Luposlipaphobia

Imagine a psychic poet writing about an ironic comedian. That's what Rob Breszny did when he mentioned Gary Larson in last week's FreeWill newsletter. He wrote:

Cartoonist Gary Larson defines luposlipaphobia as the fear of being pursued by timber wolves around a kitchen table while wearing socks on a newly-waxed floor.

If being chased by timber wolves isn't funny enough, throw in the kitchen table and a newly waxed floor and I'm in stitches. The fact the Urban Dictionary lists this phobia along with an excerpt from the original cartoon thrills me to no end.

But then that's what it takes to move me, or even amuse me these days.

Let me tell you about my Grandfather

On the brink of his 102nd birthday, hands began to mean a lot to my grandfather. You see for the first time in his life he found himself stuck in a hospital. Not because he was suffering from a heart attack or a stroke or cancer. Nothing so mundane or unhealthy for Gramps. Instead he was doing hard time in a hospital bed, ICU to be precise because he was the object of a hit and run incident.

Mind you, this was a man who walked 10 miles at the very least on a daily basis. It was on such a walk that he was struck by a van! no less and left to fend for himself. Days later our family found him admitted to a Washington hospital admitted at John Doe. Thus his 102nd birthday found him battered, weak but alive.

There are some people you never imagine growing oled, even when they are. He's one of them. Even as my parents age before my eyes, even as I see my grandfather walk slower and listen harder. Even as I feel my joints aching for no reason or small print harder to read. Even as all these things occur do I contemplate my Gramps' mortality. Not until I saw him in the ICU ward of the hospital.

The hospital has to be the most ironic of places. It's supposed to epitomize healing in western civilization and yet, it's the most depressing, unhealthiest place on earth. Only there did I believe his mortality. In a hospital bed with pesky tubes infiltrating arms and chestal cavities, lungs and throat. The things the body does without being asked is quite astonishing. And yet, when tallied up, there's aren't enough machines on the planet that could duplicate the symphony of it's capabilities.

With Gramps encumbered by life sustaining tube his range of motion was severely restricted. Therefore hands became his focus, his primary means of communication. Hands, first of all since his were injury-free. He held ours as we visited, using them to convey voice and emotions as his were restricted. Even though he sustained considerable injuries to his back, internal organs, head and legs, his hands were in pristine condition. I couldn't help but think how beautifully shaped his nails were. Or how limber and gnarl-free his joints.

At first I talked but stopped when I sensed his distress at not being able to reciprocate. So I massaged his hands, encouraging circulation as gently as possible. He squeezed back, not quite content with this small physical act. He touched my watch, fingering the face, the dials, the links. At first I thought he wanted to wear it, but he shook his head when I offered it. Then I realized he was pointing to time in the symbolic sense. Was he trying to tell me it was running out? I feared this to be the case.

But that was 2 months ago. Gramps celebrated his 102nd birthday in the hospital and is now in a recovery unit. He's walking again, slowly but walking indeed. I can't wait to see him again and hold his hand.

The Biker and the Baby

I had not seen him for years. At least a decade. He was caught up in his life, hunting down his passion for freedom, speed and community. I knew him as Praveen, younger cousin. Shy, giving and slyly funny.

He died in a motorcycle crash at the age of 41. He told friends if he should ever get into another crash (yes, there had already been one) then he wanted the plug pulled. Not to live an undignified life in a decaying body without the hope of ever straddling a bike or feeling the power of a couple hundred horses at your fingertips. Luckily no one had to make the decision. While his brain was already 90% dead his body followed 2 days later.

His friends knew him as Bean. Friends I never met nor ever knew in association with him. But these friends, a biker association known as the Tradesmen gave him an honor he would have appreciated. Some 50 motorcycles escorting his body as it was given to the earth on a cold Maryland November.

Odd how life finds a way to balance itself in every act. While i was still assimilating my cousin's loss Thanksgiving rolled around. Food, movies, food and more food. Cousins, my most memorable childhood playmates and now, most precious companions fill every hour of the holiday. Then in perfect sychronicity, I see my new neice and Goddaughter, Sophia. A mere 5 months old and impossibly beautiful. She gladly climbs into my arms, unknown to her except for a few hours after birth while her mother regained strength enough to carry her tiny body.

She is sassy and charmingly grumpy. The things a baby can get away with! She has gray eyes. GRAY EYES! And she is fresh and decidedly unconcerned about the economy, or the state of the Yen or Ruble or Rupee.

As one of us passes to his next life another steps into our world, taking her place in the family strata. It is heart breaking, yet fitting. The family moves on.

Is There a Traditional Thanksgiving?

Presidential Pardons

With 2 months to go in his catastrope of a presidency, Dubya took a swat at one of his final acts in authority; presidential pardons. He granted clemency to 14, the most egregious of whom was Leslie Owen Collier found guilty of unlawfully killing three bald eagles, and using pesticide in hamburger meat to kill coyotes and other animals, including the bald eagle! This guy sounds like Sarah Palin's high school boyfriend. But disregard for the sanctity of animal life isn't the only thing Dubya advocates. (Warning if you click on this link as it depicts the aerial slaughter of wolves condoned by Alaskan Governor Sarah Palin). In addition to pardoning acts commited against wildlife, Bush also pardoned drug offenders, embezzlers and tax offenders.

The drug offenders were of particular interest. Or as Wonkette says: "Everybody else who got pardoned or released from prison was some kind of coke dealer who Bush knew “back in the day.”

And this from a Christian president. Riiiighht.

Shaking Your Fist at God

A former Theology professor used to expound the necessity for humans to engage with God in anger. Now, raging against divinity isn't advised, just ask the ashy remnants of Soddom and Gommorah. However, to the professor's point, reaching out to God - even in anger - constitutes the seminal core of Judeo-Christian dogma; relationship with the divine.

Taking this to heart I found myself shaking my fist to the cloudless heavens last night. Pray tell why you ask? For the substantial decrease in my retirement fund at the demise of Lehman Brothers. For health issues rendering me battered and despondent. For financial instability stemming from dwindling career options. For an upcoming landmark birthday that I would be spending in the Northeast and not on a tropical beach, roasting my toes whilst sipping a Margarita. For all these dirges I voiced my displeasure at the heavens. And shook my fist. I actually shook my fist, which must have looked completely silly to my neighbors. What IS that girl doing?

Remarkably I wasn't reduced to a pile of ashes from my rantings. Which befuddled me until my friend Lourdes shared her philosophy on this topic, as she shakes her fist at God on quite a frequent basis. (And no, she's never been singed into ash, so I'm guessing she hasn't pushed them too far yet). She conjectures the Gods need folks like us. Not to target practice their lightning bolts upon, but for a far more interesting purpose. She thinks, (and I devoutly endorse) that the universe needs us for pure amusement. Imagine their glee upon seeing flesh and blood mortals, asking for (or even worse) demanding our way. Isn't she cute? They must say in galatic-speak. Won't she hurt herself if she keeps yelling?

So next time you're driven to celestial ranting, remember the role you just might be playing; amusement for the Gods. And that, quite likely will elevate your mood. BUT, if you're struck down by lightning, take it up with the big guys. Don't blame me.

Now What?

So America finally, and successfully voted an Agent of Change, aka Barack Obama. Errr, now what? The man, for indeed that's all he is, inherits the US presidency when America herself has hit an all time low in terms of: financial stability, environmental fitness, foreign policy, public perception - domestic & global.

So what's a change agent to do, albeit a charismatic Leo who clings to the audacity of hope? One who shatters low expectations the previous presidency established concerning matters as mundane as literacy. One proactive forum charges the President Elect to FixThisBarack.com. The website offers policies for Obama to attack, refreshingly absent of Big Oil, National Security & Pharmaceuticals. Examples include: Repeal the Patriot Act, Legalize Gay Marriage, Recall Troops From Iraq, Fund Stem Cell Research. Make your own suggestions.

The Kitchen Nazis

My friend Lourdes gave me this oddly flattering moniker; the kitchen nazi. When she first used it I found myself appalled. The word kitchen conveys warm images of whislting tea kettles, heat emanating from oven & stove and best of all, companions, be they wee little doggies or wine-sipping friends who cluster about the coziness in the most important room of the house. Contrasted with the gut-searing connotations of the word nazi, there doesn't appear to be any connection. Regardless, I came to understand what she meant.

She means the kitchen is such an important location to me, I tend to exert my considerable power to maintain and sustain it. Take for example my recent kitchen renovation. I could have opted for a simple, inexpensive overhaul of the cabinets, new counters appliances and left it at that. But no. I needed, nay, demanded the demolition of a few non load-bearing walls. I demanded the removal of perfectly decent, albeit ugly, green subway tile popular to say, the late 1950s. And I had to have the walls painted the perfect warm yellow that I painted them not once, but twice.

Still I thought kitchen nazi was a bit of an overkill. Until my parents came to visit. I might be known to my friends as a woman who loves to cook. But I happen to know for a fact that my mother spends 95% of her time in the freaking kitchen. Not sipping wine or chatting on the phone while relaxing on a plush chair. She spends every moment of her kitchen time COOKING. So when she and Dad arrived for a visit her first activity was to unload their Cambry of the 3, count em, 3 coolers of food she made for her visit.

Now I'm not only NOT a bad cook, Dad actually prefers some of my cooking to Mom's. So they both know I'm perfectly capable of their care and feeding. However, Mom felt compelled to cook 2 weeks' worth of food in preparation for their visit to me. While she unloaded her basket of goodies she managed to shattered a personal record of hers. She broke a major kitchen component within 30 minutes of arriving to my brand new renovated kitchen. 30 minutes is all it took to dismember my fat, adorable soap dispenser. Did I mention it was part of an expensive faucet set that can't be replaced without uprooting the entire undermounted faucet set?

But that was just the beginning. My Le Creuset pot in a fabulous sunset orange has been used only 3 times since I bought it last year. Mostly because it weighs a freaking ton and can not be easily lifted or cleaned without the use of a backhoe. But Mom found a way to lug the darn thing and cook all sorts of goodies in the stew pot. Instead of appreciating her appreciation of my cookware I grew sullen and jealous. This is MY cookware and I should be enjoying it.

That's when I began to understand the notion of kitchen nazi at a deeper level. I want to control all aspects of my kitchen. Some might say, even of my home. I recall the incident in which I was given the nickname Kitchen Nazi. My friends were sharing a brunch and everyone brought some item. I brought vegetable lasagne in a bechamel source and happily it popped it in the oven to heat. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a vase filled with flowers. They were lovely but had been taken directly out of the plastic sheeting and into the vase. The stems needed shearing, stray fronds needed to be clipped, and the flowers needed to be arranged in a complementary color scheme. Do I did this. To the laughter of the entire group. They didn't even attempt to arrange the flowers they informed me since they knew I would do so anyway.

Hence the emergence of the Kitchen Nazi. But control is one of the characteristics that is not tolerated well by the universe. So I found out during my parents' latest visit. My kitchen soon began to smell like my Mom's; which means the scent of curry permeated every nook of the kitchen. My spa bathroom, chic and comfortable smelled like combination of sandalwood & Avon Skin So Soft bathoil. Finally, my bedroom, fitted with sexy bedding & lush pillows began to reek of Ben Gay.

Good thing I'm not a bedroom Nazi.

My New Crush

I've got a new crush. And it's not on a silly boy band member or a member of the Heroes cast.

This guy is crush-worthy in the same way MacGyver was. He might not build a bomb with tube socks and a squirt of toothpaste, but he does save the day. William McDonough is an architect, designer and professor practicing ecologically, socially, and economically intelligent architecture and planning in the U.S. and abroad. What does that mean? What does he do? His book Cradle to Cradle, Remaking the Way We Make Things, is a "manifesto calling for the transformation of human industry through ecologically intelligent design". Experience for yourself the elegance of his ecological vision.

"Though human industry in the past 150 years has resorted to brute force rather than elegant design, the making and trading of goods can still be a wellspring of creativity, productivity, and pleasure. Think of the thriving marketplaces that have enlivened the world's great cities, the cherished objects and materials that transform shelter into soulful dwelling. These need not be sacrificed to protect our forests, rivers, soil and air.

"Indeed, human industry and habitations can be designed to celebrate interdependence with other living systems, transforming the making and consumption of things into a regenerative force. Design can perform and preserve the extravagant gesture -- in the marketplace, in the human community, and in the natural world."

- William McDonough and Michael Braungart, *Cradle to Cradle: Remaking the Way We Make Things*

You can offer your thoughts in the Cradle to Cradle forum.

My hero. Sigh. Excuse me while I swoon in eco-utopian-anti-industrial-save-my-planet geek love.

Masters of the Universe

I used to date a Bond trader who called New York the 'center of the universe'. And it felt like it - 10, 5 even 2 years ago. However that universe collapsed upon itself this weekend, on the eve of the wine full moon. The giants of Wall Street - Bear Stearns, Merrill Lynch, Lehman Brothers toppled in dizzying succession. In the past 2 weeks the government took over Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. Tuesday past, the Federal Reserve announced it would loan $85 billion to my employer (so far) AIG, giving the government a 79% governing share in the stock.

What the hell's going on? Says Daniel Altman of the Herald Tribune:

These are big, significant changes. Though they may be signs of trouble in the short term, they have to be healthy in the long term. The financial industry, as we have learned in the past year or so, had some very deeply ingrained bad habits. A cleansing was in order.

Interestingly enough, many finance pundits while staggered by the events of a cataclysmic September predict the same future: It's time for change. Roger Cohen, professor and financial expert offered this insight in his article The King is Dead.

So that's what "financial killing" really means. No better illustration exists of a culture where private gain has eclipsed the public good, public service, even public decency, and where the cult of the individual has caused the commonwealth to wither. That's the culture we've lived with. It's over now. Some new American beginning is needed.

The spiritual community has it's own take on the economic events. Andrew Harvey, founder of Sacred Activism (loosely defined as grounded spiritual vision is married to a practical and pragmatic drive), offered this in an interview with Grace Cathedral, an Episcopalian Church in San Francisco:

Given the current economy and state of world affairs, many people feel they're undergoing some sort of dark night.

See, the power that is doing this to us is coming towards us simultaneously with terrifying destruction and extreme grace and prosperity. The destruction is, in fact, a form of that extreme grace. It's quite clear that humanity is now terminally ill, and can only be transfigured by a totally shocking revelation of its shadow side. And this is what we're living through, these shadow sides exploding in every direction because we have done nothing but betray the sacred in us.

We have lacerated the sacred in others. We have betrayed the sacred in an orgy of fundamentalism. We have brutalized the sacred in nature. We are now terminally destructive.

So only an almost terminal destruction that reveals to us the full extent of our responsibility in this destruction can wake us up. And that is what is happening, and it will get worse. It's bound to get worse. But it is only being done to us for our own redemption.

I'll try to remember that as I review my Lehman Brothers and AIG stock shares and contemplate a postponed retirement. Or recalculate my financial investments as Jon Stewart so adroitly recommends:

For anybody out there who’s been living in a cave: congratulations. You’ve apparently made the soundest real estate investment possible. (9/23/08)