My favorite night of the week is Friday night. Friday's use to signal the end of the "work week". I don't find that to true and I'm not sure it ever was. And work is such a wierd term..is working in the yard work or not? Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't. I guess work is a concept as much as a timeclock.
I like Friday's because there is Friday night stand up. Now on Comedy Central there is a new show, "Live at Gotham" which features new and irreverent comics. My favorite comics are Brian Reagan, Alan Ferrara, Daniel Tosh, Maria Bamford.
I like to say I've been listening to stand up all my life because growing up "fundy", I heard 3 stand ups a week in the form of sermons. They just weren't very funny most of the time.
My brothers and I had would sit in the back of the church and make fun of whomever was up at the pulpit. So we were teenage hecklers in a sense. We'd time the prayers with a watch that we got from T.G. and Y (the discount store before Wal-Mart that smelled like moth balls and bleach) and we always knew when a certain suit would get up, we'd be in for a "napper" which is what my brothers called those prayers that went on for decades. Prayers in our church were more like announcements really, where we'd find out who had gall bladder surgery, who had ingrown toenails, and who had "left this earth for their heavely portal." To this day, I have no idea what a heavenly portal is.
What I liked was the euphamisms used during prayers that denoted the code words for something really terrible happening that we couldn't really talk about but everyone knew about. Prayers for "family peace" usually meant someone was fooling around again and "unfortunate financial changes" probably meant someone had lost it all in Vegas. The really big deals were usually lumped under, "this difficult time.." which meant either a pending lawsuit or a sex scandal. My brothers would keep a tally, kind of like in poker over a series of weeks to see what our church's score was.
Another favorite way to pass the time in church was the rewriting of the church songs. I mean, you have to do something while you sing all stanzas of "Just as I Am". There are 8 stanzas that I know about however some of my friends from church camp who came from more traditional churches threw in a couple of other verses. I assume they were more committed in their walk with the Lord than we were and perhaps their heavenly portals gleamed more brightly.
My brother, Russell was like the Wierd Al Yankovic of church songs. Our hymnal was a huge blue book with shape notes. We had shape notes beause we had no instruments. And the really wierd part was that even though we had no women leading anything, most of all all learned alto parts by listening to Ms. Brittany (or someone like her -- everyone church has one) who sang much better -- and on key -- than whatever guy was leading. Russell would take whatever song we had and make it something funny...."Willing the Cross I'd Bear", became "Willy, the Cross-Eyed Bear" and "Peace, peace, sweet peace" became, "Peas, peas, sweet peas". He'd belt it out and the rest of us would just try to keep from laughing which always would get us a smack from someone. And it would never be Russell who'd catch it, it would be me (I was the oldest, therefore responsible for everything) or one of the younger ones who couldn't duck as fast. We rarely made it through a service without some bruising or a concussion.
And we'd continue to make fun of church later. Over grandmother's roast beef, my brothers and uncles would sometimes imitate the voices of the speakers and they'd contort their faces in that way that dubiously pious people do when they know they are being watched.
One of my favorite comedic scenes is an old "Mr. Bean" skit where he goes into church and tries to listen to the sermon and take part in the singing. It is spot on and reassures me that I'm not the only one whose church experiences gave them more than bible bowl memories.
To me, good stand up is like this -- taking the mundane and sometimes abusive parts of life and looking at it, making it bearing and even asking, "why is it like this?" and "how could it be different?" What's interesting about good stand up is that it is unlike any other kind of theater or art: if the piano player is terrible, you still clap. If the singer is out of tune, you still applaud. But if the comic is off his or her mark, then no one laughs out of being polite. You either are good or you're not and if you are it's magic.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Friday, August 11, 2006
Miranda and Me
The summer hubby was laid off, we would take some time in the mornings after the kids went to school to walk a couple of miles together. Up until that point I had been active in kickboxing, progressing all the way to a brown belt. But with the change in plans, I opted to find less taxing - and less expensive -- forms of exercise.
It wasn't much of a sacrifice, really. I was always the last one in line to finish the runs, prompting sneers from those who also finished the jumping jacks and could always do more crunches than me. They were the same ones that didn't cry when they they got hit in the face or when they broke a nail.
Dan went back to work in the fall and by then it was too cold to walk without, y'know, running, so I began searching for other forms of exercise. One day, while sipping my earl gray tea in front of CNN, I stumbled upon a public station that had a program, called "Classic Stretch". (www.classicstretch.com)
Having given up kickboxing and now a retired walker, I thought the movements demonstrated seemed easy enough to start my day. Mornings have never been particularly good times for me. I once read that most heart attacks happen in the mornings when we awaken and that reason is enough for me to sleep until noon. The slow, rhythmic stretching seemed simple, easy and well, kind of like taking a nap.
What also attracted me to the program was the instructor herself, Miranda Esmonde-White. She was noticeably "un-hip"...she didn't have several other exercies wanna-be's circled around her in matching suits. She even stumbled a couple of times, like maybe she, too was struggling with the morning thing. And she didn't say cheerful things like "get your burn on!" or other such rot. She talked, instead about her daughter, about her make-up, about the wind or the ocean. Once, while in a stretch I saw her get confused and she just looked at the camera and laughed. This winsome quality stole my heart completely because I often get confused and laugh in public, usually when I'm out with my 16 year old daughter who when this happens, has been known to leave me at stores and not return my phone calls.
Now it's true I don't exercise in front of an ocean or garden like Miranda (she's usually positioned in front of some Mexian Riviera resort with lush tropics or mayan gardens) , unless you count my still-undone bridge and pond project outdoors or my failing indoor herb garden. But she did use other things that I had -- a step, the back of a chair, even my floor.
She looked surprisingly unmade up, even a little dishelveled, like maybe she too stumbled out of bed bleary eyed and was late to work after reading InStyle magazine until 2 a.m.
So I gave it a try, laughing a bit at the ease of the movements. Surely this could not be doing that much for my body.
That was about a year and 2 dress sizes ago. My chronic back pain is not gone and when it does flare up, I just do this hamstring stretch that Miranda teaches (she maintains that back pain is more about tight hammy's and gluts) I have no idea what science is in the stretching all I know is that for me, it works. It both refreshes and relaxes me. I have purchased two of her DVD's and use them faithfully when I'm on the road. I simply will not start a day without her. I often find the movements prayer-like, meditative. They do, in a sense, restore my soul daily.
I have added a 30 minute power yoga to the regime recently. And while I enjoy the intensity of yoga, the stretching continues to be a way for me to ground myself to start my day.
It wasn't much of a sacrifice, really. I was always the last one in line to finish the runs, prompting sneers from those who also finished the jumping jacks and could always do more crunches than me. They were the same ones that didn't cry when they they got hit in the face or when they broke a nail.
Dan went back to work in the fall and by then it was too cold to walk without, y'know, running, so I began searching for other forms of exercise. One day, while sipping my earl gray tea in front of CNN, I stumbled upon a public station that had a program, called "Classic Stretch". (www.classicstretch.com)
Having given up kickboxing and now a retired walker, I thought the movements demonstrated seemed easy enough to start my day. Mornings have never been particularly good times for me. I once read that most heart attacks happen in the mornings when we awaken and that reason is enough for me to sleep until noon. The slow, rhythmic stretching seemed simple, easy and well, kind of like taking a nap.
What also attracted me to the program was the instructor herself, Miranda Esmonde-White. She was noticeably "un-hip"...she didn't have several other exercies wanna-be's circled around her in matching suits. She even stumbled a couple of times, like maybe she, too was struggling with the morning thing. And she didn't say cheerful things like "get your burn on!" or other such rot. She talked, instead about her daughter, about her make-up, about the wind or the ocean. Once, while in a stretch I saw her get confused and she just looked at the camera and laughed. This winsome quality stole my heart completely because I often get confused and laugh in public, usually when I'm out with my 16 year old daughter who when this happens, has been known to leave me at stores and not return my phone calls.
Now it's true I don't exercise in front of an ocean or garden like Miranda (she's usually positioned in front of some Mexian Riviera resort with lush tropics or mayan gardens) , unless you count my still-undone bridge and pond project outdoors or my failing indoor herb garden. But she did use other things that I had -- a step, the back of a chair, even my floor.
She looked surprisingly unmade up, even a little dishelveled, like maybe she too stumbled out of bed bleary eyed and was late to work after reading InStyle magazine until 2 a.m.
So I gave it a try, laughing a bit at the ease of the movements. Surely this could not be doing that much for my body.
That was about a year and 2 dress sizes ago. My chronic back pain is not gone and when it does flare up, I just do this hamstring stretch that Miranda teaches (she maintains that back pain is more about tight hammy's and gluts) I have no idea what science is in the stretching all I know is that for me, it works. It both refreshes and relaxes me. I have purchased two of her DVD's and use them faithfully when I'm on the road. I simply will not start a day without her. I often find the movements prayer-like, meditative. They do, in a sense, restore my soul daily.
I have added a 30 minute power yoga to the regime recently. And while I enjoy the intensity of yoga, the stretching continues to be a way for me to ground myself to start my day.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
7 days and counting
Thomas Moore, in his book "Dark Nights of the Soul", defines "sacrifice" means "to make sacred". When you make a sacrifice, according to Moore, you don't just give something up, you acknowledge a realm greater than yourself.
I read this during early morning hours before my kids were awake. It seemed a nice sentiment, something I should tuck away and remind my students in the nurturing parenting class to remember.
As I finish preparing for my next class, my son walked into my office, sighing and skulking in the way he has acquired these last few days.
"Have you had breakfast?" he asks. I am suddenly brought to full attention. know this is a set up.
"Yes" I say, and my eyes dart to the clock. It reads 11:43 am. I have had breakfast hours ago.
"What did you have?" he asked. At this question, my pocketbook started to rumble. It knows it will soon be empty. In fact, just the mere approach of my son causes my wallet to begin rising from my purse.
People often ask me about how I learned to be such a good negotiator in my sales career. The answer stands before me, sulking, in an Aeropostle T-Shirt.
"I had waffles. " I replied. I watched him. His recent string of performances are better than most and I see a lot of acting. Between the sales calls that I do ("my husband won't let me buy that...) and the movies that I watch, I say I estimate I see more bad acting in a week than a Hollywood casting agent.
"I have had waffles for 4 days straight." He hangs his head lower, his eyes take on that glazed look that comes from too many Krispy Kreme donuts or methamphetimines which I think are the same thing.
"I'm dying for cereal." he moans, grabbing his stomach. I've seen less misery on Jerry Lewis telethons.
"We don't have cereal?" I asked while silencing my ever-ringing cell phone. "I thought we had some Special K".
With this question, I get the same look I get when I've asked, "Is a field goal in football worth 2 or 6 points?" It clearly says in ways that only a teenager can communicate that they now understand that their parents is truly not of this world. They are, in fact, orphans who must endure living with mere humans while on this planet.
"I don't consider Special K a cereal." he sniffed.
"Hmmmm, I do." I silence d my phone again, kicked my purse further under my desk. Something about his sad shape, his hanging head I began to feel compassion. "I can make some tuna fish sandwiches." I replied brightly.
With another heavy sigh, a roll of his head, he shufflled off.
I wondered if in 7 days, when Nathan is tucked away in some college dorm and eating until his arteries pop open if I will regret this conversation.
In the past few weeks, he has turned 18 and now he announces his schedule to his father and I. We will be sitting innocently at the dinner table and he will turn with the chicken still in his mouth and say, "My friends and I are going to the drive-in and we won't be home until, oh say, 3 a.m."
His father will stare into his plate, looking dazed and confused which is the signal that says, "He's your son, deal with him." I've seen Dan stand between fighting refs at a basketball game. I've seen him duck a punch from a wild coach. But around his son lately he begins to get fidgeting and nervous like a kid on a first date. When he's not staring into space, he is working on the blueprints for what the upstairs will look like once next week is here.
I don't blame him. I and my friends, those of which I've served on committees, watched countless band, soccer performances walk around town these days without our kids in tow looking like we've survived a bad molar implant or watched too many episodes of "Survivor".
"I just don't know him anymore. " my friend recently said over salads at Wendy's. "He's like he's turning into this person I never knew. His room is a mess. He never is home. He spends all his time with friends and just this past week quit his job so he could have more time to himself before he starts the next phase of his life."
I thought she was talking about her husband, but it was her son, who is also destined for his new collge next week, in which she was referring.
"Do you know where your wallet is?" I asked her, whispering.
She teared up. "Haven't seen it for weeks".
I remembered recently a scene out of my life when Dan and I were driving to New Jersey to start our new life with new jobs. I remembered his mother standing in the driveway and tearing up. This was uncharacteristic for her and she apolgized profusely. After all, she survived the depression on a farm in Oklahoma and greeted every morning with a "Good Morning" that would ring off the walls and make the most cynical morning person (me) look forward to another day in OK. When she cried at this emotional moment, I was touched and thought, "It must be so hard to say good-bye to your son."
I wonder now if she was indeed sad at our departure. Maybe she was gleefully remembered the $20 bucks that was still in her wallet that didn't make it into Dan's hand. And Dan's dad? Where was he during this family moment?
I think he was knocking out the walls between his kids rooms.
I read this during early morning hours before my kids were awake. It seemed a nice sentiment, something I should tuck away and remind my students in the nurturing parenting class to remember.
As I finish preparing for my next class, my son walked into my office, sighing and skulking in the way he has acquired these last few days.
"Have you had breakfast?" he asks. I am suddenly brought to full attention. know this is a set up.
"Yes" I say, and my eyes dart to the clock. It reads 11:43 am. I have had breakfast hours ago.
"What did you have?" he asked. At this question, my pocketbook started to rumble. It knows it will soon be empty. In fact, just the mere approach of my son causes my wallet to begin rising from my purse.
People often ask me about how I learned to be such a good negotiator in my sales career. The answer stands before me, sulking, in an Aeropostle T-Shirt.
"I had waffles. " I replied. I watched him. His recent string of performances are better than most and I see a lot of acting. Between the sales calls that I do ("my husband won't let me buy that...) and the movies that I watch, I say I estimate I see more bad acting in a week than a Hollywood casting agent.
"I have had waffles for 4 days straight." He hangs his head lower, his eyes take on that glazed look that comes from too many Krispy Kreme donuts or methamphetimines which I think are the same thing.
"I'm dying for cereal." he moans, grabbing his stomach. I've seen less misery on Jerry Lewis telethons.
"We don't have cereal?" I asked while silencing my ever-ringing cell phone. "I thought we had some Special K".
With this question, I get the same look I get when I've asked, "Is a field goal in football worth 2 or 6 points?" It clearly says in ways that only a teenager can communicate that they now understand that their parents is truly not of this world. They are, in fact, orphans who must endure living with mere humans while on this planet.
"I don't consider Special K a cereal." he sniffed.
"Hmmmm, I do." I silence d my phone again, kicked my purse further under my desk. Something about his sad shape, his hanging head I began to feel compassion. "I can make some tuna fish sandwiches." I replied brightly.
With another heavy sigh, a roll of his head, he shufflled off.
I wondered if in 7 days, when Nathan is tucked away in some college dorm and eating until his arteries pop open if I will regret this conversation.
In the past few weeks, he has turned 18 and now he announces his schedule to his father and I. We will be sitting innocently at the dinner table and he will turn with the chicken still in his mouth and say, "My friends and I are going to the drive-in and we won't be home until, oh say, 3 a.m."
His father will stare into his plate, looking dazed and confused which is the signal that says, "He's your son, deal with him." I've seen Dan stand between fighting refs at a basketball game. I've seen him duck a punch from a wild coach. But around his son lately he begins to get fidgeting and nervous like a kid on a first date. When he's not staring into space, he is working on the blueprints for what the upstairs will look like once next week is here.
I don't blame him. I and my friends, those of which I've served on committees, watched countless band, soccer performances walk around town these days without our kids in tow looking like we've survived a bad molar implant or watched too many episodes of "Survivor".
"I just don't know him anymore. " my friend recently said over salads at Wendy's. "He's like he's turning into this person I never knew. His room is a mess. He never is home. He spends all his time with friends and just this past week quit his job so he could have more time to himself before he starts the next phase of his life."
I thought she was talking about her husband, but it was her son, who is also destined for his new collge next week, in which she was referring.
"Do you know where your wallet is?" I asked her, whispering.
She teared up. "Haven't seen it for weeks".
I remembered recently a scene out of my life when Dan and I were driving to New Jersey to start our new life with new jobs. I remembered his mother standing in the driveway and tearing up. This was uncharacteristic for her and she apolgized profusely. After all, she survived the depression on a farm in Oklahoma and greeted every morning with a "Good Morning" that would ring off the walls and make the most cynical morning person (me) look forward to another day in OK. When she cried at this emotional moment, I was touched and thought, "It must be so hard to say good-bye to your son."
I wonder now if she was indeed sad at our departure. Maybe she was gleefully remembered the $20 bucks that was still in her wallet that didn't make it into Dan's hand. And Dan's dad? Where was he during this family moment?
I think he was knocking out the walls between his kids rooms.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Prayers for a dying garden
With a week of over 100 degrees, my garden is resembling more a stack of straw than the beautiful picture of color that I had hoped. As I walked my garden today, the struggling bermuda (finally, something that can conquer it!) crunches under my feet like broken glass. My ponds are gooey messes of algae and floating bugs. My rose bushes have thorns and not much else. And I resign myself to another fall of digging, mulching, re-design. Who was it that said that any garden can be beautiful in spring -- it's in August where the real gardening shows. The heat reveals all the shortcuts I've taken with mulching, it reveals where I haven't dug deep enough, it shows off my mistakes letting me know that when dealing with nature, I'm much more of a novice than I might have believed in spring.
The fact is my garden is in need of updating. The oldest parts of my garden are about 5 years old this year and they are showing the signs of needed life transfusion: composting, mulching, adding organics to the soil
I spend early morning hours just trying to keep things watered,though, with little thought of remedying some of the more glaring mistakes until cooler weather returns. At this point, I'm just in survival mode reminding myself as I go that I must, I just must get some water sources out in the far back so the bulky hoses that I use won't totally destroy the shrubs that break under their weight. My mother gave me a wonderful gift this weekend -- 2 seeping hoses 75 feet each and I received this gift like a starving person might receive food. It is just what is needed.
It is so hot in my garden that simply sitting out and reading a book (one of my all-time favorite activities) works up a sweat. Evidently, just holding my head up is an exercise that is "over-doing" it in the Oklahoma August heat.
So each morning before 6 a.m. I head out in shorts and t-shirt and begin weeding. I think I've commented on weeding before and I'll say it again -- there is a satisfying element of weeding when I just yield to it. It's not as if I arise and say, "WOW! I get to go pull weeds in my garden until my cuticles are bleeding pulps!" I go more out of guilt and a sense of responsibility -- I was there for my garden when it was pretty, so why shouldn't I be there for it now? Sometimes I feel like a very fickle suitor. So I pour buckets of water that I collect from dripping hoses onto the fading shrubs, offering it like a prayer.
Once I'm in the garden, and the soaker hoses are doing their work, there is a meditative quality to weeding. I have heard it said that tending one's garden is tending one's soul and maybe this is true. There is a satisfying sense of having accomplished something when I review the row of clean garden patch, despite the dirt embedded in my fingernails, despite the branches that cling to my clothing. And it is amazing that during this sweaty work, knotty problems that I didn't even know I was working on begin to find resolutions. Ideas spring to mind as I lift pull on the bermuda and lift it out of the soil, popping it out like a zipper on my fat cousin's dress.
I'm sure there are those that find recluse and sanctuary in churches and other structures. Admittedly, the cool rooms of my church are enjoyable after an hour in the garden. Despite the blowtorch heat, divine spirits still emerge and nurture me as I traipse through the reamins of the garden this year. Call it peace, or enlightenment or connection -- and it is all these things -- I find solace in the garden despites it broiled leaves and toasted buds.
The fact is my garden is in need of updating. The oldest parts of my garden are about 5 years old this year and they are showing the signs of needed life transfusion: composting, mulching, adding organics to the soil
I spend early morning hours just trying to keep things watered,though, with little thought of remedying some of the more glaring mistakes until cooler weather returns. At this point, I'm just in survival mode reminding myself as I go that I must, I just must get some water sources out in the far back so the bulky hoses that I use won't totally destroy the shrubs that break under their weight. My mother gave me a wonderful gift this weekend -- 2 seeping hoses 75 feet each and I received this gift like a starving person might receive food. It is just what is needed.
It is so hot in my garden that simply sitting out and reading a book (one of my all-time favorite activities) works up a sweat. Evidently, just holding my head up is an exercise that is "over-doing" it in the Oklahoma August heat.
So each morning before 6 a.m. I head out in shorts and t-shirt and begin weeding. I think I've commented on weeding before and I'll say it again -- there is a satisfying element of weeding when I just yield to it. It's not as if I arise and say, "WOW! I get to go pull weeds in my garden until my cuticles are bleeding pulps!" I go more out of guilt and a sense of responsibility -- I was there for my garden when it was pretty, so why shouldn't I be there for it now? Sometimes I feel like a very fickle suitor. So I pour buckets of water that I collect from dripping hoses onto the fading shrubs, offering it like a prayer.
Once I'm in the garden, and the soaker hoses are doing their work, there is a meditative quality to weeding. I have heard it said that tending one's garden is tending one's soul and maybe this is true. There is a satisfying sense of having accomplished something when I review the row of clean garden patch, despite the dirt embedded in my fingernails, despite the branches that cling to my clothing. And it is amazing that during this sweaty work, knotty problems that I didn't even know I was working on begin to find resolutions. Ideas spring to mind as I lift pull on the bermuda and lift it out of the soil, popping it out like a zipper on my fat cousin's dress.
I'm sure there are those that find recluse and sanctuary in churches and other structures. Admittedly, the cool rooms of my church are enjoyable after an hour in the garden. Despite the blowtorch heat, divine spirits still emerge and nurture me as I traipse through the reamins of the garden this year. Call it peace, or enlightenment or connection -- and it is all these things -- I find solace in the garden despites it broiled leaves and toasted buds.
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