You Are Part of Me

You are part of me now
You touched me,
With your kindness and love
So enchanted.
Your soft lips are kind.
Your eyes glow with life.
I'm glad you touched me,
You're part of me now.

Lloyd Carl Owle (Cherokee)

Leave her alone.

If you have ever wanted to do anything good in your life, this is it.

Leave her alone.

Spring.

Winter's bleakness is finally gone. Its cold, icy fingers have relinquished their hold around my neck, and I can finally inhale Spring.

Time to paint my toenails.

Forever 21 is the shit.

Tuesday, I had the pleasure of shopping with my daughter, Katie. I was feeling rather blue, and she suggested that spending my money on trinkets and clothing for her would most definitely lighten my spirits - and she was right.

I love her.

Hello, Blogger. It's been awhile.

It's not that I've been busy. I mean, I work. I have a wonderful job.... and I have been meaning to write. I'll admit, I have plenty of time and plenty to say. My heart has just not been in it. And I'm worried about that. Usually the apathy doesn't set in until March. It's early this year. Too early. Man. I've got to lighten UP.

Angie! We need to dance. My inner dancer is lusting for you, girl.

Chris in a foxhole.

I adore Christopher Hitchens. He's a boozing, chain-smoking, funny and delightfully witty author who loves to shock and awe his readers with his acerbic prose and spot-on assault of religion and the religious. Chris's recent disclosure that he is suffering from stage IV esophageal cancer (there is no stage V) was particularly distressing to his fans, including me.

Chris recently discussed his mortality in an interview with Steve Kroft on 60 Minutes. Much to my relief, Chris maintains his sense of humor and his verve for experiencing life to its fullest - even while he is facing his own battles with encroaching death.




During the interview, Chris discusses his greatest fear. It's not the act of dying nor is it death itself. "I was very afraid it would stop me writing," he says. "And I was really petrified with fear about that because I thought that would, among all things, diminish my will to live, because being a writer's what I am rather than what I do."

The myth that there are no atheists in foxholes is one that is bantered about by many of the religious as fact. Chris is in his foxhole. Yet, I don't hear him crying out to any god. I haven't read or seen an interview yet where he reveals a need for a religious prop of any kind. In fact, he states death is a part of life and he wants to experience it with eyes wide open - in order to have "lived to the full".

Only 5% of those who suffer from Chris's type of cancer survive. The odds are not in his favor, but I hope that Chris is in that 5%. I admire him in his defiance in the face of death and that he remains true to his atheistic self with his wit and humor.

"Atheists have always argued that this world is all that we have, and that our duty is to one another to make the very most and best of it." From The Portable Atheist by Christopher Hitchens.

Keep up the good fight, Chris.

My Spirituality as an Atheist

I love this video. It expresses my belief better than I could express it myself.

Please feel free to leave a comment!

Paths.

Last evening, Debbie and Susan - a couple of my co-workers - and I were winding down the day with the small, routine tasks which are our rituals to close the office and to prepare for the next work day. It's also our time to talk about our day, our kids, our husbands or whatever direction our conversations may lead. I don't remember what we were discussing at the moment that led Debbie to ask me a question about my agnosticism. I paused before answering. It was during that pause I decided it was time to come clean and expose my true beliefs.

Let me explain a couple of things. First, I work as a nurse in a large Catholic hospital. One doesn't have to be Catholic to be treated or to work there, but faith in the Christian god is supported and applied in most aspects of care. I work among priests and nuns. I work with many nurses, doctors, therapists, et cetera, who apply their faith to our patients' wounds and diseases as they would a salve or a scalpel. Prayer is encouraged, and Jesus hangs from the cross in every patient's room.

Second, I am an atheist. Working in a faith-based hospital, I do not share that with my patients or co-workers. I learned a long time ago that many people have misconceptions regarding atheism and, therefore, prejudices as well - so I keep my beliefs to myself as a general rule. Godlessness equals immorality. Satan is at work, so don't trust an atheist. Atheists want to destroy all religion and, therefore, God. Many people even fear atheists, although I'm not clear exactly why. I know all this because people assume I'm a believer and share their thoughts. When I hear the distrust and fear in their opinions of those they perceive to be non-believers, I don't take it personally. And in their next breath when they praise God for sending me to hold their hands and ease their pain, I allow the charade to continue. For 72 hours a week, I pretend to be a Christian nurse. I am a highly proficient nurse and a great actress. I am completely aware that patients come to my hospital for not only their medical needs, but also for their spiritual needs during a time when they are at their most sick and vulnerable. . . and I don't want to cause anyone any unnecessary distress because of false prejudices. So, I keep my beliefs to myself and pretend.

When I began my job at this hospital one year ago, my co-workers were curious about me and would ask and probe me for more information about myself. There are only eight of us in our small unit, so it is important to us that we are compatible. When asked if I was Catholic, I said "no" and it was just assumed I was some sort of Christian. One day when I was alone with another co-worker for the first time, she cautiously asked me what church I attended.

I responded carefully, "I don't attend church."

She replied, "That's okay." Then added, "As long as you believe."

When I hesitated to respond, she picked up on that immediately. "You do believe, right?"

"I'm not sure. It's not something I believe we can ever know, so I have doubts," I lied.

"Oh, you're agnostic!" She smiled and actually patted my hand. "You know, that's okay. We all have doubts at sometime in our lives."

I learned a long time ago that Christians are much more tolerant of agnosticism than they are of atheism. With agnostics, there is still a chance of redemption. Atheists are hell bound, for sure. Anyway, word got around our small unit, and my 'doubt' was tolerated and even teased about... until last night.

I decided to come clean about my true beliefs. My co-workers have known me now for a year. They know I am a compassionate nurse, a loving mother, and a loyal wife and daughter. They know I'm not going to sprout horns or curse unborn babies. They know I will not mock their faith or their god. I am their friend, and they are mine. I no longer fear rejection from them. Neither Debbie or Susan have known an atheist before. They had many questions for me. They were accepting of my beliefs but, at times, surprised too. Then Debbie said the nicest thing anyone could say at a time like this. She said, "You know, I am so not threatened by you and your beliefs. In fact, I am more threatened by some Christians that I know." She has no idea how much those words comforted me and eased my apprehension of rejection by someone I think of as a dear friend. Susan stated she felt the same, and I drove home that night relieved and happy.

There are moments that can shape our lives, but we all walk a path that leads to such moments. In my nature, I have the need to be accepted by others, to be liked and to be loved. I'm not angry at the world. I'm not damaged by past events. I believe whatever we need to get us down the path we each walk is individual and personal. If one believes she needs God to guide the way, who am I to say she's right or wrong? I don't have that authority, just as no one has that authority over me. I follow my own path. . . and I'm rarely alone. I travel with my loved ones - past and present. I travel with my life experiences - past and present. When I come to a fork in the road, I don't depend on an external divine spirit to decide for me on which way to turn - I depend on the human spirit within that defines me. It hasn't let me down, so far. I usually turn right, though - there's less chance of getting broadsided.

Star Wars Trumpet Solo - drumFunny.com

This still makes me laugh.

Thanks, Stacey Hedger!

An Update on Dick.

Dick, according to the media, has only a short time to decide if he wants to be put on a list for a heart transplant. At age 69, he will soon be too old to be considered for one.

Wow, that must really suck for him, facing his own mortality like that. Of course, I was surprised when they opened his chest the first time and actually found a beating human heart instead of a big, black, rotting hole.

Honestly, I don't wish Dick death or suffering. I just wish him a heart. Not the kind of heart one gets by sitting on a waiting list nor by surgical transplantation because of another's selflessness. I think you know what I mean.

Marjorie.

My grandmother, Marjorie, is the pretty young woman sitting on the swing. Next to her father and surrounded by siblings, I can't help but notice how beautiful she is. At age fifteen when this photo was taken, she had already become the surrogate mother to her five younger brothers and sisters - a role thrust upon her by tragic circumstances. To this day, I have never been told the entire story. Within a year of the day this photo was taken, my grandmother married a young soldier and left her family to start her own.

She is wearing lipstick for the photograph. I wonder if she found it among her absent mother's belongings, left behind in her rush to leave. I doubt her father bought it for her. He wasn't the nicest nor most generous of men, so I've heard.

Marjorie is and always has been the kindest, sweetest person I have ever known. I have never heard her say one negative thing about another human being. She always thinks of others before she thinks of herself. She has the most beautiful smile. Her eyes light up whenever she sees me, making me feel that I am as special to her as she is to me. We have always had a close bond - I am her oldest granddaughter and she is my first memory.

I am so grateful to have Marjorie still with me, as I know there are not too many 50-year-olds who still have living grandparents - and I'm lucky to have two. My grandfather is also still living, and he is the second sweetest person I have ever known. An ex-drill sargent and then a brick layer, Dale was a hard man with a soft spot for his grandchildren and an even softer spot for his bride of seventy-three years. At ages 91 and 89 - and still living independently with each other - they are so adorable and so delightful to be around.

Yesterday, my mother called. She is worried about Marjorie. She seems to be slowing down and is getting tired. I've already lost one grandmother to age - I know what "tired" means. It means Marjorie is starting to leave me. I can feel it in my heart. I feel she knows it, too. The last time I saw her, at Christmas, at our goodbyes, she clung to me just a little too tight, just a little too long. It made me hesitate and look deep into her face. I could see through her smile, she was saying goodbye. I hugged her again - just a little too tight, just a little too long. When we separated, we both had tears in our eyes. "I love you so much," I told her. She replied with her standard, "Not nearly as much as I love you."

I'm not ready to let her go. I'm not ready, dammit. But I know when the time comes, I'll have to be.

Crush.

Yesterday, I took down the Christmas tree. It's part of my annual post-holiday cleansing ritual performed each year on New Year's Day. I usually kick everyone out of the house, turn up the volume on the Bose stereo, and clean. Classic Rock being my genre of choice, I sing and dance along with the songs to which I use to "shake 'em down". Of course, home alone I don't have to stop and think about my dignity - to borrow a phrase from Bob - so I get down with my bad self as I dust and pack and sweep.

The first four notes play of a certain song. I stop and I am instantly enthralled. David Gilmour's guitar sings to me as no other musician's can. I close my eyes and let the notes embrace me, caress my skin as soft and tender as a long, lost lover finally returning to me through time and distance. I recall as a teen I would lie on my bed in my adolescent bedroom as the music would cover me like a warm, soft blanket. I would slowly dance my fingers through the delicate web of smoke that rose from the end of a stick of incense - the room dark except for the flame of a candle and the faint glow of a streetlight filtering through the curtain... the melodic strands of David's guitar and Roger's lyrics inducing me to a dream-like state. The scents of the incense and candle - my favorites of patchouli and blueberry - would commingle creating a sweet, natural high as David looked down from my ceiling. His smoldering eyes were so teasingly sexy to my teenage self, I could barely look away.

Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
You were caught on the crossfire of childhood and stardom,
blown on the steel breeze.
Come on you target for faraway laughter,
come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!


The song ends, the spell is broken, I return to the present. Pedro returns from his assigned errands, I turn the volume down and resume cleaning. He doesn't recall the song when asked. Pedro was never a Floyd fan, so I let it drop.

After Pedro has gone to bed and the house is quiet, I sit still tense from the day's events. I go downstairs and dig through my old CDs. I'm pretty sure my oldest daughter owns a CD of Pink Floyd's greatest hits - did she take it with her when she moved? Ah, here it is. I run back upstairs and place the disc into the player. I turn off the lamps and light a nearby candle. I plug in my earphones and lie down on the couch.

You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Threatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Well, you wore out your welcome with random precision,
rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,
come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!

I remember my crush and smile as the music washes over me like a warm blanket of Valium. I become comfortably numb.

It's been awhile. I'll try to be better.

Today, the temperature dropped noticeably by several degrees. The air smells different. The cicadas are quiet. Summer is quietly slipping her sun-kissed shoulders into a sweater the colors of pumpkin and purple. I love Fall, but I really hate to see Summer fade. Sigh.

This summer, I worked. I worked to the point of exhaustion - so much so that I literally did nothing but vegetate on my days off. I look back over the last several days and weeks, and I regret the wasted time. However, there were a few highlights.

I spent a fun week in our nation's capitol exploring the many museums and historic landmarks to the point of total saturation.

I ended a stressful relationship with a long-time friend and felt only relief.

I nursed a friend in need - not only by my skills with a needle, but with my compassion for a friend with a wounded heart.

I gave up and got bifocals. . .and, with great pleasure, started to read books again.

I turned fifty, dammit.

I shared an extremely private moment (which will remain private) with my best friend in a bathroom in a bar after many shots of Patron. . .and fell in love with her all over again.

I danced.

I got a concussion while being dipped while dancing. (No comments from the peanut gallery, thankyouverymuch.)

I watched my best friend fall deeply in love with the right man.

I helped my youngest daughter move into her first apartment.

I spent hours at a time in deep discussions about life, love, and the future with my middle daughter and enjoyed every minute of it.

I helped my oldest daughter come to the realization that a Harvard degree doesn't mean much when the man holding it isn't the one she truly loves.

I spent a warm summer's night on a trampoline sleeping under the stars with an eighty-pound dog as my blanket buddy.

I danced. . .again.


Wow. I was wrong. This was one of the best fucking summers of my life.

Miss you, Ash.

Transition.

tran-si-tion: – noun 1. movement, passage, or change from one position, state, stage, subject, concept, etc., to another; change: the transition from adolescence to adulthood.



I turn 50 in nine months. For some reason, that surprises me. '50' has managed to sneak up on me... or is that 'creep' up on me? I'm not sure which, but I am sure of one thing. I'm in transition. Not from youth to middle age or middle age to old age, but from denial and/or ignoring the signs of aging to "I'm not quite ready to sell the farm, Billy!" The only problem is the bank of youth is wanting to close my account - I get a memo to that effect each time I look in the mirror - and it's not taking "no" for an answer, dammit.

It's the drying up that bothers me the most. Dry hair. Dry skin. Dry eyes. And dare I say it? ("Yes," you're thinking, "we're all in this together - just say it.") Okay. Dry vajayjay. Now, doesn't that just sound sooo sexy? I feel like Coleen Gray in the movie "The Leech Woman" when she was between men, so to speak. Where's a girl's 'young stud pineal gland tapper' when she needs one? (Google it and you'll get it.)

True story. I'm sitting in the driver's seat in my car waiting for my daughter. She gets into the car... and the windows in the entire car instantly steam up EXCEPT for the driver's side window and my side of the windshield. I am so dry, her youthful moisture could not penetrate the parched barrier surrounding me, leaving my small section of the car as dry and arid as the Sahara Desert. Grrr.

Today in the mail, I got a special edition of People Magazine titled "Sexy at Any Age." I perused the photos of celebrities who look younger at age 40-something than they did when 20-something. The beauty secrets of the Stars! Anti-oxidents! Organic diets! 5-mile daily runs! 4-hour daily workouts! Um... no.

By the way, Valerie Bertinelli is totally hot. And she is my age. I'm thinking she might be inspiring me to ... exercise. Gasp! But inspiring and actually "doing" are two different things and I haven't been very reliable in the past in the "doing" department when it comes to exercise. So that leads me back to my transition.

I'm making a promise to myself to do more. I promise to exercise more. I promise to dance more. I promise to protect my skin more with SPFs and pretty, floppy hats. I promise to eat a more healthier diet and to drink less caffiene. I promise to get more sleep. I promise to laugh more (laugh lines, I don't mind at all, thankyouverymuch). I promise to forgive myself when I fail. And the hardest promise I make to myself is to accept the fact that I am aging. I promise to do it with dignity, with grace, with my friends, and most definitely with a sense of humor.

Transition. It can be a bitch, but sometimes it can lead you to the most satisfying time of your life... if you just let it.

Arm & Hammer

I hear my cell phone beep.

I'm tired, and it's hard to get my ass off of the couch. Why did I leave the phone in the other room? Blah.

It's Erica. I know because I have caller ID.

"Hi, Erica."

"Hey."

"What's up?"

"Something terrible's happened."

"Should I sit down?"

"Hammer got hit by a car, and he didn't make it." I hear a sniffle.

Hammer is her labrador retriever mix. A happy 120 lb. chocolate puppy - reckless, fearless, and totally untrainable.

"Oh no!" I cry. "The poor sweetie. Did he suffer?" I silently hope to myself he didn't suffer.

"No. It was instant. Juan is burying him right now... in the backyard, you know, with the others."

Erica hasn't been too lucky with dogs.

First, there was Kenneth Wayne. Kenneth Wayne was a cute mutt of the Heinz 57 variety who developed heartworm because Erica could never remember to give him his heartworm prevention cookie. He died in her arms, gasping for each breath and with a hacking cough reminiscent of an old man with a 30-year smoking habit.

Next was Number 5. She wasn't a particularly nice dog, but she was very loyal to Erica and Juan. She was a gift to Erica from her mother-in-law after Kenneth Wayne died and was the only pure bred dog of the bunch. A black and white springer spaniel, Number 5 oddly loved to eat the green peppers in Erica's garden. Unfortunately for Number 5, she choked to death on one.

Then there was Waldo. Waldo, a mutt with a little german shepherd in him and a little collie in him and a lot of hair on him, was a three-legged dog. That's how he was when he showed up one day just out of the blue. He climbed up onto her front porch, stretched out under the porch swing, and that was where he could be found for the next four years at any time of the day or night - unless he was chasing a rabbit. Waldo hated rabbits. One day Waldo chased a rabbit with his surprisingly fast 3-legged sprint into the woods behind Erica and Juan's house, and he was never seen again. We looked for Waldo for a couple of hours. Erica was beside herself with worry, but we never found him. We hope he now sleeps on another porch and dreams of chasing rabbits.

Patty-cake appeared soon after Waldo disappeared. Patty-cake was huge pregnant and delivered her puppies two days after her arrival. The first four puppies were stillborn, but the last one born, a little female, lived. Erica named her Patty-cake Too. Patty-cake and Patty-cake Too met an untimely end about a year later when Erica and Juan's crazy neighbor to the North decided he didn't like Patty-cake and Patty-cake Too getting into his yard, even though they were harmless. He fed each of them raw hamburger he had laced with rat poison. Juan confronted the neighbor and threatened to sue him, but he never did. He buried Patty-cake and Patty-cake Too next to Kenneth Wayne and Number 5.

Then just about a year ago, someone dumped two lab puppies in the corn field across from Erica and Juan's small farm. Erica immediately claimed ownership and named the two male puppies Arm & Hammer - after the baking soda.

"Oh, Erica. I'm so sorry. How is Arm taking it?"

"He's alright. He's a dog. I gave him a flip-chip and he's fine."

"That's good."

"You know, it just dawned on me now that Hammer is gone - 'Arm' is kind of a dumb name for a dog."

I smile at this. Poor Arm. A big dumb dog with a stupid name and a careless owner. I can't help but think his days are numbered.

Dick needs a hobby.

George seems to be handling retirement okay, but Dick appears to have issues with it. I've met people who just can't seem to 'let go' when they lose their job, even though the rest of us have already moved on. Dick is one of those who just won't let go.

Someone else now sits at Dick's old desk, and Dick doesn't like the guy. The new guy is congenial and likeable, and people laugh around him and seem, well, happy. Dick is sour and cynical and never lets people laugh around him. Dick doesn't like 'happy'. He likes war, power, and money. I hate that in a person. I really do.

Dick, do us all a favor and find yourself a hobby.

I'm Trying...

I watched you from behind. I'm trying not to judge.

I watched you from behind as you defiantly rose your chin and brushed your bangs aside while the minister shared with us his memories of her father's love, dedication, and heartbreak. I'm trying not to judge.

I watched you from behind as the stories were told by others of how she had touched their lives forever, how she had loved them, and how they had loved her back. Your name is never mentioned. Your mother sat with you, but your sisters and brother sat across the room. They didn't acknowledge you. You did not look towards them. I'm trying not to judge.

I watched you from behind as you asked to speak. The minister appeared surprised, but nodded 'yes'. You rose and opened your prepared statement with shaking hands. You turned to face us and said "I was her mom." As if we didn't already know. Or was it because you weren't sure any of us remembered? Or were you reminding yourself? You quickly read your statement and sat back down. I doubt anyone remembered what you said. I didn't. I'm trying not to judge.

Later, I watched you as you quickly lit your cigarette inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly under a flawless, September sky - outside with friends and relatives. Inside her father, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and dearest friends cried as they looked upon her face one last time before her casket was closed. I'm really trying not to judge.

I watched you at the gravesite as they lowered her into the ground. Your sunglasses were big and dark, covering your eyes. Were you watching me watching you? Did you hear the whispers and gossip? Do you feel the pain a mother feels when she loses a child? Do you feel guilt? Do you feel? I'm trying not to judge.

I watched you as you climbed into your friend's pick-up truck. I was in the car behind you as you left the cemetery. Your friend turned left, fast enough to squeal his tires and leave a trail of faint, blue smoke - fast enough to get the hell out of Dodge. We turned right. In fact, all of us who loved her and were not ready to let go of her turned right...

I'm trying not to judge. But... how could you have loved your addictions more than you loved your daughter? Why were you not there to help her get ready for her first and only prom? Where were you? I don't understand why you did not visit her once all those weeks she was in the hospital? Or when you found out she was dying and near the end? When she was struggling to breathe and her father cradled and held her up thoughout the days and nights, where were you? Why was every fiber of your being not wanting to be with her, to hold her, to kiss her, to smell her, to comfort her? When the minister shared with us how she told him right before she died that every happy memory she had, her father was in them - did you feel... anything?

I realize you must have your reasons, your excuses,... your demons. Whatever they are, they will never be good enough. I'm trying not to judge, but I do.

dear cancer, fuck you.

dear cancer, fuck you.
Posted at 3:48 PM Aug 7 by Britany on MySpace.

I couldn't have said it better myself, Britany.

The world is a little less brighter without you in it. Rest in Peace, Sweetie.

Moon.

I'm sitting on my deck. It's twilight. The air is humid, and I can hear a mosquito buzzing near my ear.

I spy the moon in the western sky. I sing softly to myself.

I wanna rock with you. Dance you into day...

I walk with the Dog.

So Vicki comes over, and she's got a book.

"What's that?" I ask.

She proceeds to open the book; several cards resembling tarot cards fall out.

"We are going to see who your spirit guide is using this book and these cards," as she began to spread the cards face down upon the table.

"Pick one," she demands.

Funny. There are fifteen cards in front of me... but one catches my eye. It is no different than the others...

I turn it over.

On the card is a drawing of a beautiful dog, a golden retriever.

"I knew it," Vicki sighs and consults the book. "You walk with the dog. You are loyal, you love people, you are eager to please and serve. The 'dog' fits you perfectly." She looks up with raised eyebrows and a small smile on her lips, apparently satisfied with herself.

I laugh. Vicki always has a way of making me feel special and unique with her crystals, her beads, and her Native American beliefs. I love her.