YouTube Thursday -- Mike Rowe and the Fire Ants

At about 2:30:00 it starts to get really funny.

Wonder If They "Believed" This Would Happen?

Looks like the "Word Of Faith" movement is getting looked at a little more closely by the Senate Finance Committee:

The ranking Republican on the Senate Finance Committee is looking into six television evangelists, including Benny Hinn, Creflo Dollar and other "prosperity theology" adherents who preach that wealth is a sign of God's favor.

Sen. Charles Grassley of Iowa wants to know whether the ministers have avoided taxes on for-profit activities or used their ministries for personal benefit. Religious organizations are generally exempt from federal taxes, but they must pay taxes if they engage in for-profit businesses. Employees can't use church property primarily for personal gain.

Mr. Grassley said his investigation was prompted by complaints from watchdog groups and others that the ministers live in multimillion-dollar homes, travel on private jets and engage in profit-making ventures from their ministries. He said the complaints raised suspicions, "but I would not make a final judgment until I get the story from the ministries."

In letters to the six evangelists, the senator's committee asks that they disclose their assets, spending practices, compensation plans and business arrangements. The letters aren't formal subpoenas, and the six aren't required to reply.

Mass-media evangelists have received little scrutiny from the federal government since 1980s scandals involving the Rev. Jim Bakker and others. But on a local level, tax assessors have challenged some big churches and other nonprofits. In 2005, the Joyce Meyer Ministries began paying more than $2 million in back property taxes on its headquarters after the Jefferson County, Mo., assessor's office alleged it wasn't exclusively used for religious purposes. The ministry is one of those sent a letter by Mr. Grassley's committee.

The others who were sent letters are Kenneth and Gloria Copeland of Newark, Texas; Mr. Dollar and his wife, Taffi, of College Park, Ga.; Mr. Hinn, of Grapevine, Texas; Randy and Paula White, of Tampa, Fla.; and Eddie Long of Lithonia, Ga. Most of the ministers appear on television and lead large churches that attract several thousand people each weekend.

Ministers who espouse prosperity theology promote themselves as conduits for God's blessings, saying that believers will reap benefits as long as they give generously to the ministries. Most evangelical ministers urge believers to donate, but don't link donations to earthly wealth.

A spokeswoman for Ms. Meyer confirmed receiving the letter and said the ministry doesn't "anticipate any reservations in providing the information."

The St. Louis Post-Dispatch two years ago reported that the nonprofit purchased homes used by family members. A spokeswoman says Ms. Meyer no longer lives in a parsonage and the ministry doesn't own homes for other members of her family.

The committee has asked her ministry to detail payments to any relatives and list property purchased by the ministry. A lawyer for the ministry, in a statement, said it has recently been the subject of an Internal Revenue Service inquiry and "has continued to qualify for tax exemption."

Ronn Torossian, a spokesman for Benny Hinn Ministries, said, Mr. Hinn's church "complies with the laws that govern church and nonprofit organizations and will continue to do so." None of the other ministries returned calls.

Mr. Copeland heads the nonprofit Kenneth Copeland Ministries. The church he founded, Eagle Mountain International Church, pays taxes on mineral rights valued at $20 million on 27 parcels of land that produce natural gas, according to assessors in Tarrant County, Texas.

John Copeland, the minister's son, is president of Security Petrol Inc., a gas business whose address is the same as the ministry's. The Finance Committee has asked Kenneth Copeland to describe who relinquished church property to a for-profit company and to detail the amount of money paid to the church for the mineral deed.

Mr. Dollar, president of World Changers Church International, draws more than 20,000 people each weekend and regularly preaches at a theater in Madison Square Garden in New York City. He and his wife operate Arrow Records, a closely held gospel-record company, from the church. The committee has asked them to detail their compensation and who owns the rights to their recordings and sermons.

I know from personal experience how devastating this movement is. I have witnessed first-hand the ruin it has brought to more than one life. I have seen evil people use it for personal gain as they manipulate trusting and faithful souls into giving them money they don't have. And I have seen people give away everything they own to "reap a thousand-fold blessing" from their donation. This movement is dishonest, a perversion of the Gospel of Truth and a pyramid scheme developed only to make money off hurting people.

I know we're not supposed to be happy when bad people get their come-uppance, but I'm excited to see if justice will be served. May God have mercy on their souls. But not their wallets.

Oh, Yeah? Well Remember That Time You Almost Wiped Out California?

If this is true, this kid is NEVER going to live this one down.

SANTA CLARITA, Calif. - Officials blamed a wildfire that consumed more than 38,000 acres and destroyed 21 homes last week on a boy playing with matches, and said they would ask a prosecutor to consider the case.

The boy, whose name and age were not released, admitted to sparking the fire on Oct. 21, Los Angeles County sheriff's Sgt. Diane Hecht said Tuesday. Ferocious winds helped it quickly spread.
"He admitted to playing with matches and accidentally starting the fire," Hecht said in a statement.

The boy was released to his parents, and the case will be presented to the district attorney's office, Hecht said. It was not clear if he had been arrested or cited by detectives.

It sounds like I'm making light of the situation over in California, but I'm not. Considering this child probably has severe mental issues to be starting a fire this big? Yeah. I'm just trying to find some levity amidst the flames.

The Princess and the Pea

The Gift Fairy has struck again -- this time not quite by surprise. The Gift Fairy and I set out to purchase our new bed last Saturday at the mall, we just didn't think it would arrive so soon. The estimated delivery time was 7-10 days; we got our bed in 3. Tre cool. That's right kids, observe and drool -- the Select Comfort, Sleep Number 5000, King-Sized, Pillow-Top, dual air chamber control with wireless remote is mine!!!!! ... I mean "ours"...

And it's a dandy. We opted to put it together "our"selves. The saleslady said she put hers together herself. Well, I'm a do-it-yourself-er girl with a husband who'll let me. Perfect! A Tuesday night project! She said it would take a shrugging 45 minutes. She is a liar. It took me/us two-and-a-half HOURS. Tef lugged in all the boxes from the curb to the house. I unpacked it all, hauled it all upstairs and put the most of it together. Tef would wander in every now and then and give me pointers about using the rubber mallet correctly so as not to warp the plastic beams (very helpful with his "guy" wisdom) or to hold something steady whilst I whacked it into place. He was also very useful as making things line up "flush"; a gene men are apparently born with.

Yes, you read that right -- the foundation is made of plastic. The kind used to make steps for step aerobics. Other than the wingnuts used to keep the bed feet on, there's no miscellaneous hardware. Just plastic beams and struts, foam "siderails" to create the walls of the "mattress" and overgrown PFD's to serve as the inner-air chambers. Once you've got the PFD's inflated and laid the foam padding on top, you zip on the mattress cover (which is nice and plush) and put the sheets on. Tef was all hands for the last of it, saying things like, "Can we get in the bed now? and "How much longer 'til we can get in the bed?" and "What comes next? Oh... then can we get in the bed?". He helped me "construct" the mattress from the ground up and then tidied up some loose email ends while I sheeted, pillowed and quilted the bed (the latter a new purchase of heavenly goose-down).

Neither of us spoke as we wearily made our way under the Egyptian cotton sheets. There were only relieved groanings and contented sighs. I tried to read some of "Moby Dick" to let myself unwind before lights out, but somehow my limbs were suddenly too heavy and I was unable to lift the 50-pound hulk to my chest. No one spoke after lights out. I haven't slept so well in.... years? Probably. And I've heard it only gets better the longer you sleep on it.

Of course, this makes us "bed snobs" on top of everything else. Now we're going to be hopelessly spoiled and refuse to sleep anywhere on vacation that doesn't have one of these beds. *SIGH* The cost of being discriminating I guess.

Speaking of sleep, no one warned me about the crazy dreams you have when you're pregnant. Crazy meaning "bizarre" and "disturbing". Last night was one such episode. Thankfully, I'm not alone:

We were leaving town after a series of comic misadventures, and it seemed
to be the end of the movie-- you could tell because the camera's point of view
raised up high, showing the small car moving erratically across the road as if
to indicate a humorous struggle inside. Then for some reason Kris Kristofferson
turned the car around, got out a pickaxe, tore up the road, and revealed a
cable, long hidden. When he pulled it a door swung open on a shed across the
road, and a movie projector began to play. There was no screen. It was clear to
us all -- in an instant -- that the projector was somehow communicating with the
ancient wrathful spirit in the woods, and we could sense its presence moving
through the trees with murderous frenzy. That’s when we ran.

Unlike most dreams, I could actually run. I heard the screams behind me. I
made it to a house. As I gripped the knob I turned around --

And woke up in a state of such total terror it took a minute, maybe two, to
calm down my heart. I laid in bed and put it all in context -- bits and pieces
assembled from "Lost" and "The Ring," it seemed. I went back to sleep and was
rewarded with a great, multi-plot dream full of adventure, culminating in a dash
to cross a highway. The traffic was so constant that people accumulated on the
median, waiting to run. I struck up a conversation with the fellow next to me,
asked where he was bound.

"To see the dress of Jack Murtha's first wife," he said, as though I should
know what that meant. He had the shiny face of a devout pilgrim. Later he drew
me a picture of a bunny. A while later the median strip turned into a bar, and I
was presented with a bill for 75 bourbons. I woke up in a state of such total
terror it took a minute, maybe two, to calm down my heart.

So the day began.

The highlight, really. Is there anything more enjoyable than a truly good dream?
Years ago I dreamed of a shopping arcade in the basement of a late 20s office
building -- in the dream it was the 40s -- and I can still see the place. I wonder
if we remember all our dreams, somewhere; it's a haunting thought to realize
that somewhere in your head, side-by-side with the encoded perceptions of things
that actually happened, there are countless hours of things that never
did.

I once read that if you take the average sleep a person gets in a lifetime and break it down in to actual dreaming, the average is seven solid years of dreams. You just know that in some parallel universe there are tortured creatures trapped in the dream world and forced to reside there as punishment. Because even a good dream is torture -- you can never experience them as reality (no matter how "real" they feel) and you can never prolong, continue or revisit them.

And with that, I am going back to bed.

God, I Wish I'd Thought of This

SHUT. UP. This is total genius. The fact that Madame Tussaud's thought this up just makes it juicier.

The Gift Fairy Cometh

There's a paranormal phenomenon going on in our house. Once every other month or so, mysterious packages will show up unannounced, unpack themselves and end up in my hands. Sometimes they are things I've just glanced at in a catalogue; other times they've been circled in the catalogue for me to consider on a rainy day; sometimes they are completely mysterious -- something I didn't even know I'd wanted. I call these little interludes visits from the Gift Fairy.

As you can imagine, the Gift Fairy is incredible perceptive -- and well-heeled. The Gift Fairy has this uncanny knack for knowing not only what I like, but also what I love but would never ask for in a million years. All I have to do is look longingly at something for more than, say, 5 seconds, and somehow the Gift Fairy receives telepathic signals that this item should be gotten for me, by hook or by crook. That's the up side.

The down side is that -- really and truly, from the top of my head to the bottom of my cute lil' Southern toes -- I am not high maintenance and do not need much "stuff". I'm the choosiest shopper on the planet. Before purchasing, I inspect and examine everything; I consider the usefullness, durability, cost and space requirements of each item; examine my budget; weigh the purchase against the staple needs of our household and then make my decision to purchase (or not purchase) the item. I am scrupulous about this. I make sure that frivolous items are stricken from the grocery list; I buy low-cost, good quality toiletries and paper goods; and I can pinch a penny so hard it squeals. Whenever Tef gives me a budget, I never -- NEVER -- exceed it. Most of the time, I come in under it.

So these visits from the Gift Fairy (who interestingly looks a lot like my husband) disconcert me a little bit. My Puritanical instincts are offended that someone would spend so much money on something for me that I will own only to enjoy [shudder]. It takes money away from sensible things (like car repair or the savings account) and so makes me feel a bit guilty and fussed over a tad too much. I think that's why the Gift Fairy enjoys it so much. Because I don't ask.

Yesterday, the Gift Fairy marched into the bedroom (where I was resting) with a stack of pretty boxes and announced with a huge smile on his face that the UPS man had delivered some things to our house by mistake.

"Mistake" #1: Smells mild and relaxing; one of my ol' favorites.


















"Mistake" #2: Soooo yummy-smelling, orange oatmeal...



















#3: Will just about knock you down in its waft, but the honey and goats milk are unmistakable and very nice.


















#4, #5, & #6: The first two are lemon-ginger (and look lovely at my kitchen sink); the third smells divine and goes on light and stays on without getting greasy or gunky (and who could resist the packaging?).




















































And to top off all the skin care, smell-good-i-ness, #7: Which smells so good you could eat it.


















And I love the boxes they came in. They look so bucolic and story-book. I think I might save them for a collage project later on. I just sat in bed and took turns smelling them all, looking at the boxes and them smelling them all over again. I can't wait until my Suave honey-vanilla body wash runs out so I can try them out. I'm not gonna' need soap for a year or more. The correct rotation of scent is also crucial, since Domestic Bliss and Orange Oatmeal are singles and their brothers and sisters came in triplicate. I think I'll line them up on the floor in the precise order they should be used, like a little soap train. I'll imagine that I am the Princess of Glycerin and that I'm married to a wealthy spice trader who sends me exotic gifts from afar.

But this -- THIS! -- is the topper:















This one made me cry.


OHHH, Gift Fairy! You naughty, NAUGHTY scamp!

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggidie-Jig

Thank God for cars. And husbands. And the resilience of the human butt. Because I seriously thought mine was going to lose circulation and fall off during the 16-hour drive home.

I used to resent all you New England'ers for moving to the South. Now I understand. Living in an area with low economic growth; overcrowded living; public roadways that are jammed with idiots who either crawl or light out at mach 5; toll roads; stupid local government; high taxes; too many unions; where you're not even allowed to pump your own gas (New Jersey)? Yeah, I'd fly South too. Even a short trip to urban New England helps you understand the prevailing terse attitude with which you are "welcomed". Everyone's hacked off at how crappy it is.

Not only is everyone unhappy with the crappiness, they have to let everyone else know about it too. As if they didn't already know how crappy it was. Spread the joy. Whine and moan about how crappy things are while you work your arse off. Because, oddly, as disgruntled as the urban New England'er seems to be, he's a hard working son-of-a-gun. Things move. Fast. And the people who make them move don't have any time for you to take your time. You'd better make a decision and make it quick. Because they'd just as soon yell at you as take your order.

And honestly, I rather admire this sort of rationale. It has a certain logic to it. "Things are crappy. I don't want to be here doing this job. So I'm making the best of it by busting my hump. Now, could you maybe make up your mind what you'd like for lunch so I can get busy preparing it for you? The motion takes my mind off how crappy things are." And even if you do take your time and make your server irritated, they have something new to complain about. Almost like bragging rights. Something to talk about over beers when the shift is over. Something to complain about other than higher taxes and the snow.

But actually, if you look past the attitude, you'll see lots of (vocal) people working really hard to help their fellow man. They might be loud about doing it, but they get it done. Secretly, I kind of admire the permission New England'ers have given each other to say what's on their mind. Growing up in the South I was always taught it was bad manners to speak your mind, complain, get passionately worked up or (God forbid) have an outburst. I dare you to drive from East Providence to Connecticut and not find someone having at least a dozen of all four.

The food's good though.

Where Tef grew up is predominantly Portuguese, Irish, Italian and French. I'm partial to the Portuguese because that's the heritage my husband is most strongly allied with; his great grandfather stepped off the boat at Ellis Island. To me, that is beyond cool. I'm not really sure where my family is from... My father's side is Welsh and Dutch, my mother's side supposedly Irish and German (and Cherokee, rumor has it). But we never inherited any sort of ethnic tradition. When people ask me where my family is from I give them the county in the state of my father's birth. That's about as close as I can get. I don't mind being Southern. It's nice. I have an excuse for my vegetable garden, my yard full of flowers and my predisposition to talk to perfect strangers. But... there's nothing for me to point to and say I'm allied with or proud of. The rebel flag? Hardly. NASCAR? Don't think so. I don't fry much chicken and I eat Indian food whenever I can... I don't really fit into the stereotype of the old South.

I'm much more "New England" in my work ethic and "speedy" expectations than "Southern". I will work to the point of utter exhaustion, unconscious of the strain I'm putting on myself, until the job is done and every muscle in my body is on fire. I like it. It makes me feel alive. I don't take things slowly and I don't drive the speed limit. I don't want to eat the same thing every day and I like being able to go to the store without somebody asking how my day is. The South could learn a thing or two from New England. Move faster, talk more quickly, waste less time.

But Tef actually knows his heritage. And practices it. A diluted heritage, to be sure -- immigrants come to America and use as much of their "new" country to create the "old" as they can. Dishes are modified to accommodate local ingredients; "old" traditions absorb influences of "new" environs. Still, there are Portuguese bakeries, restaurants, neighborhoods and churches. And touring them is endlessly fascinating. The bakeries especially; pastry counters a mile long with wares baked fresh every day; fresh bread; specialty custards; certain treats baked only on certain days of the week; salted cod; exotic ingredients; good olives and fresh sausage. Tef can take me to these places and show me new things. I however, have little to point to. I must admit I'm a bit jealous.

But not jealous enough to want to move there. Hour 12 of driving home made me long for rolling green hills and a Southern drawl. Space and room to breathe are always what I come back to. The city makes me crazy and tense. I do not see how anyone survives in it. One of the last nights we were in Rhode Island, we got together with some old friends of Tef's for dinner. He was picking on me about how concerned I always am at the amount of rainfall we get. I'm always worried about the corn. We all laughed as I explained my rationale. I then explained that when I was growing up, the closest grocery store was a 25-minute drive. Ours friends' eyes got big. "How did you ever handle that? I would hate that!" I shrugged. I just did. Everybody did. It was normal. Because what was in between were cornfields, wheat, soybeans and turkey farms; wide open spaces where you could make your own decisions on your own time without being rushed. There was usually no one waiting in line behind you, trying to make the 5:30 train.

I'm glad we went to New England. But I'm glad we're home.

Family Time

Please excuse Teflon and me as we take a little break from blogging for about a week. Family obligations demand that we care for Tef's aging mother who has Alzheimer's. She finally got a spot in a facility that specializes in Alzheimer's treatment and we must move her this weekend, as well as settle other family arrangements. One or two perks to this trip, where we're going is cooler and since we're going back to Tef's home town, the food will be FANTASTIC. *chuckle* So we got that goin' for us...

The thing about Alzheimer's facilities is that their patients can't know they're coming. They might get violent, abusive or... whatever, so this move will come as a complete surprise to Tef's mother; a woman who has lived the last fifty-plus years in her house. It's not pleasant for anybody, least of all her family, but getting her to a place where her meals will be provided, clothing washed and her decline understood will be much better for her than the uncertain quarters she now occupies.

As a wife, this process is quite a learning curve. I can only imagine what Tef must be feeling and thinking. And I'm trying to put myself in his shoes. Still for me, so disconnected from the roots and deep-seated associations with his home and family, I feel pretty much powerless to alleviate much of any pain or pressure. I've only met his mother once. She didn't come to our wedding. My plan is to keep my head down and just do what I'm told. And to listen to Tef if he needs my ear, hug him when he needs hugging and try to keep things calm and relaxed. My hero -- who has saved me so many times from loneliness, despair and hardship -- needs my help now... though he would never, ever admit it. I'm honored to help him, invincible as he seems.

So please keep us in your thoughts and prayers as we take on this next uncertain week. We'll be back soon.

Addition To The Blogroll

Been meaning to do it for months now, finally figured out how. (WHEW!) Welcome, Nightfly! You've been on the mental 'roll forever, now it's official.

Bloglossary: Gravy Boat

gravy boat n.

1. A way to interject your own experience into someone else's conversation while not seeming narcissistic or overbearing.
2. A way to mark your place in their conversation in order to come back to you and your relevant experience after they are done speaking.

Speaker A: "I've always dreamed of having my wedding on a boat."
Speaker B: "Ooh! GRAVY BOAT! I once sang at a wedding on a boat!"

Speaker A: [telling a long story about a thrilling cliff diving excursion]
Speaker B: "GRAVY BOAT! Remind me to tell you what happened to my best friend when she went cliff diving."

Welcome, Love!

This is the best news ever!

Bronwyn Therese was born at 7:32 this morning!
9 pounds, 2 ounces and 21.5 inches long.

I speechless with joy for Jennifer and Jim. After six miscarriages, they have the baby they've longed for. CONGRATULATIONS!!!!

Gardens Are Like People

The BFF got married on Saturday. A friend remarked that this wedding was like my second one, what with all the planning and running around I did. The ceremony/reception site was a home on the lake owned by some old friends of the bride's parents; primroses everywhere; a stoney water feature starting at the top of the yard in a great fountain and ending at the water's edge; stone pathways; a hammock; Adirondack chairs; a screened-in gazebo; dogs; a pier and floating dock: heaven.

When I was little, my parents had a boat and a camper on a freshwater coastal lake. We spent our summers there in a little camper community full of teachers and management workers who (were) friends with my parents (before my mom alienated everyone). Nothing calms me more than stepping onto a dock lolling with gentle waves. Water: I need to be near it, to hear it, to see it, to swim in it. I used to want to be a mermaid when I was a girl.

The ceremony and reception were outside in the garden and it was a planned potluck. Friends of the bride's family were selected and asked to make their specialty dishes. The main course was pit-cooked BBQ made by an old employee of mine. Underneath a large tent tables were draped with white lace tablecloths topped with fresh flowers from the farmer's market in ribbon-rimmed mason jars. The bride wore an antique lace strapless gown, the groom wore a navy spring suit and open-collared white shirt. They both cried. It was beautiful.My day? Let's seeeee... I

• did the bride's makeup
• brought my (damn good) potato salad
• made sure the train was running on time
• made sure everything was in place at each location
• came early already dressed and made-up
• assisted the photographer with all his shots, including formals
• directed the wedding
• directed the sound guy
• walked down and stood pretty, holding the bride's bouquet and giving her the ring at the appropriate time
• announced major events of the wedding on the PA
• ordered the music play lists on the iPod in advance
• sang for the bride and groom at their first dance
• announced the bouquet toss
• gave a toast (which made everybody cry and cheer)
• cut and served the cake to all 120 guests

Tired does not even begin to describe how I felt on the ride home. I could barely string two sentences together. But I still got up on Sunday and went to Mass.

And I won the Mother's Day bet Tef and I had going.

My mother and my sister run the family I was born into. My Mom chooses the restaurants we eat at as a family (even on other people's birthdays). She doesn't have to lift a finger at home because my Dad does everything. He makes breakfast for her in the morning; goes to work for 10-12 hours (he's the manager of a regional airport, by the way); makes dinner for her when he gets home; cleans it up and then goes out into the yard to finish whatever is on the "honey-do" list.

What does she do? She teaches school and then comes home at 3:45 and sits on her tookas and watches baseball while working the crossword puzzle and drinking beer. Oh, and complaining; about how nothing ever gets done around the house and how tired she is and how she never has any fun and is always bored.

She chooses where the family goes on vacation, where the family eats when they're on vacation, what the family listens to in the car on the way to and from (and during ) the vacation. She also determines what the family eats at major holidays (most of which is very bland and poorly prepared). She never has to leave a note when she goes anywhere, can come and go and spend money as she pleases and say anything she wants without repercussions. Because no one ever stands up to her. She can get mad for any reason without explanation. She can keep up the silent treatment for weeks with my father. Or she can just explode like a bomb and start slamming cabinet doors, throwing dishes and cursing loudly. Usually because she's having to do something she doesn't want to do (like dishes) and wants someone to come and tell her to "go calm down".

But I've never heard her apologize. EVER. Not for anything meaningful anyway. Her apologies are evasive and only spoken in general terms. She concedes only to acknowledge the other party's misinterpretation of her. And then she says she loves them. But she never accepts fault or promises to change anything. In short, she never -- ever -- admits she's wrong or that you might have any ground to stand on in your hurt and anger at anything she did. Your anger is irrelevant. You must just be on your period or mad at somebody else who has upset you and you're taking it out on her. You'll get over it.

And as long as I've been alive, she's never been challenged. My Dad can but he won't. He'd rather evade her than confront her. She's basically a giant toddler waiting to go off, so in order to keep the peace, he just lets her run all over him.

I could have become two very different people under my parents' tutelage. From my mother I could have learned the finer points of emotional blackmail, terrorism, and how to spin the flax of passive-aggressive double-meanings into manipulative gold. From my father I could have learned how to let people trample me underfoot while smiling sheepishly and never asking for my rights as a human being. I'm not glad to say I inherited the latter, but it was certainly the lesser of the two evils, and easier to overcome (in some ways) than the former.

My sister unfortunately, did not fare as well. She has turned into the same megalomaniacal matriarch, controlling and subduing her husband and two daughters. But I don't feel sorry for her. She knows what she's doing and she chooses to do it, just as I do.

Our family (Tef and I and our friends) do things differently. We are steady and reliable, punctual and respectful. We give and receive favors, love, support and freedom. We nourish each other and keep our identities intact. I stay at home and take care of our home. I prepare all the meals, clean all the messes and plant all the flowers. Tef's work outside the home makes that labor a joy. And my work inside the home makes his return to it a peace. Not everybody does things this way. But we don't ask everybody to (although we think it best); we respect their ways and leave it at that. All we ask is for a mutual respect.

For my mother and sister, this is impossible. They would not deign to admit our ways are good or acceptable. We don't do things the way they do things so we must be punished. I refuse to be punished for something I am doing right. So I've stood up for my rights. And I'm glad I have. I don't want my children to have to be subjected to the drama of my mother and sister's evils.
But God... it's been hard for me.

Meanwhile, Mother's Day -- the coup de grace of all holidays in the family I was born into -- was fast approaching. As it careened towards me, my anxiety began to build. I felt like a s***heel. As horrible as my mother and sister are, I still felt guilty for not acknowledging them. The old patterns have so strong a hold that even when I'm right I feel wrong. Which is why my mother and sister have been successful at their power plays for so long. Even with all the work I've done to counteract their invasion, I am still susceptible to their disease. I'm afraid I always will be, though I keep my distance and enforce strict boundaries around my heart and home.

Tef and I bet on how many contacts my Mom and sister would try to make before Mother's Day to guilt me into coming over. I won. So I took the proceeds and bought this and this. And then I went to a local nursery and spent the rest. I felt like a kid in a candy store. I veritably squealed.

I've been waiting to get plants for our yard for almost two years. Because the first tasks were to rip out all the ugliness and rebuild fallen structures to make them habitable. I had to make sure the ground was good and rich and able to support life before I trusted it enough to plant in it. That took time, labor and patience.

This year has been less about the heavy lifting and more about upkeep of my past work as well as the chance to plant some vegetables and choose carefully where I plant special shrubs and flowers. Pains have been taken to make sure the right areas are suitable for each bud and bloom and ground cover. Because I don't want them to die. I want them to thrive and grow and be the peace of my garden for years to come. I don't want all my hard work to be in vain.

For now, the jewel of the garden is the backyard, secluded away from neighbors and passersby. It's more quiet, more secret, more safe. It's the first thing I see when I wake up and the last before I retire. The garden is becoming a trusted friend. Maybe next year I'll be brave enough to go further.

Time Enough At Last

Well, not quite.

I've been absolutely swamped at work thanks to a recent promotion and consequent changes in responsibilities. Blogging was definitely not possible for the past few days, but fortunately I've got a little time this evening to catch up before the deluge begins in earnest again next week.

Thanks for your patience, MoltenThinkers, and do try to convince WordGirl to take up the keyboard more frequently over the next few weeks. Just so long as she doesn't ruin the man-o-roma around here with too much potpourri.

The Best Thing I Have Ever Seen In My Life

WordGirl and I were admiring her yardwork this weekend when we heard a furry-tailed, acorn-eating yard rat run across the roof at breakneck speed. I looked up to see Rocky the Non-Flying Squirrel jump from the roof to a tree, miss, and fall about 25 feet to the ground.

Just as I reached the area where the rodent fell, a red-tailed hawk swooped down, grabbed it in its claws, and flew off.

I'm an Air Force guy. I cheered for the hawk.