an automatic. So, the sale of the truck came with a complimentary driving lesson, which I received tonight. Seth was a very patient, encouraging instructor. And overall, I think I did pretty well.

It's funny how the cars are never around until you are letting out the clutch and starting to apply the gas. I'm telling you, I was a magnet. I was the vortex to which all cars in the universe were compelled. Do I sound paranoid? It was hilarious. Even Seth, on the way back to the safety of my garage, had bought into the superstition..."As soon as you ease off the clutch another car will come, so you might as well just go..."

I made a left turn onto a steep hill from a slight hill in third gear. Seth was impressed, so I guess that's a good thing.

Clutch in, first gear, let off brake, let off clutch slowly until it engages, ease onto the gas while easing off the clutch...oops, not enough gas. Start it up again, ease off clutch, apply the gas, oops. Start it up again, ease off, apply gas, lurch, okay...clutch in, second gear, ease off, apply gas, go. Oh no, stop sign...crap!

I think I'll get the hang of it without casualties.

Famine of the Profound

Yep, I'm dry. Metaphoric outpourings and victorious banner manipulation have sapped me.

So, I thought I'd write about my Matrix quote below my blog title. The Ginster and I discovered a few months ago that, although The Matrix was way cool at first (and really, still is in my opinion), after watching it a few times some of the lines become super cheesey. Thus, my initial quote, "It's the question that drives us, Neo." Which isn't too cheesey, but I thought made a great kick-off quote for a new blogger.

So, every once in a while you'll see a new quote. It could be meaningless. But then again, maybe not. See, you don't know, do you? I may be playing with your mind, or maybe not...

Hmmmm...

My New Face

Hope you like the new look of my site. I felt this style was more "me" than the last one. Of course, if you don't know me, you haven't been missing anything.

Yeah. Anyway, the new look comes with a few gliches, such as, when I clicked "okay" to changes, I lost all my comments. And, I lost my links. I'm working with Haloscan to try to retrieve my comments, and I have no doubt I'll figure out how to get the links back. In the mean time, try not to panic. Just adjust.

Which brings me to my own personal metaphor, of course.

I'm 42 today. Oh now, thanks friend...I didn't say that just for your acknowledgement, but I appreciate the well wishes.

I've noticed in the last year or two that parts of the physical me that I once took for granted have changed on me and completely rearranged my shadow. I have a jaw line that is different...somehow. Smaller? I don't know. And, my bustline is different. My arms are flabbier than they once were. I have little creases around my eyes that weren't there yesterday. My skin is just not the same shade, and my "natural buff" makeup simply isn't right anymore.

Wow. Getting older costs money. New foundation makeup, new bra, three quarter length sleeved shirts...cha ching, cha ching.

Or...

There's an alternative I've decided to implement as my philosophy for aging. Or, if that has a negative ring to it, my philosophy for "growing up." My friend Gin told me about something author Ann LaMott wrote about being kind to her thighs (Ann's, not Gin's!). Ann decided to treat her thighs like her old eccentric auntie's when going to the beach, treating them gently and lovingly, rather than with embarrassment. I've decided that I can groan over my maturing process, or I can "grow up" into a marvel.

When a little girl enters puberty, her body changes are a rite of passage.

"She's getting her breasts now...she'll be such a lovely young lady."
"What a sweet figure she has! Our little girl is growing up..."

Okay then. How about this?

"Look at Pat's jawline...she's aging so beautifully!"
"My, look how my breasts have dropped! I'm growing up!"

About two months ago, I met the most beautiful woman in the world. I was in a church facility I'd never entered before. In the lobby, my friends and I were approached by the woman, who had to be in her 80's and about five feet tall at most. As she came closer and it was apparent she was heading for us, I began to wonder if this would be a mental health encounter. Then I realized how closed I was to beauty. The woman walked right up to me, and gave me a big hug. I was in the presence of Jesus Christ. She was beauty and grace personified. Whatever she has experienced in this life, I'll never know. But her blaze of glory on her way out will be love. She hugs and blesses everyone she meets, just like she did me that evening. She loves.

I want to be like this woman when I grow up. I want my living and dying to be about my Lord, and about others. I want the essence of my being to be the beauty people see in me. God's light in my spirit, loving others through me, loving me.

I can't wait until I'm 43.

Banner Hell

Darn it all, what does it take???

Indulge me please...

It's a dark night in a city that knows how to keep its secrets, but high above the mean streets, a light burns on the 12th floor of the Acme Building, where Guy Noir--hard boiled, world-weary, yet surprisingly articulate--is trying to find the answers to life's questions. In his big swivel chair under the bare bulb beside the beat-up gray file cabinet, he awaits the call of his clientele: the disappointed, the paranoid, the embittered, the rejected. But instead of a paying customer, what does he get? A knock on the door from Pete, who has shot and killed Guy on many occasions in the past, and yet the two of them are still friends. What can a guy do? If you're Guy Noir, you get up and open the door. Life is no picnic, pal, and friendship so often leads to violence, but you can't walk away from these things....
(Written by Garrison Keillor - Performed live on A Prairie Home Companion August 1995)

I'm desparate. No offense, Garrison; I love your work.

Hard Labor

Today I got down to some of the really big pieces of cement, so it was sledge hammer time. I was slinging that bad boy with a determination that surprised even me. I had flashbacks of the prisoners in "O Brother Where Art Thou" breaking ground for the railroad tracks, singing their woeful song...then I got a grip on reality and remembered it was my big idea to confiscate the cement for my lovely raised flower bed.

Now onto the battle of the banners:

Sunflowers
Cool Water
Chanel #5
Obsession
Beautiful
Coco Mademoiselle
Georgio

Those banners don't know who they're dealing with. I've got a sledge hammer, and I know how to use it.

Save Me From The Banners

I've been so preoccupied with the Ginster's wedding that I haven't had time to pull together the brain cells to produce a blog entry. I've noticed the last few visits, though, that the ad banners have glommed on to my post about my cat. I've had ads about adult diapers, deodorants, room sprays, and fart machines. But what provokes me to action today is the vaginal odor ad. Help me Jesus.

Of course, listing these ad titles puts me at greater risk of even grosser stuff...oops.

Yes, the Ginster is now Mrs. Captain Wow. The wedding ceremony was simple, elegant, beautiful. The weather was perfect. Gin was gorgeous. And now, Mr. Wow has wisked her away to warmer environs, where they can picnic and lambs and lions will come up to them and lick their toes and make them giggle...(a paraphrase of KM's blessing) Blessings on you two.

So today I hauled broken cement from my neighbors' yard to my own to build a raised bed for hostas and other shade lovers. My neighbors broke up their sidewalk from their back door to their driveway a couple of weeks ago, and I've been eyeballing the piles ever since. I spoke with Alyssa a week ago, at which time she told me she and Phil were going to have it all hauled away. I got excited and said, "Could I have it?" To which she replied with brows scrinched, "Uh, sure, okay..." She'd obviously never seen someone get so stirred up over cement before. Anyway, the neighbors were glad to lose it, and I was thrilled (strange, but true) to gain it. So now I have a little project and a great exercise program this week.

I love broken things. Or should I say, I love taking broken things and making them into something beautiful. I've lived in old houses for the last nine years. Restoring beauty and character to an old house, giving a discarded antique a place of honor, fixing an old household tool and using it; these things give me repleteness of soul.

I believe that broken people like to fix things. At least, I know it's true of me. I've been broken many times. I'm still quite chipped and cracked, and not quite as lovely as I once was. I've been loved by a God who takes great pride and pleasure in restoring my soul. My lovely, broken God, broken for me, fixing me.

I'm rambling. Metaphor girl is tired and ready for sweet dreams about:
Jaguars
Shiraz
England
Cello Concertos
Coco Chanel
Feather Pillows
Antiques
James Taylor
Orchids

Okay ad banner, let's see what you'll do with this.

May 3rd Entry

My esteemed colleague raises an eyebrow at my enigmatic, yet poignant entry on May 3rd.

We mock what we do not understand.