Le Parapluie de Austin, Texas

Rain is all well and good when you can stay home snuggling with your sweetie, watching old French movies and maybe breaking out the fondue pot because you're both in the mood for something Gallic, and you've got nothing left in your house but a chunk of gruyere, some bread that's on the verge of crouton-dom and a few not-quite-dead apples. Rain isn't even so bad when you're single and you can stay home, reading books in bed and napping on and off until you decide to wake up and accomplish some mundane task that's needed doing. But when you're stuck at work, and the paperwork is high as an elephant's eye and the only joy you have during your normal day --driving around during lunch with the top down-- is cruelly ripped away from you because it's been raining Noah-style for the past three weeks, well then rain is NOT okay.

It must be stopped.

Friday Five: Holy Week, Batman!

1. Will this Sunday be Palms only, Passion only, or hyphenated?
According to my pocket liturgical calendar (without which I simply could not survive because I am a dork like that) it's The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday. I like it because it acknowledges the Palm Sunday tradition that we know and love, but pulls the focus to where it truly belongs.

2. Maundy Thursday Footwashing: Discuss.
Oh honey no, I'm Episcopalian, we don't do pastoral pedi's. Not that I would mind washing someone else's feet, but unless your last name is Nguyen or Kim and I'm paying you good money, you're not laying a finger on my toes.

3. Share a particularly meaningful Good Friday worship experience.
Last year was especially moving as it was a sort of passion play --the first one I've attended. I have a difficult time going to Good Friday services because I'm so emotionally worn down by Maundy Thursday, which I can never escape without bawling my eyes out.

4. Easter Sunrise Services--choose one:
a) "Resurrection tradition par excellence!"
b) "Eh. As long as it's sunrise with coffee, I can live with it."
c) "[Yawn] Can't Jesus stay in the tomb just five more minutes, Mom?!?"

I used to do sunrise service as a youth group leader in college and I suppose that when I'm ordained, if it's REALLY important to some folks, I'll haul myself out of bed and do it for them. Personally I don't get anything from the whole thing and it makes me feel like I should be sitting in the back, chain smoking gauloises and drinking Bloody Mary's out of a thermos.

5. Complete this sentence: It just isn't Easter without...
A hat…and gloves. And Jesus too, I suppose, but while Jesus is with me all year long, I can only get away with white gloves a few times a year.

Easter Card from a Hooker

First of all, did anyone get the Tom Waits joke? I have problems judging my audience in this blog. Y'all like Tom Waits, right? If not, more for me. I'm sure he'd be an excellent clergy spouse. Rroowr. ANYWAY.

Once or twice a year I toss around with the idea of wearing nail polish on my fingers. I rarely wear the stuff because my fingernails are nice and strong, plus I'm a fundamentally cheap and clumsy person, so I hate the idea of paying 15 dollars for a manicure that will last anywhere between one and three hours before it begins to chip.

A few nights ago Walgreens offered two-for-one Rimmel products, so I bought two nailcolors, one was a light lavender, which despite being named Orgasm was interesting but demnure, and the other --Pillar Box-- was a bright red. I figured I'd use this on my toes for when I'm feeling, if you'll pardon the pun-- kicky, yet in a fit of pique I lacquered some on my fingernails this afternoon. Bad idea.

Sadly Pillar Box, which I foolishly thought would be pillar box-colored, was in reality a sort of hot fuchsia pink of the variety you'd most often find on hookers from the fine state of New Jersey.

This in itself wouldn't be so bad, but I am out of nail polish remover (used it to clean my toaster or something) and have to teach my Extended Discovery class at the church in two hours.

Off for an emergency mani!

It's all over now, baby blue

Sometimes, friendships have to end.
Tonight one ended for me.

It was strange. We had been best friends, boon companions, for five (or something) years although I can say I checked out of the relationship months ago. We just grew apart (there's a cliche for you). I came to the point where I needed a grown-up friend, and she needed someone who appreciated her and loved her as she is. We weren't getting that from each other. In fact I suspect we stayed together out of nostalgia.

My wish for her, one I hoped I could have seen come true while we were friends, was for her to find self-esteem. Now I think she's found some. Hopefully she'll be able to use it to find a person who can love her and accept her the way we both wished I could have. So she has her freedom.

And what do I have?

The knowledge that I gave a frightened girl who deserved something better than me the permission to go out and finally get it. Keeping someone in a cage, even if it's a pretty one they made themselves, is wrong.

And boy can it suck, being right.

Love is in the Air

Spring has sprung and I am in love. Yes, little bluebirds are flitting around my head and I'm floating in a daze of happy delirium because my otherwise glamorous life is finally complete and now all I want to do is spend the day making out with my new gorgeous hulking beast of a boyfriend. And by "making out" naturally I mean "throwing things into" and by "gorgeous hulking etc. new boyfriend" I mean "brand new 45 gallon trash can complete with wheels(!!!)"

You all feel really sad for me right now, don't you?

Vacation All I Ever Wanted

So plans for my very exciting First! Trip! Abroad! are coming together nicely. I'll be in Canterbury in April, which according to Chaucer is just the time to do the pilgrimage thing. After three days staying on the Cathedral grounds --and hopefully running into my future BFF, Captain Alphabet (The Archbishop of Canterbury)-- I'll make my way to Lindisfarne, aka Holy Island (pictured), one of the most mystical places on earth, to spend five days on the little tidal island in quiet meditation and prayer. Then it's arrive in London and head immediately to Canterbury Cathedral where hopefully I'll spend two days on the cathedral grounds soaking up all manner of martyr-y goodness, then it's off to Wales to visit St David's Cathedral in Pembrokeshire to visit the cathedral my parish is named for.

Very excited. Woo!

A little preemptive, but...

Thoughts on a Friday: Career Change

You know, if the whole ordained ministry thing doesn't work out, I think I'd be a good Feudal Lord, or maybe some manner of Robber Baron. I bet my serfs would like me. I'm merciful and good at accounting.

Okay, off to Evening prayer. Not sure if I'm the officiant or the lector. Guess we'll find out soon enough.

RIP Cujo Poindexter

Cujo Poindexter, my spite-filled adding machine, died today. He went to his death doing what he loved most in life: screwing with me and trying to take my fingers off at the knuckle. Prior to his demise he had been involved in a long-term relationship with Stacy from Accounts Payable. The two separated last year. Funeral arrangements will be held in the black trashbin by my desk. The family asks you send toner in leiu of flowers.

Lovely Pram

Do y'all know the concept of "lovely pram?" It's something along the lines of damning with faint praise. If, for example, a woman friend of yours is wheeling her hideous, suet-faced new baby directly at you, waiting for you to ooh and ahh over the adorableness of said uggo. Now, y'all know that not all babies are pretty babies. I was not a pretty baby, nor was my brother. I looked like a cone head, he looked like Ross Perot.

You've got to say something though, so instead of complimenting the baby, you remark --quite honestly-- about what a nice stroller she has. That's the proverbial lovely pram.

Anyway my grandmother, who is well known to have a soul made of eels and black stuff, just saw the Cadillac today, which was sitting happily in the parking lot with the top down.
"Must be nice when it rains" she said,
"It's got a top, Grandmama" I said
"Holey, I suspect" she replied.

It wasn't and I told her so. We chatted a little bit, I'm not sure what my grandfather told her, but I'm sure it wasn't the total truth. Finally she lowered her old-lady sunglasses, --you know, those giant creatures that fit over a pair of regular specs-- peered at the card with those clear blue eyes that haven't known joy or tenderness since Ike was in office, sniffed and said:

"Well, it's certainly a long car, isn't it?

It's like driving the state of Connecticut

Ask me how glad I am to have Stella, my 1972 Cadillac Eldorado convertible back from the hotrod shop? Go ahead, ask. I'll tell you. I am SO GLAD. Like, Britney after she dumped K.Fed but before she did every other single stupid thing she's done in the past several months (not that I would know because I don't really follow that stuff, but I DO notice when someone doesn't have any hair. Can't slip that one by me, Brit!) glad. I could just spit with glee. I won't, because I'm a lady, but I COULD.

Anyway, I bought my gorgeous, sexy, make-out-with-tongues-able caddy a month or so ago, but because the stray family member might accidentally stumble upon this humble blog, I didn't say anything because I had not yet told my grandparents who --out of the loving kindess of their hearts-- have blessed me with a series of Volvo station wagons.

Well, now I've told Dada and his main concern is that we never tell my grandmother. Typically I would balk at this, but you know what? They've been married 60 years. Whatever they're doing works for them. Anyway, I can talk about Stella now, and so I shall!

Look at her. I defy you to describe this car and not use the phrase "land yacht"



Also? And this is a little joke for the Anglicans in the audience. It's our most common liturgical color! Let's hear it for Ordinary Time Green!

A Glitter and Glue Friday Five!

1. Would you call yourself "creative"? Why or why not?
Creative, slightly touched in the head…potato potahto. I actually had a bit of a cottage industry going on with custom handbags made from vintage posters. javascript:void(0)
PublishThey were gorgeous and incredible, but prohibitively time and money-consuming to produce. To even recoup my expenses, these little boutiques wanted to sell them for $300 to $500. I didn't want that because that meant people like me --who can't afford to drop several hundred bucks on frivolous a handbag, no matter how gorgeous-- couldn't own them.

2. Share a creative or artistic pursuit you currently do that you'd like to develop further.
Ha! hahaaahahahaaha! Oh, my sides, they hurt from the laughing. Unless trying to figure out the exact right way to configure my body so that the four and a half hours of sleep I get a night are not interrupted by painfully enthusiastic nibbles from my beloved puppy, Saint Thomas Bulldog counts as a creative pursuit. Incidentally, I no longer have the chance to do anything creative because --to quote Alice's Humpty Dumpty "here's glory for you"-- I'm spending all of my previously-free time earning a degree in…Creative Writing and Rhetoric!

3. Share a creative or artistic pursuit you have never done but would like to try.
There aren't many that I've wanted to pursue but haven't tried, although just off the top of my head I wouldn't mind giving a go at stained glass. Or something with wood. I like the idea of working with wood, it's very satisfying, taking something rough and through time and patience and many small movements it becomes polished and reveals its inner beauty, there's something poignant about that (plus a nice Biblical tradition, even though I'm pretty sure they're like, three trees in the whole of Galilee).


4. Complete this sentence: "I am in awe of people who can _____________."
Pee standing up. Okay, no seriously (although still, that's a neat trick) people who can make lace --which for the record I have no desire to do-- or people who can sew well (Hello lovely seamstresses! You're pretty! Will you make me a cassock for no money? I love you!). Knitting doesn't impress me because, seriously, I live in Texas, how many scarves do I need?

5. Share about a person who has encouraged your creativity, who has "called you to your best self."
Um, no one? It's not like I've been actively discouraged or anything, but I've always been such a kook that I didn't really need encouragement. Heck, I probably should have been taped to the walls. I have, on the other hand, received a lot of pressure to use my creativity "You know you're a genius" says my grandfather who is only now beginning to accept that I want to be a priest, not a famous author "what you need to do is just write a book and sell it"

Oh! Is that all!

Update finally

I have a feeling that I'm going through one of those stupid growth periods where I get my butt handed to me on a daily basis just to keep me humble. I'm calling it a growth period because I'm an optimist and something good has to come out of this, because butt-handing for butt-handing's sake is a bit more than my delicate psyche can handle right now. I'm a fragile flower y'all.


School is taking its toll; I get very little sleep, twenty hours during the week maybe? All I know is now when I frown, my forehead wrinkles and when I unfrown, the wrinkles stay. Need to drink more water. Also need to drink more beer, but not as a form of wrinkle defense, it just sounds good right now.

Also, here's one for the books. I think I dislike someone...one of my professors, actually. From his nostril-singeing "sex panther" cologne to his self-impressed masturbatory post post-modern writing, this yahoo does the pachanga on each and every one of my nerves. He's a blowdried Fitzgerald, to my (less talented) Hemingway. Also, I suspect he pees sitting down.

On the work front, all is not quiet, in fact I have a feeling that red poppies may soon be growing over my workblog. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I haven't enjoyed the workblog in about a year for various reasons which discretion (what? I have discretion!) prevents me from relating, but I'd hate for it to go out like this.

Church life is in the doldrums and I feel that I am just muddling through. That's fine. I don't mind muddling. We Anglicans come from a great tradition of muddling (and I don't just mean the limes in our gin and tonics), but I've found myself getting a bit irritated with people whose schedules are freer than mine, not doing what they said they would. Welcome to the party, I suppose.

On the bright side:

My gorgeous '72 Caddy --after two weeks at the hotrod spa-- should be fit as a fiddle and ready for love next weekend. Yes, it's to the tune of $750, but for new brakes and a cleaned-out gas tank, I can't complain.

My Lenten discipline of doing one truly generous thing a day is going well, and I feel my soul embiggened all the time.

I am getting a 90 minute massage on Saturday and after that I plan on taking a nap and cleaning my apartment.

I'm back here again!