Note to Self

Never, ever blog when you've just shared an entire bottle of wine with your sister.

Sigh. In retrospect, my blog last night now sounds pompous and arrogant, so I will beg y'all's forgiveness....

Which has me thinking one last thought about sin...In my very humble opinion, most sin has its origins in cowardice. And, when you come right down to it, at times, we are all cowards, ergo, we are all sinners.

Forgive me my cowardice, and I will forgive you yours.

A Quarter of Courage

You always wished you could buy your courage
At the corner store of your integrity
Getting your quarter’s worth
When you needed it most, frugal but forthright
Using what was necessary
Saving the rest
For later.

You always wished you could buy your courage
And store it in the cellars of your celebrity
Calling upon it to raise you to greatness
In your ordinary life
When injustice surfaced and you
Were tempted to look
The other way.

They teased your cousin, called him queer
Astutely squeezing his difference
And forcing him into a mold
They could understand.
“Stop!” you shouted and stomped your foot
Defending him
Or wanting to.

The bright eyed girl in yard sale clothes
Without a dollar for the fourth grade flute
Sat as the other kids struggled
To find the music
Hidden in the notes on the pages
Reminding herself
She has value.

You always wished you could buy your courage
And find it in abundant supply
Instead of having to worry
That it will desert you
When you call upon it to save you
From the regrets
Of cowardice.

You always wished you could buy your courage
When you were a kid, alone in the dark
Scared of sounds, footsteps of the night
fearful of going to sleep.
At forty four, you find from the future
That the wellspring
Flowed freely.

Sin, Part II

I forgot to mention that my sister is visiting me, along with her daughter-in-law and her 4 month old grandson. Trayton is perfection. He is wide-eyed innocence and open hearted generosity. His smile lights up the whole room. He knows no prejudice, except a preference for his Mommy’s voice. He welcomes strangers and gurgles to anyone who will pause long enough to capture his glance.

Sin? Sin? Can I really breathe that word in the same blog as Trayton?

My sister’s grandson.

I think I’m in love.

Sin

Today’s sermon is brought to you by the makers of Viagra, Trojans and Southern Comfort. Between the three of them, you are certain to safely go where no man over 45 was probably meant to go.

Today, I’m gonna talk about sin. What is sin, and who gets to decide? Webster defines sin the noun as one of three things, a transgression of theological principles, a shameful offense or an estrangement from God. Sin as a transitive verb is defined as to knowingly do wrong or to commit a shameful offense, such as to live in sin. Reading those definitions, I would conclude that sin is going to be different for each person, for each religion, as a transgression of theological principles will be different with each religion, a shameful offense will be different, and an estrangement from God will depend on who you define God to be. My sins will be different from your sins. A Jewish person might think its sinful to eat a cheeseburger, because that is a transgression of theological principles. A Muslim might think the same about a woman going out in public with her head uncovered. A Hindu would be sinning to eat meat.

On the other hand, is sin not a little simpler than even Webster defines? Is it not a sin to simply cause harm to another person? Is that not the real teaching of most religions? It is my belief that the only sin we commit is when we break the golden rule. If we treat other people in a manner contrary to how we would want to be treated, it’s a sin.

That’s why its sinful to steal. Or lie. Or murder. Or commit adultery. I don’t do ANY of those.

Some of the other sins, I take issue with.

As long as I treat other people in a kind and respectful manner, am free from sin? Take lustful thoughts. I admit, I have an abundance of those. They invade many, many of my waking moments, more than a 45 year old woman should ever admit to. But does it cause anyone any harm? Are those thoughts, in and of themselves, sinful?

If I am honest, trustworthy, kind and considerate, am I free of sin?

Or…by virtue of being alive, am I honor bound to be a sinner?

I like Betty. I think she’s funny, and kind, and a person I am always seeking to know better. A kinder heart, a more generous heart, you would have a hard time finding. Is she perfect? God no. She’s late for everything, she has an absurd sense of her own importance, and sometimes, she’s just plain a big show off. But is she a sinner? Does she transcend theological principles? Depends on the theology. Does she commit shameful offenses? None that she is ashamed of. She lives her life as if it could be printed on the front page every day. Not that others wouldn’t think some of what she does is shameful, but she’s comfortable with it. Depends on the theology. Is she estranged from God? Lord, no. God walks with her, asks her advice, gives it pretty freely, too. Shows his pleasure with her every time she looks outside her window to admire her flowers, or watches her boys sleeping.

Betty’s not a sinner. She follows her heart, which admittedly, she wears on her sleeve. Dangles it there, actually, which is not very smart, but is certainly not a sin. Sin is over rated. Save it for the people who deserve it. Those who intentionally pollute rivers, and exploit poor folks, and think that business is business and there is no place for conscience in the workplace. Save it for the drug dealers, and con artists, and those who prey on the weak. Save it for the politicians who barter lives for wealth or who line their pockets with the sweat and blood of their constituents.

Save it for those who have no compassion for other’s pain. For those of us who do treat others as we would have others treat ourselves, I’ll take a pass on the guilt.

This blog was not meant to offend, but is simply a reaction to thinking about sin all day today. I ask no one’s forgiveness. I own these thoughts, but do not project these thoughts as applicable to anyone else. I sit not in judgment of others who think differently.

Humble

I had an accident a week ago, rendering my mommy mobile not so mobile. The insurance company will pay me $10 a day to drive my own car, or $16 a day towards a rental car. I figure a rental will cost me at least $20 a day, so I opted for the $10 a day, and I’ll drive my mother’s car.

My mother’s car is a 1986 Toyota Corolla, rusted over the tires, no power anything, no sun roof, and on occasion, it will stall at a stop light, for no apparent reason. Now, the car starts right back up, but I usually feel pretty silly when that happens. And, for the first time in 20 years, I’m the driver folks are shaking their fists at, and swerving angrily around as I coax the car back to life.

I come from a long line of poor white folks…rusted out cars are almost a family tradition and certainly were welcome when I was growing up, as long as they ran. Anything motor powered beats walking or riding a bike. My mommy mobile was the first new car I’d ever owned, and boy, was it nice to have those power windows, and power locks, and power seats and oh…all those cup holders! I never knew how much I liked those cup holders until now. And the reliability. I don’t think my mini van ever stalled on me. I was religious about getting regular tune ups and oil changes and all that good stuff, so the car always ran well. This whole experience of driving an old beat up car has been good for me, reminds me of how fortunate I really am, and will be again when my mini van gets fixed…if my mini van ever gets fixed….if my mini van can be fixed….sigh.

I took my 9 year old son to see Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy tonight. Someone told them about my blog about shoes. It turns out, the most important question of the universe is….Are these the right pair of shoes? Actually, its “Is she the one?” but same difference. Good movie, I bonded with my boy over Icee’s, popcorn and a bag of Starburst.

Does the Shoe Fit?

How do you know?

Or as a friend of mine said, if the shoe fits, wear it? But what if it fits in all but one way? What if the shoe fits, but you were looking for something in green, to match all the green clothes in your closet, and these shoes are blue? What if the color is perfect for almost everything in your closet, but is a little tight across the ball of your foot? How do you know which pair to pick? What if you wear the shoes for awhile, but the fit just gets tighter, a little more uncomfortable? Damn. What if you see a pair, your heart skips a beat or two, but you pass them by, for any one of a variety of reasons? Can you go back and buy them later, or once you pass them by, are shoes unforgiving? How do you know?

My friend wrote about shoe shopping. Being a writer, I assumed he was speaking euphemistically. Turned out he was just talking about shoes. Of course he was, he’s a MAN! I’m not talking about shoes. I love shoes, have several pair in my closet, although my favorite pair are my Birkenstocks that look kinda funky, but fit my feet perfectly. I wear them almost every day in the winter, wear my thongs in the summer. But back to my original subject, my discussion about shoes, which isn’t at all about shoes.

How do you know whether or not the shoes you saw yesterday and really liked have been discontinued? Or worse yet, have already found another closet. Often, there’s nothing posted. Sometimes, even the price tag is hard to read. There’s this pair of shoes I keep thinking about, shoes that haven’t gotten anywhere close to my closet. I don’t see them in the stores much anymore. I’m thinking, those shoes have probably been purchased…and were maybe out of my price range anyway. But how do you know?

I found a pair of shoes recently, and I am thinking about taking them home. They are shoes that are very familiar and are basically comfortable, almost any one in my family of origin would be deliriously happy with these shoes. But now, I’m thinking that I’ve already outgrown them, in just a few weeks’ time. That’s not a good sign when you are shoe shopping. That brings up another subject. I’m tired of shoe shopping. I really just want one pair. I’d be happy to just junk all these other shoes clamoring to get into my closet if I could just find one pair that really fit. I’d like an all weather pair, in a color that would go with everything I don’t want too high a heel, because I plan to do a lot of walking in those shoes. Those shoes need to be prepared for regular workouts. But I want a pair that is stylish, too, a pair that will keep my heart beating fast every time I slip them on.

Durable. Did I mention durable? I don’t want to have to buy a new pair every couple months. I want high quality leather and craftsmanship.

I can’t say that price is not a factor, but I’d be willing to pay a little more, maybe even a lot more, for the perfect fit. Is there such a thing?

Do shoes have to be politically correct? Can you have a pair of shoes that chooses different parades in which to march, or must they dance to the beat of the same drummer? They say opposites attract…a left foot moves best with a right foot. I mean, two left feet is just asking for stumble.

Is it too much to ask of a pair of shoes that they make you laugh? That on occasion, they give your feet a little tickle? Are shoes supposed to be primarily functional, or can you get a pair that meets a variety of needs? It’d be nice to find a pair of shoes that knew what I meant when I use the word “euphemistically”.

And when you’ve picked a pair, and they fall apart, do you just vote with your feet and walk away? Or do you try to mend them? How do you know?

The cobbler’s children often have no shoes. What the hell does that have to do with this story, except that I’m a CPA and my tax return still isn’t done.

April Snow

It snowed yesterday, here in Cincinnati. I was driving with a friend to pick up my son, the inky dark of the night a canvass to the silently falling snowflakes, visible most prominently when the headlights gleamed across the street lights. Nothing accumulated, nothing was left behind to verify that it had happened. It could have just been a dream, like the one I had last night about Oprah reading my blog. No soft, white footprints, no guileless snowman smiles. Even the flowers seemed to not mind the momentary lapse back into winter, a month into spring. The azaleas and lilacs and redbuds are still bursting forth in full glory in my front yard this Sunday morning, the sun attempting a tentative comeback. Did it really happen? Did it really snow? Did Oprah really read my blog?

I bought Kevin a new bike today. His old bike is too small for him now, he's almost a pre teen, as he informed me this morning. His brothers are still using their bigger boy bikes, and Kevin has always had to ride their hand me downs. This is his first brand new one. Nothing fancy, just a basic 24” 21 speed bike so that he can ride in the annual May Fete Bike-a-thon in two weeks. His two older brothers are both bike-a-thon champions, winning three consecutive years in a row. He is five years younger than my middle son, so now its his turn. It wasn’t even his birthday. I bought him the bike because he got really good grades on his report card last week and his dad no longer offers a monetary reward, since he dropped out of the picture in January. Kevin was so proud of his grades. He asked me hopefully if I would pick up his Dad’s tradition of $20 for an A, $10 for a B. I had never liked the idea of a monetary reward for grades, and regretfully shook my head. But a bike…I could do a bike. Between pride about his grades and pride about his bravery during his surgery on Friday, a brand new bike seemed to be an appropriate consequence.

So now, Sunday slumbers by, my middle son at lifeguard training, my oldest son playing poker in the dining room with his friends, discussing the glory of Friday’s prom, my youngest son shivering outside, determined to show off his new bike and matching helmet, and to see if anyone notices his now toothless smile. Sometimes I feel like I’m right on the edge of something important, something earth shattering, something life changing. It turns out, I am. Its called childhood.

Snow in April, but the flowers bloom anyway. How apropos for my life.

Sleep

My baby had oral surgery this morning. I have to whisper when I say that because my baby is almost 10 years old, the youngest of my three sons, and he doesn't like it when I call him my baby. He had an extra baby tooth fused to his left front tooth, which wouldn’t come out. He also had an extra permanent tooth keeping his other permanent teeth from coming down the way they should. The oral surgeon removed the fused teeth, another baby tooth and the extra permanent tooth…I’m going to have to take out a loan to fund the tooth fairy. Just kidding. I’m sure there will be some discussion about whether the fused teeth counts as one tooth or two. I’m pretty sure I’ll lose that argument.

They gave him laughing gas, he got to pick the flavor. He was worried about the IV, but after they got the needle in, he expressed surprise that it was as easy as it was. He was laughing and joking, making the nurses laugh, making me laugh, even bringing a smile to the stern faced surgeon. He started getting drowsy, and the backs of my eyes started to prickle. Why is it so difficult to see your baby go to sleep? I’m not a worrier. That has always been someone else’s job in my family…my mother’s, my ex husband’s, my sister’s, even sometimes my best friend’s job, or my office manager’s job. I don’t worry about stuff I can’t do anything about. I couldn’t guide the hands of the surgeon, or map out a strategy for my son’s youthful body to negotiate the trauma of oral surgery and anesthetics. All I could do was make sure that the last words he heard before he went to sleep was the voice of his mother telling him that she loves him.

Just like I do every night.

The surgeon asked me to wait in the waiting room…I mean, that’s why its called the waiting room…so you can wait, while they cut on your sleeping son. I tried to write in my journal while I waited, tears coursing new paths down my cheeks. It only took about 15 minutes, and then I felt silly. The nurse came in to invite me into the recovery room and I took a quick swipe across my eyes and pasted a bright smile on for my little boy. He had the hiccups. He was still pretty groggy, but determined to talk around the wad of gauze in his mouth. He asked me if the surgery was really over, and if he had really been asleep because it sure didn’t seem that he had been. Because I am fluent in little boy gauzymouthese, I understood every word. I assured him it was over, and as soon as we got home, he could have all the ice cream his tummy would hold. He asked if we could go to Hollywood Video so he could rent a game because the cartoons during the day were all for little kids, and he asked if I would bake him a cake, even though its nobody's birthday. Like I could say no.

Tonight, his older brother will go to his first prom, and he’s going with a girl he adores. I went with him to pick up his tux. Sometimes the beauty of my children takes my breath away, and seeing him in his tux was one of those moments. I will proudly take pictures of him and the sweet girl he’s taking tonight. He asked if I would make breakfast for his date and his friends after the Afterprom…at 5:00am. My heart choked with pride. I mean, that’s a compliment, right?

He won’t sleep tonight. He will remember tonight for the rest of his life. So will his little brother. His little brother will remember the smell of strawberry laughing gas, and the taste of gauze, and maybe he will remember that his mother was there, laughing at his jokes, getting him ice cream, renting one of those horrid video games, baking a cake, the sweet smell permeating the house, and telling him she loves him just before he went to sleep.

Even if he doesn’t, I will remember.

Y'all Come Back now..ya hear?

Your Linguistic Profile:

65% General American English

10% Dixie

10% Midwestern

10% Upper Midwestern

5% Yankee

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

/a

Forgiveness

I planted flower seeds weekend before last. They were seeds from Mickey's garden, and the memories of the flowers in his yard were bittersweet as I worked the soil. Today, as I perused the fish pond, I saw that two plants had sprouted from those seeds, but as I then looked more closely, I saw that several of the seeds lay on top of the soil, still swollen with the possibility of growth, but still dormant, as they needed the protection of the earth to germinate. I stuck my finger into the rain drenched soil and replanted them, hoping indeed, for another demonstration of God's unrelenting forgiveness, and demonstrating for him, my eternal optimism that it will be forthcoming.

I’ll keep you posted.

If only the insurance companies were so forgiving. The woman who broadsided me on Tuesday called yesterday, insisting that I ran the light, that her light was green, and why was I lying to the insurance company. For an instant, I second guessed myself. What if I wasn’t paying attention? What if the memory I had was of the day before, or the week before, or any of the thousand times I’ve pulled out of my work parking lot, stopped behind another car at the light, then proceeded across the intersection when the light changed. What if I was preoccupied with Scott’s impending Prom, or the ongoing battles with my ex, or the never ending trials and tribulations of running a business and being a single mother. What if I was wrong?

Perhaps I’m losing my mind.

Or…perhaps it is natural to doubt oneself when confronted with oppositional opinions. Lawyers of the world have this trait down pat, exploiting it at all possible times to render a witness irrelevant…whether or not the witness is testifying truthfully. I am not out of my mind. I don’t run red lights, even when I am distracted. Tuesday was not a distracted day. I was in a good mood, was not running late, was clear headed and focused, and remember what I have been trained to remember, and that is, the details. I’m a CPA. Even more so, I’m an auditor. I get paid to pay attention to details. In our office, I’m the one who proofs things, because the details just don’t get by me. Its my name on the bottom of the opinion page, so it better be right.

I forgive myself for my doubts. I forgive myself for my cynicism, for my prejudice, and I am pleased with myself for recognizing it for what it is. By recognizing it, at least I acknowledge that it exists and I can work on changing my thinking. But, I have no intention of going against what my head, my heart, and my sensibilities say is true. I pulled out of the parking lot, stopped behind a car paused at a red light, watched the light turn green, and was broadsided when I crossed the intersection. It doesn’t matter what color the other driver was. That is the true test of racism. I can stand my ground regardless of the color of the other driver.

I have no idea how the insurance companies will discern the truth, how they will determine who gets to be judge and who gets to be judged. I can only state my truth clearly and succinctly and accept that a judge greater than me will eventually render a verdict.

“Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who have trespassed against us…and lead us not into temptation…” Jesus

I’ll keep you posted on that, too.

Universal Truth

I had an accident yesterday. I was leaving work to pick up my almost 17 year old son to take him to the doctor. I pulled out of the parking lot into the street. There was a car ahead of me, stopped at the stop sign. The light turned green and the car ahead of me proceeded through the intersection. I followed, but a car going south on Gilbert thought she had the green light and crashed into me. She spun my car around, and I almost hit a parked car. I was shaken, but not stirred, immediately calling 911 to get a police officer…except I called 411 instead, getting directory assistance. Now why would I do that? I knew the number… The police came, the only witness to the accident left as soon as he heard the siren. The woman in the other car writhed in agony, crying that her neck hurt. There wasn’t any blood. Her fender was dented and the hood of her car was slightly bent. I watched her curiously. I wanted to be sympathetic. I wanted to overcome my skepticism and comfort her. My neck was tender, my car was totaled, she hit me, and I was walking around calling the ambulance, calling the police, calling the insurance company, calling the tow truck, calling my son, calling the doctor to cancel the appointment. My gut said that her pain was unjustified, but what did I know. I had my seat belt on. Maybe she didn’t. I wanted to be kind, I wanted to be noble, I wanted to see past the color of her skin, the “Thank you for not breathing while I SMOKE” and “SKIN ART…our pricks last forever” bumper stickers adorning the back of her bumper. I wanted to believe that her pain was sincere, that she had insurance, that her memory of the accident would match mine. I slap myself now that all of those things were so difficult for me. I guess I’m not as liberal as I like to think I am. It made me feel like a hypocrite. I watch the ambulance scream away, sick to my stomach at the confrontations ahead of me as our insurance companies battled this out.

This morning, I awoke, expecting my neck to hurt, but it didn’t. I smiled at my good fortune. The rest is only metal. I thought about Tenicia, the other driver, and I wished her well. I wondered if I should call the hospital to see if she was ok. I took the kids to school and wandered in my yard with my coffee cup after quiet settled back over my house. I noticed that the tulips I had planted a week and a half ago were sprouting. I had found a bag of tulips in my shed that had escaped my trowel last fall. I debated planting them, thinking they might be already dead and my efforts would be wasted, but then again, they might grow. I took the chance and planted them anyway. Time will tell if they will bloom.

I am a risk taker, I fear very little, except maybe being alone, becoming my mother. Snakes intrigue me, spiders amuse me, heights make me giddy with delight. I love public speaking. If given a choice, I will take the chance…because I know that tulips will surely die if left to decay in the dark, dank recesses of my shed.

Making Amends

I had a hard day yesterday. Work is really busy…of course. I’m a CPA and yesterday was April 12. I haven’t even started my own tax return. But it wasn’t just that. My writing class had their semester read around. We each had four minutes to read something that we’d written, and we invited other women to come hear us read. We have a pot luck lunch afterwards and its usually very lovely. I was supposed to bring an appetizer. I forgot. I realized as I was leaving the house with only minutes to spare to make it on time, that I was supposed to take food. I sat in the car, mentally reviewing the contents of my refrigerator. I doubted if the women in my group would have been interested in frozen pasta sauce, even though homemade, or the roasted chicken and vegetables leftover from the previous night. I put the car in gear and went anyway, hoping that no one would notice, and promising not to eat much, seeing as I hadn’t brought a contribution. I got to the read around and the greeter looked at the items in my arms and said, “That’s not food.” So much for getting away with it.

The read around was fine. It is always encouraging to listen to the words of the other women, and to share my words with them. I read a chapter from the novel I’m writing. I had to edit it down to four minutes, which is really hard for me. I hate cutting out parts, certain that the story will be lost without this detail or that. But it was fine. Nothing earthshattering, but fine.

I had to leave right after the read around to testify against a client of mine who allegedly received money from the city to do a building project, then spent it on personal stuff. I thought my testimony would be pretty innocuous. We never actually did any work for him, but he brought records to our office in hopes that we would prepare his tax returns, which the government subpoenaed. I had to testify about those records. I was on the stand for over two hours. I’m sure my testimony was very boring for the jurors, but I did manage to make them laugh a few times. The defense attorney was trying to make the point that my client was not an accountant and had a lot of things going on at the same time, which leads one to perhaps neglect some of the detail. He asked me if I agreed, to which I replied that my ex husband would certainly agree with him. He was always complaining that I neglected details because I try to do too much. Then I mentioned that he was also an attorney. At that point, the defense attorney had to pause and put his head down because he was laughing. Sometimes I think I missed my calling. I wasn’t even really trying to be funny. Its just that I was meeting my ex for coffee after my testimony and I was anticipating the listing of my transgressions in my attempts to mother our children without his help, and it just came out. Then he mentioned that another of my clients who had sold the building to the defendant and financial problems of his own and that he would be testifying about those issues later, so he wouldn’t ask me questions about him. I replied, “That’s good, because I wouldn’t tell you anything about him anyway.” They laughed and laughed. Huh. Who’d a thunk.

Calling a Bluff

Sometimes, the toughest part of being a mom is knowing when to call a bluff. My oldest son, Scott, is an avid poker player, regularly supplementing his allowance from the $5 bets of his ten closest friends. They have been doing this now for several months and Scott has become quite adept at the art of bluffing. The boys play around my dining room table on Fridays or Saturdays, always polite, cleaning up after themselves, bringing their own chips and soda. Sometimes, I’ll spring for pizza. They play for money, which might alarm other parents, but the pot is a maximum of $5 per kid and I figure that’s less than the cost of a movie…and besides, they’re here in my house and it gives me the opportunity to get to know the people who have significantly more influence over my son at this stage of his life than I do. His friends like me, more than my son does I sometimes think. On Friday, I crossed through the family room to put away freshly laundered bath towels, stopping to watch the coverage of the Pope’s funeral on TV. Scott had three friends over, as well as the girl he’s taking to Prom in a few weeks. She sat next to him on the couch, his arm slung casually across her shoulders. Scott said pointedly, “Bye, Mom.” Nathan said, “Have a seat, Mrs. Waite.”

Over the weekend, Scott and I had a discussion about Prom. Its quite an expensive event, with the limo and the flowers and the tuxedo that Scott insists on renting, even though he owns one from his involvement with Show Choir. Its gonna set me back about $500. I told Scott that I was happy to fund his evening, but I expected some chores out of him, some help with the mountain of mulch adorning my driveway, and at least a few lawn mowings without the customary $20 fee. He vigorously protested, finally punctuating his argument with “Fine, I just won’t go to Prom.” Scott looked at me defiantly, expecting me to cave.

The logic of children is sometimes hard to decipher, particularly teenagers. At what point did I give my son the impression that his Prom was a favor to me? I had my Proms, junior year and senior year, and I have the pictures and prom dresses to prove it. I am excited about the prospect of my son dressing up, dancing with a girl he appears to adore. My heart melted when he shyly asked me for one dance lesson so that he wouldn’t feel foolish on the dance floor. But…this is his memory to create and my interest in enhancing that memory is pure….its the desire of a mother for her son’s joy. I do not live my romantic moments vicariously through my children. I create my own.

I looked him in the eye, well, as well as I could look him in the eye now that he towers nine inches above me, smiled, shrugged my shoulders and said, “Suit yourself.” He glared at me, then slumped, letting out a huge sigh, “Oh all right. Where’s the gas can for the mower?”

Listening, Welcoming and Waiting

I take a writing class from 10:00 to 12:30 every Tuesday morning, and afterwards I join several of my writing friends for lunch at various establishments in the Rookwood Commons area. Often, we end up at Joseph Beth’s coffee shop, not just because of their lovely food (they have the best ham and swiss croissant in the city) but because we are hoping the success of the writers whose wares are on display will rub off on us vicariously as we browse before and after lunch. While we were lunching on Tuesday, we discussed the recent death of the Pope, and the process of choosing a new one, noting that although the elite of the church often dressed similarly to women, in their flowing robes and exotic hats, no women would be involved in the decision making process, nor would any be considered for the position. One of the women noted that she had heard an oldtimer from the Church note (ok, now I’m gossiping, I’ll admit…) on the topic of women’s roles in the Church, that the only things women do better than men is listen, make people feel welcome and wait.

I am not going to get into a debate of who does what better. I am a woman who truly loves people. I have been blessed with the ability to find something to like in just about anyone I meet, but I am usually particularly good at that with men. I like men, of course, I like some more than others... I accept that men are from Mars and women are from Venus, but I say vive la difference, it just makes relationships that much more intriguing. When my friend noted this quote in the context of women’s roles in the Catholic Church, I pondered the question. I think the guy might have a point. At the risk of stereotyping, women are probably better trained to listen, and make others feel welcome. The waiting part, I don’t know, I’m personally not very good at that, having inherited a very impatient pair of genes…or is it jeans?...but I digress….In this case, though, I would think that listening, welcoming and waiting would make a person more qualified for the clergy….This blog is in no way, shape or form meant as a criticism of the Catholic Church. Some of my favorite people are Catholic. :-)

Old boyfriends

I’m having lunch today with an old boyfriend. He called me yesterday to ask me to do his tax returns, and to tell me that he is getting married. I loved him deeply two years ago, considered marrying him myself, but after the relationship ended, I had the classic “What was I thinking!” attitude for several months. My old boyfriend is an interesting man. A graduate of Brown University’s engineering school and Chase law school in Northern Kentucky, he comes from a wealthy Cuban family and is quite a catch in almost any measurement. He’s tall and handsome, enjoyed my humor, and liked my cooking. In August, he will retire from his government job, take his pension and move to Florida. For a year, we had a good thing going…I catered to him and he let me. The relationship worked. I like pleasing people, especially the man in my life, and George was pretty easy to please.

I met George at church…the most socially accepted place invented for lovers to meet. When someone asks you how you met, you coyly smile and you say, “Why we sang in the choir together at church.”, you are met with accepting smiles and nods of appreciation. This contrasts with “We met at a bar….or….I was drunk at a party, and he helped me to the bathroom….or even worse….we met on the internet.” He pursued me like no man has ever pursued me before. I have great admiration for his persistence. I was dating someone else at the time, and he would ask me out every Thursday after choir and every Sunday after church. This went on for nine months. I finally dumped the other guy and the next time George asked me out…which was two days after Christmas and I was feeling very, very lonely, I said to myself “Why not?” I fell head over heels in love with him in a matter of weeks. It was so nice to have someone to hold on the lonely nights when my boys were with their Dad. We took Salsa dancing lessons for a year and I learned a new life skill. Regardless of what went on in other parts of our relationship, George and I danced together really well.

When the relationship ended, I was eager to get on with my life, find someone who fit me better, who was as interested in pleasing me as I was in pleasing them. I still thought very fondly of George, but the love was gone. Once the love leaves, its time to move on. Yesterday when he told me he was getting married, my first reaction was giddy happiness for him. I do empathy really well. I imagined how happy I would be if I had found someone that I would want to make that kind of commitment to. My second reaction was more complicated. The first man that I had loved, post divorce, was leaving the playing field. Not that I particularly wanted him on my team, but ….. Life does have its complications, doesn’t it.

Thongs

The weather is finally warming up, so I rummaged through my closet to find my favorite things to wear now that I can finally show some skin again without freezing. Thongs are great when the weather is warm...so comfortable, they let the breezes in where you need them most to stay cool and comfortable, not to mention keeping your tootsies sweet smelling. I can show off the lovely treatments I get at the spa, all the while staying stylish and hip looking. Some say that thongs are immodest, that only a rib of leather separating the lean appendages leaves little to the imagination. I disagree. Heck, I've seen people run around with nothing on them at all, especially children. And you see them all over the place at the swimming pool. No one complains about that.

I have a pair that I bought three years ago that I absolutely love. Unless it is raining, I rarely wear anything else from April through October. I've even worn them to church. They are classic in design, the leather is of superb quality and the craftmanship is exquisite. I paid more for them than I would usually pay, but sometimes, if you buy quality, its still a bargain in the long run. I have replaced the leather lining once, and probably will again before I opt for a new pair. They are just so comfortable. I got a blister the first few times I wore them, and every year, when I first start wearing them again, I have to be a little careful, but once I get reacclimated to them, and they to me, they are usually my first choice when I get dressed in the morning.

Funny, most people call them flip flops now, but I still call them thongs.