They are back. The G-D grackles. I know there are millions of bird lovers who will cringe at my saying this, but I would gladly go out with a shotgun and blast them all away. And I've always called myself a pacifist.
It's just every year around this time they nest in my trees. When the pug and I go outside, we're followed and dive bombed by angry grackles warning us away. The first dead body of a baby who didn't make it is now lying in the front yard. There will be dozens more to follow. The worse are the ones who fall and live, hopping about the yard. Unknowing they are there, I will walk out only to find birds swarming and screaming. Alfred Hitchcock didn't exaggerate so much.
I went out with friends last night and drank at a smoky beer joint. I got home, threw the clothes in the hamper and showered before getting in bed. Still this morning I woke up with a hangover the size of Texas and my smelled like a big ash tray. I've been moving slow all day feeling like crap. Truth is I'm not as young as I use to be and the late nights drinking take me twice as long to recover.
I go to Austin tomorrow. I've a presentation on Monday morning. I should be reading over my notes and preparing as we speak. Problem is I have absolutely no desire. No use starting now when I can put it off for one more day.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Thursday, April 21, 2005
A Rose by Any Other Name
I had the rare privilege to be home on Tuesday when they announced the new pope. But wait! It gets better, my parents, staunch devote Catholics were with me at the time. What are the chances?
I came in and checked e-mail and saw the alert from CNN - white smoke billowed from the Vatican. I hollered at my father and ran to the front, “Turn on the TV, they elected the pope!” As he fumbled with the remote, I grabbed and started pressing switches muttering, “It’s got to be the German.” As I turned to ABC watching them set up the papal balcony my father asked why did I think it was the German.
“He’s the only one they could have possibly agreed on so quickly.” My father nodded his head in agreement, a stunned look on his face. I went on to state how much I hoped they would choose a cardinal from Latin America. My father agreed the German would not be so worldly popular, but it was clear he couldn’t believe he was having the discussion with me. It’s not really been a secret my separation from the church. Yet here I was having a discussion on the current politics. I don’t think he expected me to care.
My mother wandered in as the Cardinal came out to announce Pope Benedict XVI. My father and I looked incredulously, wondering how this was all going to work out. My mother clasped her hands and vowed, “He was chosen by God.” My father and I began commenting on the information from the news.
“Sooner or later they will have to leave the continent.” My father mused. I agreed saying the choice of Latin America would have been so beneficial and progressive. My mother grew agitated. She does not believe in ANYONE questioning the church. “He is the chosen one!” She insisted.
I looked her in the eye and stated “Well I’m glad you can be so certain.” I knew it was combative and not smart, but even at 43 I’m known to act like a child and speak my mind. “Mom, there have been horrible popes who’ve only brought about good because people had to fight to change.” My mother doesn’t like to think or even know about such things. The commentators said choosing his name was perhaps his way of saying he wanted to bring peace since the last Benedict ruled in violent times and he fought for peace.
Ok, isn’t Ratzinger’s rhetoric to stand fast and NOT change? To hold to the old Catholicism? Wasn’t he known as “Cardinal No?”
You know they sell old Houston police cars and the new owners have to remove the markings and all signs of the HPD, but truth is when I see one coming, I know it’s a former cop car.
Pope Benedict XIV stood for the first time and greeted the world. “...the cardinals have elected me, a simple, humble worker in God’s vineyard.”
I don’t mean to be cynical, but my first thought was I’d like to see your face if we’d sell all the antiques and art in your papal wing and feed like two or three developing countries for a year while you live like a simple, humble worker.
He referenced Mary, the mother of God in his first statement and I thought that was appropriate. I felt it was his way of saying, “See, women are important in our church.” Don’t get me wrong, I think Mary was vital and important. Heck she was the only part of that stupid Mel Gibson movie I could appreciate. But the truth is, Mary never had sex, gave birth to the son of God, was subservient and never questioned or caused any flack. That my friends, is the ONLY role the current Catholic administration feels is appropriate for women.
The next morning the pope admitted he had feelings of ‘inadequacy and inner disquiet” and was concerned he was not up to the task. Ok, I go to church like 3 times a year. I merely glance through the religious news in the newspapers. Even I knew the guy had been campaigning for the job for years. Kind of late to pretend you’re not up to it, isn’t it?
Everyone keeps saying, don’t worry, the guy is 78 years old, he can’t be around for too long to do too much damage. Sorry, but I’ve got a neighbor and friend who is 93 years old, can read the newspaper headlines a car length away, can hear a whisper across the room and walks without a cane or aid.
Then there are those people who say give him a chance, sometimes it’s not the man who makes the job, but the job who makes the man. I hope they are right.
Maybe it’s my new vision. I’m seeing an amazing 20/20 these days without glasses or contacts. But I think I know what I see and somehow I feel like I’m parked at the light with that old sky blue cop car idling next to me.
I came in and checked e-mail and saw the alert from CNN - white smoke billowed from the Vatican. I hollered at my father and ran to the front, “Turn on the TV, they elected the pope!” As he fumbled with the remote, I grabbed and started pressing switches muttering, “It’s got to be the German.” As I turned to ABC watching them set up the papal balcony my father asked why did I think it was the German.
“He’s the only one they could have possibly agreed on so quickly.” My father nodded his head in agreement, a stunned look on his face. I went on to state how much I hoped they would choose a cardinal from Latin America. My father agreed the German would not be so worldly popular, but it was clear he couldn’t believe he was having the discussion with me. It’s not really been a secret my separation from the church. Yet here I was having a discussion on the current politics. I don’t think he expected me to care.
My mother wandered in as the Cardinal came out to announce Pope Benedict XVI. My father and I looked incredulously, wondering how this was all going to work out. My mother clasped her hands and vowed, “He was chosen by God.” My father and I began commenting on the information from the news.
“Sooner or later they will have to leave the continent.” My father mused. I agreed saying the choice of Latin America would have been so beneficial and progressive. My mother grew agitated. She does not believe in ANYONE questioning the church. “He is the chosen one!” She insisted.
I looked her in the eye and stated “Well I’m glad you can be so certain.” I knew it was combative and not smart, but even at 43 I’m known to act like a child and speak my mind. “Mom, there have been horrible popes who’ve only brought about good because people had to fight to change.” My mother doesn’t like to think or even know about such things. The commentators said choosing his name was perhaps his way of saying he wanted to bring peace since the last Benedict ruled in violent times and he fought for peace.
Ok, isn’t Ratzinger’s rhetoric to stand fast and NOT change? To hold to the old Catholicism? Wasn’t he known as “Cardinal No?”
You know they sell old Houston police cars and the new owners have to remove the markings and all signs of the HPD, but truth is when I see one coming, I know it’s a former cop car.
Pope Benedict XIV stood for the first time and greeted the world. “...the cardinals have elected me, a simple, humble worker in God’s vineyard.”
I don’t mean to be cynical, but my first thought was I’d like to see your face if we’d sell all the antiques and art in your papal wing and feed like two or three developing countries for a year while you live like a simple, humble worker.
He referenced Mary, the mother of God in his first statement and I thought that was appropriate. I felt it was his way of saying, “See, women are important in our church.” Don’t get me wrong, I think Mary was vital and important. Heck she was the only part of that stupid Mel Gibson movie I could appreciate. But the truth is, Mary never had sex, gave birth to the son of God, was subservient and never questioned or caused any flack. That my friends, is the ONLY role the current Catholic administration feels is appropriate for women.
The next morning the pope admitted he had feelings of ‘inadequacy and inner disquiet” and was concerned he was not up to the task. Ok, I go to church like 3 times a year. I merely glance through the religious news in the newspapers. Even I knew the guy had been campaigning for the job for years. Kind of late to pretend you’re not up to it, isn’t it?
Everyone keeps saying, don’t worry, the guy is 78 years old, he can’t be around for too long to do too much damage. Sorry, but I’ve got a neighbor and friend who is 93 years old, can read the newspaper headlines a car length away, can hear a whisper across the room and walks without a cane or aid.
Then there are those people who say give him a chance, sometimes it’s not the man who makes the job, but the job who makes the man. I hope they are right.
Maybe it’s my new vision. I’m seeing an amazing 20/20 these days without glasses or contacts. But I think I know what I see and somehow I feel like I’m parked at the light with that old sky blue cop car idling next to me.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Great Expectations
Today is a big day for me. Huge, actually. Today I'm going get my new eyes! I'm having Lasik surgery this afternoon. It's completely bizarre. They assure me I'll be out of glasses and contacts by tonight. How is that possible? I am blind with my glasses, how can I see without them? I'm a bit nervous, but more than anything, I'm excited. I know I'll cry. If it works like they say, who knows, tomorrow I'll have a whole new life?
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Ain't Nobody Here But Us Chickens...
In September of 1997 I made my first trip to Europe. I made an 8 day pilgrimage to France and Rome with my parents. When the pilgrimage ended, my parents and I parted ways in Paris. They went on to visit my brother in Norway, and I went to visit a friend in Lyon, France. It was cheaper then buying another plane ticket to Norway. Plus, I longed for a bit of adventure alone on my first trip to Europe.
From the moment I left them at the airport, adventure found me. But those are stories for another time. Tonight the story is of how I fell in love with the rooster.
One Sunday during my visit, my friend, Daniel took me to lunch in a small country inn nestled among the vineyards of Bordeaux. Daniel and his friend Michel picked me up in a small car the size of bathroom stall. We drove on to pick up another friend he promised I would love. Jean Rene sauntered up to the car with beautiful gray hair, chic sun glasses and flowing roomy linen pants and tunic. Of course my memory may be tinged with drama, but I think he did something to the effect of bowing, kissing my hand and vowing "Enchanté." Within minutes we were speaking of classic movies and books. Our friendship was immediate.
The sky was blue as we drove through the vineyards. The colors were vivid, the air perfumed and life was as carefree as a Doris Day/Rock Hudson movie. I was in love with France and sad have to say goodbye to Europe. We drove up to a small, quiet restaurant called "Le Coq Au Vin." The innkeeper led us to a small rustic table. The walls were truly distressed with years of paint. The pictures on the walls were mostly of roosters and chickens. There were statues of roosters and chickens everywhere. In 1997, this was not something I'd seen much. I fell in love and vowed I would one day have a large ceramic, colored rooster in my kitchen.
Alas, when I returned I realized the rooster would have to wait. My kitchen was the size of that car with perhaps one extra backseat. I only had a small counter top and the coffee pot took precedence.
In November of 2002, nearly 5 years to the day I moved into a larger apartment with a nice size kitchen. I set about decorating my new home in the French/Tuscan style and began shopping Ebay for my rooster. Before I finally found my ceramic masterpiece a group of friends and I traveled to Cuero, Texas for a ranch house weekend. We stopped in some small antique store and I discovered an aluminum chicken, beautifully painted and a wonderful piece of Americana. I simply had to have her and immediately named her Henny Penny.
Henny was home only a week or so when she was finally joined by my rooster. He wasn't as large or as French as I wanted, but the price was right and he looked good atop my refrigerator.
And that, my friends is when everything went out of control. The rooster and chicken were suddenly THE hot decorating item. Everywhere I went, there were chicken and rooster items. Now I'll admit, I gravitated towards them. And sure, I truly adored a great deal of them. But I started gettting poultry decorating chatkes. My kitchen became a damn hen house. Everywhere you look - there are chickens and roosters.
I love gifts. I love gifts people specifically pick out with me in mind. I love that people think of me. But folks, this is out of hand. Two months ago I made the announcement, my home is no longer accepting feathered lodgers. No more chickens, hens, roosters, you name it - if it clucks, it's not allowed in the house.
A group of my friends teased me about my edict at dinner one night as we welcomed another French friend who was visiting Houston. Imagine my deep distress when days later he gave me a number of hostess gifts from France. A statue of a rooster, an apron with needlepoint chickens, and two candy tins with rooster logos. Oops!
Tonight a friend called me to tell me he was just going to drop by and give me something. I stood out in the yard watering the plants as I awaited his arrival. He proudly walked up to me and at first all I could see was the most godawful arrangement of plastic flowers. Then I looked closer, there was actually a small gathering of beautiful feathers nestled amongst the plastic hell. All were wedged in a tin old time lunchbox decorated with, you guessed it, roosters. Are you kidding me?!
Long story short, it was a sort of gag gift to him, but he knew I could do something with the feathers and box. Sigh....
Did I do something wrong? Did I simply entice people with my "No Chicken/Rooster" edict? Or is it because it's the year of the Rooster? These are the questions I ponder as I ready to bed down in the old hen house.
From the moment I left them at the airport, adventure found me. But those are stories for another time. Tonight the story is of how I fell in love with the rooster.
One Sunday during my visit, my friend, Daniel took me to lunch in a small country inn nestled among the vineyards of Bordeaux. Daniel and his friend Michel picked me up in a small car the size of bathroom stall. We drove on to pick up another friend he promised I would love. Jean Rene sauntered up to the car with beautiful gray hair, chic sun glasses and flowing roomy linen pants and tunic. Of course my memory may be tinged with drama, but I think he did something to the effect of bowing, kissing my hand and vowing "Enchanté." Within minutes we were speaking of classic movies and books. Our friendship was immediate.
The sky was blue as we drove through the vineyards. The colors were vivid, the air perfumed and life was as carefree as a Doris Day/Rock Hudson movie. I was in love with France and sad have to say goodbye to Europe. We drove up to a small, quiet restaurant called "Le Coq Au Vin." The innkeeper led us to a small rustic table. The walls were truly distressed with years of paint. The pictures on the walls were mostly of roosters and chickens. There were statues of roosters and chickens everywhere. In 1997, this was not something I'd seen much. I fell in love and vowed I would one day have a large ceramic, colored rooster in my kitchen.
Alas, when I returned I realized the rooster would have to wait. My kitchen was the size of that car with perhaps one extra backseat. I only had a small counter top and the coffee pot took precedence.
In November of 2002, nearly 5 years to the day I moved into a larger apartment with a nice size kitchen. I set about decorating my new home in the French/Tuscan style and began shopping Ebay for my rooster. Before I finally found my ceramic masterpiece a group of friends and I traveled to Cuero, Texas for a ranch house weekend. We stopped in some small antique store and I discovered an aluminum chicken, beautifully painted and a wonderful piece of Americana. I simply had to have her and immediately named her Henny Penny.
Henny was home only a week or so when she was finally joined by my rooster. He wasn't as large or as French as I wanted, but the price was right and he looked good atop my refrigerator.
And that, my friends is when everything went out of control. The rooster and chicken were suddenly THE hot decorating item. Everywhere I went, there were chicken and rooster items. Now I'll admit, I gravitated towards them. And sure, I truly adored a great deal of them. But I started gettting poultry decorating chatkes. My kitchen became a damn hen house. Everywhere you look - there are chickens and roosters.
I love gifts. I love gifts people specifically pick out with me in mind. I love that people think of me. But folks, this is out of hand. Two months ago I made the announcement, my home is no longer accepting feathered lodgers. No more chickens, hens, roosters, you name it - if it clucks, it's not allowed in the house.
A group of my friends teased me about my edict at dinner one night as we welcomed another French friend who was visiting Houston. Imagine my deep distress when days later he gave me a number of hostess gifts from France. A statue of a rooster, an apron with needlepoint chickens, and two candy tins with rooster logos. Oops!
Tonight a friend called me to tell me he was just going to drop by and give me something. I stood out in the yard watering the plants as I awaited his arrival. He proudly walked up to me and at first all I could see was the most godawful arrangement of plastic flowers. Then I looked closer, there was actually a small gathering of beautiful feathers nestled amongst the plastic hell. All were wedged in a tin old time lunchbox decorated with, you guessed it, roosters. Are you kidding me?!
Long story short, it was a sort of gag gift to him, but he knew I could do something with the feathers and box. Sigh....
Did I do something wrong? Did I simply entice people with my "No Chicken/Rooster" edict? Or is it because it's the year of the Rooster? These are the questions I ponder as I ready to bed down in the old hen house.
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