ZOLORELLA

Ouch! My shoulder hurts. It was injured at Roller derby last Saturday night. But I’ll get to that. First, this week has been an emotional rollercoaster ride, jostled to and fro as well as zig-zagged high and low.

No hor-moonal cycles to blame, nothing particularly personal, just what happens in this soap opera called life when we’re connected to other people and are pulled into their powerful orbits.

On an upswing, GoatPapa outdid me and my Zolo Queen marquee and has his mug plastered on the back of a bus and a huge billboard! Kudos, good job and well done.

Did you see the fat, frothy, juicy full moon last night? It’s been raining here for several days in a row, so I was elated when the skies cleared enough to behold the lunar spectacle. Which reminds me, at poetry night, an intensely fabulous woman oh, about 80 years old, who was born in Prague and came to the States via Austria when she was a teenager, kept looking at me intently. Finally, she asked me, “Are you from somewhere (a pause, the length of a beat between a comma and a period), Special (question mark?), like the moon?”

I love it. “Are you from somewhere; Special? Like the moon?”

I can never take myself too seriously, the generous folks around me won’t allow it.

On a slide down, I had to say au revoir to a friend. Maui John is leaving today for a year’s mission in Aruba. While I’m happy and excited for his adventure, I’m selfishly going to miss his humor and energy. When I describe him as hilarious, I don’t mean the occasional joke or laugh, I mean, when he’s on, he is ON. Maui John is an actor, an entertainer and a writer by trade. I don’t think the folks in the southern Caribbean Sea have a clue what’s about to hit their 21-mile island.

For his going away shin-dig, we had a most unusual party (at least according to my experience). Surprise! Both Maui John and Lil’ Bo Peep, another friend of ours, were both contestants on game shows like Match Game, Hollywood Squares and Wheel of Fortune and had roles in movies such as The Stuntman with Peter O’Toole and Dark Water. Throwing together some tasty treats, the entertainment for the evening centered around a review of their celluloid performances.

To say it was great would be an understatement. I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house, due to all the whimsy and banter. Both Maui John and Lil’ Bo Peep can slip in and out of any character, accent, drawl or dialect, and the two of them created cramps and hiccups in my body from laughing so hard.

Over dinner with Mother-in-Law a couple nights later, Groom mentioned Maui John’s notorious appearance on the Wheel of Fortune (she’s a “wheel watcher”), and even though it aired years ago, she remembered the episode. In his suit and tie, Maui John appears to be the most polite and clean cut fellow (he’s going on a mission, remember?), yet he’s also an unexpected mix of physical comedy (think John Ritter), personal charisma and quick wit (that’s why he’s an actor/comedian).

In an unprecedented move, the producers of Wheel, brought him back for a second appearance and issued a quasi-apology for the way he’d been treated during the first round. It was the encore show we were watching, the one where he took his revenge.

While trying to solve the puzzle, Maui John won a bet with a friend by working in a quote from their favorite movie to his onscreen banter, managed to kiss Pat Sajak, who turned away in embarrassment and disgust – then had a change of heart and humor, and suddenly bent Maui John backward like a dip in a romantic dance and kissed him in return, much to the audience’s approval and applause.

M. J. had to rewind the VCR on the next antic so we could catch it, as he ever-so casually copped a feel of his rival contestant and arch nemesis Nikki. Pat Sajak, however, didn’t miss a thing, and good-naturedly mentioned to her on air about “contacting legal.” At the end of the show as Maui John won $28,000 and a new car, Pat joked that it was reluctantly (or something akin), that he had to award him the prize.

Ah, never a dull moment with him in the mix. As the dust settles in his wake, we are preparing for the opening of Saturday Market in just a few short days. I received a phone call from a fellow vendor, Flame Wrangler, with an amusing story to tell.

A woman walked into her booth wearing a pair of our earrings. Flame Wrangler commented on them and the lady’s hand instinctively moved to feel which pair. “Oh, I just love Cinderella Lucinda’s earrings, but I’m disappointed with her.”

What?! I can imagine my friend’s ears perking up, I mean, who doesn’t love a bit of gossip or scandal?

“Yeah,” the woman continued, encouraged by my friend to spill. “I can’t believe she left her husband. I mean, he was so nice to her, he seemed to like her so much and treat her well. I don’t know about this new guy she’s hooked up with. He’s quiet and I haven’t talked to him yet. Why do you think she did that?”

Flame Wrangler started laughing. “No no no, let me set the record straight,” she said. “That IS her husband. She’s still married to the same man. He just lost a bunch of weight.”

Oh My Goodness! In Groom’s journey of losing 100 pounds since I met him, it never occurred to me that someone might think he was a completely different person. This mystery customer (we have no idea who she is), saw what she believed was a new man hanging out with me. Without any facts, she made up an entire story in her mind about me leaving Groom and taking up with a new beau. I am relieved that Flame Wrangler was able to tell her differently. Thank you!

Of course, the lowest part of my week, the stuff that has me dancing with anger and feelings of powerlessness, has to do with a friend that I care deeply about, but out of loyalty, I shan’t share. If you are reading this, I love you.

Even though I will not divulge the personal details of someone else’s life, suffice it to say, the circumstances had me revved up on her behalf. So I went to Roller derby.

Yeah, baby. I wanted to kick some booty, but, alas, I am too chicken. So the next best thing? Witness some girl-on-girl catfights. I needed to channel some tough feminine energy and with names like The Skatesaphrenics, Raggedy Annhilation, Juju Doll and Monster Monroe, I felt confident the Riots of Spring thrash-n-bash was the place to be. Hey, I even gave myself a moniker…Zolorella!

Now, I had never been to Roller derby before and know nothing about it, so if any of you are fans out there, just beware that I had expectations wrapped in ignorance. I thought it might be a crash and burn evening filled with Wayne Gretzky-esque ice hockey elbow-in-the-teeth action, some obvious bad sport tripping resulting in good pile-ups on the derby freeway, a bit of rough and tumble, slammin’ jammin’ elbow/knee pad fun.

But actually, without knowing the subtleties of the sport, it looked to me like a bunch of girls skating around and around and around and around in a circle. There were almost as many referees in black and white on the rink as there were roller girls in short skirts and colorful fishnet stockings.

Instead of mayhem, broken teeth and bloody snoots, there were shrill whistles to signal time-outs and lots of hand waving in the direction of the star helmeted lead girl or “jammer.” And even more polite yes ma’ams, and oh pardons, would you like to pass? Well, certainly, go ahead. Thank you. You’re welcome.

I want this politeness and mannerly behavior in my real life, in parking lots and grocery stores, and in the bleachers for crying out loud, not on the rink!

Oh, my injury? My sore shoulder that I’ve been nursing for the past four days? Well, I did get hurt at roller derby. It was just by a clumsy fan in the stands. As he descended the narrow bleachers (aargh, we were packed inna there like-a saradinas), he kicked my shoulder with his big boot while aiming for a place to step. He didn’t even say “excuse me,” or anything, just left a big nasty bruise. Ah well, he gifted me with an opening line for this week’s entry.

As for the photographs this time, we have placed them in pairs. One in each set was taken by Groom (yes, the original!) and the other by moi. To enlarge for better detail, especially for the one that says “urban,” (did you notice the precious little shoot growing out of the curved grate?), simply click on the picture, then hit the back arrow to return to the blog.

After all these months, it never ceases to amuse us that we take similar shots, but the perspective is different. In every pair, except for the roller derby (you can see him standing in line), Groom’s are the first in the set and mine are the second. For example, Groom chose to get close and personal with the camellia while I was paying attention to its petals on the sidewalk. He shot a moon by night, I noticed one in the day.

My favorite example is the statue of the boy balancing on one arm with an eagle on his foot. Same day, same moment, different angle. Or the rocking horse. From one viewpoint, the horse is positioned in front of a bush and a wooden picket fence. Without the horse moving, the second photo reveals the background has shifted to wooden shingles and green bricks.

Isn’t that the way in life? Everyone of us is right in our own perspective, yet I have to keep in mind, the picture is always different through the lens of another.

Let Your Fingers do the Talking...

Have I mentioned the pattern that has emerged since writing The Everyday Anthropologist? I begin writing on Monday, save Tuesday for the cooling period, and then edit and post on Wednesday. Bam! Something new arrives on Wednesday evening or Thursday morning and I’m given several days to process the new, usually painful experience by Monday, when the whole process starts again.

Phew! This can be exhausting. Perhaps if I stop writing about energy and healing I can stop inviting it in and having to learn these lessons firsthand. The idea was to write about healing and forgiving, not have to live it and discover how it works on a personal level. Sheesh.

Oh, so you want an example? Fine, I’ll tell you. I woke up Thursday morning and the middle finger on my right hand was covered in red, angry bumps. Hmmm, you’ve heard the expression, “a little bird told me?” Well, what is my little birdy finger trying to tell me? Let’s see if we can suss this one out. Skin, the largest organ in the body, is expressing itself with inflamed, red, swollen bumps.

The right side of the body is said to represent the giving, masculine side compared to the receptive, feminine left side. We hold onto things with our hands, we pick them up, let them go, grasp, clutch, caress. We count with our digits, focusing on details. We gesture, sign, point fingers, make a fist; there’s all kinds of things to do with our hands.

Apparently I’m holding onto something in my energy field that needs releasing. If I had paid closer attention to my feelings, I would have had the opportunity to preview coming attractions, because what goes on inside our heads and hearts is a precursor to what we’ll soon see in the physical realm. I might have been able to express the energy in a healthy manner instead of having it stuck at my fingertips. Well, I suppose that is for me to figure out, but I did learn of a treatment that might fall under the category of “old wives tale.”

Rumor has it if you get a potato (and no, I don’t think it matters if it is a russet, a Yukon gold or a shiny new one), and cut it in half, you can rub what ails you and then bury it in the backyard under a full moon. I told this to somebody on Saturday and she asked if it would work on her mother-in-law? Ha, very funny. It’s a full moon right now, I wonder if she’ll try it!

If she does decide to approach her “loved one” with a half-potato and rub it on her, I hope she has a good excuse handy for her experimental behavior. I was simply mentioning the use of this organic method of healing for something irritating on one’s own body, but as a friend says, who has her own share of charming relatives, “Family, you can’t live with them, you can’t kill ‘em.”

Red is the color of anger, of passion, of the first chakra, otherwise known as the root or Tribal chakra. This is where our family-of-origin stuff hides, I mean resides.

Last night, as the full moon appeared on the night stage, I washed a potato, offered thanks for the situation, gestured fully with my red, bumpy, inflamed middle finger, then rubbed the freshly sliced potato all over it and buried it in the back yard. Uh, the potato, not my finger.

Speaking of red, February is all about red and pink and hearts and candy. Love is in the air. I know this to be true because the Greeting Card Guild and the Chocolate Factory tells us so. But the love I’m interested in riffing about is the much neglected topic of self-love. Group think tells us it’s selfish. But, to quote a local fishwife, “What’s so wrong with being Ish about one’s self?”

When I broached this subject with someone recently, they immediately told me I was vain enough. Wow, ouch. Okay, let’s get that elephant out of the room… Considering how awesome I am and how much I have to work with, I’m actually pretty humble. Wait, that was funny. C’mon, I was joking (was not).

Kidding aside, having genuine love for one’s self is NOT vanity. It occurred to me awhile back, if what the everlasting forecast says is true, then no matter where we go, there we are. According to spiritual traditions, whether you believe in reincarnation, the eternal barbeque or the sweet hereafter, we are the only ones we’re guaranteed to be with for all time. Shiver.

If we are our own perpetual companion, then why all the internal conflict? As much as you might love your sister, sweetheart or Uncle Floyd, there’s no promise that you’ll end up in the same place at the same time. It might happen, but when it all shakes down, we’re stuck with ourselves, so we might as well deal with it and come to terms with ourselves.

We can divorce, fire, ignore, or move away from people who bug us, but what happens when we tire of ourselves? I’m going out on a limb here, but is it possible that the number one cause of health-risking obesity, addictions, illness and other forms of misery is self-abuse? Yes, people have caused other people mountains of hurt, but once that pain stick has been dropped, do we pick it up and continue to beat ourselves? I’ve heard it said that we do not allow anyone to treat us worse than we treat ourselves. Shocking.

In this light, perhaps that bottle of liquid courage, chocolate overdose or layer of belly fat isn’t a barrier protecting us from other people as much as they’re a barrier from ourselves. What do we whisper to ourselves in the dead of night? And what about our pathetic quest for the approval of others? Why do we even need approval from others if we’re cool with who we are? Since we have access to ourselves 24/7, we have the most influence. What’s our self-talk? How do we really treat ourselves when no one is looking? With contempt, disappointment, abuse? It’s written all over us, our secret is out.

Our bodies belong to Mother Earth. When we die, she gets them. But in the meantime, they are the only possession we have that’s guaranteed for a lifetime.

We’re told that our bodies are “temples” for our spirit. What if we substituted the word sanctuary for “temple?” Our bodies were designed to be a safe refuge for our spirits, not a mound of flesh we’re ashamed of and abuse.

Wisdom tells us to love God and others as we love OURSELVES. We are the vessel, the channel through which love flows. If Love is a drug, then what are we cutting ours with? When we are blocked by guilt, fears of not being “good enough,” general disregard, then how genuine will our love be toward the Creator or how good will our love feel to others?

Well, I’ve been on my soapbox long enough. My legs are tired from standing and my voice is going hoarse from trying to convince me. We all know by now, that whatever I’m preaching about, I get to live and experience for myself.

As this week contains Valentine’s Day, how about joining me in a moment of vanity, oops, I mean self-appreciation? Yep, I think that’s what my little birdy is trying to say.