ode to my father, who turns 58 on saturday

Last night I was really depressed. And yet, I had reason to celebrate. I needed a bottle of red wine and some comfort food.

So I stopped at Kroger and bought a cheap bottle of Rioja (imported de España), some frozen spinach, fake hot dogs, and Lipton Alfredo noodles. Many people, I realize, find comfort in mashed potatoes, or chicken noodle soup, or other things their parents made for them when they were sick. My comfort foods, on the other hand, are those meals my dad would make for me and my brother when we visited his house on the weekends. Compared to mom's food, which was natural, wholesome, and healthy, my dad's food was almost like a foreign cuisine. I'm not sure why we ate this particular combination so frequently; I doubt he was enjoying meals of Alfredo noodles, frozen spinach, and hot dogs during the weeks when we were at mom's. But when we got there, he would bake the hot dogs until the skin was crispy and black, just the way I loved them. I have loved spinach since I was very young, and my brother and I thought Alfredo noodles, next to ramen, were the greatest thing on earth.

He did many things differently than mom. Although he doesn't drink now, he used to. He gave my brother his first taste of beer. I remember Baxter was so young, he couldn't even hold the bottle. I was old enough to know it was wrong, but I assured myself that daddy knew what he was doing. He used to buy us cereal with sugary marshmallows and frosting. I begged him to buy Cheerios because I couldn't stand the sugar (unlike my other friends parents, my mom absolutely refused to add sugar to our cereal). He bought Honey Nut Cheerios, which I found disturbing and gross, but I appreciated the effort and didn't complain.

We used to spend all weekend glued in front of his television, where he would let us watch MTV. Mom never had cable, but I can assure you, even if she did, she would not have let us watch this.

Daddy lived in apartments, moving around year to year, until he married my stepmother in 1987. I loved this roving quality, and apartment complexes were like magical places to me. Daddy would always be so tan (he went to tanning beds before swimsuit season, but he only had to go a few times because he tans so easily), and we would go swimming in the apartment pools when the weather was nice. Baxter and I used to take turns holding on tightly around his neck while he swam the length of the pool underwater. It was thrilling, but felt safe because I knew I could always let go and kick off his back to get to the surface, which I admit I did a few times out of panic.

I used to relish riding around in his sporty, single-man cars. I loved sitting in the front seat beside him, watching in fascination while he spritzed on Jovan Musk for Men and shaved the few hairs on his head with his portable electric razor. He would talk on his radio ("W-A-4-R-U-Lucky!" he would call out, and turn to us and grin), and he taught us how to stick our hands out of the windows and sunroof, changing the angle and curvature of our hand to maximize the wind on our faces. When I sat in the back, he would always call out, "Is that too much wind on ya, Charity?" Pulling my long straight brown hair out of my mouth, I would always respond in my little girl yell, "No, Daddy," or "No, Daddy, it feels good!" depending on how long I could keep my hair in my little hands. It was always too much wind, but I never wanted to say so.

Baxter and I told everyone once that daddy was on the Greensboro Hornets, the local minor league baseball team. We got confused, because he took us to his softball games when it was the season. Baxter and I would run around the bleachers, hiding and chasing one another, waiting for daddy's turn at bat, or the next time he would catch the ball. I remember once, after a game and while he was making our Alfredo-spinach-hot dog meal, I picked up his glove and fingered the soft leather. "C-R-A-B," I read. "Daddy, why does it only say crab?" He laughed. "Everyone knows who Crab is," he responded. (When daddy is happy, he laughs. Not a loud laugh, but a knowing laugh. No matter why he's laughing, you always feel like maybe you're in on the joke, or maybe there's more you arent privy to.)

Daddy once gave Baxter an elaborate racetrack with electric magnetic cars and big loops and jumps, and he helped us set it up on the dining room table. We played with it, the three of us, for hours. Daddy did fun things, unlike mom, who did grown-up things. Once daddy had a Halloween party while we were at his house. I came down from bed to find him standing with a rainbow clown wig on, in a black cape, with a bumper sticker attached to his chest that read: "Beam Me Up Scotty, there's no intelligent life down here." He let me stay, after I begged, and I almost immediately gravitated to a woman dressed as a diner, with a short little waitress dress on and a circular table hanging around her waist. I was enthralled by the change glued to her portable workstation.

Sometimes he took us to work with him. I remember when he worked at a sign shop with a friend of his; they set up the machines to make big signs for businesses. (This was back when people actually made stuff using machines, not just computers making stuff using machines.) He showed us the welding hat he wore sometimes; we made him put it on and show us.

Once daddy was working with some friends at local college NC A & T, making a pod that would go up into space on the next space shuttle. They were going to put an ape in it and I remember being horrified, since after Challenger I figured that all spaceships were doomed. One of his friends on this project gave me a hamster, named Herbie. I loved him and took him home with me to mom's (daddy never had pets). He would sneak out all the time, though, and we would find him in the plush carpet on the stairs. Once I made mom sleep with me because he was gone and we couldn't find him. I was afraid his little ghost would come get me, but he ended up waking us up in the middle of the night, scratching at the side of the Barbie pool that had trapped him.

Adventures have always followed daddy around. We went to Hanging Rock State Park once and he made us sit on an overhang to get a picture. I remember being so terrified and certain I was going to die, repeating to myself the order not to grab for my brother when I fell, like a mantra. I saw the picture years later and I look perfectly calm and happy, basking in the glow of my daddy's presence.

Once he took us on a plane with his friend, who did loops in the air. I thought I was going to die, and almost threw up in the plane. There's a picture afterwards and I'm grinning uncertainly, glad to be on the ground but looking scared about something. My hair is long, blonde, and curly, and I'm wearing my favorite light blue dress with matching knee socks. I wore it the one day he took me to school that year, too. I was so proud, as if I needed to show to everyone in my class that I had a daddy, too. He didn't come inside.

Once I sat for hours on the front porch, certain he would come pick us up despite the fact that it was getting dark and even Baxter had already gone back in. My mom came out and sat beside me eventually, tenderly suggesting that perhaps daddy mixed up the weekends, and that I should come in. I refused at first, thinking surely he was on his way. I didn't want him to think I gave up on him when he got there. I sat with my new doll on my lap, wanting to show it to my daddy, wanting him to drive up in his sporty car and prove somehow to my mom that he did love me.

Actually, one of my first memories is of my dad driving away. I followed his Cadillac Eldorado down the driveway, confused. I asked my mom when he was coming back, but he wasn't. I was four. He did come back sometimes, to pick us up for the weekend, but every time he did, he and my mom would start fighting. I almost wished he wouldn't come by because when he did I had to face the fact that they weren't getting back together. I wrote in pen on my chest of drawers "CHARITY [heart] DADDY" and made my mom promise not to clean it until daddy saw it. He never did. I think it's still there, actually. My mom kept her promise.

An earlier memory is of waiting downstairs by the television on Saturday morning. We had to wait until daddy would come turn on the TV for us, and then we would squeeze in as many minutes of cartoon heaven as we could before church. When it was cold he would start up the woodstove, which was also in the living room. Then he would go back upstairs to my mom. I'm glad I have that memory.

It took me years to forgive my dad for all the times he abandoned me, and the family. It took a few more years for me to realize that he never really did. He just wasn't ready for all that life had handed him. I can understand that now. At some point, I had to realize that I could either pine over the daddy I never had, or enjoy the daddy I have. I chose the latter.

Forgiving him was one of the hardest and yet most worthwhile things I have ever done. But loving him was always easy.

my stepdad always says not to sweat the small stuff (and it's all small stuff)

yesterday i was really down for a while. and that's no good. there were all these sad little things that were combined into a huge big mass of blues. i wrote a sad blog about it but erased it. for the 4 of you who read it, i'm sorry about that.

at the time, i was so frustrated and depressed that i packed it in and went to the gym. i was amazed at how great it made me feel. i felt all the muscles in my legs, and was so grateful for the responsiveness of my body to all the demands i was making on it. i felt useful, and alive. and there are many people who aren't as lucky as me in that regard. when i was sweaty and happy, i decided that instead of dwelling on the sad, i would start writing about "little" things that i am thankful for, and i invite you to either add yours here or keep a list somewhere else. it is very gratifying. i think i'll start with 10 specific ones (i mean, "friends," "family," etc. are stupid. it's like in wheel of fortune when it got so ridiculous coz finally everybody was guessing the same five letters, but i digress):

1. i am thankful that i received the graduate student teaching award, and furthermore, i'm grateful for the amazing students i have had the pleasure and honor of having in my classes. i have been so lucky to have met many of them, and i can only hope that i have affected them as much as they have affected me.

2. i'm thankful for the conversation i had with nikki when she told me i was picking my girlfriend over my friends and how shitty it was. i know it was hard for her to talk about it with me, but it has made a world of difference to me

3. speaking of college, i'm thankful that i had the opportunity to know allen and that we got to watch the lunar eclipse together on the blue ridge parkway

4. i'm thankful for austin, who is the perfect partner for my brother, who deserves nothing less than perfection

5. i'm thankful that my family, overall and so far, is in good health

6. i'm thankful that my stepdad got that job, because it will be perfect for him and i think it will make him happy

7. come to think of it, i'm thankful nc community colleges laid off both my mom and stepdad at different times in their lives, because they are both in better places now

8. i'm thankful that my mom took me to europe those times and in general that she takes me anywhere, as i can be an ungrateful brat sometimes.

9. i'm thankful i got to live in asheville 4 of the best years of my life

10. i'm thankful for my advisors, who tolerate my fragile self-esteem and manage to give me constructive feedback despite it

wow, i really encourage you to do that. coz i didn't even scratch the surface, and i feel so much better. plus i'm getting ready to work out, and i'm completely thankful for the ability to use all of my muscles, and that as far as i know, i don't have any terminal illnesses.

i feel like i just won the lottery.

charity :)

love story for my grandmother

Someone has planted a bubble gum tree on North Decatur Road. I noticed it the other day when I was walking to school. The sun was shining and a breeze was blowing, with just enough of an edge to keep me cool, but not enough to make me put on my cardigan.

The breeze lifted the smell of the flowers, and this particular day no one was mowing their lawn, and my allergies were hardly bothering me at all, so I could actually smell the flowers on the breeze without sneezing. As I passed the pink and white and fuschia azalea bushes, I smelled the bubble gum. It made me smile because it was such a beautiful peaceful moment. I remembered my grandmother's house, as I usually do when I pass azalea bushes. She had a beautiful one right outside her door. It was such a vibrant pink; I loved just sitting on the front steps staring into it. I remember wanting to crawl inside the well-trimmed bush, like a flower apartment. With bees.

Her yard was a sloping yard on a cul-de-sac, and her house was a ranch house paid for in cash by her and my grandfather. He died when I was very young. I have a picture of me and my brother at his funeral. I'm about five and he's about three. My hair is blonde and curly and Baxter's hair is even blonder, although it is straight. We are wearing our dress-up clothes and our little puffy winter jackets, because it is February. We have huge smiles on our faces, because we don't understand death yet.

I remember my grandfather, but only vaguely. I remember he used to read to us. He was very tall and strong, so we loved it when he would come down to our level; he used to sit with us on the bed or on the couch and let us climb all over him. We'd always ask him to read "Journey Cake-Ho," about a little boy who is very poor; he makes a pancake with the last of the food in the house but it falls out of the pan and rolls all through the town, with the boy chasing it, scared he'll lose his dinner. I can't remember how it ends, but I remember the excitement of the story because my grandfather would get so animated when he was talking about it. He had a huge mouth to match his booming deep voice and I would fall asleep listening to him talk, feeling the vibrations in his chest.

He was big and strong because for decades he delivered mail. They lived in Asheville, and he walked around all the hilly neighborhoods in Postal Service issue boots after getting out of the military. He and my grandmother met at the Army base in San Diego. They got married and took a honeymoon in La Jolla, back when working class people could still afford to do that. He was very strong, and his presence filled up a room. He died of leukemia, and the hospital would not let me see him before he did because I was not immediate family.

When I would go visit my grandmother later, we would play with all her old things, and one of my favorite things to play with (aside from all her old teaching materials) was this Old Spice bottle shaped like a mailman's car. It was thick clear blue glass with a red plastic cap and it said "U.S. Postal Service" on the side. Although the wheels were not real, I would push it through the green shag carpet of my grandmother's family room and think of my grandfather when I closed my eyes and opened the cap. There was a picture of my grandfather taken in Hawai'i at a convention and you could always spot him immediately: he was the one with the biggest smile, the one who looked like a hug.

My grandmother never remarried, and we often went to her house and stayed for long periods of time, partially (I realize now) to relieve my single mother and partially to keep my grandmother company. I used to lie in her sleigh bed and pretend my grandmother and grandfather were both there with me. I would make my grandmother drive us through the big tunnel they blew out of the mountain with dynamite and I would hold my breath and make a wish every time. She always took us shoe shopping and I would always get very girly shoes, which my mom didn't let me buy, since they couldn't be handed down. Baxter was always thrilled to get new things of any kind, things that I had never worn. We would go to my grandmother's Methodist church on Sundays and I would marvel at the developmentally-disabled grown-ups in her Sunday school class, including my Aunt Julie, wondering at their kind eyes and open hearts, always delighted to see us.

Grandma was an artist, so her living room was filled with paintings and collages. We loved to hide behind them and I loved to feel the texture of the paint on the canvas. She had sculptures of bizarre weird things she had completed as assignments when she went back to school after my grandfather died (eventually she even glued the Old Spice bottle shaped like a mail car into a dollhouse). She didn't like us to play in that room, so usually we just went outside.

There was a tree in her front yard that was split open on one side and filled with moss. Baxter and I used to take turns calling each other from it (it was obviously a phone booth). We would run around finding spider webs in trees and crushing mushrooms with our bare feet in hopes of finding the ones that would spray spores out in a cloud of dust. Squealing with delight, we would walk down the cracked sidewalk to her cracked driveway, and run in circles around the cul-de-sac. When we were out of sight, we would walk along the concrete wall that led from the street, along the driveway, and up and around to the back of the house. Thrilled with the possibility of falling 12 feet, we would hold our breaths and speed up or slow down depending on the state of our nerves or the other's taunting. We would look for the places in the sidewalk where the ants emerged, and I desperately tried to avoid stepping on the monstrously huge black creatures.

When we had to be inside, we would watch public television: Sesame Street or Mr. Rogers if we were lucky, the McNeill-Lehrer News Hour if Grandma was. She would play restaurant with us, ordering steaks and coffees and eating endless amounts of popcorn out of little paper cups. We would sneak spoonfuls of Ovaltine or frozen chocolate chip cookie dough when we went into the kitchen to retrieve her food, amazed at our own sneakiness.

I never thought about my grandmother's decision not to get remarried. She and my grandfather were a couple even when she was the only one left on this earth. For years, she went to sleep in the huge sleigh bed by herself, and restocked her kitchen for herself, and went to her art openings by herself, and went to church by herself, and cared for her severely mentally handicapped daughter by herself, and played with her grandchildren by herself. But she was never really by herself.

When I saw the azalea bush on North Decatur Road the other day and smelled the bubble gum someone had planted, I smiled thinking of my grandmother. Walking along, I saw a robin in the distance, poking something lightly with its beak before hopping off into the yard next to it. As I got closer, I realized it was another robin, lying dead on the sidewalk. The first robin stood looking inexplicably at the huge house standing on the other end of the yard.

My grandmother showed me a robin's nest once. It was a small little cup-like thing with bright blue eggs. I remember they looked like candy.

Robins mate for one breeding season, sometimes more than one, but not for life. If their mates die, they frequently search for new ones.

I hope the robin I saw finds another mate. Although it's not quite as romantic as my grandmother and grandfather's story, I guess it is more practical. At the same time, I have immense respect for my grandmother's commitment to my grandfather, and can only hope that someday I'll love someone as much as she loved him. And I can only hope that as she lay in a nursing home towards the end of her life, alone and crippled by Parkinson's, she was comforted by thoughts of seeing him again soon.

grad student mixer=free beer=off the wagon=bad poetry

free beer is lovely
be careful; don't drink too much
bad haiku follows

at last bon jovi!
there is a reason to play
bad music: bad taste.

so many khakis-
they come out of the woodwork
for a free pitcher.

newcastle, cider-
is there even an option?
those poor cider fans...

(is bad poetry
acceptable expression?
or something to hide?)

xoxo
charity ;)

dream story

i wrote this a few years back, too. i think it's my favorite story i've ever written. the process of writing the dream was really amzing in itself. liberating. i actually felt like i was dreaming at times. i hope you enjoy it too.
charity :)

02 November 2004

I look up at the moon. It's a full one. Stars shine above, more stars than I've ever seen in my entire life. I feel a sense of expansiveness, and the hair on my arms stands up. I look down and it's daytime. My mother is standing at a distance, waving to me from the edge of a forest. She's smiling, and young. She's younger than I can ever remember her being, before she cut her hair. I think that this is what she must have looked like when I was a baby, and remember from the pictures that it is. All of a sudden I know I have to talk to her. She can help me. She's my age, and I realize this is the only opportunity I will have to talk to her like this. I run over to her and her smile grows larger. I'm running so fast I don't even feel the ground beneath my feet and I think I'm going to start flying. She opens her arms and I feel a sense of elation as I approach, knowing that finally, I'm going to get all the answers.

When I get to her, I realize that the forest she was standing next to wasn't a forest after all. Instead, I find that we are standing at the edge of a lake underneath some very large trees. These trees are so tall I can't see the tops of them, and I think that this must be what the giant sequoias look like that my grandmother used to talk about all the time. I look down at the lake and I can't even see the tops of the trees mirrored in their reflection. Looking closer, I realize that I can't see myself either. Instead, there's a small white flower, dwarfed by the trees and looking very fragile and out of place.

I look up at my mother to ask her why I don't see my reflection but she's not there. Instead, my second-grade teacher Ms. Dobson is bent down beside me, smiling. I feel the comfort of knowing she's there and look back down at the lake only to see my math workbook, with almost all of the answers completed. I feel proud and relieved, knowing the answers are right. I look across the table and see Luke, the red-headed kid who always comes to class dirty. He is grinning at me in his dirty white t-shirt. Ms. Dobson pulls me to her and gives me a big hug. The hug gets so tight that I can't see out of it anymore and from inside I hear her voice: "I'm going to hug you so hard your bones will break!"

The feeling of calm and safety dissipates. Suddenly I panic, searching for a way out. No matter where I look, there's no opening. I'm trapped in a dark cave. My feet are so heavy I can't lift them. As I look around desperately for some light that would indicate an opening, an escape into the fresh air, I realize that the cave is actually a huge body of water. Despite being underwater, the realization brings a newfound ability to move. My feeling of release has allowed me to breathe again and I relax. As I swim through the darkness, I flip over so that I'm on my back. Swimming on my back, I surface under the same full moon and sky full of stars. My strokes slow until I stop, and I feel the hard surface of the earth rise to meet me.

I feel calm and serene. The earth cradles my back and I think that the feeling of security I receive from the earth at this moment is better than the softness of any bed. I feel as if I could lie there forever, and that the earth molds itself to my back in an attempt to convince me to do so. I look up to see a shooting star, and smile. I begin to see more. At first, only one falls at a time. As I continue gazing upwards, the number begins to grow until, at some point, I realize there are stars everywhere. So many stars are falling down around me that I begin to feel dizzy. The world seems to be spinning beneath me until I realize that the stars swirling all around me are actually snowflakes. I open my mouth and try to catch some on my tongue, and close my eyes to keep them out.

I feel the snowflakes accumulating on my eyelashes and then realize that snowflakes are moving across them. My eyelids flutter open and I see you lightly brushing the snow out of my eyes. You say something to me, but I don't hear you. When I start to ask you to repeat it, I realize that what you said isn't important. What is important is that after you say it, you smile down at me.

The world flips and I'm looking down at you. I kiss you on your forehead and lay my head on your chest. I feel your arms lightly rubbing my back and roll to the side, to lie with my arm touching yours. I see our feet and they look like they are miles away. I gradually see that they are moving.

As I look up, I see that we are walking ahead now, you and I. We pass valleys full of trees that stretch for miles across and see the leaves changing before our eyes: from green to bright yellow to brilliant orange and red. We pass the fuchsia sun setting on the ocean and I feel the warm sea breeze blowing through my hair. We pass people standing on corners and trees filled with children. We pass buildings so tall we can't see where they meet the sky. The world goes by faster and faster, but we just keep walking together. I don't look at you and I know that you don't look at me, but you squeeze my hand, and it is enough.

A light rain begins to fall and we turn to look at one another. The raindrops get bigger and bigger, and I touch your face, trying to touch every raindrop as it falls. You look tenderly into my eyes and that's the last thing I see before I shut them to keep out the rain. I feel every drop, and they are falling faster now. My clothes are soaked through and heavy. I feel you begin to take them off, slowly and tenderly, a piece at a time. As you remove them, I realize I am dry underneath. I feel your hands touching my face and open my eyes.

We are lying in bed, inches from one another. "Should I get my umbrella?" I ask. You look quizzically at me. Then you smile and put your hand on my cheek. In a whisper, you ask, "Is that why you started taking off my shirt?"

Still in a daze, I look around: no answers, no water, no trees or moon.

No math homework.

My eyes come again to rest on your face, and I see that there is just you, smiling at me, and I know it is enough. I cuddle into your arms as I fall back to sleep, and I feel your skin on my lips as I smile.

what "women" do (when we're not working?)

[emphasis added]

SIRIUS Satellite Radio to Launch Cosmopolitan-Branded Women's Channel

NEW YORK, Sept. 2 /PRNewswire-FirstCall/ -- It was announced today that SIRIUS Satellite Radio (Nasdaq: SIRI - News) and Cosmopolitan, the best-selling young women's magazine in the world, will launch a full time channel early next year.

The talk shows on "Cosmopolitan Radio" will feature a diverse array of topics of interest to women including: love, relationships, beauty, style, health, entertainment and fashion and will cater to the Cosmopolitan reader - "fun, fearless, female." Guests on the programs will include Cosmopolitan Editor-in-Chief Kate White, as well as the magazine's editors and writers.

In addition to talk shows, the channel will feature thematic music programming, which will include the best in pop music and will appeal to the tastes of Cosmopolitan's audience. The music will be specifically programmed to mirror the activities in a "Cosmopolitan" woman's day including songs for: waking up, exercising, bringing to the beach, a cocktail party or a romantic evening at home.

"Cosmopolitan Radio will be the preeminent place to hear the latest on the topics and music that most interest young women," said Scott Greenstein, SIRIUS President of Entertainment and Sports. "This new channel once again demonstrates how we are consistently reinventing the radio format so that women have a place on radio that is truly their own."

"Our readers are constantly asking for more Cosmo and that is exactly what this new channel will give them," said White. "Moving beyond the magazine into radio for the first time, even more women will be able to get the fun, informative and interesting information that Cosmopolitan has provided for 40 years. It's a perfect way to extend our reach and connect with a new audience."

health and entitlements, another long one

I am a receptionist in an office that provides physical therapy, massage therapy, and acupuncture as well as one-on-one instruction in Pilates and fitness. Most of our clients are very well-off financially and it is my job to make them feel welcome and comfortable before and after their visit. Overall, I enjoy my job. I meet some very interesting people and have conversations with them that I normally would never have a chance to have, hearing their perspectives where otherwise I may just assume. Plus I get free acupuncture and Pilates and discounted massages, which otherwise I would not be able to afford.

When I went to Brunswick, Georgia, for the G8 protests a few years back, the government of our country had sent National Guardsmen in armed tanks to patrol the poor neighborhoods, and we happened to be staying in one, unlike most of the neighborhoods, which only the poor residents inhabited. One time, a couple of us went out to talk with the men in the vehicle parked in front of the church where we stayed that week. When I looked into the Humvee I realized the guys in there were my age. We began talking and I asked him what they had done to prepare for this, and one of the guys told of classes they had taken and trainings they had done to prepare for the protests, and admitted he was surprised at how nice we all had been. I looked at him, sitting there in his uniform and armed vehicle, a young white guy in a completely poor and almost completely Black neighborhood, surprised that people were nice to him.

White men can be very interesting in their obliviousness to the power they wield. And I like white guys; some of my best friends are straight white men. But still, it amazes me.

Once I was sitting at the reception desk in the lobby where I work and a man came in and sat down. He looked over at me and I smiled warmly before getting him some bottled water. He pulled out his cell phone (a Blackberry, actually) and I continued working while he talked loudly on his Blackberry about the mergers he was overseeing, freely discussing the various costs and benefits, and the transfers of debt they will incur. As if I was not even there. As if that room was his office.

I once read in the New York Times about a guy in China who left his rural home to work in the city, at a hospital. He worked there for ten years as a janitor, until he came down with heart disease. Unable to afford the care offered by his employer, he lost his job and died in a poor clinic, although even the minimal care they could provide took all of his savings and family money as well.

A few years ago, I read an article in Cosmopolitan about two women with breast cancer, one who had insurance and one who didn't. The one who didn't, and who happened to be Black, was not expected to survive, because she could not afford the treatment that she and her doctors knew she needed. The other woman, a white woman, would probably live, and would not get nearly as sick, since earlier and more expensive measures could be taken.

At my office, we can't afford to take insurance, since we would have to hire someone else to do all the paperwork and insurance companies require lower fees from practitioners (this is why doctors dont spend much time with you, by the way, since they have to see more people per hour). At our clinic, the patients have one full hour with one practitioner. We take very good care of our clients. And not everyone can afford good care.

Our company was told about this man before he came to see us. His doctor called (well, his secretary) and faxed over a referral, reminding us that he is very "high maintenance" and should be taken care of. As a small business, we certainly need the income that would be generated.

The man finished his call and looked up. Despite the clear signs that I was working, he began asking me about school and my life, questions I found somewhat invasive, since although I keep a blog, I generally don't confide in strangers. Nevertheless, I had to answer, since I am in the service sector. My job is to be nice. I am getting paid to be nice. So I answered his questions about my school, my hopes and career aspirations, and more. He told me about his daughter, who is in graduate school as well. He also told me about himself: he got a Ph.D. in child psychology.

"Let me ask you something," he said. "On a scale of 1 to 10, what would you say your self-esteem is?"

I paused, taken aback, and took a deep breath, confused at the question. Was I going to lie? What was the point? I mean, the rude part was the question, right? I would never ask someone about their self-esteem. I would never think it was my business to know this. And, even though he has an advanced degree in child psychology, I am not a child, and he is not a psychologist.

"3, I guess," I replied, resigning myself to whatever friendly advice he was getting ready to give, and feeling my self-esteem plummet 3 points simply from having to answer the question. "I'm having a pretty tough time in school right now."

"My daughter's the same way," he said as if to comfort me. He then went on to explain that it was because of women's lib.

This is not the first time I have been in a somewhat awkward position of defending women's lib (which personally I think is wrought with its own problems and not 100
efendable). Another very wealthy client once bought in her mother for acupuncture and sat in the lobby the whole time with her Maltese named Baby seated beside her in a large purse. We had some very interesting discussions overall. I gathered she was married to a much older man and no longer worked, although she herself couldn't have been older than mid-forties. Occasionally, she told me, she helped her husband, who "worked too hard." We talked about motherhood; she had decided not to have children and we talked a little about this. She mentioned women who get nannies and spend so much money on childcare so they can work outside the home. To her, this did not make sense, and we talked about the pressures on women to do and have and be everything.

This is similar to the conversation I had with the armchair child psychologist, but picture it: here's this wealthy straight white man with all the opportunities money can buy telling me that women have a raw deal all because of women's liberation. I do not know what to say to these types of comments under normal conditions, because they are so totally ignorant. But when I'm getting paid to have the conversation, I have to think of something. Luckily, he continued.

"My daughter told me men don't even pay for dates anymore," he lamented, looking at me almost with disbelief in his eyes.

"Yes, I have noticed that," I was honestly able to respond. "It is nice when they pay. And open doors."

Wondering where the physical therapist was, I squirmed a little in my seat, anxious to get back to work and more anxious to stop having the conversation, but unable to do either. She finally came out and claimed her client. I heaved a completely unbelieving sigh of relief.

Later that week, I remember driving down Peachtree when this new white Volvo turned into the street in front of me and then slowly and calmly merged directly into my lane. At first I thought he must not have seen me, despite the fact that I laid on my horn. I noticed, however, that he calmly continued until he was in the far left lane. He needed to get to 85, I guess, and figured we would all understand and forgive the inconvenience. I thought at least he would have waved, but I guess the conversation he was having on his cell phone prevented him from doing so safely.

I realized that just like the child psychologist felt entitled to talk on the phone in the lobby, no matter who it was disturbing, and just like he felt entitled to interrupt my work to talk about my self-esteem and his daughter's problems getting a husband, this guy felt entitled to be wherever he needed to be whenever it was most convenient for him.

This is why when I'm walking down the sidewalk and I see a row of men in suits coming towards me, I will walk right into one of them before I walk off the sidewalk.

This is also why I think its ironic that "welfare" was originally considered an entitlement, because it seems like these days, instead of equal entitlement to living wages or health care, rich people are the ones entitled, to whatever they want.

I am not open-minded I guess. I like my job, though, because that child psychologist has come in again, and I have realized that he is a nice guy, actually. He is just missing some information. There are two problems. Aside from having to be polite to him, I also don't feel like it's my responsibility to go around holding his hand, pointing out what it's like to be struggling to pay the bills, or to be unable to pay for health care. I was in an anti-racism group once, and we met in separate caucuses, one for white people and one for people of color. At one point we decided to talk about homophobia. When I said something about being queer, one of the two gay white men turned to me and said with disbelief, "YOU'RE QUEER?" Then he laughed. After I went on a tirade about how I shouldn't have to prove my queerness, and people always make assumptions about my sexuality without knowing me and blah blah blah, a straight white woman started crying (of course) and said she just needed someone to show her what it was like. To be queer, and to experience homophobia (and/or biphobia). She wanted someone to explain it to her, like her Latina friend did with racism.

"I just want someone to tell me when I do homophobic things, like she does when I make racist assumptions," she said.

I flat out refused. "That's not my responsibility," I told her. "Figure it out yourself. I'm tired of explaining queerness to straight people."

The problem with that attitude, I know, is that if I don't explain it to her, who will? And if I don't say anything to that child psychologist about sexism, who will?

Well, hopefully someone who won't get fired for it.

sufjan stevens, get it quick!

my friend Rich who has the best music blog sent me a link from the second best music blog, and if you're into this type of music you should really check it out asap!

right now, there are some sufjan stevens songs, UNPOC, and of course neko case. some are just songs off their albums, some are live performances. there's even some gnarls barkley! but it won't be there for long.

charity :)

ps. thank god for the internet!

anti-ode to my allergies, or, "a fine layer of greenish-gold covers everything i see"

I went to the drugstore recently to buy some allergy medication. I knew I wanted a Claritin-type drug, although I think I only knew that because on the packaging and advertising there is a wide open field that makes me want to run and play. My doctor once recommended it to me and it just stuck. I mean, combine effective marketing with endorsement by institutionalized authority figures and the other brands don't have a chance, really. Pathetic as that was a reason to limit my options, I was thankful to be able to do so, since then I only had remaining about a 4 feet by 4 feet square area of little boxes of medication to choose from.

So I started narrowing down further. Clearly I was going to get generic since the generic was sometimes close to half the price. I was also going to get the one with 10 rather than with 100 (shouldn't you need a prescription for all that medication? Or surgery? That seems like a serious problem if you ask me). Finally I was left with two boxes of Claritin-type medication from which to choose: the Redi-tab-type and the same-old, plain-old tablets.

I examined the boxes each in turn and could find no difference in effectiveness claims, dosage, anything. Yet the ones that dissolved on your tongue cost 30 percent more than the others. Confused, I took the boxes to the counter to ask the pharmacist.

"Excuse me," I called. The pharmacist couldn't have been more than 24. So this is what I could have been doing for the last five years if I had done pharmacy instead of sociology, I thought. Wow, that seems like a useful profession. I tend to have random somewhat self-deprecating thoughts such as these (they've been increasing in number of late, since I am getting ready to enter my seventh year of graduate studies).

The young lady in the white coat with her name stitched on the front had pale white skin and long brown hair, and she turned to look at me before leisurely strolling over to the counter where I stood with my two boxes of allergy medication. She looked at me with detached curiosity in her eyes and an expression that let me know she was not considering what her life would be like if she was still in graduate school.

"Yes," she slowly and seemingly without concern responded, resting her tongue on the "s" like it was a chaise lounge.

"Hi," I greeted her uselessly. "I was wondering if you could tell me why this box [I held up the Redi-tab-type Claritin-type generic allergy medication] is three dollars more than this one [I held up the same-old plain-old Claritin-type generic allergy medication]?"

"The one kind dissolves on your tongue," she responded. Seeing my blank look, she continued "you don't need water."

I marveled yet again at our culturally-shared laziness and the marketing genius of advertisers, who take advantage of it, often in the process seemingly facilitating our worst qualities.

"Well, I'll just take the regular ones," I shook my head. "I mean, you're supposed to drink water anyway, right?" I tried to make a joke and it fell flat. It was then that I realized that the time it had taken to make this decision was the exact time needed for my head to yet again become congested. I was feeling the pressure associated with needing to sneeze and knew if I sneezed now I would have a drainage-related incident that would quite possibly cause the porcelain young woman to change her facial expression. However, my head was starting to get heavy, pain was entering the picture, and pressure behind my eyes was causing them to water and burn.

She rang up my purchase and I walked quickly out to my car, on my way out replacing the more expensive Redi-tab-type Claritin-type generic allergy medication on the shelf.

As soon as I got outside, I realized that my allergies were bordering on incapacitating. I knew I had tissue in my car so I hurried to it. I opened the car door and threw my purchase on the seat next to me. I sneezed and blew my nose and reached for the allergy medication.

Then, I looked around the car, suddenly realizing that I didn't have any water.

Bastard advertisers, I muttered, as if the advertisers had tricked me into not buying water with my medication. I considered going back inside to get some water, but knowing it would be overpriced and too cold, I just gave up and drove me, my allergies, and my unopened package of allergy medication home.

drinking update etc.

for those of you who are more interested in updates on charity's life than in long-winded allegories and "pontifications" (that's for you, Jason), i thought i would let you know a few things:

1) i'm having deja vu, which is weird

2) i drank this weekend, and noticed a dramatic decrease in quality of sleep, so i'm back on the wagon for another week

3) i needed that beer though coz i saw one of my Exes (big-E Ex, not little-e ex) on the street in little 5 points on friday. he was with his current girlfriend (who was his best friend throughout our relationship, but i'll write about that another time). then saturday at a new friend's house there was randomly a poster with his stupid band's name on it, so i guess they're back together too. great for him. yea.

4) Neko Case has the most amazing powerful incredible awe-inspiring voice i have ever heard, and Kelly Hogan singing with her is the closest thing to heaven on earth i can imagine musically. while i was listening to them, i honestly thought to myself, she could part the red sea with her voice. her voice was like a string, connected to my soul, and singing her songs made the string vibrate in a most appealing way.

5) guitar lessons are proceeding according to schedule. i have seven chords to memorize.

6) the carnival was awesome in a very bizarre way, but i forgot my camera and disposable cameras SUCK. although there are a few cute pics of my friend Rich. i'll try to scan them in for you Rich. (if you're even reading this. maybe it's too long...). also, the ferris wheel is scary. but not as scary as the people who run it.

7) peeps.

i hope you're all well and enjoying easter and/or passover and/or a beautiful albeit warm spring day

charity :)

ode to max

Max escaped last weekend. She fled through the back door sometime Sunday. It was Monday night before I realized she was missing.

Our door sometimes blows open on windy days if unlocked. I noticed it standing open on Sunday, and secured it, thinking how lucky it was that I noticed it before a cat did. Honestly, I didn't even notice that she was gone.

She has gotten out before; in the past, I have left the back door open when I went down the back stairs to the basement to do my laundry. Once she pushed open the screen door and I caught her on the landing. Another time I didn't notice she had escaped but I found her within the hour, two floors below looking bewildered and lost, searching the closed doors for her home.

This time, it took a little longer. Sam was trying to tell me, I think. He was exceptionally loud and talkative. I think in hindsight that he was attempting to alert me to her absence. What all his talking did, though, was distract me and prevent me from realizing that Max, who is always quiet and aloof, was actually gone.

Monday night, panic struck as I stood in the bathroom doorway looking down at Sam, who was yet again yowling.

"Good night, Sam," I impatiently responded to his yowling. That was when I noticed.

In my nightgown, I began searching the apartment, looking in her usual spots and calling her name. At this point, though, I knew she was gone. I asked my roommate if she had seen her, but she couldn't remember either. I went out the back door, remembering finding it open over the weekend, and panic started bubbling around in my tummy like indigestion.

I called as I walked all the way downstairs, where I knew she had to be. Unless she got outside, I thought and stopped myself, remembering finding Rocky out in the road two days before being approached by his panicked owner searching for him. "We just moved here," she said, visibly distraught. "I'm really worried. He doesn't know the neighborhood." I had to give her a box to carry him home and I remembered watching her walk away, stooped and bent with the weight of loss that is unique to losing a pet.

I pushed the memory out of my mind and continued calling Max. I thought I heard her collar jingling. Afraid I was hallucinating, I called to her again and walked to where I thought I had heard it. There were stacks of boxes I hadn't seen before. Someone new must have moved in, I thought to myself. I wonder who it is?

Just then, I saw a little black head pop up over the top of the boxes. The white fur on the corner of her mouth looked like drool and her white whiskers stuck out like fresh highlighter in a dusty old book. Max looked at me with panic and desperation and immediately began trying to figure out how to get to me. She looked down and around her, finally jumping up on top of the boxes. I reached over and picked up her full-figured cat body and she laid against me, purring, as I purred over her and carried her home.

Max does not behave this way, normally. When I first met Max, she was walking around the neighborhood, meowing loudly with the desperation and determination of a female cat in heat. She was so small, though, I thought surely she wasn't in heat already. I was in the process of moving out of that apartment, and hated to leave her. She would come up to the porch when I came out of the door. She would meow to me and rub against my legs. The thing that really endeared her to me was how she would lean against my legs with her whole body while I pet her, and then fall on my feet in purrs.

I took her with me when I moved and she seemed happy and grateful to be an indoor kitty. She seemed content to sit in the windows and doors watching the leaves blow and the squirrels play in the trees behind my building. She and my other cat developed a tentative bond that lasted until he became very ill, finally passing away. Max refused to go in the room with him the last couple of days, but sat outside the door watching him with alarm as he struggled to breathe.

She is a very loyal companion, but she can be very hard to love. She likes to be petted, but not by everyone. She has specific ideas of how and how long she likes being petted, and if you are not in on this, she will attempt to draw you in line by pawing at you or snapping. Most people figure it's not worth the effort.

When I brought her in from her two-day basement adventure, though, she was so happy, she let me pet her for while, my way, even, and she even rolled over on my feet the way she used to do when she first won my heart. I was so happy and relieved to have her home.

My mom once told me "Charity, the thing is, people fall in love with you so easily. You're funny, you're smart, you're beautiful. But then..." In my mind and memory, she trails off and looks out the window, pondering why it is that I'm so alone, confused at this conundrum. The truth is, I pretty much blocked out what she said next, because it was something like "but then you make it impossible for them to love you."

I know that's true, though. I value my independence highly, but I always want to know what everyone else is up to. An analogy for you gamblers out there: I want to know what cards all the people at the table are holding before I reveal my own.

So I really like Max. And maybe it's partly because I have put all my issues onto her, but I like to think that we see eye to eye on things somehow. Sometimes she sits in the window when I'm working, never looking at me, but never leaving the room. Sometimes she sits on the end of my bed, on a little folded blanket covered in black cat hair, placed there in a surprisingly successful attempt to limit her contact with my down comforter and the afghan my grandmother made that I have thrown over it. She will just sit peacefully, napping or looking out thin slits of eyes at something only she sees. Sam usually comes up to her at some point and she will lick his head with motherly affection before hopping down and moving to a new place where she can settle down undisturbed, leaving Sam her vacated spot to do with what he pleases.

I really love Sam. There is something very special about a little kitty who talks constantly and always wants to play, and who sits right in front of you looking up with big eyes waiting for you to get him whatever treat he is thinking of at that moment. But sometimes I just want to be left alone. And that's when I appreciate Max, who loves me anyway and is happy to oblige. I guess the downside to this type of independence is that few people notice when you're gone. When I finally noticed Max was missing, I wondered how long it would take people to notice if I disappeared one day.

Max and I do things our own ways. I once read that Virgos such as myself like domestic animals because we can take care of them and control them; apparently we like the fact that our pets depend on us. This makes us feel in control and we are comforted by this. I thought that was very interesting. But I think the thing I like about Max is that she depends on me, but maintains her independence in spite of this. She is independently dependent.

She reminds me of myself.

Good Friday, or Why I Love Jesus but am not a Christian

"Why is it Good Friday if it's the day Jesus died?" I once asked my mother.

"Because if Jesus hadn't died," she lovingly responded, "we could never go to heaven."

My mom has definite theories about salvation, informed by her Methodist upbringing and later conversion to Seventh-Day Adventism. As a child, I always needed to know the limits of love, or a rule.

Once I questioned, "but what about the people that don't know about Jesus? What about a baby in the middle of a jungle?"

"God has sent angels into the jungle before to tell them of His love and His sacrifice," she responded. Here she was talking about actual angels, who could reach places ordinary missionaries couldn't.

"But what if He didn't?" I pushed. I knew angels had better things to do than reveal themselves to everyone in the world. What if someone died right before the missionary got there? God wouldn't send an angel to every jungle-dweller on his deathbed until the missionary reached her destination.

"Well, God loves them and He won't persecute them if they never got to choose whether or not to believe the Truth."

Knowing that you had to pray to Jesus to ask him to be your personal Lord and Savior, I began to worry about Catholics, whom I found out in church prayed to Mary and confessed sins to a priest. I nervously asked my mom, "What about Catholics? If they never talk to Jesus or confess their sins to God, is God going to keep them out of heaven?"

"If they've lived their lives in good faith, and with good intention, God will take that into consideration. For many of these people, they have been brainwashed by the church, and God wants to show them the truth. He will try, and that's what we're for," she answered, implying that we should take it upon ourselves to convert the Catholics.

When I was younger I went to church at a Seventh-Day Adventist Church, which, you may have inferred from the name, worshipped on Saturday, the "true" Sabbath. I always knew how few people shared my faith. Friends invited me to sleep over on the weekends, but I couldn't on Friday, since that was technically the Sabbath, and I couldn't on Saturday since it was very rare that people wanted to bring a strange child to church with their family (and my mom was never that thrilled with the idea, either). Saturday morning cartoons, to me and to my little brother, were the glorious half hour of cartoons that came on from 8 until 8:30, when we had to get ready for church. Cartoons did not come on network television on Sunday mornings, and my mother has never had cable television.

Once my mom let me spend the night at my best friend's house on a Friday night for her birthday party. The next morning, I laid around like a fattened calf, eating cereal ("please, no sugar," I politely asked), watching all the cartoons I possibly could squeeze in, and enjoying my pajamas, giggling and playing with the other girls. It was like a fairyland.

I became terribly nervous when my dad, who was divorced from my mother, became a Baptist. "Why does Daddy go to church on Sunday now?" I queried.

"The Pope decided a long time ago to worship on Sunday, and said it was because that was the day Jesus rose from the grave. Those denominations still do that, even though that's not the day Jesus wants us to worship."

Seeing the alarm on my face, she assured me that God would take into consideration his good intentions and in conversation she began to acknowledge that people have other ways of worshipping God, and as long as they were worshipping the same God, it should be ok.

My best friend was Catholic and once I went to Vacation Bible School with her for a week. I was amazed that the kids looked like me (except for my friend's glorious bright blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes), and we did the same activities, and the nuns didn't run around singing and swinging their guitars over their heads. I was actually pretty disappointed. Despite its tameness, it was not like our Vacation Bible School. At our classes, we sat around memorizing scripture and talking about Jesus' imminent return (I always felt it was just around the corner). When I got older, I experienced true evangelicalism. As a young teenage member, we would teach Bible school in the neighborhoods surrounding our church. We would be dropped off and go around collecting children from their houses to sit in someone's driveway with felt scenes of missionaries and Jesus on a cross. And we would memorize scripture.

I lived with my dad in high school, who was at this point still a Baptist. I noticed a stark difference. The Seventh-Day Adventists were very strict and ritualized: during communion, men and women separate and wash each others' feet, as Jesus did at the Last Supper, there are dietary restrictions (no meat, no alcohol, etc.), and behavior restrictions (no partying, live simply, honor the Sabbath). Children were expected to attend regular worship service, and we had, as most churches do, a Mothers' Room where mothers could take crying babies to nurse or change, all the while listening to and watching the service. Children were participants, rather than nuisances. As a result of all these restrictions, Seventh Day Adventists were very close (I could give you some cites from sociological articles on this if you are interested). In fact, I found out my grandfather had died suddenly from a woman I didn't even know, who approached to comfort me at church the next day.

Baptists at my dad's church pretty much let you do whatever you wanted. They just told you on Sunday that you were going to hell for it. Every Sunday I would question my salvation. I rededicated my life to Jesus more times than I can count and thought that even as a 15-year-old, I had already sinned too much to be worthy of God's love. It was like a prize to be won, and I always lose contests.

So I gave up being good. I became a feminist. I started smoking. I cursed and yelled and my parents. I lied to them and even drank alcohol a few times. But in the back of my mind I always remembered the messages of love from my Seventh-Day Adventist background: almost a desperate yearning on the part of Jesus to have us back with him in heaven. Seventh-Day Adventists don't preach about hellfire and damnation. My mom once told me, "it would be hell enough to be deprived of Jesus' love for all eternity when we could have had it. If you had to choose between hell and heaven, that's not much of a choice, but choosing between heaven with Jesus and hell without anything? That really is a question of faith, rather than fear."

So when I went to college I fled organized religion. Not knowing who to believe or what to believe or how to believe finally got to be too much. I blame the Baptists. Nothing I ever did was good enough for their God, so eventually I stopped trying. I didn't go to church the whole time I was in college, although I still prayed and read my Bible every so often (I still have the navy one I got for my birthday in 1991). But I couldn't face the judgment of another church.

Then, a few years ago, I rented The Last Temptation of Christ. This movie changed my life. Watching Jesus (Willem Dafoe) live as a man was like the piece of the puzzle I never got from my church upbringing. Watching him make choices because of his beliefs, even when there was no proof, instilled in me a newfound awe and wonder at the preciousness of Jesus. I realized that Jesus as a man made mistakes. He had doubts and concerns. He sought out answers. And in the end he chose to die for what he believed in no matter how terrifying it must have been. I sobbed, literally sobbed.

I called my mom almost immediately. As adults, we could have a conversation about religion that was less cliche and more intellectual. She said that she, too, had been impressed by this movie. We both expressed frustration and disbelief at the censorship efforts and protests it inspired when released. On my part, although I held back telling her this because I didn't want to upset her, it allowed me to believe again, in something i had given up on long ago.

In the book of Matthew, the last words Jesus cried were "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" I have since read books about the writing and translation and compilation of the Bible that argue that Jesus never meant to create a church, only to reform Judaism (the original meaning of the word for Messiah in Hebrew implies this). And even in this task, it appears that He had doubts. However, since the Bible has since been translated and rewritten and edited numerous times, it is hard to determine what actually happened historically and what was added (dare I say in the interest of marketing?).

Nevertheless, when you think, "what would Jesus do?", I think it is pretty clear we can make the following arguments: he would question the unquestioned, seek out abuse of authority and take a stand against it, even if it cost him his life, live and die for what he believes in, and do everything in the name of love. So I am proud to say that I love Jesus, possibly even more so than when I was brainwashed and indoctrinated by the Church, and I celebrate Good Friday as the day when a great man who had great love for others and great faith in what he believed to be right sacrificed it all for what regrettably came to be a mass marketed brainwashing program. Because of this, my celebration is tinged with sadness, knowing that few people take the time to consider and truly honor that which they celebrate by questioning it.

"Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions and give to the poor. Provide purses for yourselves that will not wear out, a treasure in heaven that will not be exhausted, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."
(Luke 12:32-34, NIV)

peace and blessings to you all,
and may you all find the truth that you seek,
charity :)

"day 2 with no alcohol" or "talula is so wise"

i love my mom. so much. everytime she calls she says something hilarious and something wise and usually something bizarre, too.

this time, she shared with me the results of a study she recently read. turns out, mothers who drink while they're pregnant with daughters increase the risk of their daughters being alcoholics.

hmm...

"and the reason i'm telling you this is because..." she paused. "i drank when i was pregnant with you, charity." oooh, i loved it! i stifled my giggling. "i mean, not much, just.. the doctor told me to. 'have a glass of wine, put your feet up,' he told me!"

"so..." i again tried not to laugh, "are you saying..."

"i'm just saying..."

"MOM. just coz i drink a few glasses of wine by myself once in a while and enjoy a good beer and just coz... i can stop any time!!"

we both started laughing.

[these are the conversations i have with my mother. i wish i could write them all down, because no one would believe them. then i could sell the book as fiction and everyone would think how creative i am and love me and give me a lot of money and free stuff.]

purely conincidentally, my acupuncturist (he's also my co-worker) and i decided yesterday to stop drinking alcohol. just one day at a time. just to see how long we can go. it's been harder than i thought. but i'm hoping i'll lose weight and save money. i don't see how i couldn't. also, david says i'll sleep better and maybe not get so depressed.

it's been hard though. i'm exercising more and doing things where i won't be tempted. like, last night i went for a long walk around the neighborhood. this afternoon i went for a walk, too. and i'm finally going to the carnival tonight (pretty lights!....). also, i find that if i don't have alcohol at home, it's pretty easy not to drink it.

but i'm keeping an empty cabernet bottle on my desk to remind me of my muse.

charity ;)

buddhism and sexy music

Yesterday I was driving home from my massage and I got stuck behind such a jerk. Those of you who have ever ridden in a car with me already know only too well that my most serious personality problems tend to manifest themselves when I'm behind the wheel of the car: impatience, irritability, externalization of anger, need for control, rampant use of foul language, etc. Those of you who have not ridden with me probably just made the decision never to do so, and I understand.

So when I got behind this jerk of a driver who had the nerve to go the speed limit on Briarcliff (UGH!), even the beautiful day with the bright sunshine and warm breeze and new flowers, and even the tape I was listening to of all my favorite sexy songs from a few years ago, and even my new Bust magazine with a picture of Gretchen Moll as Bettie Page on the cover, and even the fact that I had just received an amazing massage couldn't prevent my blood pressure from beginning its quick, predictable, and powerful ascent.

At that moment, though, I heard the lyrics Amy Ray was singing to the Neil Young song "Down By The River." She said, This much madness is too much sorrow, baby and I actually had to stop the tape, rewind it, and listen again (the CD player in my car is currently broken). Sure enough, that's exactly what she was saying. And I thought back to all the Buddhist writings I've read on anger. The only result of my anger in this situation, I realized, is increased frustration and upset for me. All my blood boiling, cursing, and teeth grinding were not going to change the fact that I was stuck behind this slow mover. So, I realized that while I could not control the situation in which I found myself, I could control the way I reacted to it. I could control the effects the situation had on me.

So I took a deep breath and let go of my anger. And I actually was happy to be stuck behind this moron, bless his heart. HE was doing his best, it just sucked (ok, so i couldn't let go of all my irritation). We were on a hill at the time, so the car inevitably slowed even more. So I tried again, and it worked again.

Now, how about that? The only reason I can't let go of anger in all situations like this is pure stubbornness. Those of you who know me may not know how stubborn I actually am. PSYCH. Of course you do. And I realized that sometimes I would rather continue to be upset by something, even when I know I can let it go, simply to prove that it is indeed something worth complaining about. But who am I trying to prove that to?

Happiness or contentment is optional. If you have a million dollars and all your wildest dreams come true, you'll just have wilder dreams tomorrow. And it will rain in paradise. And something you spend a lot of money on will break. The trick is seeing the beauty in the unexpected, and the funny in the fucked.

I'm one of the worst about seeing the worst in things (haha). I think that is the part of myself that irritates me the most. But you know what? I can change that! Coz that's a choice, too.

xoxox
charity :)

ps-i'm getting ready to go to the carnival!!! yeah, funnel cakes and ferris wheels!!!

april in may

i just came across this in my hard drive as i was working on my dissertation (oh, ok, as i was watching alias!). it intrigues me that i even wrote this. i guess i was trying something new? it's pretty interesting, especially considering how, um, it doesn't really fit in with my oeuvre, to date at least (i'm practicing for my reluctant but inevitable move to paris). anyway, i hope you enjoy it and give me comments (yeah right. you guys only care about the quizzes... but that's cool).

He felt the hot sting of the bullet turn cold as it ripped through layers, first flesh, then bone, then finally nestling into one of those organs tucked beneath his ribcage for safekeeping. I don't know, maybe the bullet and I can make peace, he thought. Maybe we can grow old together. He tried to smile at this idea, thinking it perfectly reasonable, but the faces on the people gathered around him did not look reassured. He felt a pool of warm blood forming in the hole the bullet had made and had the strange urge to take off his shoes and wade around in it. He was having trouble making sense of things. He couldn't seem to prevent absurd thoughts from entering his consciousness: Am I seeing myself or being myself? It was like a dream. He tried to ask the people around him if he was still the same size, or if perhaps he was actually changing size. He felt like he could see more but was he bigger? Smaller, even? When he tried to talk he began choking; a pool of warmth was collecting there, as well, and the faces around him did not seem comforted by his confused but well-meaning sputters. As moments passed that seemed to take forever he thought about the rapidly decreasing responsiveness of his body and considered the likelihood that he may never again feel anything. I may never see faces again. The thought occurred to him with a feeling of dulled surprise, and he started trying to remember all the things he had seen in his life, panicking suddenly at the thought that he had no idea what was next, trying to hold on to everything he knew and loved, or hated. The knowing was what he was afraid of losing, more than the loving or hating. As moments continued to pass, seeming to pass much more quickly now, he felt hands trying to hold his body down as his self, the perceptive him, began floating farther and farther away. Where are you going? he tried to scream. Where am I going? The last thing he felt was the gravel on the back of his neck and the last thing he thought about was a vacation he had taken with his fiance last spring. April in May, he laughed, and let go of the panic to slip finally into the unknown.

"my worst nightmare" or "what european city do you belong in?"

You Belong in Paris

You enjoy all that life has to offer, and you can appreciate the fine tastes and sites of Paris. You're the perfect person to wander the streets of Paris aimlessly, enjoying architecture and a crepe.

What European City Do You Belong In?

[charity blows raspberry]

v for vendetta or what kind of movie is your life?

has anyone seen v for vendetta? i saw it last night on imax. we drove to the hugest mall in georgia to see it on one of the hugest screens possible (then we went to ruby tuesday's which of course had the hugest menus and hugest desserts possible i think, for the size table we got at least).

seems everything has to be big. oh, like Big Brother, the antagonist of sorts in Orwell's dystopian novel 1984. speaking of 1984, that was during the time when the graphic novel v for vendetta was originally published. (speaking of orwell, wouldn't it be cool if something like "orwellian" was named after you?) i liked the movie even if it was cheesy at times, somewhat predictable (even if you haven't read the graphic novel, i mean) and not necessarily ground-breaking. but i mean, put "terror" in anything or frame anything as such and it's relevant today. often, it seems to me as if we as a people (americans?) think we have a monopoly on the experience of terror, evident even in subtly anti-government films such as this one (speaking of anti Big-government, remember Brazil? it came out in 1985). and i love it how seeing something as terror ("framing it" that way, if you will) further allows us to see actions solely as "terror" and without the very "ideas" emphasized by so-called revolutionaties such as v to begin with. is anyone even considering alternatives?

it makes me want to go back and read the novel. i felt that familiar sense of failure and guilt in the face of not-so-subtle implications of the sheepish masses. i love it though, how in the end of the movie [SPOILER ALERT] even the suburbans are there watching the houses of parliament explode. they love anarchy! and i teared up with the fulfillment of guy fawkes' hundreds of years old plan finally coming to fruition. and when it does, all the people are wearing the same disguised visage: that of guy fawkes, who, in his legacy of antiauthoritarianism has himself inspired a mass revolution of conformity. i guess, in order to mobilize such a huge number of revolutionaries, you have to use some of the same strategies that got them there in the first place (propaganda, fear, etc.). trade-offs. i really love it: the foucauldian theme that it's more effective to control people by convincing them they want to conform, rather than forcing them to do so. (speaking of foucault, wouldn't it also be neat if something like "foucauldian" was named after you?)

i was wowed by the visuals, though, and the writing was good, both of which don't surprise me since Bound heroes the Wachowski brothers were involved. (sue me!)


so, um, anyway:

The Movie Of Your Life Is A Cult Classic

Quirky, offbeat, and even a little campy - your life appeals to a select few. But if someone's obsessed with you, look out! Your fans are downright freaky. Your best movie matches: Office Space, Showgirls, The Big Lebowski

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

this is not a test. i repeat, this is NOT A TEST.

hello. i am at work. how are you? what are you doing? i can't stop taking quizzes on blogspot. i am mad at my friends who made me join myspace because now i can't stop. not really mad, though, coz it's a lot of fun.

anyway, i thought i'd write something for real this time.

but the only thing i can think about right now is the fact that the elastic in my pantyhose is broken. let me just tell those of you who do not wear pantyhose: this is a common problem, affecting millions of pantyhose wearers daily, i'd wager, and it is completely preventable. i'll tell you how to prevent it. don't wear pantyhose. that is THE ONLY WAY to prevent it. i mean, i certainly would not have left the house this morning knowing i would be spending the rest of the day with my pantyhose down between my thighs. i would have put on a new pair! but the elastic has gradually stopped working, and now everytime i stand up, my pantyhose stay seated. loads of fun! and i pull them up but immediately, they fall down again. it's like one of those herculean tasks in the legends. only, instead of requiring great stamina, endurance, and strength, the task of keeping my pantyhose up requires divine intervention. and i guess god is busy, coz he ain't helpin.

so, what are you guys doing? is anybody exercising? enjoying the weather? eating lunch? listening to non-Enya music? reading? writing your dissertation? wearing socks? all things i would rather be doing, incidentally.

i wish you guys all well. i mean, all of you that i know. myspace is silly, and time-consuming, and fairly superficial as a rule, but i'm really glad to be in touch with some of you. you know who you are. i love you! the others of you, nice to meet you and maybe someday i'll love you too.

xoxox, charity :)