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I don’t celebrate it, being the atheistic heathen I am, but I like the candy and goodies that come along with Easter. There was lots of chocolate sprinkled throughout the office at work today.

I also like boiled eggs and when they are decorated in festive pastels, it’s especially nice.

A friend sent a few Easter pics today in an e-mail. Even though I’m not a fan of babies or Easter – I had a distinctive “Awwww” moment with this one:

Due to bug spraying in our office, we got to leave an hour early, so I guess it’s a bit of holiday leave. My plans are to indulge in my favorite passtime (that which will never be spoken of here) this evening then do my taxes this weekend.

Each year my refund shrinks a little more which is in direct relation to how long I procrastinate getting the tax returns done. I’m leaving town next week for a family gathering, of sorts, therefore it’s a must I get ‘er done this weekend.

Somewhere in there I’m sure there will be a pork product. Preferrably a spiral-cut honey baked ham sandwich, but I’ll probably have to settle for bacon at brunch on Saturday.

At any rate, to my handful of readers – have a nice Easter. Whether you celebrate it or not – it’s spring – that’s reason enough to do something special, no?

… which means it’s time for spring cleaning.

I’ve moved this blog to it’s own spot at Blogspot and, in doing so, cleaned the archives of some of the posts that were superfluous. That’s not to say that future posts won’t be full superfluous crap, but I just thought it timely to get rid of some of the posts that just aren’t relevant any longer.

I don’t know what will become of this blog. My main one is also in flux as I attempt to figure out just what I can do. What I will try to do is to avoid posting here during my blue periods… unless I can make it more universal and less self-indulgent (not to mention self-flagellating), I’ll spare you the melodrama.

I really wanted to hang on to this blog because I like the design of it… I may just end up robbing it of it’s template and giving it to my main blog… we’ll see!

I was at work about 20 minutes early. Someone at the front desk said something alarming which caused me to turn on the little television in my office and tune to the CBS affiliate station. It was the only station I could get a clear signal on.

Dark, billowing smoke was pouring out of the north tower. The synapses in my brain made the instantaneous conclusion that a plane had hit the tower even before I heard a newscaster state as much. I was quickly reaching a level of stunned disbelief commensurate with a tragic accident while I was taking in the images being broadcast on the tiny 6″ black and white screen. I was edging into a “tragic but acceptible” stage when the second plane sailed into view and sliced through the south tower.

And I went numb.

I sat for a very long time unable to grasp what I’d just witnessed. Then there was the report that a plane slammed into the pentagon. I went down the hall to see the reports on the office television – the color surprised me. Made it too real. I went back to my office to watch and listen.

Then the south tower collapsed.

Then the north tower collapsed.

My ability to comprehend collapsed.

Up until this last week, I’d avoided most reports and rehashing of the events of September 11, 2001. This past week I chose to watch two re-enactments produced by the Discovery Channel. It’s taken five years for me to reach a point where I felt I could handle it emotionally.

Today, however, the anniversary passed and I wasn’t even thinking about it. I’m wondering if that was right.

And I’m feeling a little ashamed.

And angry.

But I’m going to let the anger go for a moment. The men and women and children who were unwilling sacrifices to misguided fanaticism deserve to be remembered with peace.

Remember.

Each week, about this time, Los Bruncheros begin the discussion of where to meet for the weekly repast. The volume of e-mails centering on this subject may one day be worthy of publication. At the very least, they are entertaining, this week being no exception. For anyone out there who stumbles upon this lonely spot in the blogiverse, I thought I’d share some of the fun. It started innoncently, with notice a mutual friend was in town and the suggestion we meet at a favorite spot in the big city about 20 miles north.

Our favorite spot there, however, is not without its shortcomings, which was in discussion when a little competition was spawned:

Brunchero #1: I was concerned about the noise too, that was why I was hoping we might be in the back room, where it is less noisy. (How’s that for a run on sentence?)

Brunchero #2: Well, as run on sentences go your’s, my dear [Brunchero #1], wasn’t so bad considering it addressed a matter near and dear to most all of us, namely, the constant quest for the perfect brunch-spot that appeases all of us to the “nth” degree, as if such a place ever had a ghost of a chance to even exist in the first place.

(That’s my entry in the “run on sentence” contest. Anybody else care to play?)

Brunchero #3: Alas, I fear my runon sentence construction abilities pale in comparison to those of [Brunchero #2], who links copious verbiage together in such facile streams that flow unimpeded across the pale grey of the apple laptop screen and defy the merest hint of interruptability with their conspicuous stream of consciousness agglomeration of nouns, verbs, descriptors, punctual punctuation and timely flights of literary fancy.

Brunchero #4 (your, truly): The opportunity of epicurian delights along with intelligent, stimulating and elucidating social discourse, not to mention a welcome reunion with a friend and comrade of former Oklahoma habitation, is an opportunity which, should it be missed, would loose the moorings and set adrift the vessel so fondly known as Friendship, the very thought of which transports my piteous soul, or lack thereof, to depths known only to the dark denizen of the seas that are immortalized within the tales and tunes of centuries’ worth of sailing men (and some women) to whom we owe a king’s ransom of debt for their daring to sail into the unknown and make it known, to seek the ellusive edge of the world and wonderously discover it’s bounteous beauty and treasures, to have made the sacrifices that ultimately have allowed you and I, nay, all of us the priviledge of savouring freshly ground coffee, the succulent, squeezed nectar of newly plucked oranges, potatoes which dance on one’s tastebuds with the seasonings and flavors of the Indias, the bounty of the farms which are slowly giving way to the cancer of urban spread and corporate greed, subjects of which could be illuminated, discussed and debated once we convene at the appointed time, 10:30 am being my preference, within the brunching establishment of choice with a suitable seating arrangement that I hope, mez ami, can be easily obtained, thus allowing more time for the renewal of comity and the enjoyment of alimentary victuals.

[[UDATE]]

Brunchero #2: Gawwd! That’s one helluva rambly-assed run-on. [Brunchero #4] clearly takes the lead by several lengths. Anyone else playing or do we declare [Brunchero #4] the winner?

Brunchero #4 (your’s truly): Oh, certainly there’s a worthy challenger or two – I toss the gauntlet and insist it be ta’en up….

Brunchero #1: [Brunchero #4] wins!!!

Brunchero #3: Yowza! You win!!!

Brunchero #4 (your’s truly): Aw c’mon… Brunchero #1, Brunchero #5, yea even Brunchero #6, dare ye not to take up the gauntlet? I was looking forward to any ripostes… dayumn….

Brunchero #1: Actually, if you look way down on the list, I was the one who started all this with a comparatively small run on sentence and Brunchero #2 was just trying to make me fell [sic] better by doing one.

But, again, I pale in comparison to Brunchero #4′s obvious hidden, and heretofore unknown, talent for this sort of thing.

Brunchero #4 (your’s truly): Why yes, Brunchero #1 did initiate, which does not preclude Brunchero #1 – or Brunchero #2 or Brunchero #3 – from continuing and Brunchero #5 or Brunchero #6 joining in, and such being the case I hereby implore the competition to proceed so that I may be prevented from dwelling alone and forsaken within this alien dominion of language I seem to fallen into and from which I am having great difficulty in extricating myself….

helpeth me…

As of this writing, that’s where the challenge stands. I will post updates as they occur.

The water is pouring over my hands when I become aware of a silky soft sensuousness on my finger tips. The moment of erotic sensation is broken by the incessant ring of the phone in the lobby and the unemployed voices of customers coming in for a hopeless job search.

I reluctantly turn off the stream of cool water and return to my steamy hole-in-the-wall office to endure another mundane day without air-conditioning or adventure to rescue me from a life lived on the edge of unnoticed.

I sip my coffee and while the caffeine slowly lifts the fog which blankets my consciousness, I drift through my morning reads then ease into a routine so familiar and automatic, only the calendar on the desk bears witness to the passage of time.

Later I am welcomed home by the two creatures whose affection seems to ebb and flow according to the volume of food currently in their dishes. I ease into a nightly routine so familiar and automatic… the glow of the screen in front of me taking me into the thoughts and minds of others searching for… what? What? What is it that we want?

The next morning my hands linger a little longer under the stream of water and I’m almost able to surrender to the sensation, but stop myself for to do so I would be acknowledging an absence… an absence of… the absence of

touch.

Whatever it is, I’m sorry…

If I believed in such things, I would think that I must have offended some god somewhere and am being punished for said offense. If that’s true, I think I deserve to know the nature of my offense at the very least.

First, I get scammed by an online scheme which pissed me off – not because the scammers are bottom-feeding low-life scum, but because I fell into the trap so easily. I pride myself on my internet “savvy” – and falling prey to a scheme after years of due dilligence of researching, cost-comparing, merchant rating, et al… well, it had me reeling. Add to that my extremely low expectation that my credit card company will come through for me on the disputed charge and you have a double shot of godammit to choke on.

That was followed by my seven year old washer breaking down. Again, I’d prided myself on the deal I got with the washer and dryer when I bought them, and they were Maytags, for crying out loud. But, I got quite a lecture from the repairman who informed my my Maytag wasn’t really a Maytag and, in fact, there really aren’t any true Maytags anymore and that they are junk. He said he wouldn’t put ‘em in his house and that only brand he would put in his house was a Whirlpool. So, since the cost of repairing the damn Maytag was as much as new washer would be, I dumped it and bought a Whirlpool that very afternoon.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, a lightnening bolt strikes in my backyard and I learn the definition of haywire. I’m watching TV and for a nano-second, I think it explodes when I hear – not thunder – but a loud bang right on top of the flash of light. It’s intact, fortunately, but then there’s a loud “pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop,” coming from the study. My Homemedics Massage Chair Seat has flipped on and is in a mode of manic self gratification which I unceremoniously interrupt by unplugging it immediately.

After assuring that the house wasn’t on fire, I then discovered the EFT outlets in the kitchen and garage have all tripped and the AC unit is futzed. I spent a good hour trouble-shooting and got the AC back on. My lap-top was OK, but I dared not risk turning on the big computer. I didn’t want to know if it’d been fried, yet, and so put that off until the next day. It survived, but the cable DSL and my phone service (provided by the cable folks) was dead…. so no internet, no phone, no luck.

And my garage door opener wasn’t working either and refused to re-sync the code with the remote.

Perhaps it’s a sign that it’s time to start stocking up on non-pershibales and preparing for the 2012 crises, no?

Or maybe it’s just the universe adjusting the underwear in its crack.

The Dilbert Blog: Pleasure Unit Theory
The Dilbert Blog: Free Will
The Dilbert Blog: Free Will (part 2)
HotBits: Genuine Random Numbers

‘ve been enjoying the latest “discussion” going on over at The Dilbert Blog. Scott Adams has one of those minds that can reduce a universe of bullshit to a singularity of clarity and never lose the smirk on his face.

I applaud his Pleasure Unit Theory:

People organize their lives to get their minimum required units of pleasure. While individuals vary in terms of how many units of pleasure they need, everyone is striving to reach their personal minimum.

He’s managed to make me rethink my stance on free will which, prior to reading his little ditties and the subsequent avalanche of comments to his posts, I would have taken the favorable position. However, now I’m not so sure he’d be wrong and I’d be right.

Over-simply stated, up until now, I defined free will as our ability to captain our own ships. However, I am also a believer in cause and effect and what Mr. Adams posits is that to believe in free will and cause/effect is contradictory. As I pondered that, I had that eerie buzz of cognitive dissonance bigger brains than I can explain. Zzzzzzztttt. Brain freeze.

Go give him a read. It’ll stir your brain cells for definite sure.

Parenthetically – the last link up there is one of the beauties of the internet and how artful a can lead to b can lead to c and so on. Dilbert to evolution to free will to cognitive dissonance to random number generators….

My other self got tagged and given the assignment of writing a story using the Melissa Etheridge cover of “You Can Sleep While I Drive.” I’m barely a non-fiction writer (more of a chronicler of stuff rather than anything resembling a “writer”) let alone a fiction writer. But, I thought I’d give it my best effort. This story came from the feeling the song evoked. More of my fellow asignees can be found here here and here and here with their tales.

Only a Moment
Only a Moment

He reached for the shot of courage sitting on the bar and downed it one quick gulp. While the slow after burn of the 12 year old scotch worked it’s way down his gullet, he lit a cigarette, letting the time it took for each action – match, strike, light, inhale, exhale – procrastinate the answer to the question.

He glanced in the mirror behind the bar at his reflection and that of Hannah, sitting at their familiar stations. This had become a regular occasion – their “friday conference” they called it, born out of a need to drown the complaints of the 8 – 5 in a cocktail of friendship and commiseration. But, as so often happens, over time this meeting had become so much more than a drink after work and bitch session. More was said in the silences between them than was ever uttered out loud.

“Those things are going to -”

“- kill me.” They laughed at the ritual of this exchange.

“One more, bar-keep,” Terry said as he defiantly took a long drag of the cigarette.

“So? Are you going to take it?” Hannah asked again. She tried to keep a distance in her voice, attempting to portray the impersonal interest of a co-worker. She took a larger than normal gulp of her drink, hoping that the pounding of her heart wouldn’t betray the anxiety that was rising to the surface.

In the reflection of the mirror, Terry thought he saw something in Hannah’s eyes that quickened his pulse, but he pushed it aside because it was dangerous to hope.

“Well, it’s a great opportunity,” Terry began. He ran his finger around the rim of the shot glass. “I don’t know….”

Terry felt the moment arrive – a crystal clear nanosecond when everything he’d known or felt before became irrelevant and all that mattered was this moment and the woman sitting next to him.

Hannah looked at Terry and saw in his eyes everything she had ever hoped to hear him say.

“Terry, I….”

The cell-phone broke the moment. Terry hesitated, but then reached in his pocket to answer the device which was nagging for his attention. He downed the second shot as he flipped the phone open.

“Hi, honey…. yeah… I’ll be home in a few…. Yes… yeah, I got the offer… no, I…yes, I know you don’t want…. Yes, of course I….look, we’ll talk about it when I get home, ok?. Sure….” He paused. “Love you, too.”

He flipped the phone closed and looked up.

Hannah was gone.

“Time rushes towards us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.”
Tennessee Williams

I don’t answer my land line phone much anymore. I even abandoned caller ID because why have it when I’m not going to answer it anyway. 99.9% of the time it’s someone calling form a call center somewhere wanting to survey me, sell me something or it’s the umpteenth collection agency trying to collect a 7 year old bill for $58 that I never owed and will never pay. Never. Ever. Friends know to call me on my cell.

But when the phone rings at that time in the evening that makes you really question who’s on the other end and your heart rate kicks up a notch, I will pick it up. Again, most times it’s a telemarketer or the housekeeper calling to ask “You want me to come tomorrow?” The answer is always yes, by the way. Hell, if I could afford it, I’d have her come every day…. I’m not a slob, mind you, just incredibly lazy when it comes to domestic things.

I digress.

The other evening I was working away at the computer when the phone rang mid-evening. I hesitated for a second as I looked at the clock. I winced as I picked up the receiver – I didn’t want to have to hang up on another telemarketer. But it was just late enough to make me question.

It was my brother calling. I immediately identified two reasons he could be calling – one) he’s coming to visit or two)…..

There are rites of passage we all experience as we make our way through life. Most of us will face in our lifetime one of the most difficult of passages. The loss of a parent.

I paid the first half of my dues to that club a few years ago when my mother finally let go her struggle. No matter how much you try to prepare – it’s insufficient. It’s a hole that can never be filled. Time does bring an ease to the ache, but there’s an ever present twinge at the edge of your heart…

We got the niceties out of the way quickly and then my brother got to meat of the call. My father was put into assisted living the night before. Assisted living = euphemism for nursing home. That was the beginning of the end with my mother.

Now my father is a fighter – and my brother said he was pretty darn mad. Which was a good sign. When I called him the next day it was evident his mind is still crystal clear and his attitude was what you could call “chipper.” But his body… well 89 years is a long time. And so we enter a waiting period of a few weeks before we know what the next step will be. There may be surgery or it may be refused. Whatever will be his wishes.

I’ve cushioned myself with with a goodly amount of a child’s denial. But the reality is, my father has now entered his own rite of passage, the ultimate rite of passage I guess you could say, and I’m utterly powerless. I can’t stop time, can I?

With my chest feeling as though an elephant was sitting on it, rivers of phlegm and mucus seeping from pores I didn’t know existed, and a hacking cough worthy of life long 10 pack a day smoker, I railed against the gods for sending the infectious microcosms that were laying siege to my white blood count. But my useless invectives died on the dry air as quickly as they were uttered. My wan visage, looking every excruciating minute of its more than half-century existence, growled back at me in the mirror, a pathetic portrait of an ailing spinster. Oh hell, call a spade a spade. Old maid.

I padded to the kitchen with a roll of toilet paper under my arm – at the ready to mop up the fluids flowing and exploding out of my nostrils. I pulled back the tab on a can of tomato soup and as it jiggled and farted its way into the bowl I had a fevered fantasy of home-made tomato soup simmering on the stove top, lovingly stirred by a caring hand; me snuggled under a warm blanket, comforted by a sympathetic voice and lots of home-made tlc.

A sneeze broke my reverie. I tore off another 4 or 5 sheets of tissue, wiped my nose and shoved the bowl of gelatinous muck into the microwave. I managed to glue together a couple of pieces of bread with some slabs of cheese and brought the sandwich to crisp under the broiler in the oven. Blackened cheese sandwich with lukewarm tomato soup. Just the ticket.

Feeling sufficiently sorry for myself, I planted my ailing bones on the couch, my cats providing a proper amount of purrage while we learned of Oprah’s latest mission then what not to wear and then the right utensil for turning an omelet. Cable tv is a sick single girl’s best friend. I eventually drifted off into a robutussic coma.

I repeated this cycle for the next 3 or 4 days, the only benefit being the time off from work. The flow of fluid eventually waned, and my body dutifully began to respond to the commands my brain transmitted.

I tidied up the various litterings of the sick room and the failed attempts at comfort food in the kitchen. The clatter of the tomato soup cans in the trash bag only serving to remind me that when you’re sick, it sucks to be single.

Single. Unmarried. Never-been-married. Spinster. Although it was pointed out to me recently that the term has a definition of “one who spins,” I’m not able to ignore it’s most common meaning. This is right out of an online dictionary:

spinster- an elderly unmarried woman

While I concede the “unmarried woman part” and although I’m past the mid-century mark, I will, however, eschew the term “elderly.” Revised, then, we have:

spinster- an unmarried woman

Old maid.

Back when I was a young unmarried woman, this wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned for myself. Somewhere along the line, though, I managed to abandon the typical (for my era) young girl’s quest for a husband, 2.3 kids, station wagon and a house in the suburbs. I could blame the Women’s Liberation movement, however the movement’s more tangible influences on me were manifested in the abandonment of my of bras and cabinet full of makeup rather than instilling in me a sense of independence and ‘sisterhood.’

I’ve had a couple of relationships which danced on the edge of marriage, but for reasons I’ll leave for future posts, I retreated back to singlehood. Over time, I became extremely picky. At least that’s what ‘d tell myself. Truth be told, I think that became a convenient excuse for not having to endure ending relationships anymore. Because I’d become very good at doing that. Again, I’ll leave that analysis for a future post…

I’d even gotten to the point of being relatively happy with my singledom. I went from overly dependent to fiercely independent. In due time, I became my own best friend, honestly enjoying my solitude and learned how to take advantage of it.

But, of late, this spinsterhood, old maid-hood, singlehood has begun to weigh on me. My “elder years” not that far away in the future, I’m not so sure, now, that I want to get there by myself. And, currently, I seem to be wanting to share my experiences more. I’m good company, but I think I’m getting weary of it only being me. And my cats.

I’ve even caught myself on more than one occassion checking out the left hand of men I’ve met who seem even remotely interesting. The ring finger usually being occupied, I’m resigning myself to the reality that the “good ones” are already taken. Or gay.

But then there’s the internet. Hoo boy. Think I’ll save that discussion for a future post as well. Just the contemplation of the “D” word has me wanting to check the locks on the door, turn the phone off, hole up and retreat to the library of books on my bed-stand…

Where’re my cats?