Five Dollar Sentences From 2008

I’m not a plagiarist, not on purpose. I do, however, have a great ear for a great phrase. I’ve developed a habit of paying five dollars to anyone who says something so spectacular that his or her words drive me to look for a pen so I can make note of the proffered specialness. I tell the payee that I am tendering an offer for payment of their words, which I may very well use in the future, possibly paraphrased, but that the words they used are “just that good”. I usually have witnesses to this transaction. About half of the time the cash is refused. These occasions have happened in bars, in private homes, in the operating suite and on public transportation, among others. My friends have even taken to recognizing great words and, once in awhile (when I miss a beat) have asked me, “Aren’t you going to give him five dollars for that?”

I’m going to share a few with you from this year. Some of you will recognize your own words, or you’ll recognize the stories from which these were pulled. Remember, time warps all tales.

#5. “How’s that gray working for you?” My nurse asked me this while we had a moment of downtime in clinic. She was looking at my hair. I made an appointment with my hair stylist the next day.

#4. “Oooh! Your spleen is obviously quite sick, and I think your uterus needs work, too.”

#3 “I know it’s not BYOB, but I’d rather bring my own.” I didn’t want to pay for the words, but rather for the facial gesture of eyebrows raised. That was priceless.

#2. “Everybody dance, now!” I can’t pay myself. I would if I could. This is a great sentence. It can be used as a command, a request, or a plea. It’s a wonderful icebreaker and also cuts tension in a situation like you wouldn’t believe. Try it the next time your officemates are all bitching about something and see what happens. I bet something happens.

#1. “These pants are so constricting.” These five words have provided much entertainment, complete with action sequences and the legend only grows with the retelling. I can only dream of a screenplay one day. I can only dream.

For Your Consideration - A Baker of Pies

I've been telling my friend, Laurel, for months, "I should write a review of your pies. You're the best." This weekend she reminded me of the same. She told me to hurry up and do so.

Laurel is an accomplished cook. She is accomplished at many things. It seems that she puts her mind to something and she achieves that goal. She is bright, pretty, and I count her among my small circle of friends. She has a saucy sense of humor that is a pleasure to witness in action. This isn't about the overall package that is Laurel, though. This is about her pie-baking abilities.

I'd ask you to close your eyes and use your imagination, but you wouldn't be able to read my words. Why should you close your eyes? If your eyes were closed you'd be able to dedicate your senses - your imagination - to the textures, the tastes, the aromas of one of Laurel's creations. If your eyes were closed, I think you might get a better experience out of this little essay.

She starts with her great-grandmother's crust recipe. She tried to share it with me once, but I admit that my pie-making abilities are limited by my patience and my tendency to eyeball measurements. Laurel is a stickler for ingredients and exact quantities. She is a self-described Kitchen Whore (yes, we need capitals) and she even has measuring spoons for dashes and pinches. I know her recipe is similar to that of my own great-grandmother's, I would simply rather let Laurel do the baking.

Laurel always chooses the right filling for the right occasion. I've had her pear tart in the fall and her pumpkin pie at Christmas. She makes a beautiful peach pie in summertime. You want a lattice top? Leaves, or fluted edges? She can handle it with ease.

Now that I've given you the basics, let's get down to the real reason her pies are so good. She has the timing down to a science. She knows - she senses - when they should come out of the oven. Because of this innate knowledge, her guests can count on...

...a perfect slice with filling that yields with just the right amount of tenderness to the fork as the tines make their way to the golden crust that is at the same time, tender and flaky. This is a marriage of science and art in a Pyrex plate. Layers of crust melt in your mouth, with just a hint of saltiness, their crispness playing off of the sweetness of the filling. (This would be a great place to close your eyes.)

She comes complete with her own marble rolling pin, mixing bowls and I've seen her fill out an apron in the most fetching manner. She also insists on whipping her own cream for the pumpkin and if this doesn't convince you, imagine one more thing. Imagine sitting at the kitchen table and seeing her smiling face as she opens the freezer door and asks, "Would you like Blue Bell Vanilla Ice Cream with that peach pie?"

Sublimation

"Don't change."

How do I follow
the directive
given upon
discovery
of traits
thought
to be desired?

I am your
object of affection.
I am target,
intent,
plan,
and goal.

How can I not change when I
am planted in a place where
I can only grow?

To loft into the realm
of the sublime,
to transcend
the middling
surprises me not.
Watch me change.
Don't ask for less.

Thoughts on Change, Growth, Family

"Aunt Michelle!"

It didn't make sense. A tallish young man was calling to me from across the yard. He waved and shouted again, "Aunt Michelle!"

It couldn't be. He couldn't be. I watched my nephew stride toward me in long loping steps. He grinned to see the surprise on my face. Where was my Doren? Where was the little boy who used to play tricks on me, who would never sit still? Suddenly he was right in front of me, holding me in a bear hug. He smelled of woodsmoke and flannel. He was taller than me.

"What's the matter with you?" He stepped back and looked at me as I fought back tears.

"I'm fine. I just never expected to see you this grown up."

I don't know what I expected. It had been almost four years since I'd laid eyes on him. Certainly I knew that he would change, I just never dreamed that he would change that much. We sat down by the firepit and put our feet up on the stone ledge to warm them. I waited. He didn't say much else. He pulled out his cell phone and started texting his friends. He is, after all, a teen.

My brother and I continued our conversation. I couldn't help but remember back to the days when my brother wore his own letter jacket, to the days when he would sit next to me and we wouldn't talk much. Now he was asking me about my life, confirming that I was happy, that I was safe and cared for. Funny, when he was a kid, I didn't expect to see him this grown up, either.

Thirteen of us piled into several vehicles and made our way to a Tex-Mex restaurant last night. We enjoyed a meal together, laughing and joking, sharing old memories and building new ones. It was a joy to see my brother's wife light up the room with her vibrant personality and to see my brother recognize the same. There are times when "belonging" is more difficult to define than it is to describe.

Growing up, our mother used to tell us (me and my brothers) that we could always count on each other, even if we might not be able to count on anyone or anything else. The beauty of this (I think) is that - by extension - we are able to count on the love that surrounds our families. The beauty that lies in inclusion - in familial love - simply because we love the father, or the wife, or the sister of someone who is so very special to us is a gift which tugs at my heart each time I sit with it.

Today I am grateful for a sense of belonging. I am aware that I have had many opportunities to make choices which could lead to living life in a much different manner than I do today. I am also aware that others have chosen to include me in their lives, sometimes not even fully aware of how their choices might change my life. I want to be mindful of this as I move through my days.

All I Want is More. Forever.

Yesterday I received a package. So it's Christmastime and that shouldn't be unusual. I didn't recognize the sender, but the package was one of those cute little padded manila numbers. I could feel the bubble wrap inside and I opened the envelope before I tackled the mound of mail that had accumulated while I'd been out of town on vacation.

Well. A surprise. To be sure.

I have some stepsiblings that I no longer see, or speak to. There's really no animosity, it's more that our parents aren't married to each other anymore. One of those long-ago stepsisters sent me a CD, and a note. She thought I might want to have an audio recording of my mother's voice. She (the stepsister) had found an old cassette tape and converted it over to CD. The note said she hoped I might "find comfort".

Well. I wasn't expecting that.

I played it this morning. My mother apparently taped herself preparing for a sales training meeting. She was a manager for a large cosmetics company and she held meetings quite often. I remember that she'd be out late a lot of nights and would come home exhausted, even when she was going through chemotherapy the first time.

I sat on the couch this morning and listened to her. At first it didn't sound like her. She was certainly reading from a script. She talked about commissions and boosting sales. She talked about bonuses of pressure cookers and 8-track tape players.

And then. And then I heard her say it. "Bye!" A door shut in the background. She was saying goodbye to someone, one of her children as they left the house. The way she said it, the way she stopped in mid-sentence to acknowledge a child...

8 minutes. That's all there was. 8 minutes of my mother's voice. I'm doing fine after hearing it. I'm not sad. I'm not distraught. I'm simply wanting of more. It's what I've wanted all along - just more. All I want is forever.

Decking the Halls

There is a yearly contest in our department. I have no idea what the winners receive. It's a holiday door decorating contest. Last year the theme was "Holidays Through the Eyes of a Child". I made a Dr. Seuss-ian fireplace and hung stockings. I asked each of my colleagues to bring in a photo of themselves as kids. It was a lot of fun. We didn't win any prizes, but we bonded a little and had a good time looking at our pictures.

This year the theme is, "Musical Holiday Memories". For some reason I decided to put Elvis Presley all over our door with blue snowflakes. It's a Blue Christmas. It's weird. I know this. I really, really doubt we'll win anything, but we got a lot of comments today, especially about sexy Santa Elvis peeking around the corner of our office door.

There weren't any decorations on our hallway until I put ours up, then suddenly there was a flurry of activity on our corridor. The secretaries don't have doors, so they can adopt a door of someone who isn't likely to decorate. Just such a thing happened with my boss who came storming out of his office this afternoon. I happened to be standing nearby when he bellowed, "Hey! Who is this girl on my door?"

His secretary ran around the corner. She and I both started laughing immediately. I had tears streaming down my face as she explained it to him. She pointed out the two turtle doves, part of "The Twelve Days of Christmas". The girl on his door was Danny Partridge...in a pear tree.

Let It Snow.

It's snowing in Houston. Cross my holiday season heart and hope to run out of hot chocolate. It's snowing. I received a text message this afternoon - around 4:30, asking me if it was snowing at my place. It wasn't...yet. I'd had an extraordinarily lazy day. I'd enjoyed a massage and I'd taken a nap. I'd only been paged twice and had dispatched the inquiries with ease. (I love my Wednesdays.) I continued my leisurely pace, finished getting dressed and pulled on my wool cap, leather jacket and boots and headed downstairs to my car. I needed to do a little shopping.

Tiny orbs of sleet greeted me. They bounced off the cars and the parking lot with pings! and tings! and I laughed out loud. "Really? Sleet?"

The pavement was wet but wasn't icy, so I continued out onto the city streets. Oh. My. God.

Houston drivers need to just stop and - well GO! Gridlock met me in the Med Center. The streets weren't slick, but people were driving 20 miles per hour. Why? I haven't a clue. To make matters worse, the traffic light at Kirby and Main was out of sync and wasn't letting drivers make a left onto Main every other cycle.

I started getting texts about the "snow". It wasn't snowing where I was. It was okay that I was looking at my cell phone. I wasn't going anywhere. Fast. This weather occurrence was getting a lot of play in cellular land. I finally pulled into Target, spent about 15 minutes and 40 dollars, and made my way to the exit. I was almost knocked over by a checker who was running toward the store with his cell phone open, arm extended and yelling back over his shoulder, "I'm going to take video of it. It's awesome!"

I walked out of the door, thinking, "Right, sleet." I was met with the most beautiful sight. Giant, fat, fluffy, overfed, white snowflakes whirled and spun from the sky. It was an incredible sight. People stood in the parking lot of Target with their faces turned toward the heavens. I saw one family who had pulled into the lot and the teenaged kids were dancing around the car with their arms spread almost as wide as the smiles on their faces. It was snowing in Houston.

By then the traffic had cleared a bit. I drove to a nearby Tex-Mex place to place an order for dinner, since the snow had put a whammy on any possibility of seeing my sweetie. I sat at the bar as I'm known to do. I'm not shy about starting up conversations with people and there was a basketball game coming on, anyway. Snow has a way of giving people something to talk about and soon we were talking. The man to my right was a 25 year old from Austin who is trying to break into the music industry in Houston. He's a fan of Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson. That gives me hope for the upcoming generation, when I hear that they are reading those writers. We also talked about Austin music. The man to my left was a 61 year old who commutes between Houston and Tulsa. He knew some of the doctors I used to work for, back when I was cutting my teeth in the Med Center. Interesting conversations from both. By the time I drove home, there was a light blanket on the grass near Reliant Center.

I'm not sure what tomorrow morning will bring. I suppose I will set my alarm an extra hour early tomorrow. I've switched my car over to 4-wheel-drive, just in case. It's a rare thing when we get real snow in Houston. I'm glad I was able to see it.

Tortuosity (advice to a newbie on dissecting near a major artery)

The surprise is the knuckle,
the bend.
The signs point to a straight path
but near the end waits
a stumble,
a falter.

Unseen detours pose risk to
he who treads;
perhaps more to he who holds title.
Not trespass - true -
but to what breaches do missteps lead?

Such long travels!
Oh, to rest in the crook
and gain the strength to continue
this journey.
Strike on and look forward, traveler.

Laws of Physics

Heat moves
down
a
gradient.

She watches with one eye,
her face on the desk,
feeling her passion escape onto
the surface as
his pen swings an even wider arc.

For just a moment,
she trusts gravity.
She raises her hand and
reaches out to stop him.

Seek the pivot.
Seek the fulcrum.
They point to balance.

No matter that all
matter falls the same.
The rush of the speed
through this fall is
certainly unique.

What motives send them vibrating
-past,
-about,
-against?


The energy to step over detritus
becomes deficient
after prolongued contact
with a human wrecking ball.

I Can Be Convinced.

"Who's the businessman?"

The reader at Marie Leveau's House of Voodoo looked directly into my eyes and asked me again, "Who's the businessman?"

I stammered. I smiled. I told her I knew who he was. She turned over the next card.

"He has to travel? He's some distance from you?"

My heartrate increased. I felt the hammer of my pulse in my chest. What could be next?

She continued to turn over my cards, one after the other, telling me things I already knew. Through the first set and into the next. I left a little shaken, but happy. I walked out of the crowded shop and stepped onto Bourbon Street. My friends decided to pay for readings and it would be awhile. I walked to the bar next door and ordered a vodka tonic. I stood on the street and sipped it while I watched people pass in front of me. I walked back into the store when my friend asked me to sit in on her reading.

The reader started turning over cards and set one horizontally, carefully, deliberately on the table.

She asked my friend, "Is there a Pisces that could be influencing you emotionally?"

I offered to leave the room. Both told me to stay.

My cards were suddenly appearing in my friend's deck. This was bizarre - and disconcerting. I felt as if I'd ruined her reading. How was that possible?

But how was it possible that I'd thought someone had climbed into the small double bed with us the night before? I felt someone climb onto the bed, twice, and it wasn't our male roomie.

How was it possible that our other friend woke to see a dog sitting between the two beds?

Granted, we were staying in a hotel known for its hauntings.

But, I didn't expect to experience anything to do with the paranormal. Well, I admit, I'd wanted to have my chakras read. I wasn't planning to have a Tarot card reading. The voodoo shops kind of creeped me out. Until I had a reading that felt so accurate, and pleasant, and exciting.

I admit that I was having a fun time with our hotel, joking around about the hauntings. I asked on more than one occasion if the people in the hall were "real people". I even teased my friend about the handsome doorman. He had such fabulous ice blue eyes (her weakness), but he only worked at night. I told her he must certainly be a vampire.

Now I kind of wish I hadn't been so flip about it all. I bought a juju to bring home - just in case. It's at the entrance to my office at work. I collect skulls and I found one with a tiny skull and feathers. I'm sure my office mates will have an opinion about it. I will have fond memories of New Orleans when I see it. I certainly am anxious to see how my reading turns out, although how can I really see the ending? My final card was the infinity card, after all.

Hearts

This is a careful walk I take
across your landscape.
Though invited and called,
I stand at the gate.

I pause.

The wreckage comes to meet me.
It winds around my ankles
like an alley cat after a
bloody battle.

I step,
one, two,
then I wait.

Are you ready for my company?
Would you rather steep in your own
misery?

You have been shattered.
Your shards of glass will certainly
cut me.

Perhaps I can carry a few of these pieces.
I will tend to your hearts,
as you did mine.

Rest.

©M.Scofield July 7, 2008

Chance Meeting

I paid more than I should have to attend the Nutcracker Market last Friday. It's a fundraiser for the Houston Ballet. Vendors from all over the United States converge on Reliant Center and set up booths of trinkets, treasures and things I definitely don't need. Admission is charged for the right to shop in cramped aisles for things that are not necessary and in this economy, I was tempted to spend, but held firm to my conviction to take care with my dollars. I bought spaghetti sauce, tasted lots of toffee, and petted the cashmere wraps but stopped short of breaking my budget. I enjoyed the holiday music and the company of my friend as we fondled earrings and necklaces and decided we could make them for a fraction of the asking price.

I was stunned to see that Hendley Market had a booth. They had a limited supply of goods for sale. I stopped to talk with the owner and the workers in the booth. I told them about the story below. We all had tears in our eyes as I left. I am so moved by their determination to reopen and I am awed by their strength. I look forward to getting back to The Strand.



There's A Pig In My Pocket. October 17, 2008

I've had a tiny plastic pig in my pocket since December of last year. It's as long as the diameter of a nickel. I know because I find myself reaching into the right pocket of my labcoat in search of the little piggy several times a day. I like to know he's there. He hangs out with my loose change and a couple paperclips.

I bought him when a group of us went to Dickens On The Strand. It's a wonderful festival in Galveston, coordinated by the Galveston Historical Foundation. I have a friend who plays in a pipe and drum band. That sunny Saturday her faithful corps of groupies and hangers-on lined the streets to cheer her as she passed (looking smashing in her knee socks and kilt), then we all hit the pub, quenched our collective thirst and decided to check out the shops on The Strand.

We found a fascinating gift shop, Hendley Market, where we browsed, laughed and contributed our fair share to the local economy. I found medical antiques which is almost as good for me as finding an attractive man with a job - absent a wife, girlfriend, loan shark or bookie. Hendley Market had baskets and baskets of teeny, tiny plastic figures. I bought several of each. I bought ninjas and babies and flying cats. I had to have the miniature rubber chickens. Who wouldn't? I bought the plastic pigs. I bought those things by the dozens.

On returning to work the following week I paid close attention to my colleagues. If someone seemed a little down or in need of something I gave them a little present. I didn't tell them why, I just asked them to give me their hand and I placed the tiny wonder in their palm. And I smiled at them. I have only two remaining. My pig in my pocket and a flying cat that balances on the nose of a labrador retriever that stays on my desk to remind me of my lost Maggie.

Galveston isn't the same. I saw a shot of Hendley Market for a brief moment on television and I turned off my set. I don't want to see it now, but here's the fun part. Sometimes I walk past a computer in the hospital and I see a little rubber chicken taped to the monitor. I've seen a ninja on a name badge and someone I didn't know asked me if I was that "flying cat" lady. I am.

Hole

Can you imagine?
Do you see?
I stand before a gaping hole.

I've done my best to fill it in but you come along and dig.

I fill it with stones pulled from my heart.
I grow them there.
I grow them in my heart.
There is no part of me that has not wished you in this hole to lie and rot with your good wishes.

If I allowed pebbles to fall
from my fingers,
rather than tears from my eyes-
would the space between fill sooner?

Soon seems unattainable.
I wonder if it can be filled at all.
The volume is so great today and
yesterday was forgotten.
How quickly these reminders come,
and how unwelcome.

I should place your shovel in the hole to stop you from digging.
In my wildest dream, my hands are dirt-black and my nails are torn from the effort of burying us - of burying what we were.
Exhausted, my clothes are rags and I sleep on the ground.
Exhausted, I sleep.

Autumn Meditation

Push envy for the leaves aside as you put yourself in their place.
Accept sunlight upon your face.
Your eyes are closed with the weight of pebbles from the stream bed. Feel the gift of their warmth.
Let your mouth fall open and take the wafer of the sun upon your tongue. Feel it spread. As it melts, it becomes honey and your mouth fills with the color yellow. Its sweetness drips from the corners of your mouth, down your chin, across your collarbones, and to your heart. There, it drops to pluck the cordae tender. Allow yourself this ache, this desire. Let it fill you and open your chest to it.

Now you hear only strings as they are pulled past rosewood, ebony and maple. The violins call to the cellos and together they gather their moans as you settle into their arms. The brass has been dismissed except for a french horn that blows its missive behind a boxwood. It is your envy. You can leave it here. Nature will absorb it. Open your eyes. See the sunlight on the leaves. Appreciate. Celebrate.

Politically Correct

Prepare yourself for a cliche-laden essay if there ever was one. Sometimes there aren't new words or new ways to combine them to say what needs to be said. (I count three so far, are you with me?)

I'm full. I'm up to my neck with the bullshit that has oozed out of the Presidential race. I'm finished with listening to excuses, rationalizations, and reasons for making statements that wouldn't fly in mixed company of any sort in polite society. By "mixed" I mean: race, creed, gender, gender-preference, religion, capabilities, and age. I'm finished with hearing that "politically correct" is overdone and somehow harms us in our interactions.

My opinion - my OPINION - is that there are those who choose to bash PC in order to wave their flags of hatred and disturbance.

The world is full of shit-stirrers. I get that. I also get that people have the right to express their views on pretty much any subject. I fully expect to be able to stand up and say that I disagree with them. If someone is making a statement about his/her view of another category of humans, expect me to tell that person how I feel. It's how I operate. I mean, it's all about free speech, right?

Or is it? Perhaps there's a point to political correctness. Perhaps there is a point to carrying on discussion in a manner which doesn't deride or attempt to degrade others. I've given this a lot of thought lately. My forehead is bloody from banging my head against the wall of discussion around race and what constitutes racially charged remarks. There comes a point where speaking to certain people seems hopeless to me. I think it might be better to concentrate on positive aspects of this election, of this world, and to be mindful to speak when I am called to - but then I feel as if I am caught in a moral dilemma. There seems to be no reason to speak to an empty room. After all, I only seem to continue to raise my voice and I am growing weary. What to do? I suppose the answer lies in discernment, wisdom and the courage of my convictions. I suppose the answer lies there for everyone.

Dim Sum

October brought us to
the table.

Rain fell on the window and we passed
Sunday afternoon
peering into carts
and asking for refills of
green tea.

This, and that, and that.

Satisfied, I felt as if my heart had been
touched.

Over time, we found our
favorites.
By March we asked for
shaomai first and
laughed about it.

It came in fours bites,
two apiece.

In June I flinched at the
sound of your
chopsticks,

snapping.

Apart.

You ate three pieces of
shaomai at that meal.
The leaves at the bottom of my cup
said nothing.

We looked up when thunder broke our
silence.
Raindrops hit the window and you asked for the
check.

M.Scofield August 3, 2008

The Call Center

"I hate these fuckin' headsets."

The tangle of plastic and wire flew across the room and no one paid attention. A drawer slid open, there was the sound of rummaging around for pens and another computer monitor glowed to life. Digital tones came over a speaker, a button was punched when the call connected, and the conversation became one-sided for anyone in the room who cared to listen.

Most of the conversations in the room were one-sided.

"Can you tell me where it hurts?"

"Have you had a biopsy? No, that's where they take some tissue, maybe with a needle, or in the operating room."

"Yes, I realize you live in Ohio. No, ma'am. We don't have office hours on Saturday. I understand that your son has to work. Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am. Yes, ma'am. I'll try ma'am."

"We can arrange for a Plastic Surgery consult if you'd like. I'm not sure if they can address that at that time. I work for a different department."

"Shit! The coffee has mold growing in it!"

"Can I talk to your mom? OK, I'll hold." "Crap! I hate talking to kids" "...yes, chemotherapy. We'll talk about surgery after we see how he responds. I'm sorry. Take your time."

"Anyone want to go for coffee?"

"What the hell is wrong with her?"

"It's not like we haven't all had to do that before. It's part of our job. She didn't have to bite my head off."

"Who's going to the Christmas party?"

"Can you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten? Ten would be the worst pain you can possibly imagine."

"Wow, Brittany Spears still looks like shit."

"I want to get out of here early today."

"Have you had a biopsy? No, that's where they take some tissue, maybe with a needle, or in the operating room."

"Did someone say coffee?"

"Whose headset?"

Why I Need My Boots In Texas

I love this state. I'm a transplant, I understand this. I'm not a native daughter, although my adoptive Daddy is a native son, so I'm as close to being a Texan as I can be without being born on this soil. He got 'hold of me early enough to have an influence on me. I like the right football team, I can pronounce Nacogdoches and Waxahachie without inciting riotous laughter,

I know what kind of socks to wear with boots. Cowboy boots. I wear Luccheses. I graduated from Ropers, also known as shit-kickers. Ropers are a little young for me, at least that's how I see it.

Boots are utilitarian footwear that can look great at the same time. If it's wet outside, I can count on staying dry, pretty much no matter how deep it gets.

Or so I thought.

A bunch of kids were told to leave KleinOakHighSchool today because of their controversial T-shirts. They were McCain supporters. Seems the back of the shirts said "Obama loves Osama BFF". You know, if there was a school policy that said they weren't supposed to wear disruptive clothing, it's really a pretty soft call. I think they probably had a right to free speech, but I wasn't there to know if there was disruption at the school. The principal has a responsibility to keep the school under control.

The thing that got me (I was watching the news on TV) was hearing little Morgan Herig say, "“I don’t believe it’s sending the right message, but I also don’t agree with his political views. I don’t agree that someone who is not from our country and doesn’t believe in the same things should be able to run for the White House."

This is what I'm talking about. There is a pervasive attitude here in the South that people need to believe in the same things. Different is not only "not-good" it is to be limited, separated, held back.

Where do children learn these things? I wonder. Like I said, my Daddy taught me how to say Nacogdoches the same way he did.

My Weekend: The Highs, Lows, and In-Betweens

My nurse is a bonafide bomb. She leaned over to me on Friday morning and said, real quite-like, "I'm going to make sure you get out of this clinic by two-o'clock today."

"Why?"

"It's Halloween. You've got a party, don't you?"

After three years she knows me pretty well. I got out of clinic, but I still had plenty of work to do in my office. I managed to get home at a decent hour and dug through my closet to find one of my costumes from last year. I dashed out the door dressed as a roaring twenties' flapper. I stopped at the grocery store and the liquor store and made it to the party by the appointed hour. I threw my vintage ostrich feather boa around my neck, made my way to the door, rang the bell and was greeted by my host who was wearing...

...wait for it...

his street clothes. He wasn't wearing a costume.

The party consisted of one more friend, who also didn't get the "no costumes" memo. We had a delicious dinner, watched a movie and handed out quarters to the trick-or-treaters who came to the door. It was the most relaxed I've been in weeks and I did it all in yards of fringe, pearls, fishnet stockings and rhinestones.

Saturday afternoon I ventured out to Reliant Arena for the Houston Home and Garden Show. I forked over eight bucks for parking and nine for admission. Almost a complete waste of money. There were very few vendors and even fewer builders. I'd hoped to talk to some prospective builders and get some names and contacts for my new place. Not so much. I did however, finally get to see the amazing Shamwow! which I'd heard about just the night before from my party host who has a tendency to purchase all variety of as-seen-on-TV products. I didn't buy a Shamwow, but I saw one in action.

I was approached by a stainless cookware pitchman. He was trying to sell himself, not the cookware. Interesting guy, if you're into that SteveBuscemi-MembersOnlyJacket-ChainSmo ker kind of guy. He asked me if I was into fitness, came right out and complimented me on my legs. I gotta give him credit for chutzpah. His line was much better than the one used on my friend later last night while we were dancing.

J and I were on the dance floor when a man moved right up next to her and just stood there, staring at her. J is basically a five foot ten inch tall blond goddess. He leaned into her and said something. She reached over to me and guided me to another area of the dance floor. "What? What did he say to you?"

He told her that he couldn't believe there were "...queer men in the world." If they would see her, "they would be cured." The band played "Smooth Operator" by Sade later last night, I don't think they had him in mind, though.

We saw our old (not just familiar, but old) friend, George Washington, last night. I wrote about him in a piece called "Dance Hall Nights". George told me that he was released from the hospital about a month ago. The octogenarian was hospitalized after being shot in the leg by a home intruder. He defended himself, placing a kitchen chair between himself and the attacker. The old guy was shot! He was shot, ended up in the Intensive Care Unit and now, weeks later, was out with his velvet jacket, shaking it up on the dance floor. Amazing.

Today I went for dim sum with a friend then we hit the Houston Quilt show. I know, I know, but I didn't get enough Midwestern culture when I was home in Kansas last week. We spent hours looking at the beautiful artwork and in general feeling inadequate. We ended the afternoon at DiscoveryGreen, a new park in downtown Houston. The weather was spectacular today and we sat on the steps by the lake, enjoying a lime gelato while we listened to jazz and watched the little sailboats go by.

It's been a great weekend. It's been full of friends, music, dancing and art. I've spent time alone and I've laughed, smiled and I've wondered. I'm even ready to go back to work tomorrow. I suppose that's what the weekend is all about.

It's My Party...and I'll Invite Who I Want To.

I throw parties. I throw a lot of parties. I have glassware for every conceivable beverage and I have many cute little cocktail napkins that are always at the ready. I have platters and trays and those tiny forks that are perfect for serving olives or seafood. I have an ice bucket and I keep two bottles of champagne chilling - just in case. It's what I do, at least one of the things I do.

I'm throwing an election returns watch party this Tuesday night. We fully expect it to be a victory party. Invited are those who've watched every debate, many have worked as volunteers. We've worn T-shirts, placed yard signs, donated money to the campaign. We've talked with each other about the election, we've worried about the election, wondered about the election and we've voted.

Today I received an email from someone who's unhappy that he's not invited. Initially, I thought he was on our team. He talked like he was on the team. He said he was going to be on the team. He didn't vote. He's not going to vote. He didn't register in this state and didn't vote absentee in the state from which he just moved. He says he is undecided. He says neither side appeals to him. I told him that because the party is all Obama supporters, I was sorry, but I'd see him some other time.

He said I was "judgemental."

I said:

" We're having a victory party. This is extremely important to me, as you know. I'm not understanding how people aren't able to either decide or manage to vote. Yes. I'm judgemental about this. I (and my guests) will be more comfortable being surrounded by people who are celebrating, or
who are supporting our candidate and are waiting for the results. This is an Obama for President Party.

That's the purpose of the party.

I am bull-headed, decided and determined around this. I am also impatient
with those who have not voted. I'm sorry for my curtness, it's not polite and I am and I was rude."

He said he "would have expected an attitude like that from a right wing Cristian, right to life and or a McCain supporter."

Allrighty then.

It's my party. Damn it, I'm expecting to be celebrating the fact that a lot of very informed, very like-minded people got out and did just what I did, vote for Barack Obama.

I'm pissed and hurt that politics bring us to this but really, shouldn't they? If we're not willing to stand for this - for the future of our nation and our conviction in our reasons and responsibilities to vote - then what should we be standing for? I will get over being pissed and hurt. I will serve up a great breakfast Tuesday night for a fantastic group of friends. This isn't the first friendship that's been bruised this election season. Eyes on the prize, Michelle, eyes on the prize.

Inner Canthus

I will use gold leaf,

pulled from a picture frame

around an oil painting

where trees are bent and brooding.

They lean to touch their own roots

on the edge of a quiet stream.

Crags give unseen rays a

reason to glint, their angles placed

by a patient brush

so many generations ago.

Breathless,

our words mean nothing in this space.

There is cruelty and pleasure

in placing a tear before it

forms or falls.




M.Scofield July 30, 2008

Black and White

In a world of only black and white

I would

wear stripes

to keep from blending in.

If colors faded from our sight

and gray

became our sole contrast,

I'd leap before you to gain notice.

If darkness filled all the corners

without variance or depth,

certainly someone would sing the blues.

We need the blues.

If all we had was light and dark,

no vivids, tints or hues,

would spilled blood

stain the snow?



(c)M.Scofield July 10, 2008

Wednesday

Very busy day. Had to get up at 7, (even though it's my day off at the hospital) and get ready to teach at the Y. It's only my second week back teaching since being off for 2 weeks and my energy level isn't as high as I wish, but I think it was a good class. I only had 8 students today. Weird. Last week there were 22. It's summertime and vacations play havoc with attendance. Almost half of my people were new, so I put them through some punching drills at the end of class, almost ran out of time at the end. I didn't really want to devote so much time to stretching, anyway. I've been reading more and more that stretching may not be all it's cracked up to be. Oh well. All this reading for recertification for fitness instructor is just more hours in addition to my PA recert.

I dropped my car off at the dealer to get my new bumper and waited for the rental car guy to get HIS shit together. My reserved car wasn't available, so he had to drive me to the service place to get another one. I don't even know what I'm driving. It's white, has 4 doors and 4 wheels. I have no clue how to open the trunk. I guess I won't. I only have to drive it until Friday, I hope.

I bought a baby gift for a shower for a friend, got a new power cord for this laptop and some speakers for a stereo I found when I was cleaning out a closet for when Paul moves in. I want to be able to listen to NPR in the morning when I get ready for work and I don't want to disturb him. It's going to be a big change to have a roommate. I'm looking forward to it, though. I bought some little shorts and tops at The Gap last weekend. I guess my days of walking around the apartment in the morning without clothes are over.

That's my Wednesday. I cancelled my plans to go out tonight. Spent too much money today. That's life. I'm living it. Woohoo!

Affliction - The Frail Truant's Truth

Turning the corner, then down the hall, heels click
to announce your arrival.
I stick my book under my pillow.
Feigning sleep, I hope you'll believe I'm sick
for I am truly afflicted with contradiction.
The clock on the wall mocks me.
Tick, tick, tick.
I know the final bell rang, indicating another day closed in my absence.
I rode it out at home with nothing for company but my
wicked fear of success.

©M.Scofield May 2, 2008

For Dad 02/02/08

On February 4, 1971 three children were called into Judge's chambers at the Sedgwick County Courthouse in Wichita, Kansas. We entered one at a time. I can only tell you what happened with the eldest. At that age I was a voracious reader, having consumed nearly the entire library at Carter Elementary school and I had a habit of tagging most adults I met with an animal or bird personae. The judge looked at me over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles. I thought he looked like an owl. He had the bushiest eyebrows I had ever seen and his jowly face seemed to be perching directly upon his black robe. When he reached for the papers on his desk, he lifted great black winged arms. He seemed friendly enough, if not particularly wise. What did I know? I was eleven.

The Owl Judge asked me two questions.

"Do you know why you are here?"

I did.

"Are you sure you want to change your last name?"

I did.

After we left the courthouse we went out to eat. I don't remember where, but we went out to eat a lot back then. It was new for our family. We'd been pretty poor before Mom married David. Now David was "Dad" and we could afford to eat in restaurants. My brothers and I were trying to get the hang of putting our napkins in our laps and eating with our mouths closed. It was hard, but we were trying. We really liked our new Dad. I think we really liked eating something other than Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, or rice with catsup and hotdogs.

Life wasn't all dinners out, though. There were adjustments. This new father wanted us to wear shoes. He wanted us in bed by nine o'clock on school nights. Suddenly there were rules. Rules stunk.

I remember times as a teen when I screeched those dreaded words, "You can't tell me what to do, you're not my real father!" I remember the look of pain that flashed across his eyes before he did whatever a father had to do.

In the years since, we've become a family. Dad has watched us struggle through school and marriage. He's been a tyrant and a teacher. We lost our Mom to illness and Dad hung in there, holding us up, struggling with his own grief distantly because he was - at the time of her death - the ex husband.

My father and I are very close now. We vacation together. He is my counselor regarding career decisions. I value the life experience he has under his belt. He has a vested interest in me and therefore his advice holds all that much more merit.

He will arrive in Houston for a visit later this week. I'll mention that this is our adoption anniversary week. He will say, "Oh, right, I almost forgot." It's the same thing each year. Neither of us will ever forget. Neither of us wants to.

Deleted. (Cellular Purge)

Intersection break.

The NPR newsman

says the market's up

but housing's in slump.

Next car over a

gangster shouts a warning

to his backseat toddler

while his bass rocks the road.

Two metro cycles

keep me sitting

through the light.

I think of leMetro.

I think of caviar and vodka.

I think of ICE and am suddenly cold.

Reaching for my phone I find your

entry and confirm that I want to

Delete?

1.Yes

The green arrow points my way west.

I follow the path homeward bound,

wrapped in the warmth of the sable sun.

Do svidania.