F & F, Redux*

*AKA in which we revive the "Flashback Friday: Because I'm Lazy And I Like Alliteration" device. Although this has little to do with laziness and all to do with love. (Like how I slipped that one in there?)


From April 2, 2010
"Of Faith And Friendliness"

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

We do. Love and believe, that is. We love to acknowledge it. We don't debate it. That would kinda-sorta go against the whole"love-and-believe-who-and-what-you-want" thing we've got going here. Don't you think?

In fact, we don't talk much about what we believe. It's not that we don't care. It's just that it's ours. Just like your beliefs are yours. And if we go throwing them around and putting them up for discussion, that kinda-sorta negates the whole "no-debate" thing. Don't you think?

And I'm not looking to change that today. But, for all of the arbitrary and capricious days of observance I've declared here in Halfglassistan, today is one that transcends all of my varied and overlapping worlds.

Today is Good Friday. And, as I've acknowledged before, there are times when the best construction of words to express what is in my heart already exists.

This is one of those times:

I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, the maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.

I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, one in Being with the Father.

Through him all things were made.

For us and for our salvation, he came down from heaven: by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate; he suffered, died, and was buried.

On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures; he ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son. With the Father and the Son he is worshiped and glorified. He has spoken through the Prophets.

I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church. I acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. I look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.

That's just me.

Love whomever you want to love. Believe in whatever you'd like to believe.

Here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all.

Amen.

Because I'm Also Sentimental And Like Alliteration ...

And, as always, because I can, I declare today another Flashback Friday.


(It's nice having your own imaginary world to rule. I highly recommend it whenever I meet another delightfully obnoxious egomaniac. It's quite choice.)


Today is about more than (just) being lazy, however. I'm kicking off Father's Day weekend with a memory of the man who called me his "Tomato Girl." 


Papa, this one was, is, and will always be, for you:


It's A Happy Tomato Kind of Day

My favorite food hands-down (and I've tasted plenty to compare) is tomatoes. 


I am, in fact, a tomato snob. I would rather go without than eat a sub-par, off-season, mealy, refrigerated (oh, the horror!) sorry excuse for my beloved red globes of joy. 


This morning, Jamie and I went to market. I now have a ceramic bowl on my counter overflowing with tomatoes in various stages of ripeness, just waiting to make me happy. This is not an adult-acquired taste, but rather one cultivated at an early age in the dark, black soil of the Calumet Region of Northern Indiana. 


My sweetest childhood memories are of gathering that day's vegetable yield from my Papa's garden. Snap beans, green onions, peppers, radishes, zucchini, and more would be plucked from their plants, each selected by Papa's knowing eye. The tomatoes, however, held no mystery. I knew exactly which were ready to pluck, which were salvageable from the ground, and which would be ready tomorrow. Best of all, I knew which ones would never make it across the yard and into the sink for washing. Those were carefully wiped with Papa's handkerchief and handed to me. They felt firm but tender in my hand, and with the warmth of the sun, I think I imagined them pulsing with life. I would lift them to my face with both hands. Mouth open as wide as possible, I'd bite the fragile skin and feel the fruit explode in my mouth, laughing and slurping as it squirted everywhere. 


I close my eyes and can still feel the hot black earth between my toes, the calloused skin of Papa's hands, and the sun on my skin. I smell a comforting melange of dirt, onions, and pipe tobacco. I hear the whir of dragonflies, chirping of birds, the creak of a screen door, and Nana's voice call out, "Reg!" And I taste heaven.

Tee Gee Eye Eff Eff

(lace up your roller skates and cue Donna Summer and a spinning disco ball here)


"Friday. Thank God It's Flashback Friday!"


Yes, my darlings, I am once again feeling:

A. Lazy; 

B. In need of yet another dose of alliteration; 

C. Smugly satisfied (see B); 

D. Like I am the undisputed queen of my universe and all that revolves around it (see C); and/or

E. All of the a-freakin'-bove

Ding-ding-ding! If you chose A, B, C, D, or even E, you also may revel in your own sense of smug satisfaction, for you are correct. Today we'll revisit the first appearance of HRH Princess Snarkerella and her establishment of one of Halfglassistan's many arbitrary and capricious holidays.


Enjoy.

By Royal Decree ...

As Her Royal Highness Princess Snarkerella, it is my duty (one of many) to consider (many applicants) and determine (eeny-meeny-miney-moe) the High Holidays of Halfglassistan.

[trumpets sound]
[trumpets sound again, as HRH is late to the podium]
[trumpets playing a light jazzy number while HRH is delayed behind the velvet curtain as she fiddles with her hair]

And ...
[TRUMPETS SOUND]
Ahem.

I — your humble leader — declare (-are, -are, -are) — today (-ay, -ay, -ay)  Overflow Day (-ay, -ay, -ay) — upon which (-itch, -itch — OK, kill the echo effect) — upon which we fill the official drinking vessels of Halfglassistan (Libbey®) until they overflow with hope. 

Why today? Why today? 

I say, "Why not today?" 
We overdose on hope, not because it is easy — but because it is hard. 

Hmmm? What's that, you say? Ummm, yeah — no, I can't take credit for that last turn of phrase — good catch. But — I like it. And — it fits. 

So — go forth, and — hope. 
That is all. Carry on. 

CROWD: "Snarkita! Snarkita! Snarkita!" 
ME: "Don't cry for me, Halfglassistanita ... " 

Oh, please — you didn't see that coming?

Because I'm (Feeling) Lazy (Again) And I (Always) Like Alliteration ...

And, of course, because I can, I declare today another Flashback Friday.

If you are new to Halfglassistan — and many of you are (which is, by the way, awesome) — you may not have been fully briefed yet on Mr. J. 

He is one hell of a cook, music aficionado, sounding board, cheerleader, partner in crime and the object of my pure adoration. 

He is also the object of my admiration, and with good reason. Pay attention to the last two lines of this post from last summer, as I am even more sure of the sentiment today. 

Enjoy ...

Can't Keep A Good Man Down

Jamie is 46 years old with Stage 3 bladder cancer.

We are told this is an old man's cancer. Jamie has every intention of becoming an old man who had cancer.

Bladder cancer is not a common diagnosis. But, as you'll see, there is nothing common about Jamie.

There is no telling why it hit him. The greatest risk factor is smoking. Well, yeah, there is that. He smoked from his early teens up until the diagnosis. But it is still a rare formation of cells. Millions upon millions of people smoke and not very many have bladder cancer. Hell, they don't all even develop lung cancer, much less this one.

One suspicion is that his urinary tract may have been susceptible because of a birth defect.

Jamie was born with a moderate spina bifida. With damage to and underdevelopment of his urinary and gastrointestinal tracts and pelvic nerves, it was possible he would not live to be a teenager. He became a teenager with frequent kidney infections. It was possible he would not live to see his 20s. By 20, the kidney problems had stopped and he continued to live his life. Spina bifida still affects him, but not in any way to which he hasn't adapted.

Growing up as a red-blooded American boy may not have been easy, but it was real. And it was fun. And there was real fun. Jamie's mother Wilma, God bless her and rest her soul, was determined that if her son was on this earth then he would have as normal a childhood as possible. Jamie grew up playing football, basketball, swam competitively and played varsity baseball while still in middle school.

And he played stuntman. At the age of 12, Jamie and friends stood on the roof of a house under construction and wondered who could jump off and hit the sandpile below. Jamie went first, overshot the pile, and broke his ankle.

The joint was reconstructed, but as 12-year-old boys do, Jamie continued to grow. And as he did, the bones were rebuilt again and again, resulting in more than five surgeries over seven years. His 20s were not plagued with the systemic problems of his childhood, but rather osteoarthritis and a lowered immunity from years of surgeries. By 34, osteomyelitis was unbeatable and his left foot was amputated.

Jamie's reaction: "Hell, I should have done this years ago!"

I tell you all this because my husband has been a survivor all his life. A hole at the base of his spinal cord did not stop him. Bones broken and rebroken again and again did not stop him. An amputation and a prosthetic foot does not slow him down.

And cancer will not stop him.

I am sure of it.

Because I'm (Still Feeling) Lazy And I (Always) Like Alliteration ...

it's another Flashback Friday.

Let's get sentimental this time, shall we?

Enjoy ...

Edward Estlin Cummings, I Adore You

I can't remember the first time I realized
I was actually reading words on a page for myself
(and not just trusting that those black shapes
scattered below an illustration really represented
the sounds I heard my father make).

I can't remember the first time I wrote something.

A random word.
My name (the long, lyrical,
multisyllabic, Irish-Catholic Cathleen Theresa).
A note. A story. A poem. A song.

I can't remember learning to read and write,
nor when I learned to love both.
Nor when I knew I needed to do both to thrive.

Just like I can't remember learning to walk, to talk.
To breathe.

But I was sitting on a pink shag carpet
next to a four-poster canopy bed, wearing
Calvin Klein jeans and Bass penny loafers,
braces on my teeth but not my glasses
on my myopic, Maybelline-mascara'd eyes,
when I first read E. E. Cummings. 

That I remember. 

I was 14 years old and I knew I was in love.
I knew he knew every last rule
of grammar and punctuation,
but he broke them anyway.
Because breaking them made his words better.
Made the dominant right side of my brain
see, smell, taste, hear, and feel the message.
At. Just. The. Right(no, the best). Pace.

And, I remember reading the words below and
knowing I wanted everything they made me feel.

Everything they represented.

The way they made me feel empowered as a writer,
proved I could manipulate words to make them
speak for me when my voice could not.

The way they made me feel overwhelmed as a human,
hoping, dreaming, praying, wishing that one day ...
One day. Tomorrow? Next week? Next month?
Before prom? (I was 14.) Ever? (I am a girl.)
That one day I would feel about someone else
the way this ee dude felt about whomever
he was thinking of when he wrote those words.

Those words below.

In the intervening 27 years,
many words have
made me feel
many things
(so many things)
about
many people
(so many people).

Emotional, yes.
But not enraptured.
Not uniquely overwhelmed.

Not like 
just those words.

And not like
(finally, blessedly, eternally,
uniquely overwhelmingly)
just one man.

JRW, I adore you.


i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)


photograph of E. E. Cummings' portable Smith-Corona, © Bernard F. Stehle
i carry your heart with me, © E. E. Cummings 1894-1962

Because I'm Lazy And I Like Alliteration ...

 ... I declare today Flashback Friday. (And, of course, because I can.)


If you're new to Halfglassistan, you may not have been properly introduced yet to my alter ego Cat Con. Following is a shameless rerun on my part an accounting of one of her appearances this past summer.


And now, for your adoration entertainment, may I present the obnoxiously awesome delightful legend in my own mind.


Enjoy your weekend, my loyal subjects minions devoted followers friends,
HRH Princess Snarkerella

A Legend In My Own Mind


Cat Con showed up one day last week to multi-task for me. She does the laundry here at TWHQ. Frankly, she is as slack about it as I am, but I hate doing it that much. Enough to make my imaginary best friend do it.

Mr. J was the chief domestic engineer before going and getting cancer and needing to move to the first floor. The laundry room is on the second floor. Coincidence? I think not. Great! Way to ensure that laundry never rarely sometimes only in cases of no underwear and clean towels gets done.

So, of course, Cat Con was singing. The Beatles popped up in a three-song set on my player. Which had the randomizer set. Random? I think not. I think it was a sign from the rock star gods that Cat Con was to kick it.

So she did. Warmed up with "Let It Be." Got slow and soulful with "Yesterday." And belted out "Hey Jude," right down to all the "judee-judee-judee-judee-judee"s and even had the crowd waving their arms back and forth to all the "na-na-na-nananana-nananana-he-eey-jude"s.

Wait. What? Ye-e-e-e-s, there was a crowd. On the second floor of TWHQ. In the laundry room. (Was there a crowd? What the hell kind of a rock star do you think Cat Con is?)

Worn out from that jamming set, the randomizer went off spinning in search of something equally awesome. In the absence of music, Tilly had taken the opportunity to run an obstacle course over, around, and through the piles of laundry, running to the bed and taking flying leaps in between each pile run. (The crowd loved it. Really.)

With Beatles on the brain, a riff from "Baby, You Can Drive My Car" popped into Cat Con's head because it fit Tilly's pace perfectly: "be-beep, be-beep, YEAH!"

So we've got a Tilly running, jumping, leaping at a manic pace. Cat Con is at her loudest pitch with all the "be-beep, be-beep, YEAH!"s. Tilly begins to harmonize with a few barks, and just as she's ready to vault into the sea of fans for some crowd-surfing — (YES, THERE'S A CROWD. sheesh) — I hear Jamie call out from downstairs.

JAMIE: "Are you OK?"

ME: Silence

THE CROWD: Silence

CAT CON: Silence

TILLY: Panting

JAMIE: "CATHLEEN?"

ME: "What?"

JAMIE: "Are you OKAY?!? What's going on up there?"

ME: "Yeah ..."

THE CROWD: Silence

TILLY: Panting

CAT CON: "I'm singing!"

JAMIE: "What?"

ME: "Umm..."

CAT CON: "I! AM! SINGING!"

JAMIE: "Are you sure?"