The Green Fairy

Have you ever been invited to a goat’s birthday party? Seriously. Our invitation came engraved on linen paper, egg shell 28 bond with pageant rose ink instead of a multi-purpose desktop version. The words were flourished with Declaration of Independence fancy font, announcing the date, time and location with a request to RSVP.

Baby Goat was turning 365 days old, twelve months or one year, take your pleasure. As I’m not raising kids myself, I tend to get confused when I hear how children’s clothing is sized. Twenty-eight months, thirty-two, forty-seven, I lose track. When do months finally morph into years?

Math quiz: If I’m 543 months old, what size shoe do I wear?

Back to the invitation. I’m kidding. It was a Blue Mountain greeting card, delivered via an electronic mailman named Yahoo!

At the party, Baby and Honey Bunches of Goat were presented with a shredded carrot and almond butter birthday cake to share with a carrot candle planted in the middle. Most attendees behaved well, although there was lots of spontaneous pooping going on.

Have you ever seen a goat make deposits? Their tail-flaps lift up and out pop little pellets just like a Pez dispenser. MamaFriend thinks the pellets are the cutest things in the world. I’m surprised she hasn’t had them bronzed for coffee table art or shellacked, drilled and beaded into a necklace. When Grandma pooped spontaneously, it wasn’t as cute.

I haven’t completely made up my mind on the dog issue yet. Keep up, it’ll make sense in a moment. I know a woman who is really, really into her dogs. So much so in fact, when she grooms them, she extracts their fur from the brush, pays someone to spin it and then knit sweaters out of the doggie yarn.

I don’t know if that’s weird or not, where do you weigh in? On the one hand, people wear wool, angora, mohair – a posh word for goat fibers, and polyester. I know, those poor little darlings, does it help ease the guilt to know that polyesters are farm bred for just this purpose??

On the other hand, is there a term upscale enough to make dog hair more palatable? Not that I’d want to eat it, even though I’ve recently nibbled on goat flesh, I mean is there a phrase that inspires wearability? A “lab coat,” perhaps, suggests Groom? He’s a sick puppy too, and that’s one more reason I adore him.

So what happens when Acquaintance wears her dog fur sweater when it’s raining, won’t she smell like wet dog?

As an adopted “Auntie,” I was in the booth with my 15-year old niece when Acquaintance stopped by wearing one of her “lab coats.” When I asked Niece’s opinion, she just stared at me in the way only disapproving teenagers can do and summed it up, “That’s just wrong.”

Which reminds me, Groom woke himself up laughing the other morning. Apparently he was dreaming of Playmate Brandi Roderick’s lapse in language skills and her use of the word “forgooed” to replace “foregone,” and his psyche came up with a joke.

In his dream, Vinnie the Mobster said that a particular situation needed a “four goon conclusion.” Okay, that’s hilarious.

Wait a sec…Groom is dreaming about a Playboy bunny? Why am I laughing?

Oh, that’s because we’re in the car driving up the Columbia River Gorge. We stopped in Hood River, a town very happily hovering in it’s own economic bubble, supported by tourism. Kiteboarding and windsurfing in the summer and snowboarding and skiing in the winter. Their downtown received a large sum of money to improve its looks, and boy does it show!

We pulled over, lulled by the view of the water, the piercing blue sky and lazy breeze. How could we not stop at a place called Passport Café with a French bistro in the front and a British pub in the back?

That still does not answer why I’m laughing. That’s because their specialty is Absinthe, or what is better known as “releasing the green fairy.” I’m told it tastes like black licorice, which in translation probably means cough syrup. Since I’m such a history romantic, if I’d lived in the olden days, I’d be one of those gals sipping laudanaum out of a spiffy flask hidden in my bustier.

If it weren’t for morals and calories, there are many things I’d like to try, but I’m too chicken. The most giddyup I got is playing a rousing version of chopsticks on the piano. So right now, as I’m floating, the fact that Groom dreamed of a Playboy bunny and a “four goon conclusion” strikes me as funny.

As we continue up the Gorge, there’s the Columbia River on one side and a bouquet of rocks on the other. There are many signs to catch our eye, not the least of which is the lottery jackpot coming in at $222 million.

We’ve already done the math.

In order to receive the cash in one lump sum, the winner is presented with half, which whittles the total down to $111 mil. Then Uncle Sam will be the first in line to get his share, so that further reduces the amount by another 40%, so a cool $222 with lots of zeros is magically transformed into a paltry $60.

We could live with that.

The only problem we predict is nobody else will do the subtraction. If the world thinks we have a couple hundred million bucks at our disposal, well, Uncle Sam won’t be the only ones a knocking…

Other signs that tell us we’re heading in the right direction are the ones announcing “Highway to Happiness” and “Vacationville,” which sound good to us.

With six times ten million in our pocket, we’d want to spend a little on shoes, frippery and geegaws, but then we’d do some serious good with the windfall like set up foundations to save the polyesters, provide “lab coats” for equality, or support groups such as “Adult Children of Parents.”

We’d also shower our loved ones with a little of the loot. So if you ever receive an engraved invitation from us on linen paper, eggshell 28 bond with pageant rose ink and curly cue letters and a request to RSVP…

What would you do with $60 million?

Tastes Like Chicken

Last week, after a friend’s goat stepped on my head (I have video proof!), I wasn’t too sure about goats…but after this week’s adventure, I can honestly say I like goat. Especially with curry!

We discovered this by traveling to Bill Gatesland, home of the Sea Hawks, the Huskies, Seattle Grace and Dr. Frasier Crane.

Spontaneously boarding an articulated bus (note, if you want some extra fun, try sitting in the bellow seats, they’re super bouncy), Groom and I rode the public transport to the Fremont neighborhood where we sauntered past an Indian Restaurant. Our stomachs growled us into submission (was that yours or mine?), so we stopped to read the large menu board posted near the sidewalk. We both saw it at once.

We looked at each other. “Dare we?”

We dared and it was delicious! Goat meat is not gamey like I’d feared. It’s less fatty than lamb, so it was a perfect combination of texture and flavor. Lip smackety good.

Groom and I are such nerds. Our definition of fun is going to the Planetarium at OMSI in Portland on the way up, having sushi lunch with Bee Bugg, almost getting kicked out of Whole Foods in the Pearl District (they thought Frida was a food spy! Hee-larious), and viewing a Coffee Exhibition at the Burke Museum.

We attended John Fluevog’s birthday celebration on Friday the 15th and each got a pair of shoes. Whoo hoo, mine are bright orange. On Saturday, we hung out with the highest-ranking non-fiction writer on Amazon.com (you can look that up if you want to see who it is) and together were shanghaied into a conversation by complete strangers about the Northwest disappearing into the sea within the next 18 months. Yeah, that was fun.

The other fun thing was the U-District Street fair. The weather in Seattle was positively gorgeous, a miracle in and of itself, but sales were down from last year. Sigh, I know. Want to know by how much? One dollar. I’m not kidding, so I’m doing a little jig.

You’ve heard the phrase, “April showers bring May flowers,” well, here’s another springtime observation. When the sun finally comes out after a long spate of rain, so do the people and who doesn’t love the first of the summer B.O.?

Parades of humanity flowed past our booth, the unwashed masses in their blinding white skin suits, several of them offering their bodies for cash. One guy held a hand written sign advertising you could punch him in the stomach for five bucks while other bright individuals were letting folks staple crisp green Lincolns to their foreheads with a staple gun. Ka thunk, ka ching!

Which might explain why I had a dream that Jane Seymour (the actress, not one of King Henry’s the VIII’s harem) was Miley Cyrus’ mother. I do not know what a Hannah Montana is, but I’m pretty sure Jane S. and Billy Ray did not make it.

But I did catch that episode of My Name is Earl, where Joy, who is White-Trash American, falls in love with Ms. Seymour’s open heart necklace sold by Kay Jewelers and just had to have one.

Every day is a learning opportunity and I learned something new just today. People skills.

Or the opposite of people skills. A woman came into the booth wearing a Jane Seymour open heart necklace sold by Kay Jewelers and recognizing the design, I asked her, “Is that a Jane Seymour open heart necklace sold by Kay Jewelers?

The woman smiled and nodded, her hand instinctively touching the pendant hanging around her neck suspended from a chain, pleased that I had noticed. People skills.

Hey, I saw that episode of Earl,” I told the customer. “Joy sure wanted that necklace bad.”

Oopsey, she was not flattered.

But I was when a very handsome man in a sharp suit gave Groom the full body sweep with his eyes. “Oh my goodness, did you see that?” I squealed, “He was soooo checking you out!”

“He was not,” Groom deferred. (Pause...)“But if he was, did he like what he saw?”

“Ho baby, you got the Dude glance.”

There’s no phobia taking place here, just a milestone. Over the last ten months, Groom has lost 60 pounds and can fit into something other than Diego Rivera’s overalls. With his designer zapatos and form-fitting togs, he finally got the urban seal of approval from a well-dressed fancy man in downtown Seattle. I think my husband is becoming a Metro-sexual.

It’s been fun to watch people’s reactions to him, especially those who haven’t seen him in a while. As the Art Fair season has just begun, we’re at the starting point of visiting our annual destinations and the difference is quite evident.

A woman gasped when she saw him and boldly ordered him to lift up his coat (to his T-shirt) so she could “see his belly.” She gave it a love smack with her hand and after making certain the weight loss was intentional, congratulated him.

We ran into an artist who had also lost a significant amount of weight and while oohing and aahing over her, she confessed Groom had inspired her into it. You go girl!

At the Burke Exhibition, we learned that goats discovered coffee. Shepherds, while watching their flocks by night, noticed how the herd caught a buzz after eating the red berries from a flowering plant that smelled like gardenias.

I’m a little sleepy, so I think I’ll grab a freshly brewed cup of that red berry juice.

“Tossed salad and scrambled eggs, they’re calling again, good night Seattle…”

Getting Your Goat

At this moment I have no idea what to write about. In the last installment, I simply wanted to eat chocolate, watch mindless television, have a full body massage with benefits and take a break from personal growth lessons, but instead Companion and I went to Southern Oregon over the weekend to spend Mother’s Day with my folks and do an art show.

There’s no room at the Inn, so to speak, at the family hut, so we stay with friends whenever we make the trek to the Rogue Valley. This sounds like a normal arrangement, except, well, they’ve recently adopted a couple of kids and we’re adjusting.

And when I say “kids,” the common image of human children might sproing to mind, perhaps a couple of diapered brats running wild, spoiled kidlings with bottles and toys and general mayhem in their wake.

And yes, this is the case, only the kids are not human, they are goats. Yes, that’s right, I said “goats,” as in barnyard critters with cloven hooves, curved horns and voices that can wake the dead. Only these particular beasts wear diapers, sit on the couch or curl up comfortably next to the fireplace.

We were awakened each morning at 7am by a baby goat bleating and then bottle fed in our sleeping quarters.

In addition to the heavily aromatic goat’s milk, the “kids” are hand fed rose petals, plums (which give them the appearance of wearing lipstick), pears, bananas, organic corn chips, carrots, apples, uncooked oatmeal and the occasional Wheat thin.

The kids are named Baby and Honey Bunches of Goats. When they aren’t climbing the recliner, watching television or having their diapers changed, they have a large back yard to frolic in and specially built structures to mount.

For their outside meals, they scarf creep (starter pellets), inhale grass hay, and forage for bamboo and lilacs, but their very favorite snack involves stripping the butterfly bush.

Keeping an eye on these two is a full time job. To protect them from eating things lethal, Friends have constructed fencing around their rhododendrons and azaleas and learned via an upset stomachs (they each have two) that wilted leaves from stone fruit is a bad idea.

Goats are obsessed with their mouths and are constantly on the hunt for things to put in them. MamaFriend must pay attention at all times and whenever I’m in proximity, any string, button or loop from my clothing instantly becomes a teething ring. Can you say goat slobber?

To ruminate means to mull something over. Goats are ruminators, as in they eat and chew, eat and chew and finally swallow only to have the food land in one stomach and then come up again a bit later like a mini-vomit for them to chew some more and redirect to their spare stomach.

And here’s a little hard-earned advice: Never fart in a goat’s face.

Rooting around for food, Baby shoved her face in my bikini area. I certainly was not pleased by this turn of events, but became even more embarrassed when the male of the household announced in his baritone voice, “Oh, someone must be near their moon.” Okay, he didn’t say it quite that gracefully, but I’m already turning six shades of red.

Immediately repositioning my body to avoid further truffling, she took offense and began posturing for dominance. Disinterested in fighting with a goat, I assumed the more mature position and started to walk away. Holding a wee grudge for the Aunt Flo shoutout, I gifted her with a SBD (silent, but deadly) as payback. This gave her room for pause.

She stopped in her tracks and I swaggered down the hall, victorious in my own small way.

I didn’t see it coming.

Leaving something to sniff was my first mistake, turning my back on her was the second. Lowering her head and pawing at the white plush carpet like a bull in the ring, she snortled a puff of smoke and charged, ramming me in the tush with her horns.

Eeeeeeeeeeeee!!! Guest abuse, guest abuse.

Here comes a segue. Yep, that was it. Making a slight right turn in conversation, on Sunday, while at the show, an old high school crush and his wife came by to see us. It’s no secret to all parties involved that I used to scribble his name with hearts all around it on my Pee Chee, and still, we have an annual tradition of saying hello. I won’t tell you who he is, but I will let slip that he is related to a famous country singer and a serial killer.

He was a bit surprised to learn I don’t cook and I reminded him that I did not exactly pop out of the Traditional Box. Which is why, after the show, we went to my mom’s house so that Companion could cook her a lovely Mother’s Day meal (we had pasta carbonara, in case you are curious).

We brought our own pots and pans along with some spices and the ingredients, but forgooed any utensils. “Mother-in-Law,” Companion called, “where might I find a spatula?”

“A what?” she said entering the kitchen, a puzzled expression on her face.

“You know, a plastic scrapey thing or maybe a wooden spoon?”

“Hmmmm,” she ruminated and began looking in the oven and under the sink. After searching through this cupboard and that, she finally pulled open a drawer that contained an ice pick, a fondue fork and an old timey cheese grater. “Oh there’s my utensil drawer,” she said relieved to have found it.

“That’s it?” we said, peering inside the lonely drawer, as if we stared hard enough the tools required might materialize.

“Would this help?” Mom said, holding up a partially melted plastic ladle she pulled from somewhere mysterious.

Companion blew dust off it and shrugged. He proceeded to fry bacon with the whitley ladle and in fact, made the entire dinner with it (the fondue fork would have scratched our non-stick cookware). I was proud to watch him improvise in my mother’s “Kitchen,” and pleased that he was my Groom instead of the country singer slash serial killer’s cousin.

I smiled, knowing that even though I did not grow up with Betty Crocker (my mom’s favorite culinary text is Phyllis Diller’s I Hate to Cook cookbook), she taught me enough life skills to marry a domestic god. Thanks mom!

Setting the card table, I asked where the placemats were hiding. She handed me a roll of paper towels and said, “Here are the placemats and the napkins.”

Over dinner, she asked, “What does your Friend’s mother think of the goats?”

“Oh, she loooooves them. She bought a Grandma’s Brag Book, loaded it with photos and takes it down to the Senior Center to show them off.”

After dinner and dishes (I had to wash them with the placemats, i.e. the paper towels, as she doesn’t believe in sponges), we sat around and watched a video of Barbershop Quartets.

I considered the weekend full of masticating goats, unstocked kitchens and musical preferences and realized I didn’t have a criticizing word to say, after all, I carry around a doll and use her “voice” and point of view to write.

Question: What’s the classic definition of humor? Answer: Someone falling down. What’s the definition of tragedy? Me falling down.

Therefore, what’s the definition of weird? Pretty much anything anyone else does.

Monkey Mom

This week’s activities included a pre-Mother’s Day tea at a 105 year-old chapel. This historic Cloverdale Meeting House is currently available as a beautiful site for weddings and other social gatherings. In our event, friends congregated to sell wares, sip exotic rose milk, nosh on handmade chocolate and exchange bits of old fashioned gossip. Wanna hear some?

Let’s see…God’s Minion just became a grandmother for the second time (Congratulations!), Kimmmm’s husband is being presented with the Ashden Award for Sustainability (Way to go!), Bo Peep was commissioned by said husband to create a top hat to be worn for his audience with Prince Charles (Yeah, Baby!), Sister was bit bad by a dog (Ouch! Sorry, honey), Chakra Girl is learning to Salsa (move those hips, darlin’), cousin Mary designed us kimono’s from material brought back from Japan (Thank you!) and I overheard a musical friend talk about her “glory hole.”

Conversation was brought to a halt with that one. Huh? Upon further explanation, we learned that a glory hole is a warm place where something hard is put to melt. Yeah, that didn’t really clear things up too much. There might have been something about glass blowing in there as well.

Which brings me to this week’s spelling mishap. I’ve already mentioned Brande Roderick’s flexible use of the American language (remember “forgooed?”), but I think she may have been eliminated from the competition by pulling a Dan Quayle. While expressing frustration, Brande tried to spell crap and came out with “s-r-a-p.”

To rap, er, wrap this up, I’m pretty tired and don’t have the energy to share my windy lesson on intention and resistance. I’d rather snuggle up with Companion and watch “Project Runway,” dish on girls behaving badly (Ms. Joan and Melissa “Oh grow up” Rivers), contemplate who’d make the better, ahem, “coffee” date, the character Patrick Jane on The Mentalist or Detective Sam Tyler from Life on Mars.

I want a full body massage, to be fed chocolate, to sleep for awhile, to have toe-curling “coffee,” and not have to be anywhere or do anything or process information or learn any lessons or be challenged for a little while. Yes, I want to indulge in mindless television without losing brain cells and eat junk food without gaining weight.

On that indulgent note, I’d like to wish all the women out there a Happy Mother’s Day! Whether you diaper a goat (you know who you are), nurse a cat, pamper a dog, or have a human animal, it all counts. We nurture the earth, each other, our men, our creativity, our bodies, our businesses, our minds, our pocket books, our homes, our parents and hopefully, ourselves.

Speaking of moms, I was on the phone last night with Sister, checking on her wounded finger, when she told me this story about our mother that she’d just heard. After the telling, we argued as sisters are wont to do. “No way, that’s not true.”

“Oh, yes it is, go call and ask her yourself.”

“Fine, I will,” etc. etc.

I hung up with Sister and dialed Mother. Okay, more accurately, there was no dialing involved using a cell phone, but it doesn’t sound right to say “I hung up with Sister and punched Mother.”

“Mom, is it true?”

She verified that it was indeed.

“How come I’ve never heard this story before?”

Mom’s reply is so casual, “I don’t know, it didn’t last very long.”

“Tell me what happened!”

“I took Eldest child to the doctor and was holding her in my arms at the check in counter when I felt something tug at my leg. Naturally, I thought it was one of the other kids in the waiting room, but then the sensations dramatically changed and I turned my head just in time to see a monkey climb up my body.”

“A monkey? A real monkey? Are you sure it just wasn’t Sister as a toddler, she was so hairy and cute, you know, or another kid?”

“Oh no, this was way before you or Sister was born. It was a real monkey and all I could think was that it was going for my child.”

“What did you do?

“Oh, I don’t know, I think the woman it belonged to came and got it or something.”

“A monkey is climbing you and you don’t remember what happened?”

“It was a long time ago.”

Yep, that’s my mom, cool under pressure, doesn’t fuss much. If only I could get her to say in an Australian accent, “The monkey took my bay-bay.” Oh never mind. Love you mom.

As Mother’s Day is just around the corner, I’d like to leave you with a quote from the estimable Dan Quayle. “Republicans understand the importance of bondage between a mother and child.”

Oh, glory hole!

Cuts Both Ways

Tiddleywinks baby, the human imagination is a two-edged sword. If it’s sharp enough, it can cut your life to shreds, too dull and you’ll bore yourself to death. In fact, I believe many ailments and illments can be credited to the imagination. Not just the famous one, hypochondria, which is medically defined as “imaginary ill health,” but to a host of sneakier symptoms as well.

Let’s not panic here folks, I know the sensations are real. The pain is tangible, the throb palpable, I’m just tossing an idea into the ring that perhaps our imagination has more power and control over our lives than we realize…(I wish I could play really scary, ominous music right here to underscore my point).

If wishes were fishes I could ride a horse - wait a minute, how does that Grandfatherly wisdom go? Since I’m wishing a lot right now, I wish I could tell this next story and not make myself look like such a dork. Last week, I bared my soul to you about baring my soul to the seminar group. It all had a happy ending. I left Sunday evening full of hope and spring renewal, having lowered my shield to bond with 50 new people.

In our take-home packets, we were given a list of everybody’s names and contact information and encouraged to stay connected. Peace, love and Kumbaya, Batman, the facilitator did not need to encourage me, for I was ready, willing and able to reach out. I was free, Hallelujah!

When I arrived back at the homestead Sunday evening at the conclusion of the four day intensive, I checked my emails. Something resembling an hour had passed since the group said goodbye, so I really didn’t expect to hear from anybody that soon.

Companion and I took a walk in the waning sun and a neighbor inquired what on earth we’d been up to as we looked “so happy, content, tuned-in and appearing to have more than beans for dinner.” We graciously smiled and thanked her, oohed and aahed over her multi-colored tulips and were invited to participate in a spontaneous celebration of watering with her inaugural rain barrel collection. Eco-friendly, living green, you know, sustainability.

Well, we thought, this experience is already paying off as a neighbor can clearly see how energized we are and we giggled inwardly as a pot of beans simmered on the stove for our supper.

After a deep and sensual night’s sleep, we awoke refreshed and excited to start our day. I checked the emails. When names from the seminar failed to fill our “in box,” I told myself it was too early to hear from anybody and that most of the participants had to return to the “real world” and get straight back to work.

We nurtured ourselves all that day, basking in the afterglow, and on Tuesday, when I still hadn’t heard from anybody, I shrugged it off and reminded myself that many of them lived in other towns and probably hadn’t even made it home yet.

Wednesday, I had to soothe myself a little more. Work, kids, laundry, playing catch-up… I listed a few tasks that might prevent me from contacting new people right away.

By Thursday, the more mature aspect of my personality asked why I hadn’t reached out to anybody yet? After all, I have no children, no corporate job, no mountains of laundry or travel to recoup from. “Because I want them to contact me first,” replied the stubborn, bruised squishy part. “That will make it more special and meaningful.”

The developed voice prodded me further, coaxing me to step an inch out of my discomfort zone, “But if everybody felt that way, nobody would stay connected.” Seeing the value in that logic I agreed, “Fine! I’ll do it.”

In a mood swinging between petulant and insightful, I hunted and gathered 50 cards. One participant had expressed a latent dream to be a rock star, so I found a card that, can you believe this, had rock star boots on the cover? Another wore a lot of faux animal print, so I found a card with a border of leopard print around its edges. I recalled little details about each person and bought stickers that applied. Another woman who had emerged from her cocoon to become a butterfly, well, you get the idea.

Together, with Companion, we divvied up the cards and wrote a note to each person. Then we walked to the Post Office, purchased stamps (50 X .42 = $21.00 just in case you’re curious), and mailed them. That evening, I received my first call from someone in the group. No, she had not had time to receive our card; she took the initiative and I was happy for it.

Until…

Her first question. She asked if I was on Facebook and excitedly told me how she had connected with a bunch of people from the seminar already. Frown. A puff of grey smoke out my ears, sagging shoulders.

Continuing to check the stupid computer, I had to wait until the next Monday to receive our first “thanks for the card” email. In the header, I noticed a bunch of other names listed from our group. A few more notes trickled in and the same thing - I could tell that many people had already written to each other via the internet and not only was I not a part of that, but only a few people responded to our hand-written, decorated and personally licked stamped cards.

&^$#*%(&@!

The pain was soooo deep. Fine, if I’d been hidden away beneath my armor and nobody responded, eat a dookey. But for heaven’s sake, I revealed myself. People stood in the lobby afterwards, waiting in line to talk to ME! They held my hands, asked if we could stay in touch, asked if we could get together afterwards, told me they thought I would be a fun person to hang out with, ETCETERA fricking Etcetera.

I had been on a natural high. If I had revealed myself that much and they liked me, a la Sally Fields, really liked me, then why were they not following up on ideas that they had introduced? It sucks big smelly rotten hairy toad eggs to throw down one’s shield and then be rejected. Why do you suppose I crafted my armor in the first place, huh? Rejection hurts. Duh.

As Brande Roderick (a blonde playboy bunny on Celebrity Apprentice) said in defense of using her beauty over her brains, she “forgooed.” I’m still laughing as I type this. You don’t need to know the end of that sentence or get caught up in the goofy speculation whether I actually watch the show to appreciate the spectacular use of the American language. Is “forgooed” the past tense of foregone?

I was waxing about rejection. Was that the foregone conclusion, the only outcome? Well, I forgooed it as such. What else could it be?

Complaining and forgooing to Sister, she asked me an excellent question that stopped me in my tracks. How many people did I actually want to spend time with from that group? As my word count on this week’s entry climbs higher, I must condense the conversation to its essential point. I observed a radical gap between what I truly desired and what my imagination said I should have.

One day, an acquaintance of mine was lamenting over the phone that she was so popular she was forced to turn down social invitations and although she was sorry, we would have to postpone our date to fit more people in. I’m glad we were not in person, because as she droned on, I used several creative facial and hand gestures to quietly express my distaste for her demeanor and approach. I felt ookey after our conversation and a little sour toward the reshuffling. And here’s the weird part. Even though I mocked her to Companion, telling him I was just toooo popular to dine with him that evening, something inside me wanted to be like her. What the-?

I suddenly wanted to be popular enough to have more social engagements than I could handle. If she was, then I needed to be. (I warned you I was going to come out of this looking Dorky!).

Sister’s question forced me to look at what I really preferred instead of some imaginary goal to keep up with the Smith-Joneses. I realized that my imagination had cleverly set up a requirement that all 50 people must contact me to prove that I had truly been a success. In reality, I liked several enough to stay connected, but what on earth would I do if 50 new people suddenly expected something from me???

I laughed with Sister, telling her that I had already received a few cards in the mail and some more emails and had been invited to various places with the people I really liked. I hadn’t been focusing on the ones that clicked, but instead, pouting over the ones who hadn’t reached out.

Last Saturday, a couple more people stopped by our booth at the Market to say hello, and, not being able to help myself, I asked (trying to assume an air of casual inquiry), “So have you heard from all the people in our group yet?” They laughed and said No, that they had heard from one or two, but had been so involved with getting back to work, dealing with loss and whatsuch that they hadn’t been able to think about anything else but what was on their plates.

I recalled other bits of information. Not everybody who attended the seminar was there for personal enlightenment. Some were barely hanging on, some were going through nasty divorces, some had lost children, some were having major health crises, and some were just plain lost, looking for a lifeline out of the depression.

Not everybody attended with their partner. Not everybody had a partner. One woman was homeless, carless and jobless. Not everybody was happy with their lives and simply looking for a tune-up. Some were trying to stay sober.

I understand why it’s called a punch line, because the lesson punched me in the gut. Question: If I am blessed with so much, why am I allowing my imagination to dictate an order to collect responses from people as proof that I’m valid? Some of these folks don’t have the ink to stamp their own papers, so why did I set up a fail-fail system where I need to get something from people who don’t have it to give? What kind of pathology is that?

If the pattern of writing this blog stays true to form, I expect I’ll discover an answer this week. Uh-oh, do I need to fasten my seatbelt?

Raw and Exposed

Last week, I bragged on Kimmm, and this week I’m considering tooting. My own horn, of course, but not until I’ve taken the opportunity to beat myself up a wee bitty beforehand. Evens things out, don’t you see. Oh don’t act so shocked, most of us subscribe to the belief that “we’re a piece of crap that the entire Universe revolves around.”

My philosophy has been, since I’m made out of butt-dust (“We are but dust” Psalms 103:14), I might as well decorate it and call it art. So I’ve gone through life trying to camouflage the stank by throwing glitter, rhinestones, jewelry, flowers and big hair at it.

If my life up ‘til now was a 45 record, with a song on each side, the title of my personal soundtrack would be, Hiding in Plain Sight.

The first song I play over and over, apparently to induce hypnotic boredom, is my basic premise, the source of issue and pain. The music is jazz discordant, played in a minor key, off tune, with a drunken bass player and a whacked out drummer (i.e. no rhythm to speak of).

The lyrics are hideously repetitive: “There is something fundamentally wrong with me and I know you can see it.” Yep, that’s pretty much the whole song. Oh, the words vary slightly with the ever evolving tune, depending on the situation, but you get the gist.

The flip-side of my personal 45 is a sweet, up-tempo melody, with a shake-your-booty gospel choir in parts, a sliver or two of accordion tango drama, and an underlying smokiness of Middle Eastern belly dance. It’s invitational. Inspiring. Uplifting and mysterious.

In my head, the message plays out in a soulful, yet pop starry way: “I am a creative, bright spot in a dark world and I want to share my spark with you. Why can’t you see it?”

Let’s boil it down and make a reduction sauce out of this: “I can dance the Path of Beauty, No, I’m a doody, no, I’m a princess, no I’m Gomer’s pile, no, I’ve got potential, no I’m Winnie’s Pooh.”

Waaaaaaa, somebody make it stop!

I called God’s Minion (I love having her direct line). Sure enough, she was supine again, luxuriating in her fancy bed. (She looooves this bed, remember?) I told her that I had recently become aware of these two messages playing in my head and it was driving me bonkers.

In her slow Southern style, well, actually, in her quick witted Southern charm (sorry, Black Velvet), she unpinned the tail on the donkey and removed my blindfold. “Girl, you got to stop playing those records. It’s like you got a sign on your back. Worse even, you got bleed over.”

Uh-oh, I’ve got bleed over? Sounds bad. Is there a cream or a poultice for that? I often feel like I have tender spots, where things have scabbed over, and then I emotionally pick at them until they bleed again. Like that?

The bleed over, as it turns out, is the obnoxious, annoying place where my two songs collide - that uncomfortable space between stations where static and stray notes rule the airwaves.

“Your job is to fine tune your station to the best song you can and the other, junky one will fade away. When you play the whiney, ‘something’s wrong with me’ track, you draw people who are a match to that low vibrational tune.

“When you flip it over and play your happier song, then livelier people show up who want to hear more, but as they draw near, they encounter your bleed over and static. It’s very confusing. You’re sending mixed messages and offering conflicting energy. The sad, off-tune people don’t want to hear your perky song and people rooted in well-being don’t want to hear your funk.”

Wow.

It was with this mental construct, my two songs blasting in Dolby stereo (okay, I don’t know what that means exactly but it sounds audio-ish, right?), that I said YES to a four day seminar immediately upon our return from Japan. You’re right, I’ve already mentioned this fact, but there’s more to say about it.

New chapter title: Just because I’m paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get me.

Ha, prior to my four days of education saturation, I would have phrased it, “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you,” but I’m learning to take personal responsibility.

I waltzed into the seminar, confident there was something wrong with me and that everybody could see it. This fact did not make me happy. Au contraire, it has been making me Miz-er-a-bull. I was primed for a change.

The tipping point for me was when a woman dared to speak her truth. In a moment I shall never forget, she took the floor and admitted that although her whole life was about empowering women (her work, her education, her passion and interest), whenever she saw a woman that she thought was beautiful, well-dressed, poised and appearing in possession of herself, it made her feel sooooo bad that she would purposely pick and probe until she discovered a weakness and find a way to bring that woman down.

Now, I didn’t think she was speaking about me, but I have spent years cultivating the skill of throwing glamour and fashion on a foundation of dung (yeah baby, it’s called art) and I knew with certainty, her statement held a key for me.

Later, when it was my turn to speak, I admitted my vulnerability and told the room full of people how I believed there was something wrong with me. It was a profound moment. One person raised her hand and said that when I first walked into the room and saw me, she felt like I was so self-assured that I didn’t need anything.

The facilitator addressed the audience and asked how many other people had felt the same way about me. Almost every hand in the place shot up. What?! To condense the experience, the feedback I received was that people perceived no vulnerability and in fact, had felt quite inadequate standing next to me. I was really, really shocked. How could this be? I mean, my flaws are so obvious.

Then the woman who had spoken first came up to me privately and said that I was the person in the room she’d been talking about. I could hardly decipher her words. Her mouth was moving, but how did people’s perception of me conflict so wildly with the belief in my head?

Through this intense seminar, I learned that hiding behind my armor was the thing “wrong with me.” My shield was on auto-pilot and I suited up like a warrior just to go outside. My chilly demeanor immediately triggered other people’s protection and my interactions have often been barrier-to-barrier rather than heart-to-heart. A line in John Mayer’s Say rang true for me, “Walking like a one man army, fightin’ with the shadows in your head…”

Standing in front of the group, I dared to let down my shield. In that instant, so did everyone else. To witness fifty human beings collectively lowering their guards to reveal themselves to me as I stood there emotionally naked was magic. I have never experienced anything like it. I mean, I saw people, humans, maybe for the first time, instead of werewolves.

Like a duck imprinting on its mother, I felt connected to these first humans on planet earth. I was seeing, really seeing them and I couldn’t believe how beautiful they were. It made me a little sad for all the time I’ve spent sequestered in a cocoon of wounds, protective gauze and counterfeit jewels, too afraid to reveal myself and in turn, making other people too afraid to reveal themselves.

Breathing easier, I showed up at the Saturday Market, determined to keep my heart open. Sitting in the booth, I overheard two vendors talking. I wasn’t exactly eavesdropping, but I distinctly heard them say my name.

“What did you guys say?” I asked, sticking my head into their booth.

“I said everybody’s got stuff to deal with, except maybe you. Seems like your stuff is good, that you’ve been working for the last few years to get your mind in a good place, I admire that.”

Okay. I almost fell off my chair into the fountain. The very day I decide to stay open, I receive an unsolicited opinion from a person I had no idea was paying any attention in my direction one way or the other, much less that her perception would be that “I didn’t have stuff.”

After hearing the other people in the seminar group admit how lonely and inadequate they felt, I could let go of my ragged premise, my worn-out song and now I get to work on my new lyrics. I told you I was going to toot. Now, what rhymes with “stupendous?”

Hats Off

Calendar wise, the Eugene Saturday Market opened this year on April 4th, but I was busy getting my wings, so our official first day was April 11th. I floated on air throughout the entire day, reuniting with friends, selling our wares, sharing hugs, sipping coffee and exchanging tiddly bits. Not exactly gossip, as that would be about other folks behind their backs, but more juicy bits of drama from the dark days of winter to the light of spring. Oh, another way of saying it would be “playing catch up” or having a good chin wag.

The one that sent me into bottle shock was Kimmmm’s news. My spell checker is having a fit and I’m telling it, yes, her name does contain a lot of mmmmm’s. How many precisely, I’m not sure, but quite a few. Alphabet conjugation aside, her news sent me reeling, kinda like I’d been kicked in the goolies. She delivered it with such panache and style, too. Kimmmm began with a fashion quandary and demurely asked, “What should I wear to meet Prince Charles?” Huh? What?

Bob’s your uncle, me mate is off to London Town to bear witness while her husband is recognized by the Royal family for his humanitarian work. Crikey Moses, I was chuffed to bits for her. Sounds like I was cheesed off, huh? Nope, it means I was really pleased.

After I got the lowdown and felt all squidgy (soft), I bumped into a friend, Bo Peep, I hadn’t seen for donkey’s years. “Guess what?” I said, all sixes and sevens. “Have you heard Kimmm’s going to meet Prince Charles?” I filled her in on the details, including the one where Kimmmm celebrated with London street revelers on his 30th Birthday in 1978. It had been a teenage fantasy of hers to meet the dishy Prince and now 30 years later, she gets to do it.

“That Kimmm is the bee’s knees,” I extolled. “She may be one of the best manifesters I know.”

Bo Peep was intrigued. “How so?” she asked.

What surprised me next, is that I didn’t jump into all the material goods that come to her as if by magic (although they do), nor describe any cracking procedures she follows along the Law of Attraction path. Instead I began to tick off a few of her qualities.

“Kimmm’s very accepting of people and situations. Her offence-meter seems to be turned down low and she allows people to be themselves without needing to control the outcome. Besides being beautiful and brill, she simply doesn’t spend the energy being brassed off all the time.”

Believe me, this woman has a career where being offended could be her full time job. Right then, I grocked how aerodynamically she glides through this world, without all the drag and clutter on her being. She avoids the aggro and therefore does not gather resistance on her way to what she wants.

Ah-ha moment. When I spend my energy and time in a beastly and barmy mood, poised and ready to be offended by what other people do and say, or especially by what they don’t do or say, I am creating a shambolic atmosphere for my rockets of desire. Bollocks! How are they supposed to land when I am in chaos, offering resistance at the same time I launch my requests?

Last June, during Royal Ascot, when the Brit elite don fancy hats and watch horseracing on Ascot Heath in the historic county of Berkshire, England, Kimmmm sent me amusing photos of posh women in their outrageous millinery. For several days in a row her emails included hats. I sashayed into her office toward the end of that week and noticed several round boxes stacked by her desk. “What’re those?” I nosied.

Horses for courses, if Kimmmm didn’t ceremoniously uncover the mystery boxes one by one to reveal heavenly chapeaus in luxurious textures and colors. “Where’d ya get those ace toppers?” I squealed.

“Oh,” she said casually, with a shrug in her voice, “So-and-So was cleaning out her closet and decided I might like to have them.”

Bite your arm off, Kimmm had just spent several days enjoying Royal Ascot pageantry, and voila! smart hats to rival the horsey diva’s arrived at her office step. Her clarity plus enjoyment equaled a friend daft with envy. Ooops, did I just write that out loud? I meant to say, her clarity plus enjoyment equaled a bunch of fabulous new hats, Easy Peasy, with no real effort or struggle on her part.

‘ello? Sometimes I’m just gormless. While I whinge and complain, struggle and resist, she’s over there looking jammy and twee. I sound like the little boy who didn’t want to do his math homework. “If you could whine every five minutes, how many things could you whine about in an hour and a half?”

“Eighteen.” Sheesh.

Deepak Chopra suggests that we “slip into the gap.” Umm, I don’t know what that means. Is he a paid spokesman for the apparel retail chain and I’m supposed to find happiness and contentment by wearing what everybody else is told to wear? You know the commercial, “Everybody in stripes.” Codswallup.

Upon further investigation, Mr. Chopra (I wonder if close pals call him “Dee” for short?), describes the gap as “the silent space between thoughts.” Hoo boy, I don’t have any of those. The thoughts in my head take up all the space and more. Sometimes it would be handy to use one of those innovative PODS storage units, where the company delivers a weather proof container and I could get rid of my excess thoughts and then “slip into the gap.” I’m certain there’s a healthier route to clearing out the mental clutter, but that’s what I came up with today.

So with a head full of crowded thoughts, I have created an alternative definition of the G.A.P. -- a life of Gratitude, Abundance and Purpose. Maybe if I’d offer more thanks and ta, I could be like the customer on Saturday who answered my, “How are you?” with “I’m doing really, really great, but don’t worry, I’ll get better.”

And as Vickie Getchell says about her guardian angel, “Her wings are broken, but her tennis shoes are smokin’.”

Cheerio my cheeky monkeys!