Beyond the Wastes of Mundaneness

What will shock me out of complacency, and spending too much of my precious life posting on Internet message boards?

I recently rented and then bought the documentary Beyond the Gates of Splendor (2005, directed and written by Jim Hanon), the story of five missionary families in Ecuador back in the 50's. All five husbands and fathers were slaughtered by the very tribe they attempted to contact and help. Such a terribly sad story, yet replete with promise and hope through God's providential hand.

I just deleted most of my message boards. Time to get serious again.

Hack attack

So I innocently pulled out the old ATM card at the hairdresser's recently, swiped it through the machine, and awaited my receipt. It didn't go through. Annoyed, I dug out cash and paid. When the same thing happened at the supermarket, though, I panicked. What the--?

Had to wait till after the weekend to get to the bank and find out that my card had been replaced by the institution itself since the last time I used it. Seems there was an enormous credit card theft at an unnamed large Web site, so the bank cancelled my card--though when were they going to get around to contacting me about it is another matter.

Only big place I normally do business is Amazon. Who knows? The bank won't tell me who it was. Then, going through my bookmarks and checking sites, I noticed that the Walmart music download site is (gag) not secured. Ack! I've bought music there--how could I be so stupid as to not notice that, I who am normally so careful?

Caveat surfer.

The restau-Rants

Wait staff: Stop reaching across me to get stuff. If I'm through with my soup, I'll leave the bowl at the edge of the table. That's the reason I place it as far from your ever-so-efficient hands as humanly possible--I like to finish my soup later, to top off my meal. And no, it isn't okay to come take away the extra napkins I asked for before I've had a chance to use them, either. Your need to look busy does not trump the fact that I'm paying for this. And while I'm on the subject: Being available does not necessarily equal being intrusive. If I need something, I'll get your attention. Being interrupted every three and a half minutes by an overperky "Is everything all right?" during lunch is just annoying.

Fellow customers: Turn off the danged cell phones. You are not so important to the everyday running of society that your call can't wait 15 minutes. If it is, then have your meal delivered to your desk at the Daily Planet. At the very least, take the call outside, because I don't want to hear it. Oh, and since I know you care so very much, I thought I'd take this opportunity to thank you for allowing your kids to scream in my ear, run up and down the aisles, and wipe Jello on the table legs.

Bon appetit.

I guess people really read this

Let's peruse the Shannon's mailbox today, shall we?

It's blue! Official-looking! Marked "time-sensitive documents"! Yep, it's the "You, Too, Could be Creative Around the House If You'd Only Get Off the Internet Club" hitting me up for a subscription. Only had to partially rip one corner of the envelope to confirm my suspicions. I'm getting better at this.

Wow! Dimwit Valley Bank wants to send me my very own credit card--at 29% interest! They probably taped me wearing my "Just Fell Off the Turnip Truck" T-shirt at the spring hog-swillin'.

My catalog friends never forget me. They figure I'll always appreciate the opportunity to purchase a $400 cashmere workout hoodie, or a toilet paper holder that plays "Don't Fence Me In".

The local utilities company thanks me for choosing them. Never mind that they have an absolute monopoly. Like what was I gonna do, go out and cut peat?

A smiling tooth doing the cha-cha with a toothbrush reminds me it's time for a dental exam. Somehow it has escaped the notice of the dentist's office that a disembodied tooth just might not be the best mascot for oral health.

My daughter gets a magazine with the headline: "What Not to Tell Your Parents"--yeah, like 19 year-olds tend to tell their folks a lot anyway?

Open bag, insert recycling.

All the stuff I was going to say

Music, new guitar, other interests, church ins and outs, jobs and the lack thereof--pretty much washed away by a capricious ill wind called Katrina. Nothing I wanted to say about the past few weeks matters.

God help us all. I fear this is but the beginning of sorrows.

No, I haven't been watching the new TV...

...just being a world-class procrastinator, to which anyone acquainted with me can testify.

Is it age? Laziness? Moonspots?

Of the three theories, I much prefer the latter.

In the past three weeks, I applied and was interviewed for a management position in a new theater in our city, but then declined the generous offer when it became apparent that going through with said employment would have been the personal equivalent of Titanic hitting the iceberg. The good thing about getting older is the ability to see the handwriting on the wall before it turns into "I TOLD YOU SO!"

In the past three days, I have a) lost my glasses (insurance used up); b) accidentally washed my contact down the bathroom sink drain while attempting to compensate for the lost glasses; c) snapped my guitar tuner in half by opening the drawer in which it was contained, not realizing said drawer had shifted its contents the last time I closed it and said tuner was wedged in the opening.

$160 to replace glasses; $50 each for contact and tuner. In the Universal Balance Ledger, I have about $400 left to "pay" for the TV we won.

The monster in the living room

It's oblong and silver colored, weighs about 150 lbs. Takes up half the side of our living room wall. Shiny black glass front, all 32 inches in diameter, but the frame is much bigger than that. Knobs and jacks and plugs, oh my. Impressive! And last night it invaded our peaceful apartment home: Sony Trinitron HD flat screen TV.

About 9 my hubby calls from work. Since I virtually never hear from him at that hour unless he finishes extraordinarily early (we are one of the 1.1% of the American population who share a car) I answered the phone, reaching for my keys. But no, he said, he wasn't done yet but looked like he would be about 10. All right, says I, returning to my relaxation Scrabble game. Then he says the three little words, "I won something."

I still didn't register anything. Won something? Probably a case of jelly or a Smucker's sweatshirt, like last time. So he asks if I'm gonna ask what he won.

I really thought he was having me on, as he sometimes enjoys doing with that twisted Irish humor of his. But no. This time there had been a BBQ and drawing at work to celebrate their exceeding a previous record, and Patrick ended up with one of the prizes.

Now I can think of any number of things that would have been nice to have won: a trip somewhere together, (since we still haven't stayed the night anywhere that wasn't a business or church trip since 1983); a Taylor or Martin guitar; a home theater system; a nice stereo. We already had a perfectly suitable TV, which was big enough without creeping into idol status. But won it he did. No way could that thing fit into our Jetta. We had to wait till a coworker got off work at midnight--then the fun began.

It is one thing to win a TV. It is quite another to win a huge TV and get it up three flights of stairs, around twisty corners built for 1927 furniture. The borrowed hand truck was useless. We had to huff and puff it inches at a time, three of us sweating (and at least one uttering naughty words silently). I'm sure we just endeared ourselves to our neighbors.

But we did it, and so far no one has gone to the ER with cardiac pains.

Today IT sits enthroned on its pedestal. The former TV, poor little Admiral 27-incher, looked just pathetic next to the Emperor. Alina was happy to take possession of the old set, and took it immediately to store at her boyfriend's house. Now Sony rules. If I can figure out how to hook it up, of course.

Meanwhile, the box it came in takes up our entire sofa, awaiting being flattened and put in the recycle bin. Won't this afternoon be fun?

Now here comes the real irony to all this: we don't watch TV. None, nada, ever. We get our news online and pretty much everything else as well. So, Sony may rule, but we are the power behind the throne; and we say that broadcast blahblah, "reality" crapfests, and bony blonde bimbos named for hotel chains do not happen here.

Ah, but movies do. Movies do!!! So do documentaries, concert DVDs, and music instructional videos.

What will the first one be? Fellowship of the Ring? Master and Commander? Fleetwood Mac's The Dance or Ricky Skaggs' Soldier of the Cross? Or maybe Willow or Pirates or Vertigo...

Anticipation.

But first, I must get dressed. It won't do to keep Emperor Sony waiting.

Way to go, Supreme Court

The people in the long black robes in Washington, D.C. ruled today that citizen's private homes can be siezed to make way for playgrounds for the elite. No longer will a municipality have to cite urban decay or social concerns such as the need for hospitals, to claim eminent domain. "It'll be good for the economy", they say, reassuringly. Oh, yeah, right. So now entire neighborhoods can be razed to erect casinos, resorts, and golf courses. Then the former homeowners, who never will be paid what their houses are really worth (not even beginning to factor in sentimental value) can end up working as waitresses and busboys for superwealthy vacationers, as their own economy goes down the old flusheroo.

It's the American Dream, all right.

I find it interesting that the four most conservative members of the Court (O'Connor, Scalia, Rehnquist, Thomas) stood up for the middle class and dissented from the majority opinion. Meanwhile, their liberal counterparts aligned with the greedy development corporations. What were they thinking? What were they thinking?

Birthing a band

We found each other; we've practiced; we think we sound pretty good. Now we have to market ourselves a bit. Tonight we finished our rough 4-song demo, all Gregsongs (that will alter in the future as we add more songs from me and a few covers as well.) Here's the photo for the press kit.

So, how 'd it go?

David Zink, me, Greg, Mary Beth - May 28, 2005
(Taken with a cruddy camera phone, which taught us to make sure we bring a better one to future gigs!)


"So, Sharon, how'd that go last week, anyway?"

"Oh, the David Zink concert? The one where he came up during our set for one of our songs, and was so encouraging afterwards? The one where the audience was amazingly enthusiastic, actually participating without being prodded? The one after which the car containing Mary Beth and me (along with our guys) could have floated back to Salinas? That concert?"

Tuesday night we are scheduled for Woody Cash's very last interview on his KNRY 1240 AM Peoples' Radio folkie show Radio Gig Monterey. After that we've been invited to Eddie's in Monterey to finish out the evening. Wednesday night we're recording for our demo at Greg's house. During the next couple of weeks the Web site will go up and the press kit will be ready for distribution to the area house concert and small venue circuit. We're gonna see where this boat will float.

I may be a late bloomer, but watch out when I do!

All's fair in love, war, and the Internet

So you think the best way to find something online is to Google it, and that the first page of results will tell you what you need to know? The one-celled organisms known as Internet spammers have found a way to manipulate that as well. An eye-opening article in the USC Annenberg Online Journalism Review reveals the insidiousness of search engine subversion. I always did hate people sneaking ahead in line, especially when it's to perpetrate falsehoods.

A step out of time

28 years ago today, I got the call: he was born. Struggling in, not doing the expected, causing a panic, he made a Big Deal, just as he did all his life. We brought him home three days later, after almost losing him the same morning when the young woman who gave birth to him changed her mind (and who could possibly blame her?), then decided once again to allow us to have him. It was the beginning of jubilation and tribulation for us. No one ever changed us like Jeremy.

I can't retell his life story now; I've done it so many times and will again and again and yet again. He lived extraordinarily. Right now I am just remembering him, not as though I ever forget for a moment the baby and boy and man who was my son, but to honor our years together. 28 years ago today, he was born. Three days later, I became his mother. Two years ago last March, on that glorious Spring day in the most achingly beautiful of places, he literally stepped out of Earthly time.

There is a time for every purpose under Heaven, as the poet-king said, and Jeremy had his. Mine is still here, and today I touch every emotion known to me. Mostly I miss him profoundly--not wishing him back to pain and all that was his lot here, but just missing him.

Just missing him.

Next Saturday night, I'm...

Last Saturday was the debut of Greg Hyde and LivingRoom, as we opened for and backed up Joan Enguita. This week we get to do the same for David Zink. And now we've even got a slick poster and the first ever mention, by name, of LivingRoom! Woot!

Hurrying

Ramming, jostling, dropping stuff, spilling coffee down my brand new chinos, leaving piles behind me, forgetting vital information, losing to-do lists, arriving late, tripping over my feet, dumping my water bottle into my purse, missing deadlines, misplacing my keys, forgetting names, forgetting my own name. Writing fragmented sentences and not caring.

Grace for the ordinary

Mother's Day: glowing card from Himself along with a generous gift certif to my favorite music store; special breakfast at church followed by special speaker and even more special invitation for me to lead a missions team to Romania in July '06 for a youth camp; stop at aforesaid store to spend my windfall; invitation to dinner by friends; surprise lovely remembrance from my not-so-demonstrative daughter; outing to see a good flick (Kingdom of Heaven, my own review to follow); good Pinot Noir and rich conversation at home. Short of having Jeremy here in the flesh, what could be better?

Monday: Sub instructor (sub in more ways than one) in exercise class. Frustrating voice mail limbo to find out why florist forgot Mother's Day balloon for MiL. Dirty bathroom. Dead flowers. Waiting for phone call from doc's office (which never came). Vacuuming. Plugged bathtub drain. All junk mail. Too tired to go to the supermarket. Clutter everywhere I look. Church directory not done yet. Two bags each recycling and trash to go out. Cracked cuticles. Can't remember the chords to a song I need to practice for coffeehouse; need to work it out again and this time remember to write the chords out. Must burn practice CD for Himself's worship team, but can't until I buy the songs and remember where I put the rest. Need to start losing weight again. Must fill out passport app for the Romania trip--already did it twice, but can't recall what I did with them. Once more, there's mold growing on the bathroom ceiling; must get out the bleach. Gack. It's my least favorite household task. Reminder that I haven't started the business yet, and every day is one step farther away. Inertia threatens.

There is grace for the dull, blah, definitely un-fun days.

Everybody knows, part 2

Everybody knows that if you are a born-again Christian who attends church regularly, you always vote Republican and support whatever the President says.

Everybody knows that if you adamantly believe that unborn children should breathe and not be snuffed out before their opportunity to live on this Earth, you automatically vote Republican and expect the President to move Congress and the Senate to overturn Roe v. Wade.

Everybody knows that if you are grateful to the military for protecting your right to live in a free country, and get choked up when you hear "God Bless America" sung, you certainly are a dyed-in-the-wool Republican, and the President's picture is probably on a card in your wallet.

Ummm hmmm. Uncontested, iron-clad truth.

Next?

Everybody knows

Everybody knows that if you like The Beatles, folk, New Age, or Celtic music, you vote Democrat and hate the President.

Everybody knows that if you recycle paper, cans, and glass, you vote Democrat and hate the President.

Everybody knows that if you wear Birkenstocks; have long hair and multiple piercings; and own a shelf of vegetarian cookbooks, you vote Democrat and hate the President.

Everybody knows that if you read original poetry at coffeehouse open mic nights; think John Steinbeck was a great writer; and enjoy watching documentaries and foreign films, you vote Democrat and hate the President.

Of course you do. It's an established fact.

Everybody knows that.

Right?

Pass the BBQ sauce; it's word-eatin' time

Just last week some online friends and I were discussing the sad state of popular music in general, and Christian music as it tries to copy said drecky music to form a new genre of bad art. Of course, sniffed I, my dawg's sittin' out this fight 'cuz I don't like rock music anyway.

Yeah, right in a pig's left eye I don't. Almost as soon as I sent the words out, I began to list the ways:

Carry On by CSNY
Jump and When Is It Love by Van Halen
Don't Dream It's Over by Crowded House (decent cover by Sixpence None the Richer)
Lots of stuff by Journey and Foreigner and Fleetwood Mac, oh my
Beatles. Santana. Beatles. Duran Duran. Moody Blues. Layla (the high-spirited original, not that mousse-laden, sleepy unplugged thing). Beatles. And on and on.

And of course, the best of all, Mr. Mister with their tender Broken Wings and the inexpressibly beautiful Kyrie.

What I did notice was that my love of rock ended pretty much when the 80's did, which was when Nirvana came thrashing out of Seattle all angry and mean. Before that, there were safety pin-wearing metalheads a-plenty, but one could easily avoid their negativity and weirdness. Then it seemed to turn cynical and ugly. Pretty much gone were songs of yearning, reflection, poignancy. The nihilistic 90's gave way to the trashy hedonism of what is called modern "urban". Bands like Creed who evoked that earlier longing were ridiculed as irrelevant, derivative, sentimental. (Somehow or other, though, "irrelevance" made them a lot of cash!)

But then, as Stevie Nicks says, "...children get older--I'm getting older, too." All this I Don't Like Rock stuff really means that I like what I like, and am pickier about it than when I was young. Some of the music I like, Christian or otherwise, is Celtic, some classical, some Old Time, some New Age, some rock, some other genres or blended ones or none at all. I still maintain that "rock" is far too broad a category when Patsy Cline is installed in the R&R Hall of Fame; just as I still don't like boring or coarse or sappy or kick-you-with-my-jackboots stuff.

And now I am making no sense to myself because it is 2:40 am as I edit this for the last time. I really wanted to say more--and I did. There was a first draft of this entry; and like the fish that got away, was just about perfect. I was classic, I was eloquent. I was also very stupid and didn't backup. So my perfect crafted entry is no more. (Hey, I'm doing better than some I could name!) Point is, of course, that you never get it back. There's no place but onward, without that sparkling prose that might have been in this space had I not neglected the Prime Directive: Save Your Work. Ai, the pain.

Writing about not writing

Was going to post this long whinefest about not finding my muse or whatever the lame excuse might be for not writing; about the stacks of writing books and magazines I own and which look quite impressive piled up on that shelf in my closet; about hanging out with real writers who produce stuff; about how I keep imagining myself writing and intending to write and preparing to write and doing everything except actually showing up to write.

Then I find I can't even write about that, either. I'm just a wannabe wannabe.

Why is this woman smiling?

Brand new HP Pavilion:

200 GB hard drive
1 GB DDR2/SDRAM
Pent4
17" Flatscreen LCD monitor
WinXP Professional
Free scanner
Enough bells and whistles to choke an Oliphaunt.

On my desk and working. I am in Virtual Valinor.

Elrond spent the last three weeks forlorn and dejected since being taken down by an Orc arrow; he will now be cannibalized to further my friend's gaming obssession. Good thing I had my daughter's laptop as a backup. But what to call this one? Gandalf was the one I had before the late, great Elrond (how the mighty Elf-Lord has fallen!) This one is definitely a Valar. I'm going out on a limb here and naming him Manwë. After all, he is the greatest one I've ever known.

Now I need to figure out why all my PCs are male, while all my cars are female.

Funerals and the people who attend them

Perched in the eyrie for the past nine years, overlooking a funeral home, I have observed a social curiosity: white people, particularly older ones, almost always stand around talking and laughing in the parking lot afterwards. Hispanics occasionally serve snacks from the trunks of their cars, but do so somberly even as they allow their children to scamper about. Black people generally exit quickly, quietly weeping. Asians sometimes express their grief loudly; other times seem almost stoic. But every time I hear the sound of animated conversation and greeting, I am sure to find white people outside the funeral home doors.

Yep, there it is again. I knew before looking, and I was right.

The famed pink shoes mentioned last Thursday

Sorry, Grace and Imelda.

Worst. Wedding. Ever.

Come all ye young people about to get hitched,
Don't leave your guests-to-be in a ditch!
Refrain from the cards telling us what to buy,
Remember to stamp the RSVP reply.

Please don't start the wedding an hour past its time,
If you don't want us wilting from losing our prime.
If traditional vows you two opt to forgo,
At least put a lid on your impromptu notes.

Your planners were snippy, the attendants looked dour
The singer was offkey and so was the hour.
If you say the reception starts promptly at 6
But arrive two hours later, we might pitch a fit.

And if the sound system is blasting too loud
Migraines are the favors bestowed on the crowd.
(Despite the excuses the sound techies gave
'Twas a wedding reception, my dears, not a rave!)

We waited till 9, for good Heaven's sake--
Not even then had you inched towards the cake.
The coffee and punch were self-serve, hit or miss;
At least you provided each, one Hershey's Kiss.

The groom was a cutie, the bridal gown stunning,
But not once did you greet us or thank us for coming.
I do wish you well; I do so want to bless!
But your nuptials were
An unqualified mess.

Now I probably won't shut up

Tired. Up till after 4 am.

Peter Jennings has lung cancer. I hate his smug attitude, but not the man himself. The Lord send His mercy through this painful disease and chemo side effects, making Mr. Jennings ready to take the walk we all must.

Had to keep myself from compulsively blogging more yesterday. I can see where this could develop into addictive behavior.

Was in the supermarket, stuck in line without my backup book, so I grabbed a (gasp) People magazine off the rack to quick-scan an article about the Pope. When the blasted subscription cards fell out and I had to bend under a display and cart to retrieve them, I began formulating a list of peeves so pet I should buy feeding bowls for them. Today's topic: magazines.

*Aforementioned subscription cards. Please. If I wanted to subscribe, I wouldn't be checking the "No Thanks" box on the Publisher's Clearing House entries, now would I?

*While we're at it, publishers note: When the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars, and I actually purchase a periodical, I immediately chop out all extraneous advertising pages and supplements and store in the nearest waste receptacle. They don't make it home or even out of the car. Nor do they even warrant a glance, except in annoyance while ripping.

*Apparently someone considers the inch-high, red-fonted "Women's Diet Breakthrough!" headline juxtaposed with a slaveringly appealing photo of a 2500-calorie whipped cream concoction some sort of cosmic balance.

*I don't give a redeyed rip about Paris Hilton, Ashton Kutcher, or any pop tart whose first name ends in "ey".

**********************************************************************
Listening: Travis Cottrell, Alive Forever; Altan, Best Of
Watching these days: The Brother Cadfael series
TV status: off
Online: Blog; Bejeweled 2; Yahoo Groups; Free Republic; Gmail; eBay; Internet for Christians
Offline: Scrabble 2.0, PowerPoint
Reading: Short stories

Attention span: Low

Pink Shoes

Our 30th anniversary celebration last Sunday night was a resounding success. All the minute details finally came together, thanks to good friends with loving hands and willing hearts--not to mention expertise with social situations like anniversary parties, a matter on which I was entirely clueless. The church building was decked out as for a wedding. Patrick and I, dressed to the nines (which in P's case meant a new vest) walked the aisle and said our vows again. It was all very sweet. We even had some friends sing the same processional we had at our original wedding, an original based on the Song of Solomon. We joked a bit during the ceremony; P forgot what hand to extend as we exchanged new rings (I finally got diamonds after 30 years!); the pastor's remarks on the meaning of covenant were profound. I never felt so loved and loving as when taking those vows with eyes wide open.

And yet the whole time my feet were screaming inside my high heeled pink satin Mary Jane shoes, the ones that wowed our daughter when I, in fear and trembling, brought them home from the mall. They were perfect with my dress, just stunning for the occasion. They looked like I'd raided Grace Kelly's closet. They made my feet look smaller (always a plus). I was ladylike and elegant in them, and in so much pain I could hardly stand. In fact, I *wasn't* standing. The audience likely thought, "Oh, how touching! Look how she holds onto him after all these years!" when the truth was, I was discreetly leaning on each foot to give the other a momentary break, and clutching my husband to keep from losing my balance.

Then the ceremony was over. We proceeded to the rear of the building and I thought, "R-e-l-i-e-f!" Yet I'd momentarily forgotten we needed to form a receiving line to greet our guests as they made their way back for punch, cake, and Death by Chocolate. So it was 15 more minutes of agony in the pink shoes, before I could kneel on a chair and take the load off. As soon as I could, I ran back to the nursery/dressing room and replaced Grace Kelly with Janeane Garofalo (my little black flats). Once home, the precious satin heels were bagged to go in storage or on Freecycle, I haven't decided yet.

The evening was a memory for a lifetime, one 30 years in the making. The guy I married again is my lover, protector, provider, and best friend. I would follow him anywhere--and have. He's worth waiting for, struggling with. He's even worth wearing the pink shoes for.

That was the reason I don't (didn't) blog

Almost a year gone by since the last entry. I'd forgotten I started this until I got something in my email advertising it, clicking on the proverbial light bulb...or dim bulb, in this case. Ah, there's nothing like repentance.