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
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Monday, November 17, 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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
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.
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 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
Tuesday, November 4, 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?"
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?"
Monday, November 3, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
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.
"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.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
