Baroness von Bloggenschtern

The New Old Me

2012-01-08T17:36:00.000-08:00

Old post/new post time.

I'm wanting to get back at this, but am a little crunched for time. In my charming, OCD way, I'd wanted to begin posting again where I left off last year, on January 7th. I thought it would be poetic and right.

That didn't happen.

But, because I:

a) don't want to seem unpoetic,
b) wrong, and
c) don't want to wait one more year to try this again, I'll just pretend that it's still the 7th somewhere.

Because I've really missed writing.

And I've missed you.

And you, and you and you.

Yes, even you.

So, with some added comments in glorious technocolor puce, I present to you the new old me.

*********************************
January 6th, 2011/January 8th, 2012

Well.

Hello there!

It has been far too long, my babies. It has been, and I'm a little at a loss as to what to say.

Not that I have anything outstanding to say, or anything even vaguely interesting, for that matter. I just got tired of seeing my last post. I should at least have something au courant, non? November is SO last year. As is January. 2011.

I assure you, reader(s), that I'm still here. As for the cybersquatters, be gone with you. (take your weblinks and thoughtless comments)(and leave the furniture - that ottoman has sentimental value). On second thought, take the ottoman - I've decided to go in an entirely new direction- New World Amish.

What have I been up to? Well, I have been entrenched since September, studying away, with the intention of becoming a card-carrying Yoga Teacher. And lookee here, I am one. So when I tell you to breath (in AND out), you've got to listen. Because I'm a pro-fesh-inn-ell, darling.

And while it has been fascinating and exciting, it has been a humongous time-suck. Even more than facebook (really). (really)

(yes, that IS possible)

(who knew?) (I guess I did, but didn't want to be all braggy-like)

As a result of my single-tasking, my house is a toss; our dog gleefully thinks that the dust bunnies that have accumulated under the couches are new canine companions (I'm not about to break his little heart & tell him the truth). House is still a toss, dog has moved beyond courtship rituals and is now into husbandry with said dust bunnies.

My routines are no more; they've given way for new routines that I must somehow shoehorn in to the existing ones, to create complicated labyrinthine processes.

Our once-mindful food plan has given way to far more take-out than I care to discuss, and we've all suffered thusly. Urp.

To wit, I believe that I'm still trying to digest New Year's Eve dinner - I feel like I've got an intact block of Gruyere cheese wedged in my esophagus. Gah. This year, I rang in the New Year w/my menfolk in a faraway land - less cheese, more rummy drinks. Double Gah.

Yet, with all the kvetching, I am still bordering on euphoric. Because finally, after such a really, really long time along a really, really long path, I think I have found the thing I was meant to do.
I have always been envious of those people who do what they love, and now I think that I just might be one of them.

After what seems like forever of turning inward to imagine that breezy beach in Hawaii, that verdant forest, that still morning lake, I realize that where I am - the here and the now - is my new happy place.

I know it sounds kind of Pollyanna-like, but I can see joy again.

After a difficult few years, I am ready, willing and able to own up to my happiness. I don't need to qualify it, or temper it with stories of struggle or sadness like I usually do. I no longer feel the need to feel guilty about it.

It just is.

And it is (still) quite spectacular.

Thoughtful Thursday

2011-01-06T08:28:00.000-08:00

" The body itself is a screen
to shield and partially reveal the light
that's blazing inside your presence."
Rumi

One of the elements of this blog that I hold very dear to my heart is Thoughtful Thursdays.

Oftentimes, the quote will jump out and make it presence known. Things I've read a million times before, songs from the soundtrack of life - there is some sort of weird cosmic confluence that makes them shout out to be heard. It is quite an electrifying moment, and I am only too happy to oblige.

Sometimes, though, I have to search. I came to realize today, as I was poring over textbooks and reference books, that this mere act of searching is in and of itself also electrifying. It's like searching for treasure. There's the anticipation, there's the turning over & examination of the turn of phrase or well-placed word, and then there's that joy of discovery.

Today - the word that sparkled and glistened in the light of day was 'blazing'.

What an amazing and powerful word.

Show of hands - how many of us truly think that inside of us is a blazing magnificence?

I believe we all have it.

And I also believe that it is, indeed, blazing.

But why are we shielding it? Why are we obscuring it from sight?

And what do we need to do to share it? Is action required? Or merely a choice?

I, for one, am all about the shiny.

Tell me one thing about how brilliant you are - I really want to see behind that screen.

My New Happy Place

2011-01-04T09:44:00.000-08:00

Well.

Hello there!

It has been far too long, my babies.

Not that I have anything outstanding to say, or anything even vaguely interesting, for that matter. I just got tired of seeing my last post. I should at least have something au courant, non? November is SO last year.

I assure you, reader(s), that I'm still here. As for the cybersquatters, be gone with you. (take your weblinks and thoughtless comments)(and leave the furniture - that ottoman has sentimental value).

What have I been up to? Well, I have been entrenched since September, studying away, with the intention of becoming a card-carrying Yoga Teacher.

And while it has been fascinating and exciting, it has been a humongous time-suck. Even more than facebook (really).

(yes, that IS possible)

(who knew?)

As a result of my single-tasking, my house is a toss; our dog gleefully thinks that the dust bunnies that have accumulated under the couches are new canine companions (I'm not about to break his little heart & tell him the truth).

My routines are no more; they've given way for new routines that I must somehow shoehorn in to the existing ones, to create complicated labyrinthine processes.

Our once-mindful food plan has given way to far more take-out than I care to discuss, and we've all suffered thusly.

To wit, I believe that I'm still trying to digest New Year's Eve dinner - I feel like I've got an intact block of Gruyere cheese wedged in my esophagus. Gah.

Yet, with all the kvetching, I am still bordering on euphoric. Because finally, after such a really, really long time along a really, really long path, I think I have found the thing I was meant to do.
I have always been envious of those people who do what they love, and now I think that I just might be one of them.

After what seems like forever of turning inward to imagine that breezy beach in Hawaii, that verdant forest, that still morning lake, I realize that where I am - the here and the now - is my new happy place.

I know it sounds kind of Pollyanna-like, but I can see joy again.

After a difficult few years, I am ready, willing and able to own up to my happiness. I don't need to qualify it, or temper it with stories of struggle or sadness like I usually do. I no longer feel the need to feel guilty about it.

It just is.

And it is quite spectacular.

In Flanders Fields, The Poppies Grow

2010-11-11T08:40:00.000-08:00

It's Remembrance Day here in Canada.

On a day where veterans, officials, and the appreciative lay wreaths upon cenotaphs and graves, I bring back to you one of my earlier posts.

Where I lay my wreath of words at the ground of one very special veteran I had the honor to know.

*****************************
Goodbye, Sam

How many of you know a person who truly embodies the phrase "lovely"?

How many of you know a person who is truly all that a "gentleman" should be?

Simple yet difficult questions. Fortunately for me, I know a man who was both of those things, every day of his life. His name was Sam Segal, and his long, meaningful life on earth came to an end last Wednesday.

Please realize that I am not related to Sam Segal. I was not a family friend. At best, I was the slightest of acquaintances - I only had a few short conversations with the man. But he and I went to the same house of worship, and I had the privilege to witness firsthand his magical effect over anyone who came through the doors. It was nothing short of wondrous. Every weekend, there he stood at his (self) elected post, standing tall, looking sharp, always immaculate in his grooming, with a carnation in his suit lapel. Here was our ambassador, who greeted everyone - young, old, skittish, devoted, humble, haughty - with the same warm greeting: "Welcome. We're glad you're here." He smiled with his eyes, and he made everyone immediately feel like they'd made the most important, most correct decision of their lives to be there that morning. He initiated the worship process right at the front foyer, immediately filling everyone with a sense of belonging.

To speak with Sam was to be engaged in a conversation with a lovely soul. He took your hand every time you spoke with him. Here was such a decent man, you immediately felt better in his company. I never heard him say a negative thing about anyone - and in a culture where everyone seems to have something to say about someone - he kept his criticisms to himself. In doing so, you naturally felt compelled to follow suit.

What I learned at his funeral was nothing more than I expected, yet in the articulation of all that he was and all that he had done, it became strikingly evident that this dear man had a huge impact on everyone he knew. I know one of his daughters - she, too, is lovely and strong, and a gentlewoman of her own making. Her graveside stories were neither maudlin nor sad, but a beautiful heartfelt tribute.

Sam, like many young men of his time, served his country in World War II. While many who came home chose to forget that part of their past, Sam instead chose to become involved in a Legion club. Every year, he would organize a Remembrance Day Service during which a list of his fallen comrades was read, followed with "The Last Post" being played during a minute of quiet reflection. One of most emotional things I have ever witnessed took place at Sam's funeral; many of his Legion friends were there, wearing their Remembrance Day poppies. Keep in mind that most of these gentleman (and lady) are in their 80's and early 90's, so their attendance on a cold, icy, winter day was no small feat.

One by one, they approached his casket and removed their poppy and laid it to rest, along with Sam. "The Last Post" was then played, as these veterans stood at salute and sent their friend off. Even now as I write this, I'm still overcome by the power of the symbolism of this gesture. Steadfast loyalty to country, to family, to friends, to religion, to responsibility - this was who Sam Segal was, and it is who we should all aspire to be.

Sam, may you find your heaven with Melva, and continue to be an inspiration to all who knew you. I'm a better person for having known you.

******************
It's a day to take pause - for the merest of moments - and recognize the magnitude of influence that all servicemen and women have had in our lives. It is they who truly have given of themselves to protect their countries.

Our countries.

So today I urge you to give the merest of moments.

Lest we forget.

All Hail

2010-11-10T19:16:00.000-08:00

We have a 'tradition' in our family, where we buy kid's birthday cards ('You're Six!' or 'Today You're 3'), and we re-configure them to the appropriate age.

Hilarity usually ensues as we constantly try to outdo each other. Our older nephew was previously the king of this, and had actually started to incorporate various holiday cards into the birthday genre. True genius.

Until today.

When I got my birthday card from my sons.

Not only is it all pink and sparkly, but it has some very endearing prose which oddly, I can still relate to:

All hail Miss Princess (Forty) Nine-Year-Old,
With dream-bright eyes
and heart of gold!

All hail Miss Princess Go-Go-Girl,
Who gives good times a sassy whirl!

All hail Miss Princess Smiles-A-Lot,
Who's loved by all the friends she's got!

All hail Miss Princess
Queen-0f-Cool
And may her cuteness
Always rule.

***********

All hail the sons of Miss Princess - they are royally awesome!

Thanks so much to everyone for the b'day wishes. All hail you, too.

Much Love,

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-11-03T00:01:00.000-07:00

In my yoga teaching training, we've been honing our verbal cues to give our students: ground your feet to the earth; raise the crown of your head towards the heavens.

I gotta tell ya, I'm a sucker for all that imagery. I can envision myself as a mountain. I can imagine that I'm a brave warrior.

So when I came across this piece in one of my reference manuals - and it speaks of four of the elements, it seemed apropos to share it.

Meditation
by Laurie Beth Jones

I am earth -
the soil that supports
and nurtures living things
I give solid footing
to those around me.

I am wind -
the power that
sweeps away old fears
and carries new ideas
like springtime.

I am fire -
igniting the power
and passion in others.
I give warmth
on cold, wintry nights,
and clear the way
for new beginnings.

I am water -
irresistible.
No obstacle can stop me.
I go over, under,
around and through.
I change forms
to steam or ice
or rain.
I bring life
wherever I go.
I touch everyone
I meet.

And now that I've shared, it's up to each of you who read it to own all the magnificence that is you.

You are supporting, powerful, passionate and transformative - and so very much more.

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-09-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

Now normally, I'm not too big into obligations.

As I've gotten older, I realize that there is a real distinction between your garden-variety obligations and their more foundational cousin, commitment.

As I start to really acknowledge the enormity of what I went through during my time with cancer, I feel committed to bringing awareness and tools to others, so that they may not ever have to experience such suffering.

A couple of weeks ago, all three major U.S. networks aired a special called "Stand Up to Cancer". Not only do I always find this broadcast inspirational, I also find that the up-to-the-minute research they present is enpowering and hopeful.

Like most shows of this kind, the buzz is there the first day; it dissipates pretty quickly thereafter. I encourage you to visit the site,

SU2C.org

and to read the following - a piece that they started the show with - a piece that calls out cancer for the tenacious, apathetic, unwavering, body terrorist that it really is:

"Cancer doesn't care if you've won the Olympic gold medal.

Cancer doesn't care if you're beautiful, or brilliant, or just got into college, or just bought your first car.

Cancer doesn't care if your song is number one with a bullet.

Cancer doesn't care if you have your whole life in front of you.

Cancer doesn't care how many Oscars you've won, or how many tough guys you've played.

Cancer doesn't care that you have young children who need their mother.

Cancer doesn't care how well you sling a sledgehammer.

Cancer doesn't care that it just took your father.

Cancer doesn't care what time you have to get up in the morning, every morning.

Cancer, schmancer...

Cancer only cares if you sit still and do nothing. Cancer loves that...

Cancer doesn't care where you came from, or where you're going.

It just.

Doesn't.

Care. "

Selling the Sizzle

2010-09-29T10:48:00.000-07:00

Ah, food stylists.

To my mind, there are two sub-categories to this profession:

Number 1: The really good ones.

And Number 2: The crap ones (or the number 2 ones).

There is really no in-between.

Either the photo will entice you to really want to eat it, or...you're gonna throw up a little in your mouth.

There really is an art form to it. It is more than mindlessly snapping a picture of the food. Or the raw materials that magically converge to make the food.

And what is this Potter-esque spell cast upon the comestibles, you ask? Well, there should be a glisten to the meat, a dewy moisture and vivid color to the vegetables. A look to the sundries that beg out to you - nay, that beseech you - : Use me. Pour me. Savor me.

Think of most any glossy magazine with a food feature. They are selling the sizzle, people.

Sure, they might be plying various tools of the trade to bring the inanimate to life, but I do not care about their trickery. I want to know what it's supposed to look like at its best.

What I don't really ever want to see is what I was witness to when perusing one of the community newspapers this morning. This was clearly a case of Number 2's at work.

As in, bah - just take a picture of the package and be done with it.

Glisten? Not in their vocabulary. Lighting? WTH - do you think they are artists? It's food, dammit. You eat it, you use what you need and get rid of the rest. Who needs lighting for that?

So, in the faint hope that there may be a Number 2 (stylist) out there with Number 1 aspirations, let me critique your work, and give you some pointers.

Item 1: White Scented Rice 20 lbs.
What we have here is a picture of a saggy bag of rice. It's kind of sad, and kind of lumpy, like a hunched-over buxom granny wearing a gunny sack at her great-nephew's wedding.

We don't need to see the whole bag (that's what she said). Make us think of Thailand - of hot, sticky, beautiful Thailand. Only do it with rice.

Item 2: New Zealand Greenshell Mussels
You've given me: (a) a picture of the box, with what appear to be pinky-orangey things I can only assume are mussels, and (b) a disgusting header.

Firstly, don't be lazy. Food styling by putting a picture of a product with a picture of the product on it is like one of those pictures of me looking in a mirror in mirror. Vaguely arty, but kind of dizzy-inducing. And a little obtuse to those who are unable to see your clever nuances.

To be quite honest, though - I don't know how you could possibly pretty up mussels. They look like something I cough up after a good workout.

Good luck on this one.

Item 3: Frozen 31-40 Shrimp
You have a picture of 5 shrimp, on a white background, huddled together in some sort of oceanic orgy.

Perhaps you could put some context with the shrimp. Because right now, this could be a picture of them on the ground in the parking lot, or on a plate at La Circque. I don't know. And I want to.

A sprig of parsley might be a nice touch. Everyone loves the parsley.

Item 4: Fresh Chicken Feet
Again, I really don't have anything constructive to say to help you out. What I do know is that your photo of a pile of chicken feet looks like a crime scene photo from the Foghorn Leghorn Gazette.

This is not appetizing. Everyone loves the Foghorn.

Item 5: Fresh Beef Bubble Meat
Where do I begin? How about let's start with the phrase, "Bubble Meat"? Where, exactly, is that cut on the cow?

And why, dear God, is it bubbly?

Perhaps just a picture of a cow with an arrow might suffice.

Item 6: Mandarin Egg Tofu
What does one do with this food item? I sure would like to see an "after" picture here. Give me some ideas.

Because the "Before" picture? Looks like a take-out packet of chunky mayonnaise.

Item 7: Long Green Bean
I am sure, with the slightest of efforts, these could be made to look quite savory. Place them in a bowl, curled up. Sprinkle with sesame seeds. I don't even need to know that they're not cooked.
Sometimes, mystery is a very good thing, indeed (although never in the case of Item 5).

Just showing me a picture of two bundles of them, laid out with elastics tethering one end? It would appear to be some alien haar weave, waiting to happen.

And quite frankly? The only thing sizzling right now is my retinas.

Get on it, Number 2s -we are living in a gourmet world.

And if you can artfully sell Bubble Meat there, you can sell it anywhere.

Just make sure you sizzle that a little bit longer than usual.

To get all the bubbles out.

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-09-23T14:44:00.000-07:00

"All people wish to be happy. This seemingly simple desire appears to elude the best-intentioned efforts of even the most intelligent among us. Yet almost everyone has had glimpses of deep peacefulness when they have felt connected both to themselves, to others, and to nature. Curiously, the state of feeling good and whole does not seem to be something we can order up on demand but rather appears to happen spontaneously. In such moments we experience a sense of translucence such that that which we see, feel, sense, hear, or touch no longer feel separate from us but is experienced as a part of our own totality. When our hand resting over the heart of the beloved merges and becomes one with his or her body, when we become the same midnight sky that fills us with awe, we remember, however briefly, our place in the scheme of things. These brief flickers of remembrance imbue our vision with freshness and innocence so that we can see things as they truly are. Because these moments of lucidity are so blissful, we wish that they may become the base state of our lives rather than the brief and often-times tenuous experience to which such happiness is usually assigned. These moments of clarity have nothing to do with the caricatures of happiness presented to us through the media or popular culture. These moments have always been there. The beloved's heartbeat and the sky have always been there. These moments are simply waiting for our arrival."
Donna Farhi, Yoga Body, Mind and Spirit

Casual Friday (Thru Thursday)

2010-09-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

As you may or may not know, the von Bloggenschtern family is home to 2 young men. One's a teenager, the other is 20 years old.

Both are tall and strapping dudes. One is just about 6 feet tall. The other? Well , I'll let ya know when he stops growing. He's currently at around 6'4".

In light of their whole young-men-who-need-privacy situation and the whole insatiability issues, whenever we travel, we find it well worth our while to stay at a place that has:

A) more than one bedroom, and
B) a breakfast buffet.

(A) is mainly because the younger half of the family population has completely polar circadian rhythms to the older half.

I don't quite know how this happened, but I'm a'gonna chalk it up strictly to them being the younger half of the family population.

And maybe they've got that whole 'Teen Ennui' thing going on. Where they sleep in because they have nothing better to do (plus they stayed up until 3 AM facebooking/Skyping/gaming and all other 'ings' that a mother doesn't really want to know about).

With son #2, it might be because he's growing at an exponential rate.

Whatever the reason, my husband and I like our sleep, and we go to bed shortly after our Early Bird Special at the local Denny's.

(B) is because I like to get my money's worth. In fact, in the case of teenagers, I like to feel as though the hotel is actually losing money by foolishly offering such a service.

Clearly, they are not aware that when one grows an inch overnight every night, one must procure and ingest every food item that is not nailed down nor locked away.

Must. Eat. Protein. NOW.

The origin of the food is of no matter. It could be muffins made of mystery fruit, or sausages from dubious livestock, bound together with teaspoons of sawdust. If it's hot and it's fragrant (in a good-ish way), it's going down that pie-hole. Posthaste. In vast quantities.

By and large, I am very happy with these hotel scenarios. As are my human vacuum cleaners.

However.

There is a trend that I've started to notice that is highly irksome. And it is this:

A LOT of people think that, because they're ensconced within a hotel, and because said hotel serves complimentary breakfast, it's perfectly normal if they traipse downstairs IN THEIR PAJAMAS.

Ack.

I've kind of become inured to the flannel pajama bottoms and t-shirts; my nieces wear those all the time, as do some of my sons' friends.

But when I saw a woman - middle-aged, rather large (& rather buxom, may I add to further taint the recessess of your brain) - wearing her short nightie? That, my darlings, is beyond the pale.

I do not even care if she had made the effort to put on her underpinnings (or in this case, a flying buttress) before she wended her way into the elevator.

I. DO. NOT. WANT. TO. SEE. THIS.

EVER.

So, je despair, where does it all end?

Bathrobes? At first, all patrician and cinched tight. Then, eventually, just left open, because what the hell - does it really matter?

Sports bras and thong underwear?

Or my worst nightmare - wifebeater undershirts and boxers, with those darling morning semi-flacid schlongers half-hanging out of the barn door?

The vision is truly shudder-worthy, and makes me want to figure out how to bleach my brain of these horrific images by pouring Javex into my ear canals.

No one should be traipsing anywhere with that situation, other than to the nearest washroom. INSIDE THEIR OWN HOTEL ROOM.

One thing's for sure - I think I'll just be having the powdered eggs...

...hold the sausage.

You Don't Have to be a Genius (2.0)

2010-09-10T00:01:00.000-07:00

Don't you just hate it when you've got a post rolling around in your head, and when you actually sit down to write it, and start - gasp! - checking out facts, and your oh-so-clever post just starts to unravel like a People of WalMart sweater?

Don't you just?

Well, I do.

You see, a lot of my posts start as the title. It can be a play on words or can include something that has pinged my interest. From this springboard, the rest of the post just kind of flows.

But now, there's some goddamned beaver up around the bend (for our purposes, we'll call this beaver Toothy McResearch), who has dammed up the water, so whatever jumps off my springboard? Lands head-first into the mud, breaking its neck.

Not funny.

Perhaps if I start at the beginning of how this began and was all supposed to proceed and eventually tie itself up in a pretty pink bow, you'll get my point.

Original Post: You Don't Have to Be a Genius (1.0)

Here I am, lying face down on a table, waiting - nay, steeling myself - as my massage therapist prepares herself in some outer room for her latest installment of punishment on my gimped-up shoulder. No doubt she is breaking coconuts open with a single hand, followed by pressing chunks of coal with her thumbs until, 5 minutes later, they chemically transform into a pile of diamonds.

Here I am, senses quickened. The smells of the aromotherapy oil, and the clean linens. The taste of a mixture of anticipation and fear. And the sound?

The sound is elevator-esque music, breezily wafting in through the overhead speakers.

What. Is. That. Song?

I know it, but I don't. It's light, it's airy. It has happy strings and - is that a xylophone?

As I completely laser in on the actual music, and rapidly flip through my mental song catalogue - it occurs to me.

It is 'Ruby Tuesday', by the Rolling Stones.

And next comes "Tumblin' Dice". Then "Beast of Burden."

What.

The.

Frackin'.

Hell?

It is so weird, I can barely wrap my head around it.

I ask the MT what the name of the CD is; she doesn't know.

I make a mental note to ask to look at the case before I leave; I forget.

(I'm busy dealing with the alien baby that she has caesarianed from the muscles between my shoulders.)

And, is usually the case with all things that vex me greatly, I promptly move on to something else. For an oh-so-brief moment, I make a mental note to look up Baby Einstein crap when I get home. I'm convinced it's Baby Einstein crap. And is usually the case with my mental notes, *poof* - they're promptly gone, as fast as they came.

I am a genius.

But then it happens again.

Only this time, it's The Beatles.

Which is no biggy to me. To my mind, they're a pretty multigenerational brand of music. Nothing too nefarious about The Fab Four.

When it happens a third time, and it's a papped-up version of The Doors "Hello, I Love You", and "Light My Fire", I do not forget.

As I lie there, getting my broken-down body mashed to the consistency of an over-ripe banana, I am beginning to have a post formulate in my head.

If this is the work of the Baby Einstein people, the title of the piece will be 'You Don't have to be a Genius'.

I'll talk about the irksomeness of taking some of the world's nastiest groups, and turning them into lullabies for babies, and all the implications thereof. I'll talk about the poor judgement involved in using music from bands like The Stones - all sex and lips and writhing hips - (not that there's anything wrong with that)(for adults)- and making it into entertainment for simple, pure young minds. I'll talk about using music from The Lizard King - a man arrested for lewd and lacivious behaviour, for indecent exposure - dude, you wouldn't want your baby around that kind of person in real life, why are you endorsing them as a solid music choice? What happened to Barney? Or Charlotte Diamond? Or Raffi?

I'll sum the post all up by saying that, by having his name attached to such a project which infers that parents can accelerate their childrens' intelligence by listening to this music, dear Albert is clearly rolling over in his grave. You don't have to be an Einstein, Baby or not, to figure that out.

I know that, after dinner, I am planning on writing about this questionable Baby Einstein movement afoot. I know that, from my usual Mom's-On-A-Rant soapbox, I can enlist the vonB sons into helping my cause, by providing names of bands that the B.E. group could look at covering next . They offer up: Slayer, Insane Clown Posse, Megadeth, Tool, Kanye West, Nine Inch Nails.

Thank you sons. You always come through.

And then I start to search up Baby Einstein.

Crap-sicles.

This CD is clearly NOT Baby Einstien.

Further research shows that it is, instead, Babies Go, "a wonderful way to introduce your wee ones to some of the world's most popular music."

Blech.

For the rehab baby, there's Babies Go Aerosmith.

For the rasta baby, there's Babies Go Bob Marley.

For the alternative baby, there's Babies Go Coldplay.

If however, your baby is looking for something a little edgier, then you must usher them over to Rockabye Baby!.

Here, you'll be able to introduce your wee one to the finest social commentary available, set to the music of The Pixies, U2, Guns N Roses, Radiohead, AC/DC, Tool, Queens of the Stone Age, Bjork, and my personal favorite, Metallica.

Because you don't have to be a genius to know that baby really needs to hear about the Sandman.

Back to Never Never Land.

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-09-09T00:01:00.000-07:00

There are times when, just when I think I've got my shit together, just when I think that I've re-discovered my sassy, just when I am under the delusion that everything is organized the way it should be...I end up taking two steps back.

It is then, on those days like the floor feels like it's dropped out from below me, that - more than ever - I need to remember these wise words from a long-forgotten source:

"Sometimes it may seem as if you're going backward, but truly,
if you look at a spiral,
it goes up, back, and around; reaching upward,
although it may seem for a time that you are not.
You are indeed progressing.
Trust the Mystery and keep going!"

We've Read This Already Wednesday

2010-09-08T10:59:00.000-07:00

I know that many of you will claim have seen this post before. And you're quite correct.

But I wrote it over two years ago. Just how good is your memory, anyways?

(Really? That good? You must share your secrets, darling. Ginko Biloba? Sudoku?)

And even though I'm mostly about the new and the novel, I intend to throw tradition out the window and repeat it again here today. We just got back from yet another baseball weekend in Seattle. And the original post is about a baseball weekend in Seattle. I'm kind of liking the repetition vibe of it all. It makes me relive the thrum of the stadium, the wafting aroma of the garlic fries, the Pike Street Market, the smell of 35% off sales tags at Nordstroms... ahhhh. It almost feels like - dare I say it? Like a comforting new tradition.

Similar to trotting out old posts. It's comforting.

To me.

So, here goes:

The Fascinating Middle of Point A and Point B
Due in part to his genetic makeup, and due in part to the years and years of necessary time management, The Baron is VERY aware of time.

Of both its flexibility and of its restraints. To him, it is an encapsulation, with definite boundaries.

The Baroness, on the other hand, finds time to be somewhat fluid. It comes, it goes. Sure, there are times when arrivals or departures are non-negotiable. But, for the most part, an extra minute here, a few less minutes there - it all balances out in the end.

Every so often, when the planets align just so, there is an event which both Mr. & Mrs. von B must attend. And every so often, their two time philosophies, er, clash. Badly.

Case in point. This last weekend. The vonBloggenschtern clan were on their way to a Seattle Mariners baseball game.

There is a gauntlet of vendors that one must run, in between the parking lot and the stadium. Hot dogs, corn dogs, team clothing, young girls selling chocolate bars for their church youth groups, dogs in sunglasses.

Now, on any other given day, the Baron would be delighted to stroll. To lollygag. To meander. But not this day. This was one of those time constraints we discussed earlier. As any dyed-in-the-wool baseball oficianado knows, one must be there at the scheduled start of the game.

I know this, too. I also know how important this factum is to the Baron.

But.

But.

Right smack dab in the middle of the promenade we were speed-walking through, was a middle-aged gentleman sitting on a chair.

It took a few seconds to process, after passing him like a hurricane, but it dawned on me that he was not only sitting there - he was playing an accordian.

An accordian, people. And we all know how the Baroness feels about all things polka.

So began the rending of the time philosophies. For I refused to breeze past this opportunity. I had to say something. I had to donate some of this strange monopoly money (have you Americans never heard of color?) into his accordian case. I had to tell him how wonderful he was, and how great it was that he was here, playing such cheery music to pipe us in to the game.

This action, I must tell you, was not a popular one. The rest of the clan, sensing they were suddenly a member short, stopped dead in their tracks. I got the laser-death ray-glare.

"But it's an accordian, honey!!!" I pleaded. "An ACCORDIAN!!".

He understood. So he stopped.

And then, I started to talk to this fine fellow - Mr. Greg Blackstock.

He did not understand anymore.

But at this point, I did not care. Time became fluid again, and I knew that the few moments that I took to connect with this gentleman would be well worth it, and could be made up for later. All would balance out.

Greg shook my hand, and asked for my name. I told him. "Hello, Baroness", said he. The companion he was with said gently to him, "Greg - when you meet someone and ask for their name, you should give them your name, too". It now was apparent that while was Greg an amazing accordianist, he was also struggling a little with his social cues. His companion was there to smooth out the rough edges a little.

It turns out that Greg Blackstock is an autistic savant. He was born in Seattle, and has quite a remarkable history. Not only is he a musician, he is an artist as well, and is represented by The Garde Rail Gallery (www.garde-rail.com ). On his business card, he categorizes himself as an "Outside Artist" and Street Accordianist.

But he is so much more than that. And on that cloudy Saturday when time seemed to be of the essence, I'm so very glad that I broke the constraints. Just for a moment.

It will always balance out in the end.

Any Given Wednesday

2010-08-11T15:58:00.000-07:00

Having eschewed the regular egg white omelet or plain fat-free yogurt with 3 berries, I make my pilgrimage to my Wednesday breakfast haunt for my balls-to-the-wall, gut-busting 2 by 5 breakfast.

Yeah, that's right, people.

5 delectable items. Times 2. To summarize: 5 different flavors of grease; twice the opportunity for some sort of coronary situation. A big ol' plate of WooHooI'mCheatingDeath. Jam on the side.

As I'm waiting for my breakfast, I'm rummaging in my rat's nest of a purse for my phone.

Because this?

This is important stuff, man. It's a POS (Person of Significance) sighting.

SMS to husband: CACKLER!!! Life is good.

SMS back to me: U should write about him.

SMS to husband: I think that I already did...

And, after a careful scouring of the vonB vaults, it's proven to be true. I did write about The Cackler.

But him being on vacation the last few weeks makes his reappearance today (in both real life and blogosphere tale) all the sweeter, and so worth repeating.

He is one of my Wednesday touchstones, and his mirth truly makes my day.

Applause, applause, applause...Wait for crowd to settle...

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, without further ado, may I present to you (bow dramatically)...The Cackler.

****

Oh, how the Baroness loves her Wednesdays.

I love pretending that I'm my own personal assistant as I zip from errand to errand.

Grocery store - hmm - I think the Baroness would like a bag of frozen tilapia. It's the new Louis Vuitton of the fish world. Classy, yet nutritious. Sure, hurl it in the cart.

Drugstore - gelcaps or tablet? Which is least likely to get wedged in the Baroness' delicate throat? Let's throw all caution to the wind and go for the gelcap. She'll be thrilled.

Big box store - if I can score her those yoga pants, I'm in for a hu-u-u-ge raise.

Oh, how the Baroness does love having a personal assistant. To make all the tough decisions. That fish thing? Whoa.

But the thing that I love the most on Wednesdays is going out for breakfast. Truth be told, I think that any ol' day is a good day for going out to breakfast, but on Wednesdays I actually do it. And I go to the same local restaurant every week. Have for years. Why? Well, for a couple of very solid reasons. One, it's a Mom and Pop establishment, and I try to use community services whenever I can, and two - they know me. When I walk in, I don't get the Cheers-esque "Baroness!", but they know what booth I like, they know both my "A" and my "B" menu selection, and they can always tell if I want decaf or regular. (That last one? I don't know how - maybe they're magical. Or maybe it's the look on my face)(You know, that constipated-looking one.)

Oh, hold up. There's a third reason I love my greasy spoon, and the main reason I wouldn't dream of spending Wednesday morning anywhere else - The Cackler.

The Cackler is one of a group of about 12 older gentleman who are always at the restaurant at the same time as me. These gentlemen (sometimes a token lady or two shows up) sit and b.s. over coffee. The topics aren't all that extraordinary - WW II memories, so and so's health, sports. It's the fact that, without fail, they are there any given Wednesday. I once asked Ray - who has worked there since the invention of dirt - how long they'd been showing up, and he said as long as he could remember.

Among them is my favorite. I call him the Cackler.

When the group is really cookin', and someone's telling a whopper, the Cackler begins his laugh. I'm sure, dear readers, that all of you know someone who has such an infectious laugh. The kind of chortle, that even if you're on the verge of losing your royal bearings, you hear it and begin to smile. Yeah, that one!

I have come to look forward to hearing that laugh every Wednesday. I expect it. I crave it. And when they spend their morning on serious matters, I want to go over to the table and bark at them to lighten up already. Just to hear that laugh. Duke 1 and Duke 2 know the Cackler. As does the Baron. Even our exchange student has heard him in action. To know, know, know him is to love, love, love him. And I do.

Last Wednesday, one of the men from the table got up and asked a patron at another table if they'd seen Bob lately. He was concerned, as Bob hadn't been around at any of their senior haunts in the last couple of weeks. The patron assured him that Bob was alright, just had the flu. The look of relief that washed over that man's face almost brought tears to my eyes.

Today's decree from the Baroness - call up a friend you haven't talked to in a while to see how they're doing.

Or have your personal assistant do it.

Simple/Complicated

2010-08-09T13:44:00.001-07:00

Not too long ago, both the Baron and I woke up with what appeared to be spider bites; his were on his hand, mine were - well, never you mind.

The action plan for this rather irksome situation was twofold:
1. Get thee to the calamine lotion, and
2. Wash every piece of bed linen in scalding hot water. Every. damn. piece.

Have I ever mentioned that I'm one of those?

One of those psycho women who likes a LOT of throw pillows? Big Euro shams, cylindrical neck pillows, teeny accent pillows. If it's got stuffing, it's on our bed.

(Which may or may not explain the roast chicken...)
(Well played, Baron. Well played.)

So, each of these had to be washed as well. Lovely.

During the all-day Laundry-Palooza Extravaganza, the Baron came to me with his very serious face. "Would you mind telling me please," he started, "what is on our bed?"

I think he may have been referring to this scenario:
"These?", I queried, my mind immediately embarking on how I could possibly explain this in a simple, reasonable way. I then quickly disembarked - there was no way but complicated.

Baron: "Yes, these." "Did the dog get into something - again?"

"Ahhhhhh", I sighed, relaxing, as I now realized why he would be concerned.

Me (inhaling deeply to say this all this in one breath): "No, it wasn't the dog. See, when I bought our new matelasse comforter set, the pillow shams it came with were for king-sized pillows, and I didn't have any extra king-size pillows, and I didn't want to buy any extra king-sized pillows, so I just used some regular-sized pillows, and stuffed the ends of the shams with stuffing."

Have you ever been to a city where they use those metal roller things over their storefront windows, and they pull them down and let them *BANG* to the ground?

I swear that was the sound the Baron's mind made. His eyes were glazed over. He was somewhere off in his happy place, free of laundry and odd spouses and long-winded explanations. Clearly, I had lost him at 'matelasse'.

In order to salvage the conversation, I switched tacts. "Actually, it was me. Perhaps you are not aware, but I can vomit clouds".

"Yup. Big fluffy ones - all over our bed. That was me."

*CLACKITY CLACKITY CLACKITY CLACK* (the sound of the rollers coming back up)

Baron: "Ahhhhhhhhhh. Well this makes perfect sense."

"Do you shit rainbows, too?"

Me: "You silly. Of course I do; why do you think that the medical community was so enamoured of my hind quarters a few years back, hmmm? Research, that's what. "

B: "Into clouds and rainbows?"

Me: "Damn straight. I'm a marvel - there's even talk that the Vatican is considering making me the Patron Sainte of Weather-Related Formations."

B: "Ahhhhhhhhhhhh."

Simple/Complicated.

Complicated/Simple.

The Truth (and Beauty Lab) will Set You Free

2010-08-06T09:49:00.000-07:00

Piece of Advice O'The Day #1: Do not trivialize serendipity. It might actually lead you somewhere.

Piece of Advice O'The Day #2: Do not be afraid of meandering. It is within this process that many exciting discoveries are waiting to be happened upon.

Piece of Advice O'The Day #3: Be wary of anyone who uses the phrase "O'The Day".

(except for me)

(I will deem that is acceptable to get weary of me. Just don't be wary)

Because, peoples, I might be on to something here.

Let me start at the very beginning.

Because, I hear, it's a very good place to start.

Quite a few years ago, whilst on a field trip with Duke #1's class, I sidled up to his teacher to get some one-on-one time.

Why this was so important to me was because I found his teacher to be absolutely mesmerizing. He was a combination of crunchy granola hippy-dippyness, with a PhD thrown in for good measure. He was genius tied up in a very approachable package, and could connect to Duke #1 in a way that few others could. He drew him out, he encouraged him to embrace geekdom, and in general, just got him.

All of the anecdotes I would hear day after day made me realize that - child or adult - there was something to learn from this man.

One of the things I learned during our brief stroll together (before he was called away to prevent one of his charges from potentially breaking his neck)(oh, those wacky 7 year olds) was that the bookstore across the street from where we were walking was one of his favorites.

Really, guru? That's all ya got for me?

Hmmm.

At first, I kinda dismissed this tidbit as no big deal. But then after wondering, 'what does a man with such an enormous brain find so alluring about those particular books?', I was intrigued.

The next time I had a couple of free hours, I ventured back to said bookstore.

I swear, it was like going though a magical portal.

Now, I am a sucker for a bookstore - musty oldies beckoning to be picked up, spines waiting to be satisfyingly cracked, shiny displays singing their siren song... But this was a little different.

Once inside, I could feel my usually twisty guts just sigh and relax. I wanted to touch every single book. I wanted to buy every single book. I wanted to just pull up a piece of floor and stay all day. I wanted, truth be told, to renounce everything - family, career, home - and just live here.

Every book appeared to be hand-picked just for me. There was so much information, so much potential, so much nurturance, so much vitality. It was enthralling.

Just as Mr. P the teacher immediately 'got' my kid, I immediately got why this was one of his favorite bookstores.

One of the authors I discovered on my first visit was a woman named SARK. Through the fine work of this woman, I was told that I should take lots of naps, and sate my appetite with meals of Tranformation Soup & Inspiration Sandwiches, rounded out with a dessert of Prosperity Pie.

How could advice like this possibly be ignored? (especially with nary an O'The Day in sight...)

So, needless to say, when I found her website with all of her links, you can bet that I meandered through each and every one of them.

One of SARK's favorite people, whom I happened upon at her bidding, was Rob Brezny.

He wrote a fascinating book called 'Pronoia Is The Antidote for Paranoia'. Lo and behold, thanks to the power of the interwebs, he had a website as well.

Through this meandering I discovered his Beauty and Truth Lab.

Whatever he's been concocting here over the years with his steamy Erlenmeyer flasks and overflowing graduate cylinders finally resulted in an 'Eureka' moment - for me.

It was here, a couple of weeks ago, that I found the balmy truth I'd been searching for.

Without boring you with all of the details of my recent struggles, I will tell you that I had a real identity crisis. All I could keep thinking was that I was extremely scattered, that I didn't have a 'voice'. I was told by someone, whose words I really value, that if I could remain focused that I could be a very good writer.

But hey. I am not that focused person. I may someday be, with some maturity. For now, I am a flitter. I jump from place to place to interest to curiosity, with complete disregard to those who are following.

Sorry about that.

I thought, for a time, that I could have a different blog for each interest and emotion. When I took the time to think that through, I realized I would have about 50 sites to keep up. Is that realistic?

What Rob eloquently related here is that it's okay to be trans-genre. To gather up all the different facets, grind them down, throw 'em in a beaker, apply a little heat, catalyze the hell out of them, and distill them all down. To one final product.

For now, this will be my truth.

And, for now - for me - this is a very beautiful thing.

Update

2010-08-03T16:03:00.000-07:00

Darlings!!

Some of you may be slightly dismayed - you appear to have fallen off the edge of the Baroness' blog page.

Was it that last comment? That beverage suggestion?

Have you fallen out of favor?

Oh, no, no, no....

Do not dispair.

Instead, go to some of the top buttons (I won't tell you which ones - hey babe, take a walk on the wild side) and marvel at the mediocrity of my HTML coding skills.

This is where you snicker (I'm hoping discreetly) into your cupped hands, and I excuse myself
to lie down in darkened room with a cold compress- my brain aches.

Arrow. Backslash. You. Ell. Arrow.

I do so suffer for my art...

A Work In Progress

2010-07-30T11:37:00.001-07:00

One of the things that amuses my husband to no end is that, when I buy something new, I must wear it right away. (The sofa, I'll admit, was a challenge - but honey, I worked that thing like a $10 hooker...)

He is equally amused by how much it drives me crazy that he does not feel compelled to do this. Weeks will go buy before that new shirt sees the light of day. Shoes? He doesn't 'need' to wear them yet. Gah.

I just don't understand.

Nor will I ever choose to.

I am all about immediate gratification.

Which brings me 'round to today's topic - this fakakte blog template.

I wanted sprucing. I wanted beautiful. I wanted button-driven ecstasy. I wanted a clean and organized aesthetic.

And I got it all.

However...

What I also got was a encyclopedic manual of instructions, full of html this and PhotoShop that. It clearly is not in English, and if it is - it's not a dialect I am even remotely familiar with.

So, I'm living in this facade/shell (don't even get me started on the metaphysics of all this), and I feel like a bit of a blogo-squatter. Sure, it's pretty from the outside, but just don't touch anything, m'kay?

Foolishly, I thought I could fumble my way through; everyone else changes their headers all the time - how hard can this really be? Sheepishly, I'll now admit that it is, in reality, really quite difficult for me; I need help.

So, with it being a long weekend in my corner of the planet, I will endeavor to get it all together. I really have only two choices - to open up my page and wince again and again, or to prevail upon the services of my in-house techies before they head out on Sunday to wreak their charming brand of mayhem and frivolity on The Continent.

Now if you all will excuse me for a bit, I have a date with a very handsome geek.

********************

A quick clarification, lest conclusions get jumped to, or feelings get hurt: The Lovely Miss Rita from Coffee Shop Designs was a delight to work with, and gave me all the support she could. She is beyond reproach, and I would recommend her very highly. She is, to my mind, a miracle worker, with the patience of a saint.

Any deficiencies here are now strictly as a result of my slackitude/absence of skill set.

Also, because I am too embarrassed to ask her the same questions - again (for the 43rd time) .

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-07-29T07:39:00.000-07:00

Today's Thoughtful Thursday comes as a confluence of events - at first glance, unrelated.

But these things - summer, gatherings, gardens, friends; under the effortless effort of reflection, seem to all belong together.

Not unlike eggplants and corn.

Garden Meditation
by Reverend Max Coots

Let us give thanks for a bounty of people.

For children who are our second planting, and though they
grow like weeds and the wind soon blows them away, may
they forgive us our cultivation and fondly remember where
their roots are.

Let us give thanks:

For generous friends...with hearts...and smiles as bright
as their blossoms;

For feisty friends, as tart as apples;

For continuous friends, who, like scallions and cucumbers,
keep reminding us that we've had them;

For crotchety friends, sour as rhubarb and as indestructible;

For handsome friends, who are as gorgeous as eggplants and
as elegant as a row of corn, and the others, as plain as
potatoes and so good for you;

For funny friends, who are as silly as Brussels sprouts and
as amusing as Jerusalem artichokes;

And serious friends, as unpretentious as cabbages, as subtle
as summer squash, as persistent as parsley, as delightful as
dill, as endless as zucchini and who, like parsnips, can be
counted on to see you through the winter;

For old friends, nodding like sunflowers in the evening-time,
and young friends coming on as fast as radishes;

For loving friends, who wind around us like tendrils and hold
us, despite our blights, wilts and witherings;

And finally, for those friends now gone, like gardens past
that have been harvested, but who fed us in their times that
we might have life thereafter.

For all these we give thanks.

This is For All the Lonely People

2010-07-28T14:51:00.000-07:00

It starts the moment we cross the threshold out to the rental car.

It always starts the moment we cross the threshold outside. Without fail. It is a reliable as a Farmer's Almanac or a national holiday.

She's fishing up her sleeve, grabbing that gross, wadded-up kleenex she keeps for just such situations; she clumsily daubs her overflowing eyes, smudges her runny mascara.

And I, in the wisp of a second, feel concurrently heartbroken, annoyed, jealous, embarrassed, unworthy.

We stand here hugging, clinging like shipwrecked passengers to whatever's left of the sinking wreckage.

We stand here, usually amongst our families - husbands, kids. They are admittedly a little perplexed. But we are the closest thing we each have to a sister. Both of us are adult orphans. She has shouldered one more loss than me - she is an not an only child by choice.

She, so much more than me, knows how fleeting life can be. She values every single second. She milks the hell out of every moment. This is so unlike me. Me, who lives haunted by the past and constantly envisions every aspect of the future on multiple levels and axes.

She completely lives in the now. She always assumes that this could be the last time we see each other.

The very real possibility of that theory makes me feel like I've got a large rock at the bottom of my throat. Blocking any awkward words I might be able to articulate while weighing heavily down on my heart, squashing it into a pulpy pancake.

I used to think it was maudlin.

I now completely buy into this bittersweetness.

I don't know what shifted, don't know why I've reframed these goodbyes that have gone on as long as she's been living out of town.

I think it may have something to do with the time recently I became overcome with longing. To just laugh. About nothing. And everything. With her. Every day. To cry because our sides hurt and because we were hilariously pathetic.

But, as so many things she has brought to me, I am eternally grateful for this gift she opens for me, every time she says goodbye.

The gift of adoration. Of acceptance. Of love.

I will weep my tears of unrepentant distance and hollow loneliness.

The only difference is, I will wait until I'm alone.

This orphan isn't quite ready to share yet.

All the Cool Kids Do It

2010-07-27T00:01:00.000-07:00

Half mock-exasperated, half serious, he beseeches us all: "Why does it always come back around to this?"

I just sit and smile, with my fingers across my lips; I don't want to blurt it out and ruin it; I don't want to tell him what I know is quite obvious.

It always comes back to poop.

Every.

Single.

Time.

My life, post-cancer, revolves around all things colonic. I can't help myself. It is just how I (and my bowels) roll now.

I remember when I had just had my surgery, the biggest question of the day after 'How's your pain level?' was 'Did you fart yet?'

Apparently, in a hospital setting, flatulence is an event to be celebrated. Like Bastille Day. Or Oktoberfest. If I say yes, do I maybe get a party hat? Leiderhosen?

Alright - small disclosure here. I can get completely sucked into a mob mentality.

It got to the point where I enthusiastically jumped on board to give out periodic "Poot Watch" reports. Not gonna lie - I got excited by my rumblings. I wanted to be that people pleaser.

"So hey, come here... guess what just happened?"

"I know, right?? TOTALLY cool!!"

"If you stand right there, no a little over, you can still feel the breeze. It's like a Spring zephyr..Glade will be calling soon. I'll tell them you just can't bottle perfection."

"I know - I'm happy, too. Really. Thrilled. Can I have some jello now? Dude, it's been like 3 days since I ate..."

My current obsession is just an off-shoot of those times. An extension, as it were...

Back to AJ and his constant disgust at our table talk.

When both of our families get together for one huge breaking of the bread (in this case it was a spring roll), it is inevitable.

We are, 9 out of 10 - simply put - feces-centric.

This meal, however, is slightly different than our usual get-togethers. It isn't a religious holiday. It isn't merely a visit with out-of-towners.

This time, it is yet another kind of celebration; of costuming for a cause out in the summer sun, strolling hither and thither in our skivvies , bringing awareness to down-thereness at this year's Underwear Affair.

We celebrate because, under the banner of Semi-Colon Army*, we have raised enough funds to come second overall in our city's event this year.

As Captain (or Colon-el), I celebrate my team's effort and heart and soul.

As a team, we celebrate being that much closer to finding some real solutions to an insidious, soul-sucking disease.

And being Number 2?

It seems blithely poetic to me.

; ; ; ; ; ;

*refers to the fact that as a result of my surgery, I no longer possess an entire colon, only bibs and bobs** of the original.

** I may or may not, from time to time, refer to my internal lower 49 as Bob; this really is of no concern to you one way or another. You can save that for other more important matters at hand, like "what color lip gloss goes with these shoes?" , or "should I eat the chocolate chip cookie dough and the tub of icing I've stashed in the back of the freezer?"

Monday Musing

2010-07-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

This past Friday morning, I had the opportunity to partake in what my older son refers to as "Hippy VooDoo Bullshit".

I took a workshop to learn more about Yogic Chakras.

I may or may not choose to share some of the very interesting things I (that are truly applicable to one and all). Right now, I'm just keeping them for myself.

What I will share is this - the reading which finished off our morning of practice.

It is by the author John O'Donohue, from his book 'Anam Cara'. It is entitled, "The Blessing of Solitude".

The Blessing of Solitude

May you recognize in your life the presence, power and light
of your soul
May you realize that you are never alone,
that your soul in its brightness and belonging connects you
intimately with the rhythm of the universe.
May you have respect for your own individuality and
difference.
May you realize that the shape of your soul is unique, that
you have a special destiny here,
That behind the facade of your life there is something
beautiful, good, and eternal happening.
May you learn to see yourself with the same delight, pride,
and expectation with which God sees you in every moment.

Aptly Titled "The Blogger"

2010-07-23T13:16:00.000-07:00

So, today marks a week and a day since I had the divine pleasure of being in the company of an amazing group of women folk. Sigh.

If ever one feels out of place in the world, one must scuttle themselves into a community of some sort. It will heal all ills.

Promise.

The too-short 4 days were a time of hi jinx, cackling, pooting, delicate burping, not-so-delicate snorting, exploring, expressing, fine dining, and only just a titch of hooliganism and political conspiracy. It was a time of days blissfully gazing out at Chesapeake Bay and all its splendorous sights:

In the evenings, it was testing out the adage "In Vino Veritas" (because, courtesy of moi, we are not only exceptional but scientific).

(we also tried out the lesser-known, "In Champers Pootas" and "In Margeritius Hangoveras"

These old saying? Clearly, all facts.

Here's some real veritas, people - these are extremely talented women. Each one brings a certain 'je sais quoi' to the party.

For example, take this woman:

(Seriously, take her)
(She's wearing a CRAB on her head. ON. HER. HEAD.)
(Wacky, non?)

She brings a huge, wide-open heart, some custom-made adult sippy cups, and - AND - a karaoke machine. And this one? Best cache of beach toys this side of Deltaville.

These two? They sing. Not just 'carry a tune' sing, but they SING.

As in Glee, as in harmony, as in 'I get a peaceful easy feelin'...'

Last year, they started a tradition of preparing a little ditty for the entertainment and edification of the group. This year, I felt the urge to nudge in and get involved as 'Creative Director' (read in: bossy). There were some ideas bandied about; we settled quite happily on this one: (click on names to get linked to some fine bloggy babes)

The Blogger

(with apologies to Steve Miller)

(ok, not really)

Some people call me the Space Cowgirl, yeah

Some call me the Gangster of Soup

Some people call me Fool’ry

Cause' I speak of the pompetous of chicken poop

People troll about me baby
Say I'm writin’ it wrong, writin’ it wrong
But don't you worry baby don't worry
Cause' I'm right here right here right here, writin’ this song

Cause' I'm a Mama
Little Drama
I'm a Gramma
Big Whamma Jamma
I write my blog posts in the sun
I'm a blogger

Not a jogger
I'm a blanket hogger

I get my comments on the run
Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh

You're the cutest thing that I ever did see
I really love your beaches
Want to drink iced tea

Lovey dovey, lovey dovey, lovey dovey all the time
Ooh wee Blister*, we’ll sure have a good time

Cause' I'm a AG

I'm a CG

I'm a No No

NaBloPoMo
I write my blog posts in the sun

I'm a blogger

Not a jogger
I'm a blanket hogger

I sure don’t want to hurt no one
Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh

____________________

*Blister: Portmanteau of Blog and Sister

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-07-22T14:35:00.000-07:00

"...I've been up,
down,
Tryin' to get the feeling again
All around,
Tryin' to get the feeling again
The one that made me shiver
Made my knees start to quiver
Every time it* walked in

And I've looked high ,
low
Everywhere I possibly can
But there's no
tryin' to get the feelin' again
It seemed to disappear
as fast as it came..."
Barry Manilow

Boy, I feel ya, Barry.

I have been lookin'. And lookin'.

For what, you may well ask.

Well... for my sassy.

I've been looking, waiting, hoping, beseeching my sassy to come back.

And I gotta tell you - it is an elusive bitch, this sassy.

It takes some hunting around for. At least, say, 4 months' worth of time.

I would be lying if I told you that I finally have it firmly back in my grasp.

It is like gripping hopefully onto a palmful of sand - it's solid one moment, trickley and vanishing the next.

I would also be lying to you if I told you that I loved, Loved, LOVED my self-imposed hiatus.

Truth be told, I hated every moment that I wasn't clickety-clacking away at a keyboard. The self-withholding set my fillings on edge, and the squelched desire made me want to crawl out of my skin some days.

Posts by the hundreds scrolled through my head, fully-realized, rich and entertaining.

Here, then gone.

Just like the sassy.

I ached to write.

I ached to be funny again.

But something intangible - some eerie self-preservation - always stopped me from planting my butt down and having at'er.

Here's the thing, dear reader of mine - the cold hard fact. There are many, many times when this bon vivant does not feel the least bit bon.

Nor vivant.

My sassy tank has been running on fumes for about, oh, 6 months or so.

But, thanks to the sons who both keep asking 'When are you going to write again?'; thanks to the ever-supportive husband who listens to me forever sigh and writhe and battle my inner demons; thanks to my trusted cousel who appreciates me for who I am and wherever I may be going; thanks to a bunch of infectious high-spirited hijinxers, I am just willing to baby- step my way back here.

For a time, it was all about the response. The validation. The numbers.

But, hey? I'm not a number person. I'm a word person.

And I'm back.

****

There is a Yin to the Yang of B von B: "Compulsions, Neuroses, and all my Other Charming Qualities". When I'm feeling blue or blah or downright bleak, this is where I might be found.

House

2010-03-12T08:45:00.000-08:00

House-piphany.

House of Cards.

House-cleaning.

Whatever it is, it is this.

Watching 'House' this past Monday, I couldn't help but really examine (ok, obsess over) the superlative illustration of the need to blog, regardless of the circumstance. The underlying message was, like so many other things I've been realizing in the last couple of weeks, yet another tumbler that has fallen into place.

I've long-sought connection, validation, support. The blogosphere seemed a very enticing venue. For a time. And then, for me, it kind of turned in on itself. Where were my numbers? Was I funny enough? Was I thoughtful enough? Was I well-written enough? Was I this? Was I that?

God.

Thus began the House of Cards.

I've mentioned before that I am a volunteering addict. I'm just beginning to understand why.

And for that matter, why not.

As I begin my laborious extricating from the many, many things I jumped into - and now must jump out of - I fear that there is one more thing I must leave behind.

Maybe for now.

Maybe forever.

With Spring around the corner (and it's horror show profusion of robins - really, what the hell is up with that???) it is time for me to start to clean the House of Jaffe (where I really should be living) , and to quietly, calmly close the doors to the House of vonBloggenschtern.

To all of you who have been so faithful, so beautiful (or handsome), so kind, so thought-provoking, and just so very lovely: Thank you so much.

I wish you every happiness.

Namaste.

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-03-11T10:13:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, my source of the quote I want to share with you on Thoughtful Thursdays is written word; it leaps out at me from the page.

Sometimes, it's the once-neglected lyric of a song - it will lazily meander through the air and tug at my ears.

And sometimes, it's a bumper sticker.

A seemingly trivial adornment - but in this case, as in many of my discoveries, it opens yet another door to yet another place that I had no idea existed, up until that very moment.

It is synchronicity at its finest.

I caught this at first, just as a glimpse in my peripheral vision. But its words were enough to trigger something quite visceral, and I had to have the Baron edge up towards the car in the next lane, like some cliched 70's TV cop show, as I practically hung halfways out the open passenger window.

"A little closer!"

"Hurry, the light's turned green - they're getting away!"

"I can almost see the author - HURRRRRR-YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY".

With a vroom and a sweet puff of gasoline, away they went, lost in the downtown traffic.

But I found it.

And at a time when I'm starting to finish what seems a lifetime of suppression, here it is.

In all its simplicity and its profundity:

"Your silence will not protect you."
Audre Lorde

[go here for more]

Torn from the Headlines

2010-03-09T11:35:00.000-08:00

I saw the news today.

Oh, boy.

How could a trio of adored characters go from this...

at Kitsilano Beach

...and this

at Tojo's,
eating the official food of the Vancouver 201o Olympics

and this:

working the school kids

...down to this:

scalping tickets

...and this -

(if you search up internet mascot porn in the forest,
is it illegal?)

and this:

could be Shaun White, but I'm pretty sure
it's Quatchi

Oh, how the mighty have fallen, as evidenced by the editorial cartoon in today's Province Newspaper:

cartoon source here

[Editor's note: East Hastings Street is at the core of Vancouver's Downtown Eastside, one of our city's more crime-addled areas. I think, at one time, it had the distinction of being one of North America's most dangerous. Yo. So very proud. ]

Freak-ish Friday

2010-03-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

I will keep this brief today - other than to give a big shout-out to Ashley - who is exercising her God-given (and government-given) right to free speech, and whom has felt the urge in the comments section of this post to remind me of my failings as a Christian.

Hmmm.

While some people may turn away in shock and dismay from comments like this, I instead embrace them with all the pagan love I can muster in my wizened little heart. Lord, help me.

And Ashley? Even though I may be too simple to understand such a completely random comment - a comment that appears to me to be so thoroughly unrelated to the matter at hand; even though I am perhaps slightly, simple-mindedly sceptical that you sharing your beliefs in this particular venue is the most effective way for you to spread your gospel, I'll give you all the attention you feel you so justly deserve.

Just come out from behind the Holy Bible in your profile picture, dear, pull up that soap box, and fire away. Let your message be heard, loud and proud. You obviously have a burning desire to say something.

May the power of Christ compel you.

And may you feel as enfolding when comes the day that someone hijacks your blog to air their religious beliefs.

As for me? I'm off to atone and beg forgiveness.

Right after I have my last romp with a donkey, whilst simultaneously (& greedily) drinking tequila straight from the bottle, eating 13 bacon cheeseburgers, and cursing like a gay sailor.

Have a righteous weekend, everyone!

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-03-04T08:51:00.000-08:00

From a new poet I recently discovered:

Clean
I stand
grounded
in the shower
for what seems an eternity

Comforted by the foggy glass

It is the perfect mirror
for my foggy reflection.

Fascinated by the rivulets
some pooling, collecting
some flowing down
trickling, really

I breathe my life into them
unconvinced
as to whether it's cathartic
or damaging -

bleeding away my oxygen
my spirit
my hopes
my sorrow

feeding this pure water
as it gracefully
wends its way

Towards the drain.

Elle MacDonald

(Backyard) Wanderlust Wednesday

2010-03-03T09:23:00.000-08:00

From time to time, I am confronted with nastiness.

The kind that someone will spit out in exasperation.

The kind that - regardless of the heat of the moment - is still rather hurtful.

But when someone once sniped at me "You have no desire to change the world, Baroness. You just want to redecorate it"?

Well, Missy - you are going to have to expand your repertoire just a tad, because I take this as nothing short of an extreme compliment.

Which is why I love Christo & Jean-Claude - wrapping shit up, one monolith at at time:

Reichstag, 1994

Don't like your trees?

No worry - they can do those, too:

so weird and intriguing...
(during the daylight hours only, though)
(I would probably squidge a little if I saw them at night)

The only issue I have with Monsier C et Co. is that they pretty much work in a monochromatic palette.

I need more.

Imagine, then, when one Michael Lin took on the task of decorating our downtown Art Gallery for the Olympics, in a project called "The Modest Veil":

Tres jolie, non?

Even more awesome is this angle, which not only shows the installation, but a tree that Christo didn't manage to get his fabric-festooning mitts on:

If I may, for a moment, remove this modest veil?

(because it's kinda scratchy and hot and it casts an unflattering shadow on my smug mug...)

Yuh.

It's a cherry tree.

In bloom.

In February.

Here.

Where I live.

Don't be hatin'.

Torn from the Headlines Tuesday

2010-03-02T08:05:00.000-08:00

So the Great Winter LoveFest of 2010 is now over, and thanks to the exceptional efforts of many - which made the last couple of weeks (and the week to come) an affair to remember - the love letters are still flowing in, fast and furious.

You like us.

You really, really like us.

Mostly.

From one of this morning's Vancouver papers:

"In case you don't read The Los Angeles Times, here's what esteemed sports columnist Bill Plaschke wrote on Sunday: 'Canada, you were gold. For two weeks, you lived your anthem, your hearts glowing like that moon that hung nightly over Burrard Inlet, a light on the front porch of a house that felt like a home.' "

Well, didn't that just get me a little misty-eyed?

Everyone, bar none, likes to be complimented on their choice of homey porch lighting.

And then I read a little further...

"In a related story, a British journalist complained that the stupid moon kept him up at night."

Oh, that stupid farking moon.

Add it to your litany of complaints. Another glaring oversight on our part.

So very, very sorry. Whatever could we have been thinking?

And yet again, I have gone from the thrill of successfully completing my hostess-y duties to the despair of actually having a moon in our Canadian solar system.

British newspaper dudes (especially you from The Times) - who the hell pissed in your pigs-in-a-blanket? For the most part, each and every day, you have behaved like petulant children. Stamping of feet, literary tantruming.

Dissing planets.

No one or no thing is beyond attack.

Now here, instinctually, I would love to tell you how relieved I am that you can all screw off and go back home. Back to the comfort of your climate (which is EXACTLY the f*cking same as ours), back to your overcrowded, polluted London and your pithy news posts.

And back to your g.d. moon.

Which apparently is of a smaller, more aesthetic wattage than ours.

I would love to tell you that I sincerely - in my glowing heart of glowing hearts - hope that there is some country who will take equal delight in crapping all over your 2012 Games.

But I won't.

Because, according to the rest of the free world, I'm a good hostess.

And I'm polite.

(Wanker.)

Hey, Joe - Me, Too!!

2010-03-01T07:34:00.000-08:00

Oh, my.

Amid the giant inflatable Mounties (out of the gutter, you), the flying beavers (yah, I'm talking to you. Out!!), the wafting Mooses, the birch bark canoes and the oh-so-saucy lumberjacks and the serial fiance known here as Buble (spat out like 'Newman' in Seinfeld...)...

...I could not have been prouder to be a Canadian than during the closing ceremonies of the 2010 Winter Olympics. (well, except for the Nickelback and Avril Lavigne part - I proudly voted for the pickle on facebook...)

My surging patriotism, and the always wry 'William-call-me-Bill' Shatner, reminded me of this old chestnut that-in its heyday-ran on TV about a jillion times a day (a jillion and 30 times in Newfoundland).

While kind of hackneyed, still true.

And on a day when I'm kind of blue to take down the red and white, this prolongs the ending just a little bit longer.

(oh my gawd - are you STILL curbside? Don't even go there with the 'that's what she said' thing).

Long before there was Joe the Plumber, there was:

Joe the Canadian:

Hey,

I'm not a lumberjack, or a fur trader....
I don't live in an igloo or eat blubber, or own a dogsled....
and I don't know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada,
although I'm certain they're really really nice.

I have a Prime Minister, not a president.
I speak English and French, not American.
And I pronounce it 'about', not 'a boot'.

I can proudly sew my country's flag on my backpack.
I believe in peace keeping, not policing,
diversity, not assimilation,
and that the beaver is a truly proud and noble animal.
A toque is a hat, a chesterfield is a couch,
and it is pronounced 'zed' not 'zee', 'zed' !!!!

Canada is the second largest landmass!
The first nation of hockey!
and the best part of North America

My name is Joe!!
And I am Canadian!!!

For the Love of Game(s) Friday

2010-02-26T15:54:00.000-08:00

I feel that I must apologize.

(gee, Baroness - how many conversations/letters/blogs of yours start this way?)

I realize that, over the last couple of weeks, my enthusiasm for all things Canada may have been just a titch insufferable for a few of you.

So, in an effort to be ecumenical, I will start to wrap up the festivities with just an overview of the things the vonB's witnessed yesterday on our jaunt downtown.

You know, our jaunt to see the people at the place play the thing.

On ice.

That some people may or may not have won.

A medal.

That may or may not have the chemical symbol Au.

All that aside, thanks to the power of my Hockey Socky:

Moose!

I now have a fascination with head wear.

Such as this:I told she looked very aerodynamic.

(which was the truth)
I did not tell her that she looked like my garden gnome.
(which was also the truth)

And this:

Sundry rapid transit lady, rockin' the Quatchi...

(Although - no offense, lady - NO ONE rocks the Quatchi head better than this guy:

Whoa, dude. Gnarly
No really.
Gnarly.
Conditioner, maybe?

And this:I had to check my ticket to make sure

that I hadn't surreptitiously gotten into some sort of Bill and Ted phone booth,
and then check the back of my head to make sure
I didn't have a gaping wound of some sort that would cause hallucinations...
WTH?
You are a far way from Wisconsin, Dorothy.

But wait! Here's another who has infiltrated the perimeter:

I think they are planning a takeover, by slowly and deliciously
raising our cholesterol
rendering us gassy
and defenseless

There were law enforcement officers (v. friendly, btw), who were wearing ushankas:

I asked him if it was made of beaver.
His partner quickly suggested it was roadkill.
His partner was not wearing a ushanka.
Jealous much, buddy boy?
(I would never call a RCMP officer 'buddy boy')
(within Taser range)

There was the patriotic:And the Hockey-otic:

who reminded me of a (family friendly) version of a joke -
'What has 2 thumbs and is toque-cool?'

And its sad counter-part - 'What has 4 thumbs, and is not cool?'

"Us!"

Winter Olympics 2010 Wednesday

2010-02-24T20:13:00.000-08:00

Oh, Vivi - what have you done now?

As you may recall (or not)(perfectly understandable, darlings - we all lead such hectic lives, non?) it was not too long ago that I had an illumination conversation with Canadian Olympic Biathlete, Vivi Kocher.

During the interview (at about the 4 minute 9 second mark on the 2nd video, I go all Nancy Grace on her ass, and bring up some pretty serious past allegations.

Which she denied (I think) vehemently.

Yet look what's happened to poor Miss Belarus up there.

Oh, Vivi.

Oh, Canada.

[editor's note: nah, just funnin' with ya; Belarus girl's just plain tuckered out. That's all. Nothing to see here. Because Iwouldn't want you thinking I'm all macabre or anything...this is a photo from an amazing series posted on the Boston Globe's website]

My City Monday

2010-02-22T19:03:00.000-08:00

Gah.

I've been up in my little turret, studying all day. Big test on Wednesday.

(by the dubs - advancing one's intellect and striving for certification? Highly overrated).

(especially when the G.D. Olympics are on.)

(and in my city, no less...)

(wah)

It's still Monday, right?

Well, unless you fall somewheres off the east end of the Canadian Map.

Then too bad for you.

So, I know that the subtitle of my blog is "The Good.The Bad. The Irksome."

But just for today, I am going to change it to "The Happy. The Sad. The Awesome."

Come along, now. We don't have all day.

The Happy:

I was thrilled to come upon this during a regularly-scheduled gallavant - nice to know that we have someone local who has Banksy aspirations...(does it count if it's on your own fence?)

Here's a close-up - the striped pants are pretty fee-usss!

The Sad:

*note to dude on left:
Put down the sign when we're losing...

Oh, Canada.

What.

The.

Frickin'

Hell?

Yeah, buddy. We're living something...(I think it's call Get-Back-In-Yer-Net-You-Idiot-Itis)

The Sad (But Proud):

Making nice. Shaking hands. Because he's such a lovely young man. And we are nothing.

But polite.

The Awesome:

I think I may have died and gone to heaven. Even though I was home slaving away over sarcomeres and xiphoid processes, my friends saw it in their hearts to still go downtown and play amongst the international jet set - they knew I would have wanted it that way.

My absence was noted, and my hard work hitting the books was rewarded when the Good Countess Jaeger came home with the most AMAZING present ever.

It is called a "Hockey Sockey", which is an offshoot of "The Pook" (go here for the fantabulistic website).

In its relaxed state, it looks like this:
But it can be so much more.

It can be a brooch. It can be a pterydactyl.

It can be a mullet.

Or it can be this:
I am currently rocking the 'Double Trump Comb Over'.

I'm still trying to perfect 'The Moose' where you knot the top ties and put your Olympic mittens on top. Picture to follow!

Happy almost Tuesday, my lovelies!

For the Love of the Game(s) Friday

2010-02-19T08:27:00.000-08:00

Here is my inherent problem - I listen.

A lot.

Maybe too much.

Whilst this makes for fascinating and meaningful personal conversation, it is certainly detrimental to my foray into the sound-byte-centric world of television journalism.

Hmmm. Their loss.

Because when I'm having some good, silly fun - I just can't stop myself. I must have more, more - and then some more. Convo crack, it is.

When I had the pleasure of meeting (alleged) Canadian Curler Christina LaRoche, I wished we could gab forever. She is all kinds of entertaining, and although I was slightly disappointed that her curling pants were not as flash as Norway's, she more than made up for it with her impromptu "Gretching" and overall move-busting...

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-02-18T08:18:00.000-08:00

I mentioned yesterday how She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has taken over at least one of our local Olympic venues.

I say 'at least' because she is subversive. We all know this. All is quiet on the Western Front and then BAM! She's singlehandedly financing healthcare and adopting entire countries. She's simultaneously redecorating women's shelters while grafting 25 new hybrid roses in her California compound. Who knows how far-reaching her tentacles spread? (Immediately the giant squid from '10,000 Leagues Under the Sea' springs to mind. Except for the part about killing sea men. Or maybe not.)

Anyhoo...

While one celeb may be subversive, there is another out and about here who is anything but. A certain Monsieur Stephen Colbert is at it - loud and proud.

From his claim on the cover of Sports Illustrated...

'Saving' the Olympics?
(harumph)
(one snow truck at a time?)

...to inciting his Northern faction of the ColbertNation to festoon our city with his posters ...

... I think that in his heart of hearts, he really likes us. He really, really likes us.

Broadcasting his 'Colbert Report' from a venue yesterday in Vancouver, he lovingly pandered to the crowd and summed up our charm with one of his always-keen observations:

"It doesn't matter whether you are Canadian, Indian or Asian. What unites us is you are not American."

(Almost) Wordless/WTF/Winter Olympics Wednesday

2010-02-17T08:45:00.000-08:00

Welcome to today's amalgam of all that is good, bad and irksome on this fine Wednesday morning.

I've been mulling over which intriguing facet of our 2010 Olympics I would next reveal to you ...

Interview?

Nah.

(need my people to align with others' people)

(who now, apparently, have their own press people)

(who are busy talking to his people)

(which makes me contradict my Monday assertion - people who need people are not the luckiest people in the world. They are just kind of pissy and disgruntled)

Fashion faux pas?

Nae.

(I mean, where do you go from here?)

Instead, I will touch oh-so-briefly upon some irksomeness that I documented during a stroll through our local gathering place this past weekend.

To preface this, I must clarify something.

We Canadians, on average, are not a boastful lot. Sure, we are proud. But we temper this with about 3500 kilograms of humility. Some of us toss in a little guilt for good measure.

But this whole Winter Olympics thing? Well, if you knew us well, you would know that we are practically apoplectic with excitement (and those of you who don't know us well? You just assume we are ready for a nap).

So, we really feel a sense of ownership with this. This is our year, our city, our venues. Which, by the way, are obscenely expensive to get into - unless you know people.

The alternative to seeing events live is to go to the afore-mentioned public venues, where mammoth flatscreen tv's abound. It's just almost like being there. Just almost.

Have I painted a sufficient picture?

Okay, then.

Imagine mingling with the rest of the great unwashed in an area designated as this:

Are you f*(#$ing kidding me?

TV empires, radio stations, small countries aren't enough to satiate her lust for dominance? Can this woman not keep her grubby little paws off anything?

Next thing you know, there will be a Leadership Academy cropping up on our East Side, to enpower/indoctrinate the wayward, the disenfranchised, the transient. To teach them the mantra - you, too, can have a dream. You, too, can be entitled. To anything. Anywhere.

You, too, can have the power within to hijack an event.

Maybe a "My Favorite Things" episode??

OK - everything but that.

Let's not go crazy here.

My City Mondays

2010-02-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

Something I'm sure everyone can relate to - regardless of homeland - is the pride one feels when one hears their national anthem.

To be able to belt it out loud and proud with a building full of compatriots is a powerful thing. It can even be a transformative thing, turning the cynical into the heart-proud.

So, when one starts tweaking with what is pure and good and wholesome and don't need no fixing , well...

Just well.

When, at the very opening of Friday's Olympic Opening ceremonies, Canadian jazz singer Nikki Yanofsky started out on her (seemingly) 2 hour adventure in and around the-tune-of-what -could-have-possibly-been-our-national-anthem-but-I'm-not-really-sure, well...

Just well.

I am sure that the decision to slow it up and dance it all over the place was not her decision alone - she had people. And people who have people?

They're the luckiest people. In the world.

Because to begin to atone for this sorry attempt at rousing our nationalism, 16 year old Nikki is also the voice behind my newest earworm.

It is downright miraculous how a woman with an absence of hormones (me, not Nikki) can indeed get so hormonal and squidgey listening to this, but there ya go. I believe.

The song and accompanying video has all sorts of elements - cheddar cheesey elements, in fact - that somehow manage to dig right in there and tug at an old Baroness' heart strings.

Things that get me every damn time, such as:
. someone skating on a frozen lake
. men in tights
. a still sassy 82 year old Barbara Ann Scott, both as a young Canadian figure skating darling and as a modern day arsonist, terrorizing Parliament Hill with her fire stick
. the running of the torch (reminiscent of the man who carries my flame)
. Wayne Gretzky
. Nancy Greene (one of the first skiers I remember watching on tv)
. Inukshuk
. the kickassery of our women's hockey team
. a successful torch lighting (go figure!)
. kids singing
. candlelight
. flying through the air with the greatest of ease

I hear (when I can) that the cure for the common earworm is to diminish its power by sharing it with as many people as possible. Be part of the cure, people:

And as corny as it sounds, I do believe in the power of you and I.

Merry Monday, everyone.

For the Love of The Game(s)

2010-02-12T06:56:00.000-08:00

You know, being the Unofficial Blogosphere Ambassadrix of the 2010 Winter Olympics was not some fluke.

I know people.

More importantly, I know people who know people.

Who can get me in touch with their people's people.

After much backing and forthing, and synchronizing of about 100 schedules, I was able to meet with my Friday guest.

I'm not gonna lie - I've heard the name bandied around from time to time.

And, as hockey is pretty much the dedicated tv channel in the vonB house - the name swirls around here constantly, like a figure skater at the Swarowski Crystal factory.

Since everyone was making this out to be HUGE, I decided I had better do some research.

And what is the best place to find stuff out? Yuh-huh.

YouTube.

Here is what I learned:

Forget Mom and apple pie.

Dismiss your tenets of cookies and milk.

Here, in the True North Strong and Free, it's hockey and donuts, 24/7/365.

Armed with what I needed to know, I ventured out to meet with Canada's Darling of the Ice (and the Iced Capppuccino) - Sidney Crosby:

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-02-11T08:05:00.000-08:00

With one day left before the opening of the 2010 Winter Olympics in MyCity, I am feeling all kinds of corny and glorious and misty, every time I see a videoclip or hear my national anthem. It is a strange feeling, all this overwhelming pride.

Yet there is something that stirs me - so oddly, so deeply - that I can't help but feel passionate, and to hope, for the sake of you all, that I can toe the line between heartfelt and downright obnoxious.

Because all of these misperceptions about our country? We're more than that.

All of the political rhetoric? We're more than that, too.

Is it wrong to share with you the words of a spoken word artist?

Well, then - I don't wanna be right.

Because spoken or written - this guy is a genius.

And, thanks to the brilliance of Canadian slam poet Shane Koyczan (go here for his website, House of Parlance),I present to you today's Thoughtful Thursday:

We Are More
Define Canada.
You might say the home of The Rocket or The Great One
who inspired little 9's and little number 99's
But we're more than hockey and fishing lines
off the rocky coast of the Maritimes
and some say what defines us is something as simple as
'Please' and 'Thank You'
and as for "You're Welcome" - well, we say that too
But we are more than genteel and civilized
we are an idea in the process of being realized
we are young
we are a culture strung together, then woven
into a tapestry
and the design is what makes us
more than the sum totals
of our history
we are an experiment going right for a change
with influences that range from 'A' to 'Zed'
and yes, we say 'zed' instead of 'zee'
we are the colors of Chinatown, the coffee of Little Italy
we dream so big
that there are some that would call our ambition
an industry
because we are vineyards
of good year after good year
we reforest what we clear
because we believe
in generations beyond our own
knowing now that so many of us have grown past what we used to be
we can stand here today
filled with all the hope people have
when they say things like,
'Someday...'
because we are more than a laundry list of
things to do and places to see
more than hills to ski and countryside ponds to skate
we are the abandoned hesitation
of all those who can't wait
we are first-rate greasy spoon diners and healthy-living cafes
a country
that is all the ways you choose to live
a nation
that can give you variety
because we are choices
we are millions upon millions of voices shouting
'Keep exploring'
we are more
we are the surprise the world has in store for you
it's true
Canada is the 'What' in 'What's New'
so don't let your luggage define your travels, each life
unravels differently
and experiences are
what make up the colors of our tapestry
we are
The True North Strong and Free
and what's more
is that we didn't just say it -
we made it be
****

To hear the master live(ish), go to the YouTube page here.

Winter Olympics 2010 - Flame On!

2010-02-10T08:28:00.000-08:00

You all might believe that this past Sunday's activities between the Who Dats and the Baby Horses was pretty exciting, but here at vonBloggenschtern Central - where I am, by the by, the Unofficial Ambassadrix of the 2010 Winter Olympics - The Superbowl was but a mere trifle.

For yesterday, in our neck of the woods, on a balmy, 53 degree F afternoon, there was a completely different brand of receiving, running, and passing.

Yesterday was the day when my Baron vonB ran his leg of the Olympic Torch Relay.

It was a surreal experience: anticipatory, overwhelming, exhilarating, patriotic, proud, loving - all SlapChopped into one big ball of awesome.

From the minute he got dropped off at his checkpoint - flame still unlit, waiting for the previous runner - The Baron was a rock star. He was swarmed by everyone and their baby, and one of my darling nieces had a real hard time pushing her way into the throng to get a picture taken. The Baron said he now has a modicum of sympathy for anyone with the last name 'Jonas'.

After a brief wait, and a police dispersement of the crowd (no firehoses nor tear gas required - we Canadians disperse quite nicely, thankyouverymuch), the hubster's torch was lit:

(that's him on the right, in the highly flammable, IOC-issued, figure-flattering white track suit)

He was off and running...

Accompanied by his posse of flame bodyguards - because even though we're such a polite bunch, we still have opinions.

(and if you have the balls to express them during ANY of the torch relays, see that smiling lady on the left? She'll kick your ass from here to Sunday)(and then bring out the firehose and teargas)(maybe the dogs, too)

And although he told me that he would maybe make a break for it and keep the flame for himself, he thought better of it at the last minute (perhaps because of that smiling lady), and graciously passed it along on its way:

Then someone official-like came along, extinguished the Baron's torch, and 'Pfffffft" - that was it.

Well, almost.

Because, being a vonBloggenschtern means that one can only take so much pomp and so much circumstance before one can't take it at all anymore, and has to live up to a dare:

My City Monday

2010-02-08T07:32:00.000-08:00

Well, it is that day of the week (tell me why...) where I give you another little glimpse into the wonderment that is completely altering my city.

It's time to meet another yet another fine young athlete that will hopefully do us proud (no pressure, hon).

Join me as I once again infiltrate the Olympic Athlete's Village and meet up with JodiAnna Tomie - Canadian Skeleton racer - to discuss life, levity and lycra.

For the Love of the Game(s) Friday

2010-02-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

Oh, my. Can The Baroness just say how thrilled she is?

Wait, let me back up a minute.

You may recall that here I (foolishly) volunteered myself to be your official blogosphere ambassador to the 2010 Winter Olympics.

Well, the powers that be somehow made it happen, and ta dah!!! I got my first interview!

Two things you should know ahead of time:

1. The powers that be were too cheap to get me a videographer, so I had no choice but to do all of this myself.

2. I do not really know how to do all of this myself.

Without further ado, Let the Games begin!!

OK, sorry to interrupt.

Two more things you should know:

1. As part of the steep learning curve, I did not edit this. It is - not unlike the sometimes blahdee blah blah of my posts - a tad long. But I had such a good time, I didn't want it to end. No one's got a gun to your head to watch the whole thing...

(well, actually, she does)

2. What you've always heard is still indeed true. Canadians are polite. Exceedingly so.

Some of us (maybe those involved in perhaps a field of sportsplay that might employ skis and rifles) could from time to time, be a titch outspoken.

But it is just that.

Outspoken-ness: The sign of freedom.

And who among us doesn't love freedom?

If we had amendments up here, I'm sure this would be one.

You heard the lady.

Be nice.

Like we are.

Me and Vivi.

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-02-04T09:07:00.000-08:00

Late last week, The Baroness was in the throes of medically making herself, ummmm....hollow. All in the name of -ologies and -oscopies. (I'll let you fill in the gaps here)(because thanks to this, there are many, many gaps)(still)

Needless to say (so I won't)(too much), I could not really stray far from the confines of my home. Setting foot outside would be akin to releasing a helium balloon into the air. And, although I love to travel, this is not my method of choice.

What to do? What to do? What to do?

Few things say discomfort to me more than confinement and the ensuing mopey-ness. And what, pray tell, is the cure-all for reality? Escapism.

So I decided to have a mini-movie marathon.

And somewhere, in the middle of "Shall We Dance", there was just such a lovely conversation crafted by writer Audrey Wells between the beautiful Susan Sarandon (Bev) and the wry Richard Jenkins (Mr. Devine), that I had to share it for today's TT.

Enjoy.

Bev: Why is it, do you think, that people get married?

Mr. Devine: Passion.

Bev: No.

Mr. Devine: That's interesting. Because I would have taken you for a romantic. Why, then?

Bev: Because we need a witness to our lives.

There's a billion people on this planet. I mean, what does any one life really mean?

But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything...the good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things...

All of it, all the time, every day.

You're saying, 'Your life will not go unnoticed, because I will notice it."

"Your life will not be unwitnessed, because I will be your witness."

Woman Power Wednesday

2010-02-03T08:17:00.000-08:00

Dedicated to all of those amazing women serving in the armed forces, with a special nod to one
magnificent young woman, who's just finished her basic training in the Air Force.

While the C-5 was turning over its engines, a female crewman gave the GIs on board information regarding seat belts, emergency exits, etc.

Finally, she said, "Now sit back and enjoy your trip while your caption, Judith Campbell, and her crew take you safely to Afganistan."

An old Sergeant Major sitting in the eight row thought to himself, "Did I hear her right? Is the pilot a woman?"

When the attendant came by, panicked, he grabbed her by the arm and said, "Did I understand you right? Is the pilot of this plane a woman?"

A large smile appeared on the female attendant's face.

"My God," the Sergeant Major said, "I wish I had a double scotch and soda. I don't know what to think with only women up there in the cockpit."

"That's another thing, Sergeant, " said the crew member.

"We no longer call it the Cockpit"...

..."It's the Box Office."

******************************

Quote of the Day:

"Whatever you give a woman, she will make it greater.

If you give her sperm, she'll give you a baby. If you give her a house, she'll give you a home.

If you give her groceries, she'll give you a meal. If you give her a smile, she'll give you her heart. She multiplies and enlarges whatever is given to her.

So, if you give her any crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit."

My City Monday

2010-02-01T12:29:00.000-08:00

Make a Smilebox collage

Well, it certainly is Monday.

And here in our wee corner of earth, somewhere betwixt the Starbucks mothership and Sarah Palin territory, the excitement is getting pret-ty darned crazy.

You know that phrase, 'Busier than a one-armed paper hanger'?

Well, imagine about 100,000 one-armed paper hangers, planting and cementing and hammering and paving and volunteering and basically whipping themselves into a collective frenzy to get everything all shiny and ready for this upcoming sporting event that will soon overtake us all. You'd think it was a big deal or something.

Big or no, we are the party hosts doing that last-minute, crazed tidying: dusting the surfaces with our shirtsleeves, chucking undesirable viewing material into cupboards, stacking the unneeded into the garage, filling the icebuckets and hoping like hell that no one shows up early.

(whatever you do, please don't look in that closet in the Valley - that's where we moved the homeless)(just for now...)

Anyways...

Things are afoot. (askate?)(aboot?)

And, as one of the many Unofficial Blogosphere Ambassadors to the 2010 Winter Olympics, I will attempt to keep you in the loop.

The loopy loop, as it were.

For as is the privilege of one so connected as myself, I have been told* that I may have press access to some of our fine Canadian Olympic athletes.

Look for upcoming interviews with Vivi Kocher, Biathalon. Jodianna Tomie, Skeleton. Christina LaRoche, Women's Curling. Sam Sean White, Snowboarding.

Maybe even Sidney Crosby.

I think he has something to do with Men's Figure Skating. (Loved, loved, LOVED his father's music).

Don't worry - I'll get this all figured out. And when I do - I promise you that I will bring you the goods.

Because I can.

Because they're here.

In my city.

* 'I have been told': A very useful phrase which I first learned from this wise sage - it covers a multitude of misperceptions and potentially humbling observations.

Fleet Farm! Friday

2010-01-29T00:01:00.000-08:00

This is where I tell you about finding the most magnificent emporium of oddities on earth, and you go "Yeah, yeah, I've seen it all before....".

You are a hardened bunch.

When, exactly, did you all get so jaded?

So cold?

Speaking of cold...

When I think of cold, I think of winter. And when I think of winter - rather than thinking of the rain and the grey and S.A.D. and the marrow-chilling dampness that has now been my climate for the last half of my life - I get all nostalgic and gushy and think about snow.

And when I think about snow, I think of that sound.

That scrunching and scraping of my dear sainted mother shovelling the walks. Scrunch, scrape, stop. Scrunch, scrape, stop. (the stopping was when she whipped the Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe her drippy nose). How I wish she would have had the luxury of the not-yet-invented snowblower. Lady coulda rocked that technology something fierce.

But now, not only does the snow blower exist - a boon to some, a loathesome noise machine to others -thanks to the awesomeness also known as Fleet Farm, there also exists this fabulous accessory to go with it. Behold!

The Universal Freakin' Snowcab.

It is so many exciting things in one, it has so much magnificent potential, I can only right now share a partial list with you :

It's a Cab.

It's an Oxygen Tent.

It's a "Let's Pretend We're in a Super-Submarine Under the Sea" toy.

It's a Pope Mobile.

And the thing I love the bestest of all about it?

The instructions:

"Assembles in minutes - with basic tools"

And, just like I am convinced that - thanks to off-shore manufacturing- there was an obvious punctuation error in the Duck!!!! Blind, I am also certain that the Universal Snowcab box should say "by" instead of "with".

Oh, you silly store - you are an endless source of amusement...

Fleet Farm!!!

Happy Friday, everyone.

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-01-28T00:01:00.000-08:00

There is a saying: Once the student is ready, the teacher will present themself.

So while I continue to meander endlessly down a myriad of paths - to seek out those teachers that will start me on my ways - I am certain that I have found one.

An integral one; a foundational one.

My Yoga Teacher.

She is local phenomenon, and I knew from the very moment that I was in her class, she was the shizznit. Her method of teaching speaks to me, and taps into and lets flow an enthusiasm in me that I thought was gone forever.

Here is a woman who does not rest on her laurels. She's been at this a very long time. She teaches 4 days a week, to a variety of groups that her son refers to as "her people". She could very easily phone it in; just stick with what has worked in the past, keep everything routine.

But she doesn't. And she won't.

Every single class, without exception, she brings something new. Every class is fresh and shiny and exciting, and like the first one ever. She is constantly reading. Constantly learning. And she is always - ALWAYS - ready to take us along with her on her journey. For, she has told us, it is for us that she does all of this. It is we who inform her soul to keep going, to keep growing.

I can say, with certainty, it is she whom I was meant to learn from. She is grace, she is wisdom, she is perseverance; she is a cherished treasure.

On Monday, before one of our more challenging poses, she cited a poem about the pose from a book she brought along, "Yoga Poses: Lines to Unfold By".

And, although it was indeed inspirational at the time, it is something that is equally soothing to share 'off the mat'.

Padangustha Dhanurasana - The Bow Pose

For woman
bow is both
noun and verb.

How to bend
without breaking?

How to tie a ribbon
around a life
without constriction?

How to stretch
and not snap

How to love?

How to live?

Leza Lowitz

May you have a happy Thursday, my lovelies, unfolding, bending, stretching, being ...

Stop Having Boring Tuna, Stop Having a Boring Life

2010-01-26T07:22:00.000-08:00

So, normally (okay, semi-normally...)

(quasi-normally...)

(seldom normally....)

(shut up)

I would present my fascinating and insightful spin on world issues in 'Torn from the Headlines' Tuesday.

Today, however - although there are many, many headlines to draw from:

"Housing 'severely unaffordable' " [quotes family in accompanying photo, uncomfortably sharing their living room with their 60" flat-screen tv]

"Carney wary of Obama plan" [well, d'uh. What carnival worker wouldn't be leery of a proposal to bar financial institutions from engaging in proprietary trading. That could affect the local Money Tree, yo]

"Apple: It's all about the tablet" [Yeah, that's what Moses and Bayer thought, too. You're not as revolutionary as you think, Steve Jobs...]

... I will instead take the low road (virtually sub-terranean) and just cut and paste a little sumpin' sumpin' brought to my attention just this very minute (thank you, dear Audrey!)

While it does not have serious global implications, I am fairly certain that those of us who have ever been awake watching tv at 3:00 am will appreciate the timeliness and artistry.

Without further ado, something to either:

a) brighten up your Tuesday
b) give you epileptic fits

Happy Tuesday, one and all!

Freaks and Geeks

2010-01-25T07:06:00.001-08:00

There are two things running througn my head this morning:

1. I can't remember #1, right now (we'll get back to it)(maybe), and
2. My love/ hate relationship with technology is swinging to the hate.

Let me explain.

In younger days, when I was in the thick of the scientific community, I was just like every other lab nerd - I oohed and ahhed over every new gizmo and doodad that cropped up. (and if it came with a free lunch and demo from the sales rep - so much the better. We'll take two).

But even then I knew.

I understood that with every amazing feature in the 'plus' column on the spec sheet, there would be a down side. A side not really talked about, a side that could potentially be used for dire purposes rather than the beneficial.

Because, technology - by and large - is a double-edged sword.

I think that, lately, the thing that is messing everyone up (OK, messing ME up, specifically) is the Internet.

True, it can be a glorious thing. It can make connections possible where they could never have possibly existed before. Case in point - the extraordinary group of women I met through our interconnected sites, and ultimately met up with in real life at last summer's Virginia BlogFest.
And all the other readers I've blended (blog +friend = blend) with since I started. Like Babs. And Cormac. Vegetable Assassin. And the 'Initials': BA, FF, NATUI. Even newer ones, like Ti . It has been nothing but pleasure getting to know them.

If luck is the intersection when timing and opportunity meet, then I would have to say that all these blogospheric collisions were very opportunistic, indeed.

But then there's the downside.

My case in point here? MySpace. Ack.

I joined this group for one purpose - to send a note of appreciation directly to someone's e-mail. That's it. (Of course, it would have been lovely if it was acknowledged, but really - who am I kidding? It should be enough that it was jettisoned out into the ether for its original intention)(Note the 'should be' here; I am completely irked by bad manners)(And you, bad-mannered one? You know who you are).

Needless to say, I should have got in, got it done, and got out.

But I didn't. I stayed. Lazy? Probably. Delusional? Absolutely.

What I ended up with is a slew of creepy oddballs, sending me declarations of love and passion and claiming that I was their soul mate, charting our future together like some possessed tarot card reader.

It didn't really matter that I had said, in as many ways possible, that I was married. I was HAPPILY married. I had been HAPPILY MARRIED for a LONG TIME. At one point, I was thinking of changing my name to I AM F*CKING MARRIED. After a short reflection on that, I realized that the only thing that would be noticed and flagged was the F*CKING, and I would end up with more men looking for a woman who bold enough to claim herself an adultress. Gah.

People are idiots.

I spent more time than I should have being polite. The first few 'friends' were the lucky ones. I answered back that I was in no way interested in pursuing ANYTHING, and wished them well on their pursuit of happiness.

The next batch got a message that crapped all over them for not reading anything, but merely looking at a picture and believing that destiny had waved its magic wand.

I even went so far as to change my profile picture to this:

Things did start to slow down - but not by much. I guess there are a lot of lonely men out there, looking for love with horse-faced dowagers. Maybe it' the challenge of getting through all those layers. I don't know.

They were ridiculous.

The whole exercise was ridiculous.

And oh, yeah - now I remember my Item 1 from the top of the post:

I'm ridiculous.

*******************************

Tune in next Monday for the beginning of a Baroness mini-series: My City Mondays. It will be a little glimpse into the who, what, where and possible why (but more likely why not?) of the 2010 Winter Olympics.

That happen to be - oh yeah - in my city.

Fleet Farm! Friday

2010-01-22T07:03:00.000-08:00

For those of you who haven't ever had the privelege to go to a Fleet Farm, let me tell you that is - quite possibly - one of the most fascinating emporiums I have ever laid eyes on.

Part WalMart, part Field and Stream, part Guns and Ammo, part Ye Olde Garden Shop, part PetSmart.

Don't have an animal?

No problem - Fleet Farm can help you grow your own:

Yuh. They're just that amazing.

However...

And this is a big however...

After all my years of reading mysteries and watching crime-based tv dramas I couldn't help shake the feeling that not only is this a one-stop shop for the rural community, it could also be the one-stop shop for a more sinister element....

That ooky feeling started here,

Amped up a little when we got to here,

And had me totally skeeved out when we met some fellow in the crossbow department pushing his cart filled with ,um, cleaning products:

When he and I accidently made eye contact whilst perusing the flourescent lingerie, I went into freak-out mode and pulled out my handy-dandy Cloak of Invisibility:

Duck!!! Blind

And waited until he had disappeared into what I thought was the "Shovels for Digging Shallow Graves" department.

Oh, me and my wild imagination....

Ha ha ha.

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-01-21T07:59:00.000-08:00

photo source here

In yoga, one of the components of our practise is something called a mudra. This encompasses a positioning of the hands and/or fingers. Each variety of mudra is rife with symbolism and purpose.

One of my favorites, the Lotus Mudra (read more here) has the yogi shaping their hands like the petals of a lotus flower. This mudra 'belongs to the heart chakra' and helps us to be aware of keeping our heart pure and unconditional , as 'love, goodwill, affection and communication reside together in there.'

I especially like it, as I feel its openness is a conduit for both receiving all the good energy which will surround one in a yoga class and for offering up any prana (life energy) back to the class. Because, as we practise individually, we are still just one part of a singular living, breathing being.

Today's TT comes to you via me via one of my brother-in-laws. A fellow, who, I can assure you is cringing right alongside Duke #1 at all of the hippy dippy voodoo bullshit that I just touched upon above.

Like most of my out-laws, my BIL is a mystery wrapped up in an enigma, with a pocket full of happiness and medicinal lint.

During one of our oh-so-witty repartees back and forth on facebook, in reaction to something I said, he said he was Aghast.

That's funny, said I.

I thought you were Agnostic.

He then informed me that he is now Acrostic.

I must say (yes, I really must) - this is quite puzzling.

An-n-n-yways...

Despite his religious and crytological leanings, he sent along this lovely piece of enlightenment specifically targetted to the JewBu population, but equally applicable to all. It immediately resonated with me purely because of the reference to the flower:

Deep inside you are ten thousand flowers
Each flower blossoms ten thousand times
Each blossom has ten thousand petals
You might want to see a specialist.

Namaste. Go in peace.

Right to the internist.

I'm Not Lonely, Swear to God - I'm Just Alone

2010-01-19T08:37:00.000-08:00

Not too long ago, I was at a conference with a large group of women.

Each one, bar none, was fascinating unto herself. They came from all walks of life - some were corporate dynamos, some were retired, some were self-employed.

As we went around the room, telling our stories and our reasons for attending this symposium, one of the women said, "I guess I'm here because I have F.O.E."

"Jesus", I said, talking out of turn (like what else is new?), "That sounds awful. Is is something like MS?"

She smiled. Her beautific, serene, smile.

"No", she said. "F.O.E. stands for 'Fear Of Everything' "

All the women surrounding me chuckled a little. Ha ha ha. So cute.

But I wasn't amongst the chucklers.

Because I got it - those three letters were like a punch in the gut. Now I had a label.

I have F.O.E., too.

This realization, which isn't exactly a revolutionary epiphany for me, has permutated over the last couple of days.

For somehow, a hot button's been pushed. I suddenly felt the urge to write a piece (that may never see the light of day) about a particular incident of abuse I experienced as a child.

Then I spent the weekend in the company of a classmate who:

Never.

Watches.

TV.

Hell, he doesn't even own one.

I, on the other hand, watch a LOT of televsion. A lot.

Always have.

It's been my babysitter, my compadre, my friend, my rock.

I also tend to lose myself in movies and books and any other rabbit hole I can compulsively, obsessively burrow into.

Because it's safe.

It's sheer fantasy - I am well aware of that fact. But even if the story is horrible - I can close the book cover, press the exit button, leave the theater.

I am envious - ragingly so - with people (like my classmate) who really, truly, fully live their lives. Who forge out through that door, day after day, heart on sleeve, soul splayed open for the taking, ready to embrace or confront whatever crosses their path.

Because me? I can't. I just can't face the heartbreak, the sadness, the confrontation, the disappointment of it all. The less the investment, the safer.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not a complete agoraphobe. With a little effort, and a lot of procrastinating, I move about. I function. I manage in my controlled little world, with such a well-oiled veneer, Meryl Streep should be calling me for advice.

It's just the whole connection thing - connections are tricky things.

So, to those whom I love, to those in my circles, those in my solar system - I apologize. I hope that you know that I am always listening to you, I am always regarding you, I am always thinking of what I could do to make you happy. I care for you so deeply, it scares me. Showing you how much would not only freak the hell out of you, it would probably dessicate me.

I wish I could give you my all, all the time.

But I'm afraid I can't.

Multiple Choice

2010-01-18T08:28:00.000-08:00

photo source here

Well, darlings, here I am, back from a mind-frazzling weekend of higher learning.

I can now tell you with a reasonable degree of confidence that the leg bones (femur, tibia, fibula) are connected to the foot bones (calcaneous, talus, cuboid, navicular, cuneiforms, metatarsals and phalanges) via the knee bone (patella) and about a gajillion muscles (and yes, gajillion is a technical term - why would you doubt me?)

Before you get too ooh-ey and ahhh-ey, I will disclose that I am NOT doing this from memory; merely writing these directly out of the Big Book of Fitness Training.

And herein lies the gist of my thought process (which, by the way, I am shocked and awed that I can still perform, given that my mind is so full of facts that I keep feeling my ears to see if blood is seeping out...).

I now am at a crossroads.

I can either cram my ass off, and quickly take the multiple choice final to get my certification, or
I can wait and study some more.

I know for a fact that if I cram, I will pass. Not an issue.

But I also know this - I am a world-class memorizer. In fact, that is I how I maintained all of my high marks through school. I would read it over and over and over and over until it was akin to breathing, and then blaeacccchhhhh; I would spew it all back out.

Retention of any material? Slim to none.

But man, oh, man. My marks were awesome.

Now? To borrow a phrase from my favorite quote machine, Tim Gunn - I'm troubled.

There is a new context here. I'm not doing this to please my parents anymore. I'm not doing this to suck up to my teachers, or maintain my standing on the honor roll.

I'm doing this as a building block to learning how to educate people.

People who sincerely want their leg bone to stay connected to their foot bone.

So, do I just get on with it, or do I wait?

One of the things that is sticking in my head is some advice I once got from a CEO of a company that I worked for.

He and I were like chalk and cheese. He was al-ll-ll business (and somewhat soulless, in my view) and I was an awkward combo of instinct, verve and science.

Yet we had some pretty fascinating conversations, and I learned much about him just by the questions he would ask me. Because I think I truly puzzled him. Example:

Baroness: "So, I signed up for Adult Tap Dance lessons yesterday."
He: "Why would you do that?"
B: "Uh - for fun?"
He: "I see...."

(which he didn't, by the way) (But it was one of his favorite conversation closers)

What I learned from him (other than he would never be my partner in the office Christmas party Lindy contest, and that I would never ever invite him to a Mah Jong game) was that if you are ever forced into making a decision, it will ultimately be the wrong one.

Its repercussions may not present themselves right away. But they will, eventually.

So now, rather than just a "do I or don't I" scenario, the implications are rapidly mushrooming.

Into multiple choices.

Fleet Farm! Friday

2010-01-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

photo source here

Ode to My Favorite Super Model *

I think that I shall never see
A Viking Fan as lovely as a tree

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest [bravely, may I add]
Against the camo-patterned vest [and matching balaclava, $21.99!]

A tree that looks at God all day [why is she my friend? Why? Why?]
And lifts her leafy limbs to pray [Dear God, let her take the damned picture already]

************
Extreme Leafy Limb Closeup:
Just look at the craftsmanship!
Can't you just feel the wafty-ness quality?
Only thing missing is squirrel excrement.
Yuh.
It's that real.

************
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair [Nature's answer to the 'Duck!!! Blind']

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; [I am not touching this one, literally or figuratively]
Who intimately lives with rain. [that would be yours truly - rain and I have shared some things]

Poems are made by fools like me
But only God - and Fleet Farm - can make a tree.

*with sincerest of apologies to Joyce Kilmer.

Fleet Farm!!

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-01-14T10:16:00.000-08:00

photo source here

" There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. If you block it, it will never exist through any other medium. It will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable it is, nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open.

You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive."
Martha Graham

What a highly freeing passage - inspirational, motivational with a graceful jette to the derriere - but oh, so very real.

To know that what we're struggling and grasping and stretching for may not result in pure, unadulterated bliss.

Ahhhh. Because that 'blessed unrest' I'm sure we all know is all we need to acheive.

Ahhhh. Because a lot of us are already there, but we didn't know it.

Ahhhh. Because it's time to luxuriate in our uniqueness, and how that uniqueness feeds the world around you.

Happy Thursday, everyone.

Weisenheimer Wednesday

2010-01-13T09:31:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm off.

Off to take a 4 day intensive prerequisite course that will have mewell on my way to being in the Top 100 "Greatest Mediocre Yogis of the 21st Century".

It's one of those courses to fill in the broadstrokes of "The leg bone's connected to the foot bone" sort of things.

And, like any other endeavor I pursue that could actually lead me forward, I have about 50 thoughts that are holding me back and making me second guess everything.

Thoughts so far:

. Is is wrong that I HATE the layout of the manual we're supposed to be using? It's poorly spaced, the font is atrocious (Times New Roman? Seriously??). Could they have spent a couple more bucks on extra paper so that things aren't all crammed together? Gah.

. How am I supposed to learn from a document so un-aesthetically pleasing?

. Will I accidently blurt out these thoughts to my instructor?

. Will she take it personally

. Should I up my happy pill dosage for the next few days?

. What if my classmates are pretty boy lunkheads, a quarter century younger than me?

. Will I actually fulfill my promise to slap the next person who says "I know coffee is so bad for me - I'm trying to kick the habit" ?

I think I'll be eating lunch alone...

Ya Don't Hafta Be Jewish...

2010-01-12T09:19:00.000-08:00

...to realize that this is SO not kosher, on so many levels....

Today's 'Torn From the Headlines Tuesday' feature article:

Artificial Meat grown in Laboratory, could be on plates in five years
by Nick Britten, Daily Telegraph

LONDON - The move towards artificially engineered food has taken a step forward after scientists grew a form of meat in a laboratory for the first time.

Researchers in Holland have created what was described as soggy pork and are investigating ways to improve the muscle tissue in the hope that people will one day want to eat it. [Editor's Note: Old El Paso and Taco Bell? I would strongly suggest that you start saving up now in order to afford the world's best marketing firm - ever] . The scientists have not tasted the product, [Editor's Note 2: Which lab rat is going to taste soggy pork? The newest hiree, that's who.] but it is believed the artificial meat could be on sale within five years. [Editor's Note 3: McRib, anyone??].

...The advent of meat grown in a laboratory could help to reduce the billions of tons of greenhouse gases emitted each year by farm animals....

Can't we just give them all Bean-o and be done with it?

Because given the choice, I'd rather be gassed in a greenhouse full of farts than eat soggy pork.

Just sayin'.

Your Official Winter Olympics Ambassador

2010-01-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

photo source here

That would be ME!!

(not me the ice sculpture - me, the ambassador.)

(although I do feel like the ice sculpture sometimes...cold-hearted, block-headed, kinda bloaty and cankle-y...)

(I have yet to feel quite old enough to be rockin' the adult snow diaper)

FYI, the carving above is referred to as an Inukshuk, which is - I believe - Aleutian for bloated and cankled one, or Great Whale Blubber God.

See? I'm a wealth of information. Stick with me, peeps. We're going places.

I'm self-elected, but hey. The sash looks pretty spiffy over my parka, and if I'm not mistaken, I think that ambassadors wear tiaras of some sort.

(and if they don't, they should)

Within the next month or so, I will begin my own BvonB Network coverage of the 2010 Winter Olympics.

Rest assured, there will be very little sports talked about. I really do not like sports all that much.

Nope, I plan on walking in and amongst the great unwashed, and sleuthing out the weird and wonderful, the oddities and lunacies.

In true Baroness fashion, I will couple my keen powers of observation with mad photography skills, and give you coverage unlike any other. There will be pictures of people taking pictures; I'm hoping that there are many more Clive Barker wanna-bes out there, clicking, and turning, bending and contorting. And wearing black socks and sneakers.

I consider it my ambassadorial duty to bring all of this to you. Because, you know, tickets to even the most hideous winter events (I think this might be the cross-country ski/badger shoot), are insanely expensive.

Yet, you'll see things here for absolutely free. I might throw in a set of Ginzu knives, if I'm feeling generous. Maybe even a SlapChop or two (but I can't wait all day).

Say it.

You are lucky to have me.

As a teaser, I will entice you with a local commercial. It combines 2 sports that illustrates the awesomeness that is Canada.

Enjoy!

Fleet Farm! Friday

2010-01-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

Little-known Baroness fact: I wish I could be a sleuth. Full-time.

Choice of novel?

Cornwell, Grafton, Parker, some Evanovich for levity.

Choice of TV?

CSI (original only)

(Miami? Bitch, please.).

And, naturellement, my newest obsession - Criminal Minds. Gotta love me some nerd.

So, can you possibly imagine the excitement bouncing around in my little ribcage when I went to Fleet Farm and saw that they could make my dreams of crime fighting come true*?

Yuh-huh. I know!

Fleet Farm.

Can. You.

Freaking.

Imagine. It???

Those fine folks? They sell...come a little closer to the screen....

closer.....

closer....

I have to whisper.....

SPY EQUIPMENT!!!!!!

Unbelievable.

Yet so gloriously true.

So, say I'm hired by a huge beverage conglomerate to go to Tahiti to find out the secret ingredient in Goji Juice. I first ingratiate myself near the hut where two very important tribal leaders will be meeting to quaff and quibble and get down to the boola boola nitty gritty, I don my disguise, and voila....

photo source here

Can you see me?
What if I tell you that I'm not a plus-size Polynesian woman?
What if I tell you I don't even know how to weave?
Can you see me now?

The answer is no, you cannot.

Scenario two. Suppose I have been commissioned by some slightly shifty gossip e-zine to spy on Mark Burnett to find out where the next 'Survivor' will be taking place. This highly classified information will prove very lucrative (alright, already - I haven't completely thought this particular scenario through - just roll with me here, people).

Anyways, if Burnett is staying here:

photo source here

I can be there too.

Spot me yet?

I thought not.

Because Fleet Farm is magic, that's why.

Magic. And brilliant.

Because they sell something akin to Harry Potter's Cloak of Invisibility.

It's called a blind.

Clever, non?

This is not Tahiti.
Nor a hut in the middle of the ocean.
It's me, goose.
Did I just blow your mind or what?

Well, technically, it's called a 'Duck Blind'.

But I'm sure that's just a typo - they've clearly missed some punctuation.

It should read "Duck! Blind."

Irregardless, it is one fine tool for corporate espionage. (Ok,, the smell gives me bad henna flashbacks and it's a bitch to pack in the suitcase, but that's the price one must pay for greatness...)

Fleet Farm!!

*My original dream of crime-fighting, i.e. wanting to be a cast member of 'Criminal Minds', does not appear to be coming true any time in the near future, as I continue waiting - in vain, may I add - for a reply e-mail from one Mr. Matthew Gray Gubler.

Sigh. Pout.

Anyone affiliated with CBS who could get this blogger a spot on CM (ANYTHING), please e-mail me at baronessvonb@gmail.com.

I am tired of waiting for The Gube.

Thoughtful Thursday

2010-01-07T07:36:00.000-08:00

"All human beings have occasional glimpses of enlightenment,
moments of clarity in which
suffering drops away and
love overtakes us"
Judith Hanson Lasater

My wish for you today?

For the suffering, that brief respite to set down your troubles.

For the seeking, that bright glimpse of what might be.

For the open heart, an overwhelming warmth of the love that is there.

Wanderlust Wednesday

2010-01-06T09:34:00.000-08:00

Whenever the Baron and I are en vacance, we usually try to blend in as much as possible with the locals.

Because nothing is more tragic or stereotypical than the slack-jawed tourista.

Unless, of course, you want to play that role.

Not that there's anything wrong with it.

It's just not my scene.

The backwoods wonderment is never any more evident than when one is taking pictures.

Which is why, without exception, the Baron and I try to have at least one photoessay per trip of pictures of people taking pictures.

And there are some lulus.

Take this series.

I like to call it, "Hawaii 5-Oh: Why, Ki Ki?"

Photo 1

"Let us partake to the sandy area in our black socks and sneakers, and purvey the vista for the best shot. The water? The sailboats? I'll stay here - you walk a little further down to seek inspiration, and I'll admire the jaunty buttless wonder that is you."

Photo 2

"That's it. Shake what your mama gave you."
"Look over your shoulder at me.."

"Make me buy what you're sellin'..."

"You're still in the running to becoming America's Next Top Model..."

Photo 3

"An-n-n-nd now you're back."

"Your what? Your motivation? Hoo boy."

"You're King Kamehaha, baby."

"."You're so owning this beach- you discovered it, you're claiming it."

"Every grain of sand - it's yours. Any woman lying here? She's yours."

"You. Are. Raw. Sinewy. Power."

"Uh, could you move your left leg just a litt-t-t-tle more to the side?

The glare off of it is messing up my shot."

Photo 4

"Oh, yeah. That's it. Smile."

"Smile some more."
"More teeth, less thigh."

"Perfect!"

And...I'm spent.

Thoughtful Thursday

2009-12-31T07:49:00.000-08:00

(photo source here)

"All I have to do is be,
and all I have to be is who I am"

I encountered this potent phrase during a yoga retreat this past summer. It had a lot of resonance with me, as every waking moment of my day is usually consumed with attempts at over-achieving.

Please note that I say 'attempts' now, because I'm starting to realize that the intention behind an action is sometimes just as important as the action itself.

So, on the brink of an eve where a lot of people will make lengthy lists that intend to completely revolutionize their lives, I urge them - and you - to take a baby step back. While still remaining optimistic, be realistic.

Be kind to yourself.

Because, with a little self-reflection - the truth of who you are?

Probably pretty amazing already.

Just be.

I'm Ready For My Closeup, Mr. DeMille

2009-12-29T17:15:00.000-08:00

Right Front.

Left Front.

To the Side, right.

To the Side, left.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

It's all over for another year. Easy peasy x-ray squeezy.

Another updated set of funbag shots for the Mammography Mugbook.

And, I can assure you - beyond the shadow of a doubt - they cannot look any worse than this:

Those of you readers out there who have yet to schedule your first mammogram, please don't listen to all the jibber jabber out there. About how it's so cold, you should practice sleeping naked on the garage floor mid-winter (it's a little brisk, not so much as your nerples are going to freeze and fall off). Don't believe that you should have someone back a car over your boobage to get used to the squished feeling (yes it's a tad awkward, but it's not impossible).

Truth be told, as tests go, it's neither horrible nor is it excruciatingly painful. Moreover - it's necessary. Get 'er done, ladies!! Make it a New Year's resolution.

Finally, in the "Why Didn't I think of This EARLIER?" department, I should have brought a bottle of maple syrup to give to the technician. If she appeared quizzical, I would clarify: "If you're gonna squish them like pancakes, we may as well have something to go with them...".

Next year...

A Candle in the Window

2009-12-28T08:36:00.000-08:00

Order. Unity.

Self-determination.

Cooperative work and responsibility.

Cooperative economics.

Purpose. Creativity.

Faith.

Each one of these values is represented by a candle in the kinara during the 7 days of Kwanzaa, which started December 26th.

Here, December 26th is deemed 'Boxing Day', an archaic holiday, the meaning blurred and now abused as an excuse for post Christmas Day shopping. Commerce never sleeps (and apparently is not above pimping out national holidays...). It is a shame that we rarely see Kwanzaa celebrated - or even mentioned - in my small corner of the earth. Because these qualities are so worthy of recognition and honor.

And in this era of 'the global village', maybe it's time to start learning from the sound values of others, rather than discarding them because they are not of our own devising.

Today, let us all - of our own devise - recognize the third illumination: self-determination.

It just might make the day a little more manageable.

Thoughtful Thursday

2009-12-24T12:36:00.000-08:00

"Ya. Meat."

The quote above is one of the most oft-quoted vonB family phrases.

Yet I cannot lay claim to it - it is from a Nepali friend of our friend Brian.

The story goes that. . .

(with a few omissions, inaccuracies and minor embellishments)
(for which I will never be asked to submit work to the Oprah book club)
(and I can live with that)
(Really)

. . .Brian decided, as his 50th birthday present to himself, he would join a group and hike to the base camp of Mount Everest, something he had long wanted to do.

The group was quite a mishmash of characters: leaders, a veritable UN of hikers, and assorted sherpas. As is Brian's way, he quickly befriended the sherpas - these were the guys doing the lion's share of the duties, and Brian seems to be drawn towards the honest, humble and hardworking.

There was once particular fellow that Brian seemed to spend a lot of time with, and between them, they developed a method of broken-English/pantomime/point-and-make-faces communication that served both of them quite well.

Without fail, every meal everyone ate was rice and some sort of vegetable.

Rice for breakfast.

Rice for lunch.

Rice for dinner.

On about the 5th day, though, there was an added bonus at dinnertime. Something vaguely protein-ish in nature was perched atop their rice.

Brian went over to his sherpa buddy, pointed at the food in the bowl, and said "Dude, what's up with this?" Questioning look on face, shoulders shrugged.

Sherpa smiled beatifically and kept on keeping on.

Brian continued, "So is it goat?"

No response.

"Is is some sort of field animal you found while we were hiking?"

Nothing.

"What kind of meat is this?"

Finally, the sherpa's eyes lit up; acknowledgment.

The magic word had been articulated.

Sherpa looked at Brian, pointed to the bowl and said, "Ya."

"Meat."

'Nuff said.

Maybe sometimes it's better not to know the specifics.

After hearing this anecdote, the vonB's began to incorporate it into any meal where we sat around the table, silent; totally focussed on the food we were digging into like cavemen around the fire. (or hyenas on the velt.)

Amid the smicking and gnawing and smacking, one of us will look up and at each other, and grunt out, "Ya. Meat."

It truly is a phrase of perfection; succinct yet speaking volumes.

So, as you dear readers tuck into your holiday feast either tonight or tomorrow, surrounded by the warmth of family drawn near and the bounty that you are fortunate enough to have placed before you, may you all have your own "Ya. Meat." moment: A time of gratitude for whatever we may be given, with our best interests the only intention.

Halls, Decked.

2009-12-19T13:08:00.000-08:00

Because I'm lazy. And because 7-11 doesn't deliver. And because it's 11:30 pm on December 24th.

Behold, my holiday wish to you all.

And I have a No Return policy. Too bad for you.

Deck the Halls
(from the poem by John Cieriog Hughes)

Deck the halls with boughs of holly

(photo credit here)
Fa la la la la,
la la
lah lah

'Tis the season to be jolly

(photo credit here)

Fa la la la la,
la la,
lah lah

Don we now our gay apparel

(photo credit here)
Fa la la
la la la,
lah lah lah

Troll the ancient Yuletide carol

(photo credit here)
Fa la la la la,
la la
lah lah.

See the blazing Yule before us

(photo credit here)
Fa la la la la,
la la
lah lah.

Strike the harp and join the chorus

(photo credit here)
Fa la la la la la,
la la,
lah lah

Follow me in merry measure

(photo credit here)
Fa la la
la la la,
lah lah lah.

While I tell of Yuletide treasure

(I have no idea whatsoever why Duke #2 needs therapy...)

Fa la la la la,

la la

Lah

Lah

Thoughtful Thursday

2009-12-17T17:12:00.000-08:00

"She [Nell] was surprised to find that, despite her outward appearance - briskness, tidiness, smiling capability - Oona's mind was like a sock drawer into which a number of disparate things had been shoved. There was a lot of jumble." Monopoly, by Margaret Atwood

My sock drawer? Filled to the brim with disparate things.

Things shoved.

Things jumbled.

I am seeking medical attention.

Fleet Farm! Friday

2009-12-11T08:07:00.000-08:00

One may think that I just wander hither and yon, travelling and gadding about without any agenda or premise.

The truth of the matter is, people, that I am constantly gathering information. Constantly.

Gathering.

Hunting and Gathering, you could even say.

Just for you. Because I derive no personal pleasure in this at all.

It is all business, all the time.

You can just say 'Thank You' right now and be done with it.

Why?

Because I am about to let you in on a HUGE secret, the likes of which would make Tim Gunn's nerples rock-hard with excitement and compel him to declare, 'Holla at cha Baroness! I am practically swooning with anticipation. Please proceed - mindfully.'

I am going to do you all a monumental solid, and let you in on what you can buy NOW in order to be a SFT.

(That's Spring Fashion Trendsetter, for those of you who don't get the memos.)

Take notes. Here are the tips, courtesy of moi and the fine folks at Fleet Farm.

(Never in a million years did I ever anticipate writing that sentence. Hunh.)

Tip 1. Jumpsuits.

Gives you a long, lean look. The admiring eye will effortlessly glide from shoulder to toe. Courtesy of this fashionista optical illusion, your legs will look positively endless and Barbie-esque; they'll start wa-a-a-a-y up at your belly button and go all-ll-ll-ll the way down to your perfectly pedicured pointy toes.

Tip 2. Orange.

And not any subtle mandarin or pasty pastel here. I am talking NEON.

For when you are feeling your sassy best, and you are not ashamed to say "Look at me, dammit.
I'm a SFT!!"

(Like I do.)

(Every.)

(Damn.)

(Day.)

Regardez, mes amies. And drool, if you must:

Not too sure about this hat, but LOVE the matching turtleneck!
Darling!

Tip 3. THE hat.

One must never be understated when one has the opportunity to be bold.

This is Tao of the SFT.

A plume here, a teal feather there.

Ack - Amateur hour.

Bold. I said BOLD.

This is the time to make a statement. To preen. To parade your crowning glory.

To wear the whole damn bird . . .

Why, even Daffy on the shelf on the left is admiring my elan.
Proof positive - I am a fashion genius.

. . . okay, maybe not the bottom half of the bird. Because those webbed feet are kind of dangly and awkward and there is a poopshoot somewhere in the hind vicinity. Ewww.

But definitely the top half.

Let us summarize:

Overalls. Orange.

Ducks on the half shell as hats.

Heed my sage advise, and you are among the courant, my darlings. The only thing separating you from the catwalks of Paris is the Atlantic Ocean and some wicked magazine connections.

Before I change my mind and decide to keep all of these tips to myself, I will now hit the ORANGE Publish Post button (kudos to you, you blogger.com SFT, you) and be done with it.

Fleet Farm!

Thoughtful Thursday

2009-12-10T08:39:00.000-08:00

As I was poking around one of my favorite bookstores recently, I wandered into an little recess that I hadn't ever been to before.

The archway through to this nook was quite different from the others, and I immediately knew that this space was somehow sacred.

Sure enough, on one of the walls was a small plaque dedicated to one of the founders of the book store and, to quote the writer, his "co-heart".

Don't you just love that phrase? It speaks so much more than the mere "spouse" or "partner"; it truly gets to the core of things.

Sadly, it would appear that dedication was in fact a monument; the honoree passed on in 2001.

Below the plaque with the story of the bookstore and of Jane Hooper was an offering; a take-away version of a poem that she had written.

While it exudes a beautiful timeless quality, it also seems to resonate with the upcoming holiday season and that anxious, anticipated, cherished, sometimes tenous reuniting of souls where intention doesn't always mesh with execution.

So, on this cold Thursday, when we wish for warmth and love and companionship - and all that is 'home' - enjoy this piece. It's as much a benediction as it is poetry.

PLEASE COME HOME by Jane Hooper

Please come home. Please come home.
Find the place where your feet know where to walk
And follow your own trail home.

Please come home. Please come home into your own body,
Your own vessel, your own earth.
Please come home into each and every cell,
And fully into the space that surrounds you.

Please come home. Please come home to trusting yourself,
and your instincts and your ways and your knowings,
and even the particular quirks of your personality.

Please come home. Please come home and once you are firmly there,
please stay home awhile and come to a deep rest within.
Please treasure your home. Please love and embrace your home.
Please get a deep, deep sense of what it's like to be truly home.

Please come home. Please come home, and when you're really, really ready,
and there's a detectable urge on the outbreath, then please come out.
Please come home and please come forward.
Please express who you are to us, and please trust us
to see you and hear you and touch you
and recognize you as best we can.

Please come home. Please come home and let us know
all the nooks and crannies that are calling to be seen.
Please come home, and let us know the More
that is there that wants to come out.

Please come home, Please come home,
for you belong here now. You belong among us.
Please inhabit your place fully so we can learn from you,
from your voice and your ways and your presence.

Please come home, Please come home,
and when you feel yourself home, please welcome us too,
for we too forget that we belong and are welcome,
and that we are called to express and fully be who we are.

Please come home, Please come home,
you and you and you and me.

Thank you Earth for welcoming us,
and thank you touch of eyes and ears and skin,
touch of love for welcoming us.

May we wake up and remember who we truly are.

Please come home. Please come home. Please come home. Ho.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2009-12-07T16:27:00.000-08:00

Not too long ago, as I was doing my weekly quick stop at Costco, I was reminded of a story the Baron told me about one of his friends, Igor.

At the time of their meeting, both Igor and the Baron worked night shifts, so would often run into each other at the gym during the day. They struck up a fast friendship, and would spend many an afternoon swapping funny stories.

The one that made the most impact on me was the one where Igor and his brother, both recent Russian immigrants, took their first shopping trip to Safeway. Armed with a camera, they were going to document their first trip to a North American grocery store.

What they didn't expect, upon entering, was the size of the store and its sheer volume of product. Igor told my husband that when he and his brother stood in the Produce Department, they were at first confused. They asked one of the stock clerks, "Who is all of this for?"

"I don't understand your question - what do you mean, who is it for?"

"Is it for some visiting dignitary?" "Is it for special people? Government officials?"

Shrugged the clerk, "No, man. It's for anyone."

"Like us?", said Igor's brother, hesitantly.

"Yeah, anybody."

And it was here, in the middle of a suburban Safeway, that two huge bodybuilders stood, taking photos and weeping.

Overcome with joy, at the abundance for them - for anybody - laid out in row upon row upon row of perfect little pyramids.

And it is this feeling of being overwhelmed that hits me amongst the aisles of Costco.

There is so much stuff.

Anywhere I go lately, I am both amazed and appalled at all the stuff. Stuff stacked, floor to ceiling. Clothes that show up for 3 weeks, and then are completed replaced with new stuff. Produce, beginning to go bad because there's too much of it. Warehouses full. Of stuff. Do we really need all of this stuff? Is there truly, actually a need for all of this stuff?

It is an embarrassment of riches, and one that most of us take for granted each and every day.

I'm quite sure that I will not be asking the most popular question of the season, given it is the season of stuff, but here goes - is there something out there, intangible, unstackable, unchanging - valuable - that could be given instead of stuff? Instead of the obligatory oh-my-god-they-got-something-for-us-now-we-have-to-get-something-for-them stuff?

A kind word? A hug? A meaningful, thought-out gesture? Something to actually benefit someone's life?

I know, I know - revolutionary stuff, and not the sort of thing a child wants to find under the tree.

It is all of this stuff we somehow feel entitled to (yet also feel the need to complain about concurrently) that has finally begun to really stick in my craw.

It's also the gist behind the brilliant new ad campaign for one of our local not-for-profit organizations, the Union Gospel Mission. In the campaign are single portraits of regular people - no glitz, no glam - just them against a white backdrop. They could be a neighbor, a work colleague, a bus mate. They could be Igor or his brother.

Above each photo is their "wish" for the holidays:

"I wish I got more junk mail" Toni M.*

"I wish I got a parking ticket" Kevin K*

"I wish my latte was lukewarm" Prem P.*

"I wish I spent all day at the mall" Jemal D.*

"I wish my in-laws were coming over for Christmas" John R.*

"I wish my yoga class was overcrowded" Jolene D.*

"I wish I was stuck in traffic" Les H.*

Be careful what you complain about - it could very well be what someone else wished they had to complain about.

And at this time of giving, try to give a thought to giving a real gift.

Because stuff is just stuff.

* Les', Jolene's, John's, Jemal's, Prem's, Kevin's and Toni's 'I wish' stories can be found here; they have each triumphed over struggles with their personal adversities.

They are living, breathing testimonies - to their strength of spirit and to the opportunities that can arise when kindness meets despair.

Thanks to Kevan of UGM for kindly sending the link along.

Fleet Farm! Friday

2009-12-04T16:31:00.000-08:00

Failure.

Not a word that exists in the lexicon of Fleet Farm.

This mission statement of this mecca of awesomeness involves ensuring that any possible outdoorsy endeavor anyone ever chooses to pursue will be as successful as that time when Arnold Ziffel left Green Acres to go to Hollywood.

Yeah, that successful.

Say, for example, you want to grow tomatoes.

Fleet Farm's got your seeds. Probably 2 or 3 aisles of seeds, as a matter of fact. Brown Derbys, Jaune Flammes, Green Zebras, Blood Gulches - they've got 'em all. They've got your rabbit manure fertilizer and iron shavings soil supplements. They've got your DIY greenhouse (and the tools to build it) to lovingly nurture those beautiful little seedlings from frail babies into strapping juicy Kentucky Beefsteaks. From the hot house to your table, all courtesy of the fine products of Fleet Farm.

Say you want grow little hunters.

You start early, dressing them in t-shirts like this:

Ad-or-a-ble!!
I don't what I love more - the antlers he's clutching,
or Bambi's mom giving him the stinkeye in the background.

and making sure Santa brings them one of these for Christmas:

(each purchase comes with a free Ted Nugent CD anthology!)
(while supplies last!)

(forget the damned puppy. Fleet Farm don't sell no stinkin' puppies....)

I have to say, during my recent FF visit, every aisle I turned down was an education.

For instance, even though I have been known to dabble a little bit in gardening , I was not aware that in order to grow these:

All you need is a bag of this:

Looks like I'm going into the cattle ranching business.

Fleet Farm!!