As it goes....

It's Been Awhile

2010-11-25T11:38:00.003-06:00

After a week of reflection, spurred perhaps by a Lyle Lovett concert (oddly enough), I thought I'd share a few thoughts on this Thanksgiving day.

I attended a friend's memorial service last week. The theme was celebration of a life well lived, albeit too short. The room was packed with people whom loved my friend and remembered all of the kindness he bestowed upon others throughout his life. On the drive back to New Orleans, I was thankful for having known Paul and inspired to emulate his acts of generosity.

I'm thankful, too, about my new job. After nearly three years of serving others as a public defender, I was given an opportunity to extend that service to society's greatest outcasts -individuals condemned to death by their peers. This space will never be a place where I share information about my clients, but I am thankful for the rich experiences that lie ahead, with both my clients and my colleagues. And I must mention, I bring my dog to work everyday!

I am thankful for my health; after four years of constantly taking medication for kidney disease, I learned recently that it is no longer necessary. Living a healthy life has its benefits.

Lastly, I am thankful for my friends - the many lovely people with whom I share life's ups and downs. I feel fortunate to have learned so much from them.

This journey of mine has taken many unexpected turns. I am grateful for each one.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Flower Child

2009-02-18T06:17:00.003-06:00

I may not be a hippie but it's all about peace and love my friends. In the next few days --- after my trial --- I plan to either change the URL of my current blog or simply start a new one elsewhere. If you are a friend of mine on Facebook the new website will be linked to from there. If you aren't, I've adjusted my Blogger profile to include my email address. For the few folks who regularly check my blog but aren't "friends" of mine, please shoot me an email and I'll gladly send you the new link.

This part of the journey has been fun; it's simply time to start anew.

The Rest of the Story

2009-02-17T21:49:00.005-06:00

Yes I was at a bar, Delechaise to be precise. The rest of the sign said order at the bar. Boo to that! However, their delicious pomme frites are worth the extra effort and lack of table-side service.

The Best Valentine?

2009-02-14T16:11:00.005-06:00

I have plans with great friends tonight and received one of the sweetest Valentine's calls ever this morning. But perhaps the greatest gift is the one I gave to myself this week. As my therapist put it: "Managing my finances is the last great bastion of unconquered territory." So, after paying off the balances on my credit cards and figuring a financial plan that will allow me to not only budget, but also save each month, I decided to cut up the cards with a little creativity.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone. Mine will be celebrated on a budget, but with lots of love nonetheless. That's the point anyway right?

The Crazies

2009-02-11T05:47:00.004-06:00

Forgive me readers - things have been crazy with work the last two weeks. My first jury trial is set for tomorrow and will likely occur. You can, therefore, expect a few words from me over the weekend. Until then, I will continue to have mornings where I rise at 4 a.m. and survive on minimal sleep.

Wish me well.

50 Something Questions

2009-02-07T22:16:00.012-06:00

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
No one. Even though my father's only sister is named Patricia he swears to this day my name, Trisha, had nothing to do with hers.

My own chosen Hebrew name, however, is Bina Liat. Bina was picked to honor a very special person in my life.

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
Thursday as I tried to express my conflicting feelings about individuals in my life who I hope with all my heart, but doubt, will find peace.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
Sometimes; it's very reminiscent of my mother's, which has proved beneficial in certain circumstances.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
Smoked ham. But sandwiches have become less palatable to me lately. I'll buy a loaf of rye only to throw it away 2 weeks later.

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
No. Not unless you count my animals: Jackson, Jinx, Jacques, and Jezebel. I hope to have them someday though.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON, WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
I think so. Most people who haven't like me, and there are not many, simply misunderstood my character. Though in my earlier years I was less diplomatic.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM?
Yes. I don't always catch when folks are employing the technique in return, but that's half the fun.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
Yep. I had an appointment to have my tonsils removed, but my mother chickened out at the last minute.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
Absolutely.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
I love Cinnamon Toast Crunch, but have settled on Cheerios more often lately.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
Depends on the shoe. If they are old, sometimes I don't bother. Running shoes, I always untie.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Toss up: cookies and cream and mint chocolate chip. A double scoop makes me particularly happy.

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Probably teeth; my father was a dentist. Eyes run a close second.

15. RED OR PINK?
Red. Pink has never been a favorite of mine.

16. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
I second-guess decisions made through sound reasoning too much.

17. WHOM DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
My grandmother who died in 2000.

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO COMPLETE THIS LIST?
Nah. Only folks who aren't afraid of revealing and true insight. No squeezing water out of a turnip.

19. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU LAUGHED?
When I walked into the office on Friday and found a co-worker sipping on a Heineken at 2 p.m., surrounded by, among other folks, our boss.

20. FAVORITE MEMORY.
Opting to fly to Paris on a Wednesday night and departing Friday morning. Also, getting kicked out of our room in Paris because the innkeeper thought my friend and I were hookers; we allowed two gay guys sleep over after they missed the last Metro out of the city.

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
My dog's breath as he is contently sleeping in his crate.

22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
Blue. It's my favorite, and it would allow me to be both the sky and the ocean.

23. FAVORITE SMELLS?
Garlic simmering in olive oil on a gas stove. Lavender candles and oils. Confederate jasmine and angel trumpet's in full-bloom.

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
Sara Mayeux.

25. HOW DO YOU KNOW THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?
No one truly sent it to me. I read Aaron's posting on Facebook and was inspired. He and I met at a Hanukkah party last year on December 24th.

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
College softball, basketball, and football.

27. HAIR COLOR?
Brown, though I was a blonde the majority of my life.

28. EYE COLOR?
Blue

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
Yes. Wearing glasses makes me feel like I'm in an aquarium.

30. FAVORITE FOODS?
French Continental, Indian, and I've been stuck on tapas lately.

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
Happy endings but not the normal chick flicks. I don't do well with suspense or scary movies, but I hate goofy films.

32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
The Wrestler.

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Red long sleeved tee and it's comfy.

34. SUMMER OR WINTER?
Summer.

35. HUGS OR KISSES?
Hugs over kisses unless the kisses are passionate.

37. DESCRIBE YOUR PENCIL CUP.
It's blue and velvety.

38. FAVORITE ARTIST(s)?
Painting-Van Gogh (the torment of his mental state fascinates me too); sculpture-Diana Doherty; music-Nina Simone.

39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
The Miracle of Mindfulness.

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
No mouse; I use touchpad.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?
I don't own a TV.

42. FAVORITE SOUND(S).
Rain on a tin roof; the purr of a kitten; and to follow Aaron, someone's breath in my ear is nice --- though I'm partial to my right one.

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Beatles.

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
Germany.

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
Many.

46 WHERE WERE U BORN?
Opelousas, Louisiana.

47. FAVORITE PIECE OF JEWELRY?
A nice necklace or the ring I recently lost which had love spelled in Hebrew, Arabic, and English. It also spun around which was a lot of fun in stressful situations.

48. HOW DID YOU MEET YOUR SPOUSE/SIGNIFICANT OTHER?
Not relevant right now.

49. If you were one of the dwarves, which one would you be?
Sneezy.

50. What superhero do you think you are most like?
Wonder Woman. At least that's what this quiz thought.

51. Cheese Puffs or Cheese Curls?
Cheese Puffs.

52. Sweet Tea Or UnSweetened Tea?
Not a huge tea fan, but I'll go for flavored unsweetened if pushed.

53. Wackiest Reccurring Dream?
A gorilla chased me on a motorcycle on the beach after he found me hiding under my bed in a jail cell.

The Clicker

2009-02-03T22:24:00.003-06:00

Since I'm having trouble posting the new count-down on my sidebar, this will have to do for now.

Get this widget!

The Results

2009-02-01T11:02:00.004-06:00

I may write more later, but I'm pushed for time because I plan to meet my folks for lunch. The long-awaited half-marathon is complete. I have two times to report. The first is the gun time, 1:54:00 minutes. The second is what racers, evidently, call the net time. The net time begins once I actually cross the start line -- it is the time measured by a chip placed on my shoe -- and is a more accurate measure of my actual speed. That time, I'm proud to announce was 1:52:52.

I have come a long way in just a few short months. My goal for this race was, in retrospect, modest; I wanted to finish it under 2 hours. As I told my folks after I crossed the finish line, I've only just begun.

Cutting Off Dead Weight

2009-01-30T21:14:00.005-06:00

"Letting go really refers to choosing to become transparent to the strong pull of our own likes and dislikes, and of the unawareness that draws us to cling to them. To be transparent requires that we allow fears and insecurities to play themselves out in the field of full awareness."

--- Jon Kabat-Zinn

The term letting go used to cause me to cringe. I had a few friends who would claim they finally learned to surrender, to let go. It bothered me, I believe, because I didn't truly understand the concept. In fact, it was the antithesis of what I was taught to do as a competitive athlete, where you battle, fight, and persevere.

After a few difficult weeks and lots of soul-searching I think I finally understand what it means to let go. Events in my life placed me in a position where I reacted to my emotions almost unconsciously. I was, in a sense, on autopilot; I refused to tune into what I really wanted or needed out of the situation. I expressed desires and goals incongruous with core aspects of my being. I acted, momentarily, from places of lapsed awareness.

But today, I took positive steps to proactively end a situation that had become toxic. As I spoke to a dear friend of mine I explained how I couldn't figure out if this was a time where I needed to further struggle through or simply allow myself to release it. She sensed, with her Buddhist gut, the latter was likely the case. I agreed. I went on to explain, however, how the steps I took today caused me to feel lighter, but sadly more numb than anything else. In her wisdom she offered, "I don't know that it's a sudden feeling of lightness as much as it's a slow awareness. Like when you lose weight and you realize your thighs don't rub together anymore." She continued, "So maybe it's like carrying a bag of sand and you cut a hole in it rather than put it down. As you move on, it'll get lighter and lighter."

Though I feel like I completely dropped the bag of sand on the ground today whether it remains there is largely up to me. In truth, the sand began to seep out of the bag months ago. Attempts to plug up the hole weren't made as I stood on solid ground. I'm hopeful that in short time letting go of the situation will cause most, if not all, of this to pass. If any remains, then perhaps I'll embrace my familiar skills of courage, perseverance, and true grit to totally cleanse myself. I have a hunch it won't come to that.

Package of Love

2009-01-29T00:26:00.011-06:00

When I left home this evening I found the box below on my doorstep. It is from a dear friend of mine, Elizabeth or Bessie as I call her, who visited New Orleans last weekend to celebrate her upcoming wedding. Bessie and I have known one another since Kindergarden, but we hadn't spent a ton of time since high school investing in our friendship. But no worries, the weekend was delightful. We had a great time as we learned more about one another as grown-ups and reconnected in a way that makes me optimistic about our future as close friends in adulthood.

The pictures of the package are enough to convey why I'm optimistic. Bessie is a pro at running marathons and has even completed an Ironman. She rocks! And the package was a pleasant and welcome surprise. Thank you Bessie, more than words can convey.

"13.1 no problem"

"I Love Running."

"Run fast!"

And my favorite; the contents of the package included: Gu, caffeinated Jelly Bellys, Kleenex (for a runny nose or a bathroom stop), warm gloves, 2 pairs of non-blister running socks, plenty of petroleum gel, and a note detailing confidence and offering words of wisdom for the race.

Thanks again Bessie. I'm fortunate to have you in my life.

Optimism Even in Irony

2009-01-28T21:39:00.012-06:00

Noble be man,
Helpful and good!
For that alone
Sets him apart
From every other creature
On earth.
(from Goethe's The Divine, 1783)

When I arrived at Temple Sinai tonight for a Social Action Committee meeting I noticed a magnet on one of the filing cabinets. The magnet was from the U.S. Holocaust Museum and its message was one of remembrance. I first thought of the story I heard on NPR this morning about Pope Benedict's XVI's decision to undo the excommunication of a bishop who recently denied the Holocaust by stating: "The historical evidence is hugely against 6 million Jews having been deliberately gassed in gas chambers as a deliberate policy of Adolf Hitler." This, of course, saddens me. I worry about the impact John Paul II's successor will have on Catholic-Jewish relations.

But, instead of dwelling on the negative, my thoughts quickly shifted. The magnet also reminded me of the two times I visited the Museum. At the end of the exhibit there is a sitting area where various videos are played. My favorite involves the story of a U.S. military officer who helped to liberate Jewish prison camp survivors. At the Museum, the story of Kurt Klein is woven into the telling of Gerda Weissman Klein's. At one point Gerda, a Jewish prisoner, leads the officers to where other women laid dying. She opens the door, waves her hand over the scene, and tells Kurt, "Noble be man, merciful and good." Kurt describes his disbelief and irony in how Gerda was able to summon the words of Goethe's The Divine at such a moment.

Gerda's words caused me then and now to reflect on one of my favorite books of all time, Man's Search For Meaning, by Viktor Frankl. The human ability to survive, persist, and even thrive in horrid situations comforts me. When tested, I believe most of us are stronger than we realize. I recently read the following: "Every time I feel loveless, I think of something I've heard on a few occasions: Love is a Verb. Then I know what to do."

Love, demonstrated by good acts, is the essence of our human capacity. It is, as Goethe aptly noted, what sets us apart. Another one of my goals for 2009 is to live more comfortably and to embrace and love more fully whatever and whomever is put in my path. There is optimism to be found in the darkest of times; my very own, if you will, "This I Believe."

The links to the videos are worth the time. If, however, you find them too cumbersome to watch an abbreviated version of the Kleins' story may be read here.

National Marathon

2009-01-28T14:43:00.014-06:00

"You move from doing things to show other people you could, to where you do things to look into yourself, into your soul, and see who you are and what you are all about."
---- Scott Weber

I was reminded of the above quote the other day as I conversed with a new, dear friend of mine. As we talked of life and its struggles -- mainly mine that night -- he hedged his bets and suggested my recent passion for running has been fueled by a desire to conquer myself and any accompanying weaknesses, which are inherent in all of us.

I reflected on his comment and within seconds knew he was right. I started to run again a little over a year ago as I was studying for the Bar Exam. Running, back then, allowed me to feel the same way I felt as a college athlete --- in control and focused. Though I'm not a huge Madonna fan, my favorite song on my iPod at the time was "Isaac." The part of the song that really inspired me was, "Remember remember and never forget. All of your life has all been a test. You will find the gate that's open. Even though your spirit's broken." The idea of pushing through both the run and the studying motivated me.

After a medically-imposed brief hiatus from running I hit the pavement yesterday for the first time in three days. As most of you know my half-marathon is this weekend, so yesterday's run was abbreviated. But as I glided through three miles of what I would term pure-joy I felt, again, whole. The mental and physical began to sync. It was exhilarating.

Thus, when I returned home I logged online to see a list of all upcoming marathons. After a couple of hours of Internet research, calls to a few friends (who will likely run the half or at least come along to cheer me on), and a brief chat with my folks, I settled on the National Marathon in D.C. I love the city, and though the race is only 7 weeks away, the challenge makes it more appealing. I did, however, contact Jenni Peters, an established marathoner and coach from Baton Rouge to gain her input on whether 7 weeks was adequate time to prepare. Her advice was to run the half this weekend and then re-access whether my body will be able to handle running 15 miles the following weekend. Bottom line: I see an ice bath in my future after Sunday's race.

Though each day I learn a smidgen more of who I am and what I am "all about," I am excited about the opportunity to look a little bit deeper into my soul. The National Marathon, I believe, will provide that and more. I can't wait!

Movie Madness

2009-01-24T23:22:00.006-06:00

After an early dinner with my folks I went to see The Wrestler with a friend. He had an affinity for wrestling in high school, though I learned not for the extreme form displayed in the film. And, because I spent many hours of December and January in movie theaters I've seen the trailer numerous times and was intrigued.

My two favorite parts in the trailer are when Randy "The Ram" Robinson (played by Mickey Rourke) pleas for his daughter to allow him back into his life by saying "I'm an old broken down piece of meat and I deserve to be all alone. I just don't want you to hate me" and when Marisa Tomei's character Cassidy, a stripper Randy attempts to start a relationship with, tells him "I'm really here." The latter quote really hit home.

I was, however, disappointed with the movie. It portrayed a couple of the darker sides of life, drug/steroid use and stripping, and failed to end with even partial redemption for any of the characters. Randy was a tragic figure consumed and destroyed by his lifestyle in the ring. He failed to connect with anyone outside of wrestling, including his daughter and Cassidy. After attempts to reconcile with his daughter seemed likely, Randy's demons destroyed any hope of healing. And, the lack of a true connection between Randy and Cassidy took the punch out of the line "I'm really here."

I thought initially my disappointment was in The Wrestler's sad ending. But I recently saw Revolutionary Road, which has an ending that is certainly not uplifting, and absolutely loved it (review forthcoming). So, in addition to The Wrestler being sad and without redemption, it was also its failure to challenge or force me to ponder questions that left me unsatisfied.

I think, to steal a lyric from the movie's main song, the trailer was The Wrestler's one-trick pony. So save your money and watch it for free.

The Jackson Day Race

2009-01-21T08:49:00.004-06:00

I named my second cat Jackson because I thought he looked the part of a Southern gentleman. Unfortunately, in spite of his handsome, dapper looks, the race I participated in on January 11th was not in honor of him, but instead for General Andrew Jackson. The entire history of the fifth oldest road race in the nation may be found here.

I didn't win any awards for my performance but finished 51st out of 276 women participants. I was pleased with my result. I only recently started to take a serious approach to running distance. So, after years of thinking I was a natural sprinter and only built for speed, the literal change of pace has been a challenge, but a nice one. I must admit, however, being able to kick into a near sprint for the last 300 meters was certainly beneficial. So, while I continue to train my slow-twitched fibers I'll give thanks for the fast-twitched ones passed down to me through the genes of both my parents, who themselves, were natural sprinters.

Full Circle

2009-01-08T23:04:00.009-06:00

In March of 2006, my initial post in the blogger-sphere was prompted by a then-recent diagnosis of kidney disease. The doctors, at the time, had not performed a biopsy but suspected due to family history and my presenting symptoms some form of familial nephritis. The initial prognosis, without actual facts to indicate the level of my kidney function, were grim.

After in-depth study of my family history, a biopsy performed in May of 2006, and genetic testing results I received only last week, my woes are less severe than initially thought. I have low-grade IgA Nephropathy. Only 25% of patients with IgA develop end-stage renal disease, and based on my current kidney function (which is within the normal population's range) three specialists doubt I'll ever reach the point where a kidney transplant will be necessary. And since I've begun to take greater care of my health via exercise my prognosis has markedly improved.

Genetic testing finally answered the only question that loomed: whether I was a carrier for Alport's Syndrome. The Syndrome runs in my family, and there were indicators in my biopsy that suggested it as a possibility. Because Alport's Syndrome is more destructive, and carried on the X-Chromosome, the diagnosis would have meant more headache should the universe decide to bestow upon me the gift of having children. By that I mean the responsible option would have been to engage in costly in vitro and to select for only females. I was, therefore, greatly relieved when the doctor called on Monday to deliver the fantastic news that I am not a carrier of Alport's Syndrome.

So, what does it mean for me? Reproductively I'm like any other woman. I think this is an issue many folks can't quite appreciate unless they are faced with similar problems (infertility, etc.) of their own.

What impact will this have on my blog? I'm tempted to halt the practice altogether. Since I started to blog when I received the initial kidney news it seems like an apt way to end the exercise. I'm not, however, ready to commit to an absolute ending yet. But, I am prepared to take a hiatus for a while. How long? Maybe forever, maybe be a week, maybe a couple of months, or only a couple of days. I'm not sure. But the timing seems right, and besides, I have plenty of resolutions to focus on.

Blogging has served may varied and great purposes in my life during the years of 2006, 2007, 2008, and a small portion of 2009. I'll return when I return --- or not. My heart and brain will determine whether I start again.

25 Things About Me

2009-01-07T12:24:00.009-06:00

I've done this once before but it was easier because the request was only to list five things you might not know about me. To list 25 may prove to be more of a challenge, but I'm up for the task.

Like my earlier post, I borrowed the idea from another blogger. Her list reminded me of a few of my own, so I plan to co-opt not only the concept, but also a couple of the items used.

1. I was a gymnast in my youth and attended Bela Karoli's summer camp (age 6) where I refused to bathe for seven days.

2. My mother used to smell my neck after a bath to ensure I actually bathed. It took her a while, but she eventually realized I was only cleaning the spots she inspected.

3. My father is an avid big-game hunter, so my house resembles a natural history museum. I used to have nightmares that the animals on the walls had come to life and were chasing me down the hall to my parent's room which was always locked.

4. I suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

5. I've been in therapy off and on (mostly on) since I turned 19. I've seen my current therapist for nearly three years, and she's provided the tools for me to accomplish many great things.

6. I started pre-school a year early after, as a result of watching the soaps with my sitter, I attempted to French kiss my mother.

7. In seventh grade, I had my mother drop me off at Bible study at a local church at 7 p.m. I was the only one under age 70 that attended.

8. My grandmother, who was my rock throughout my childhood, died nearly 9 years ago. I sometimes unexpectedly burst into tears when I think of how much I miss her.

9. My father was a dentist, and thus, sweets were forbidden in the house. So, I would sneak over to the neighbor's, head directly to their cupboard, and eat as many mouthfuls of grape powdered cool-aide as possible.

10. I swear to this day I saw the image of my dead great-grandfather as I headed to my room from my parent's one night.

11. I penned the lyrics to a song entitled, "You can eat make-up" when I was six. There was an accompanying dance as well.

12. I performed a routine to "Baby Got Back" before every softball game when I was a freshman in high school.

13. In third grade, I faked an ankle injury because a kid in my class who was on crutches got special treatment. The doctor performed an X-Ray, deemed my leg to be broken, and ironically, suited me up for a walking cast. There was no special treatment for a injured person who could walk.

14. A couple of years later, my leg became lodged under a four-wheeler. I completely broke my tibia and my fibula was dislocated.

15. I slept on the floor of my parent's room until I was in 7th grade, but not because I feared for my own safety.

16. I played Molly when I was in fifth grade in the high school production of "Annie."

17. I was a vegetarian, living in the Smoked Meat capital of the world, during middle school.

18. I refused to speak in the halls of school during 7th and 8th grade because our new school was in an old convent and I thought it was disrespectful to the Eucharist still housed in the building.

19. In 9th grade I argued with a lecturer at my Catholic High School about why it was okay for married couples to have oral sex (since it couldn't lead to procreation) and not okay for same-sex couples to engage in that behavior.

20. I convinced my 6th grade teacher to change the demerit system due to what I saw as blatant unfairness. (The lawyer in me was already beginning to bud)

21. I was kicked off of the LSU Softball team due to the biases of my staunch Southern Baptist coach. He had the majority of the team convinced that flying locusts were coming soon as the Rapture approached. We also, at a public institution, had "voluntary" Bible Studies.

22. I swore off all organized religion for nearly 12 years.

23. When faced with what initially was thought to be a serious kidney disease I started to shop around for an organized religion that made sense to me. I missed, in my life, a community to plug into for support.

24. I found my relief in Judaism and proudly converted on July 21, 2008.

25. Because I value Judaism I want to find a partner who is not only Jewish, but who shares my passion for Judaism. I sometimes worry that my desire has limited my dating pool, though, recent good news (which I'll blog about soon) provided comfort. I have time to find that person. The pressure is off.

The Writer's Almanac

2009-01-06T15:45:00.005-06:00

The Writer's Almanac never fails to put a smile on my face. If I miss it on my short drive to work I, on most days, check their website to see what was covered. Here were a couple of nice pieces from today. Of course, without the voice of Garrison Keillor it doesn't to it true justice.

It's the birthday of Khalil Gibran, (books by this author) born in Bsharri, Lebanon (1883). When Gibran was 12 years old, his mother left her husband and moved her four children to Boston. He grew up, became a popular host, and one day the publisher Alfred A. Knopf came to one of his parties. Knopf was impressed, and he published Gibran's book The Prophet (1924). It became a huge best-seller in the 1960s.

The Prophet contains lines like: "Work is love made visible." And, "You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give."

It's the birthday of Edgar Lawrence Doctorow, E.L. Doctorow, (books by this author) born in New York City in 1931. He said, "Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia."

I hope you enjoyed them. Actually, I hope you heard the pieces live today on NPR.

The Grand Slam

2009-01-05T07:57:00.003-06:00

Over the holidays I saw all of the movies currently playing at Canal Place: Slumdog Millionaire, Milk, Doubt, and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. My favorites were Slumdog Millionaire and Milk. Doubt was a little too slow, and although The Curious Case of Benjamin Button wasn't as cheesy as I imagined, I agree with my friend Sara's review that it was overdone.

An aside: at the beginning of Benjamin Button they mention Evangeline Parish (where my hometown, Ville Platte, is located). Also, the exterior of the train station is, I believe, the outside of the courthouse where I work. And, ironically, at one point in the movie Benjamin takes a voyage to India; thus, my current fascination was satiated a bit more.

Since I completed the Grand Slam, I suppose it'll be all Zeitgeist for the next couple of weeks until the next batch of movies are released at Canal Place.

Body Glide

2009-01-04T19:09:00.004-06:00

So, I discovered during the last few months how much of a wuss I am when it comes to temperature and running outside. If inclement weather strikes --- and by inclement I'm referring to temperatures of 60 degrees or less --- I don outfits more suitable for sub-45 degree weather. I usually don't fully admit it's because of the weather, but instead cite the failure of shorts to guard against unwanted rashes after a long run.

Yesterday a friend of mine purchased a tube of Body Glide for me. With this morning's 70+ degree weather I opted to wear shorts rather than my beloved compression capris. I finished my ten mile run without the slightest skin irritation much less a full-blown rash. Quite a success.

If anyone knows of a product that will make me run slower (other than strapping a ridiculous amount of weights to my back) please let me know. I'm supposed to do my long runs 45 to 90 seconds slower than the pace I plan to maintain during the half-marathon. I'm aiming for approximately 9 minute miles yet every time I look at my heart-rate monitor I've managed to creep up to 9 minute and 30 seconds per mile or faster. I hate running at slower speeds. It seems counterintuitive, but my body aches more.

If no one's devised a magical product to cure my tendency for speed, which only results in overtraining, some entrepreneur should take on the task. Maybe something called Body Grit would do the job.

Resolutions

2009-01-03T16:55:00.005-06:00

Perhaps I should have completed this post prior to January 1st or on that date. Do not fear, though, the list has been in the works for a couple of months.

My resolutions for 2009 include:

1. Visiting my clients within a week and a half of their arrest.

2. Not beating myself up if I fail to visit my clients within a the aforementioned time period if, instead, work on other cases that are already in trial posture precludes the timely visits.

3. Completing a marathon. Of course, if you know me, I want to finish it in a decent time.

4. Running a 10K in less than 49 minutes.

5. Running a 5K in under 23 minutes and 30 seconds.

6. I refuse to set a weight goal. But, once I get an accurate measure of my current body fat, I'll set a goal for what I'd like that percentage to be by the end of the year.

7. Improve the systems I use at work to organize my cases. Basically, re-implement GTD (Getting Things Done), the tool I relied upon in law school and that is so heavily touted on 43 Folders.

8. Set aside three time periods per week for prayer and or meditation.

9. Research a software program suitable for my particular needs to track finances and use it.

10. Learn the intricacies of the Louisiana Rules of Evidence.

11. Learn to read Hebrew.

12. Take my dog on one short run a week.

Pleasant Surprises

2009-01-02T16:30:00.005-06:00

I love Zapp's potato chips. And even though I don't keep Kosher the label on the right (the K with the word parve written below it) that certifies they indeed comply with the laws of kashrut makes me smile.

As my friend Ariel pointed out, "Oh, the irony in having Kosher Crawtators." That made me smile too.

My Own Act of Prohibition

2009-01-01T16:17:00.004-06:00

Since I overcame the substance abuse problems of my late teens and early twenties moderation has been the name of the game. I don't drink to get drunk, and frankly, I don't even remember the last time I was "wasted." But on occasion, I enjoy a glass of wine either while I prepare a meal or when I'm out for dinner.

I've decided, though, tonight's my last call for alcohol. The half-marathon is 30 days away and I want to do everything in my power to run at my best. I'm meeting a group of friends for dinner at a Japanese restaurant in the Marigny. One of the guys, Harry-T, is a co-worker, native New Orleanian, and quite a character. One of his favorite pastimes is what he terms "breaking bread" or enjoying the presence of other's company with the addition of vino or some other beverage. Harry organized the event. Japanese food and a French band to follow. Odd combination, but I'm intrigued. So, I suppose I'll sip on some sake before settling in with true sobriety.

After the half marathon I'll re-evaluate alcohol's place in my life. If my love of running continues to grow my own act of prohibition may not be repealed. But then again, that would go against my rule of moderation that has served me so well. I'll table my concern until February 2nd. Right now work and running are all that truly needs to be on my brain.

I Stand Corrected

2009-01-01T16:05:00.003-06:00

Last night a few folks came over for dinner to welcome the New Year. Actually, they came over for dinner and then left to go to the Bonfire in Mid-City to welcome in the New Year. I was so tired I actually skipped out on the Bonfire and fell asleep before midnight. Lame, perhaps, but I woke up this morning with a refreshed feeling and that was nice.

During the course of conversation, my earlier post Milk was discussed. A few folks had read the post yet failed to comment. I won't mention names, but you know who you are. Ariel pointed out that my facts were incorrect. Harvey told the specific line we discussed not to his younger lover but to another young actor in the film. In the moment, I of course, disagreed. So, today I received the following Facebook messages from Ariel:

"Harvey Milk: [to Cleve Jones] You're going to meet the most extraordinary men, the sexiest, brightest, funniest men, and you're going to fall in love with so many of them, and you won't know until the end of your life who your greatest friends were or your greatest love was.

IMDB backs me up on the fact that it was said to Cleve Jones. :-P Enjoy your run, athlete."

and then ..........

"P.S. Cleve Jones wasn't his lover, it was the prostitute kid who went on to do the AIDS quilt. His lover was Scott Smith."

So, I publicly admit I was wrong. I'm also giving folks another opportunity to voice their opinions on the quote above. Come on, you can do it, post a comment dammit.

Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due

2008-12-31T10:55:00.004-06:00

Last week, I had the pleasure of receiving a massage. Luckily I found a wonderful massage therapist right after I moved to New Orleans. Because of lack of funds, I have not seen her as much as I would like --- twice the first few months I lived here and a few more times in the last month.

The frequency of my visits increased, lately, because of minor problems I encountered while training for the half-marathon. I learned my right hamstring is weaker than my left one, and as a result, my right IT band has a tendency to become inflamed during long runs. I decided to attack the problem from multiple angles. I added to my workout regime of weight lifting exercises that target my right hamstring, infrequent visits to the chiropractor (luckily covered by my insurance), a weekly run performed clockwise on a track, and my beloved massages.

Without my masseuse I would not have been able to log the amount of miles I have in the last eight weeks. She's hands-down the most skilled therapist I've received treatment from, including the numerous sports massage therapists I saw as a college athlete. But more importantly, she has amazing energy and emanates warmth. During our last session she suggested I purchase a foam-roller to use both before and after my daily runs. The roller, in all seriousness, has greatly increased my ability to sustain an aggressive level of training. My IT band problem is now nonexistent. It has also decreased the frequency of my need to schedule massages. I know she suggested the purchase aware of the impact it would have on my contribution to her weekly income, which only confirms my initial perceptions of her. She and roller both rock.

If you are a runner, and have had problems of any sort, I highly suggest shelling out the bucks for a foam roller. I purchased the one pictured below at Target for $29 because I needed the roller immediately. I wish, however, it was slightly longer because that would enable me to use it on my back with greater ease. If time isn't an issue, I suggest you order the longer and slightly more expensive Go Fit roller here.

Blind Spots

2008-12-31T10:16:00.005-06:00

The concept of therapy is simple. The therapist is not some all-knowing, powerful, sage. Instead, he or she takes the information you offer and reflects back what is seen. In essence a good therapist serves as mirror and elucidates thoughts, defense mechanisms, or ideas that were previously out of your consciousness. I love the moments in therapy when all of a sudden I realize a statement of mine contradicts something I said seconds earlier.

Last week, I had an out-of-therapy experience similar to those in-session moments. After a week of training that was likely too intense, I decided I should probably not push so hard to both avoid injury and possibly having to miss the half-marathon. Concurrent to my cognizant decision to ease up I evidently logged onto Amazon and ordered Run Fast by Hal Higdon. I didn't realize the disconnect between my thoughts and actions until the book arrived by expedited mail --- because, evidently, I was in a hurry to learn how to run faster --- two days later.

I smiled when I realized the irony, stuck by my week of not pushing too hard, and then resumed, this week, my quest to run faster.

Milk

2008-12-30T11:38:00.009-06:00

I recently saw the movie Milk with Ariel and Aaron. Sadly, I must admit I knew little of the story of Harvey Milk prior to the screening. I was both inspired and saddened by his life as told through the movie.

I usually prefer to allow a day or two to pass before I discuss my thoughts on a particular film. I need the time to allow my ideas on the different strands of it to marinate a bit. But last night, Ariel came over to my house for dinner. She asked me what part of the movie moved me the most and also asked what I thought about a particular line.

The line appeared early in the movie as Harvey met, for the first time, a much younger guy (Cleve Jones) whom he went on to date for a substantial period of time. As they were lying in bed together, Harvey told Cleve, "You're going to meet the most extraordinary men, the sexiest, brightest, funniest men, and you're going to fall in love with so many of them, and you won't know until the end of your life who your greatest friends were or your greatest love was."

What are your thoughts on the line? Ariel found it inspiring and uplifting. I felt the opposite. I'd like to hear feedback in the comments. So as to not cloud your opinion, I'll hold off on my reasons until folks have had an opportunity to respond.

Some Things Never Change

2008-12-29T20:20:00.007-06:00

It's been eleven years since I've had hair long enough to pull back into a pony-tail. Recently, I've noticed how perturbed I become when I am unable to create a pony-tail without bumps. In other words, I want all of the hair leading up to the rubber band to be smooth.

Of course the picture above is not me, it is my niece Avery. This weekend, Avery asked my mom to put her hair into a pony-tail. After completing the job, my mom asked if she minded the obvious bumps that had been created. Avery didn't quite grasp what the hell my mother was talking about and wasn't the least concerned with a random bump or two.

Mom then informed me of how I would go mad if there was the slightest abnormality in my pony-tail when I was Avery's age. Evidently, I would insist that she redo the entire thing until my head was devoid of anything resembling a bump. Of course, like other things in my childhood, I have no recollection of this. I know she's right, however, because an errant bump in the last few months has sent me back into the shower to wash my hair on more than one occasion.

Goodbyes

2008-12-29T09:13:00.003-06:00

Jordan's parents return today. Though Jacques's heart may be broken there is at least one living creature in my house who won't be disappointed.

The Eighth Night

2008-12-28T22:31:00.005-06:00

Finally a success: all eight candles correctly lit (even if I had to resort to previously lit ones) and a full belly of Indian food. It doesn't get much better than that.

My Thoughts on the Film Doubt

2008-12-28T11:08:00.014-06:00

I recently saw the movie Doubt with my parents. One of my favorite lines (and there were plenty) was, "Doubt can be a bond as powerful as certainty." It captures the essence of the message I took away from the film --- basically how the most powerful tool in an narcissist's arsenal is the doubt successfully planted into the minds of others.

My therapist recently suggested I read a book on Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD). She thought I would benefit from learning more about NPD not because she believes I have the disorder, but because of things she knows about my past. I took her advice and ordered, from Amazon, "The Wizard of Oz and Other Narcissists." Though I still have a couple of chapters before I complete the book, most of what I've read hit close to home and proved to be both simultaneously cathartic and sad. Sad because the source of NPD is connected to "a deep unconscious experience of self as inadequate or flawed." Most narcissists aren't what we'd term anti-social personalities, but instead, have themselves suffered from trauma and deep wounds that are usually out of the reach of their own consciousness.

As Doubt unfolded my initial thoughts focused more on the personality of Father Flynn, played by Philip Seymour Hoffman, than any other aspect of the film. Meryl Streep's role as Sister Aloysius, the stereotypical stern, unemotional, nun made the movie more complex. In a sense, you were set up to dislike Streep and to dismiss her as out-of-touch and somewhat vengeful. For some viewers, the "real" wrongdoer may have been hard to discern, but what I saw consistently was how Father Flynn's actions aligned perfectly with what the author of "The Wizard of Oz and Other Narcissists," Eleanor D. Payson, would deem an overt narcissist.

According to Payson, there are overt and covert narcissists. Overt narcissists "allow the more open expression of narcissistic needs such as admiration, power, control, etc." The overt narcissist uses his "persona to directly take the spotlight and openly demand an endless supply of public attention." In contrast, the covert narcissist "gains admiration, status, and control through more subtle an indirect means. His demeanor is typically more reserved and self-contained, at times aloof." Attention and status, for the covert narcissist, is gained "through what he is doing and what he is connected to, rather than attempt to command a truly solo role in the spotlight."

Father Flynn was undoubtedly an overt narcissist. He loved the spotlight and used many of his sermons to directly manipulate his congregants and the two characters in the movie who sought his demise, Sister James and Sister Aloysius. He employed several of the common defense mechanisms of someone battling NPD including: martyr/guilt (which caused Sister James to question her reality and belief of what had occurred when Father Flynn behaved in ways that made him appear as a helpless target), projection (of Flynn's negative qualities onto Sister Aloysius), and attempted intimidation of both Sisters.

Throughout the film Sister Aloysius appeared to have mastered the art of dealing with a narcissist. Every time Father Flynn attempted to obfuscate her demands for answers, she held firm. Yet, the true power of a narcissist is evident by the movie's ending. I, of course, will refrain from recounting the last scene for my readers who wish to see the movie themselves.

Ironically, as I looked through the books on my Facebook's visual bookshelf this morning, I read for the first time the following review of the book on NPD I mentioned above. I only copied the relevant part: "Every day headlines are filled with examples of narcissistic individuals in positions of power who are nothing more than impostors plundering and wrecking havoc on the lives of others. From the corporate moguls of Enron and WorldCom to the clergy leaders of the Catholic Church, we daily encounter narcissists and the self-serving systems that enable them." [italics added]

The portions I've read of Payson's book have yet to directly mention the clergy of the Catholic Church. But the manner in which she conveyed NPD through other examples enabled me to immediately spot the narcissistic traits in Father Flynn. It makes the book, in my opinion, a success. Thus, I highly recommend it and the movie.

Better Late Than Never Right?

2008-12-28T09:09:00.005-06:00

When Tim and Michelle dropped off Jordan they left me with an enormous bag of dog food and a canvas bag containing the following items: two bowls, a leash, a collar, and two cans of science diet light. I was informed the two cans of wet dog food were for the pups as treats on Christmas morning. How adorable is that?

So, the morning of December 25th came and went yet Jacques and Jordan only received their normal portions of dry dog food. Neither of them even bothered to remind me; they are such well-mannered pups right? I remembered my blunder long after I'd already fed the dogs their evening meal. I, therefore, pretended as if Christmas was on December 26th.

As instructed, I mixed Jordan's can of soft food with a reduced portion of hard food. But instead of doing the same for Jacques, I simply dumped the contents of the can into his bowl.

Since Jacques had never received wet food he was uncertain, initially, how to eat it. As you can see from the picture below, my cats took it upon themselves to "assist" in teaching him. And, as if Jacques was truly a kid with his toy on Christmas morning, he finally hauled off with the entire log of wet food in his mouth.

I wish the picture was not so fuzzy. But you get the idea.

To understand how shocked I was by Jacques's move you'd have to know Jacques. He is the most submissive pup in the world --- not only to other dogs and humans, but also to my cats. He'll sit patiently by while they help themselves to his dog food before approaching the bowl. I suppose he decided to draw the line somewhere. Evidently that line was wet food.

Avery Pearl and the Aquarium

2008-12-27T13:00:00.004-06:00

The day started at Café Dumond. Avery, my niece had never been, so we hoped to capture a picture with powdered sugar all over her face. She, however, showed no interest in the beignets. Instead, her focus was on the man outside making figures out of balloons. On the way out, of course, we stopped and had the gentlemen make Avery one.

As we headed to the Aquarium, Avery stated, "Dad, can I give my balloon to Mimi (my mom)?" My brother, of course, replied yes. My mom then said to Avery, "What am I going to do with a teddy bear?" At which point, Avery stated very matter-of-factly, "Well you are going to sleep with it Mimi."

Once we arrived at the Aquarium Avery immediately jumped onto the fish below, waited patiently for me to grab my phone in order to take her picture, and said, "Let me pose." As soon as I'd captured the moment, she dismounted the fish, ran up to me and stated, "Can I look?"

She's a handful, but a very good one.

An Example of What's Not Second Nature

2008-12-26T08:57:00.006-06:00

As a Jew-by-Choice, some things "Jewishly" aren't second nature. My friend Sara and I discussed this the other day. She asked for examples. At the time, all I could offer was how though I'd heard of certain words like schtick, schmuck, schmooze, and shlep, they weren't a part of my everyday vernacular.

Enter Chanukah and the lighting of the menorah. After two years of lighting candles I still haven't figured out how it all works. The picture above is the correct way to handle this custom. It took until last night - though in my defense, last night was the first night I stayed home, and thus, my first attempt to light candles on my own - for me to finally get it, well sort of.

As you can see from the picture below, I had it all wrong last year. First I put all of the candles in the menorah on day one. I also started the first night by lighting the candle all the way to the left rather than the one all the way to the right.

This year has not been much better. Again, if you refer to the picture below, you'll see I grasped that it was improper to place all of the candles into the menorah at once, but still had the direction of their placement wrong.

I finally searched the internet for articles that included pictures. Only then did I discover the correct way to position the candles. I went to sleep last night thinking I finally had this figured out. But when I exported the pics to post on my blog, I realized yet another error, I skipped over the fifth holder and placed the candle in the one for night number six.

Bottom line: I'm thankful there are eight nights of Chanukah. Though I have a party to attend tomorrow and plan to rely on the lighting of candles at services tonight to fulfill this mitzvah, I'll have Sunday night at home to finally feel like a competent Jew.

The Boys

2008-12-26T08:26:00.004-06:00

I think they, Jordan and Jacques, may be kindred spirits. Jordan is an extremely sweet and low-maintenance pup. I told a friend yesterday that I may attempt to return Jacques in Jordan's place when Tim and Michelle return. Unfortunately, I think their difference in hair color may present a problem.

A Different Kind of Christmas

2008-12-25T09:02:00.005-06:00

Unlike past celebrations of Christmas I'm not traveling home to Ville Platte today. Instead, my folks plan to arrive in New Orleans this evening and stay throughout the weekend. My brother and his daughter will join us later in the week. Once they arrive, we plan to take my niece to the Insectarium, the Aquarium, and the Zoo. It should be an action packed weekend and hopefully filled with lots of good meals too.

I suppose tonight my Jewish influence on the family will send us to a yet to be determined Chinese restaurant and movie prior to the lighting of the fifth Chanukah candle. The other option would be to prepare a meal at home and have my folks over for dinner. Either way, I'm looking forward to it and the next few days.

Right now I'm headed to the Bridge House, a substance abuse center for the poor in New Orleans, to assist in handing out Christmas meals to the homeless. In my opinion, that's the spirit of Christmas and it is certainly the spirit of being a Jew.

Last Year's Christmas

2008-12-25T08:24:00.008-06:00

Now that I'm Jewish the lens through which I view Christmas has, of course, changed. I remember my trip home last year. It was prior to my conversion, but I nonetheless already felt and acted Jewishly. Prior to the trip home, I had a conversation with a friend wherein I described the anxiety I felt when I thought about my entire family gathered in one place. I stated, "It's like traveling to a different planet. We don't speak the same language, and I'm never quite sure if there will be enough oxygen to go around."

Sure enough, the moment I walked through the door, my sister blurted out, "So Trisha, are you still converting to Islam?" I replied, "No Kristin, I'm converting to Judaism," while simultaneously shooting her a glance to convey that this wasn't the appropriate time or place - it was Christmas after all and my parents were still uncomfortable with my decision. Yet she persisted, "I really don't know much about the Jews." I told her I'd be happy to share more about it later. Still not taking the hint, she continued, "I mean, they accept the Lord Jesus Christ as their personal savior right?" I smiled and simply stated no. My response finally ended the conversation.

Slumdog Millionaire

2008-12-24T16:57:00.002-06:00

In line with my Mumbai fascination lately, I went to see an afternoon showing of Slumdog Millionaire. Definitely worth it. The reviews were right on.

Two scenes come to mind that reminded me of the toilet scene in Trainspotting. So, I wasn't surprised to learn Danny Boyle directed both films.

Gearing Up

2008-12-24T08:20:00.004-06:00

After I finished the 10K race a couple of weeks ago, my dad (from his deer blind no less) and I talked about the race. He and my mom loved to watch me compete as an athlete when I was younger. In college, they only missed one game. They didn't attend that particular game because it was in Gainesville, Florida (Go Gators!) in the middle of the week. All of this, I must point out, occurred while my father was on dialysis awaiting a kidney transplant. Pretty impressive.

The upcoming race has the competitive spirit riled up in all of us again. By the end of our conversation, my dad, or poppa as I call him, offered to purchase another set of shoes to prepare for the race. My pseudo-coach and boss, Steve, informed me I should have two pairs of shoes. One pair to complete my shorter runs and the other to wear for my long runs. The idea is to use the ones with the less mileage on race day. Thanks to my folks, the fancy pair of Mizuno shoes arrived yesterday, along with a new pair of running pants, Jackie Knicker Capris.

After my run this morning I'm able to report the pants are great. As for the shoes, my plans are to break them in tomorrow.

Latkes, latkes, latkes

2008-12-23T08:03:00.003-06:00

I've consumed lots of latkes in the last several days. It all started with Touro's TnT (twenties and thirties) gathering and latke contest on Friday. Sunday I attended the community lighting of the menorah/channukiah, where of course, latkes were served. Then last night, a friend of mine invited guests over to celebrate both his Hebrew birthday and the second night of Chanukah.

I wasn't sure anything could beat the mango chutney topping served with last night's latkes. But as the evening wore on, it became clear the people and the energy they created would be the most memorable parts of the evening. When I woke up this morning and reflected upon what a great time I had last night, this fun little song by Debbie Friedman popped into my head. I hadn't listened to The Latke Song in quite some time. It, and the goofy video someone assembled, made me smile even more. I hope you enjoy it.

Other Things Jewish

2008-12-22T13:24:00.004-06:00

To finish up my Hanukkah shopping, I visited one of my favorite sites for all things Jewish today, Modern Tribe. As I searched the sight for gifts I stumbled upon this tee-shirt that reminded me of one of my favorite Jewish hymns, Eschet Chayil (A Woman of Valor). In Jewish custom, men recite this hymn to their wives at the end of the week. It's a beautiful tradition.

I wouldn't have purchased this shirt on my own for two reasons. First, it's pink, and unlike most girls, the color is one of my least favorites. Second, I am able to appreciate the hymn from afar. Of course, right now, there's no one in my life to sing the song to me at the end of the week. But, luckily, I'm not in need of it; I'm reminded more and more of my strengths each day through my own current journeys. So the wait to have someone surprise me with the tee-shirt above or some other rendition of Eshet Chayil is not problematic. I suppose, at that time, I'll decide if the pink is an obstacle I am able to overcome.

Happy Hanukkah everyone.

Bina Liat

2008-12-22T12:28:00.010-06:00

Over Thanksgiving, my family and I discussed a cousin of mine who is in the process of becoming a nun. She's taken on a new name. Sadly, I don't remember it off-hand. During the conversation, however, I mentioned how the process of converting to Judaism involved choosing a Hebrew name. My mother was interested in learning more about mine, so I promised to explain it fully some other time. Since we'd discussed how she (and sometimes my father) read my blog (hi guys), this is a good opportunity to honor my promise.

Much thought and hours of effort went into choosing my Hebrew name. Eventually, in typical Trisha fashion, I decided one wasn't enough and opted to adopt two names. My official Hebrew name is Bina Liat. Liat was the easiest of the two to choose. It means "you are mine." I viewed it as a personal expression of you, the Jewish people, are now mine, and I too, am yours. Bina was more difficult. I wanted to choose a name that encapsulated all of the wonderful qualities of an individual in my life who has impacted me in tremendous ways. My goal, as an adult Jewish woman, is to foster and emulate the characteristics she embodies. Thus, I finally settled on Bina, which means "wisdom, understanding, and intelligence." It truly captures her essence, and in time, hopefully mine.

A New Addition

2008-12-21T19:45:00.005-06:00

Don't worry, I'm still sane; I haven't decided to add another four-legged creature to my household (I'm actually in the process of heading in the opposite direction. But, that's another story for another time). I did, however, agree to pet-sit for a co-worker of mine, Michelle. She and her husband Tim left yesterday to spend a week with his parents in Ohio. Jordan, the pup, needed a place to crash. Since Jacques loves other dogs I figured why not.

Thus far things have gone smoothly. Jacques is thrilled about the company, Jordan seems to have adjusted fine, and as for my cats ---- I'll let you draw your own conclusions.

Other Necessary Changes

2008-12-20T10:27:00.002-06:00

Notice: old food container on the left and newer version on the right.

Shortly after I moved to New Orleans, Jezebel, my escape-artist cat, snuck out of the house one evening. Prior to the five weeks she spent exploring the great outdoors, Jezebel had become rather plump. Multiple veterinarians told me she needed to lose weight because heavy-set female cats were particularly susceptible to developing Fatty Liver Disease as they aged. I changed her food to Science Diet Light and reduced the portions. Jezebel's weight, however, continued to go in the opposite direction.

All was good until I found Jezebel after her five-week escapade. Initially, she seemed perfectly fine. But, for precautionary purposes, I took her to the vet the next day to make sure everything was okay. Bloodwork revealed liver abnormalities. Evidently, the shortage of food while outdoors had indeed caused Jezebel to develop Fatty Liver Disease.

Because the disease is reversible, I spent more money than I make in a month to restore her health. For six weeks she was forced to consume meals via a tube. Finally, her condition improved and she returned home, roughly eight pounds lighter than when she escaped.

Once again, the vet gave me stern instructions: watch her weight. For the first few months, Jezebel continued to look rather unhealthy (see image below). She was lethargic and ate on her own, but not too much.

In the last few months Jezebel finally turned the corner, and once again I had a sweet and sassy cat on my hands. But when she started to gain all of her weight back, of course, this over-protective mother began to worry. I reduced her food portions and tried all of the tactics that failed in the past. Yet, Jezebel continued to return to her old form.

Finally, one day, the mystery was solved. I observed her not only eating from Jacques's bowl, but also cleverly opening the food container to help herself to a free buffet of Science Diet Light. To open my old food container one simply lifted the handle. Jezebel and Jackson both figured out how to undo the latch with their respective noses and then used their heads to lift and hold the container open in order to chomp away.

Last week, while at Petsmart, I purchased two new food containers. The latch on the new containers must be pulled down, rather than up, to access the food. I'm sure in time either Jackson or Jezebel will figure out a way outsmart me again. But, thus far, the only image I've been able to capture is Jackson sitting next to the pile of unaccessible food, looking perplexed.

My Favorites

2008-12-19T09:19:00.004-06:00

Because I've borrowed or drawn ideas from Tania Rochelle's blog lately, I figured the best way to end the week was to share a few of my favorites from her book Karaoke Funeral, available for purchase here.

THE REPLACEMENT

For months I've imagined brass
and polish, sharp edges--
a food critic, maybe,
or a stripper-someone
agnostic enough to tolerate
an indifferent lover, reluctant
father, petulant payer of bills;
and all that time, she's just
got to get to class.
Ten years younger, she shakes
her long brown hair
from her clueless face,
asks if I want my husband back.
She tells me she wouldn't compete,
as if it were a gift,
more lead crystal
to leach slow poison
into my daily cocktail.
So fresh I could bite her,
this girl, twenty-one, still
smelling of grass and Kool-Aid,
is asking permission.
But I'm not her mother--
to care if she runs
with a pencil in one hand,
a fork in the other.
Let her keep her prize:
his glass-green eyes,
a gold-plated tongue
that ferrets out soft spots
where promises grow
wild as ivy, as fire
through parchment.
Searching her flat baby-blues
for ripples, the slight wave
that might suggest she stands a chance,
I see only a plain beauty,
hands in her pockets.

THE NEW LOVER

I’m sitting on him in my living room chair,
his lap like a table where my bills pile up,
his lap a glossy table I dance across,
and from it rises his big carpenter's hand,
then down and into my shirt, he’s asking
if I’d have his child. Fat fucking chance,
I’m thinking. "I know all I need to know,"
he soothes as we’re watching PBS on the widespread
use of antidepressants; I’d rather pay a shrink
the hundred-plus dollars to whine about
my father’s floating penis, about that straw
perched on the lip of that tall drink, that olive
trembling in the bottom of a glass, and zombie dreams
starring my dead sister, grave-tight until twilight
when she appears, post-autopsy, offering up
odd pieces of herself. Here’s what Big Guy Lover
doesn’t know: Alcoholics take hostages.
He pulls my face up to his, his eyes deep
as disco, says, "Sweetie, I know you could never
be depressed, you smile too much." I just grin
and shimmy over the hardwood, an unransomed
history aimed at his head.

SADIE

She doesn’t want to go to her father’s,
so she plants herself
like a Lenten rose in my flower bed,
braced against the cold.
Her sturdy body, like a household appliance,
is the only sign
she’s nine years old, and the tears
she’d cry into a lake
he couldn’t walk across
are not a child’s, but like my own,
and she knows I know.

I pretend it’s just a brat’s tantrum,
that she needs me to make this decision for her
because I’m her mother.
The truth is, both of us,
because I am older and tall as an adult,
have played these roles.
She trapped like a veal calf in her childhood,
and me, like a tulip
forced in winter and put out in the yard.

Somewhere in the part of her
that’s plugged into the stars,
she knows what really happened,
the way she knows Eve’s fall wasn’t about any apple,
and the lady with the black eye
didn’t run into a door,
the way she’s always known too much:
that I’m a coward,
childish, selfish, ever drawn
toward heat and my own appointments,
and I want her to go.

RAKING

Anna Bell and Lane, eighty,
make small leaf piles in the heat,
each pile a great joint effort,
like fifty years of marriage,
sharing chores a rusty dance.
In my own yard, the stacks
are big as children, who scatter them,
dodge and limbo the poke
of my rake. We’re lucky,
young and straight-boned.
And I feel sorry for the couple,
bent like parentheses
around their brittle little lawn.
I like feeling sorry for them,
the tenderness of it, but only
for a moment: John glides in
like a paper airplane, takes
the children for the weekend,
and I remember,
they’re the lucky ones—
shriveled Anna Bell, loving
her crooked Lane.

FEEDING THE WORMS
For Greg

You think this is going to be a poem about death,
but it's really about being hungry all the time.
It's about craving sweets, even though I don't eat sugar
because of my past history of killing off
pound-bags of candy corn and wedding cookies
so I could puke them up like childhood shame
before my daily descent into a bottle.
It's about having kids when I knew better--three,
with a man who vanished into his creole spices,
polished silver, jazz ringing the glassware,
and the slick smiles of young women ready to serve.
It's about a chafing cat-lick of a marriage
that eventually rubbed me raw, and the divorce,
a bad disease that started as a rash,
and later, a man who kisses me like I'm clean,
like there is nowhere else he wants to go.
It's about telling this man he needs to take Vermox
because at least one of my kids has pinworms,
and how, these days, I hang my head in the toilet
searching shit for signs of parasites
as if they were the threads of my life unraveling
and I could stitch them back together again.
The whole family has to be treated, and I can't
figure out a way to tell him this
without implying he's part of the family.
And that might scare him away, the very thought
of being part of a family with worms,
with an eight-year-old who plays Boxcar Children
barefoot in the dirt, baking cakes
of grass and sticks, who pretends her father's dead,
that she could bear to lose her mother too.
Or part of a woman who's spent so much of her life
in the bathroom, on her knees. See,
this is not a poem about death, not yet,
but a love poem, my first.

Tending to the Nest

2008-12-18T13:31:00.007-06:00

As I mentioned in my last post, addiction has been on my mind. I've thought of the wars I waged with substance abuse from roughly ages 19-21. Sadly, of the folks I considered my "friends" at that time, I'm the only one who truly made it out. My thoughts recently, however, focused more on how I was able to prevail.

I remember, initially, there was a period of time I sought to control all things. My life had gotten so out of control that I resorted to extreme measures to restore order. I became somewhat neurotic about my living space. Many things set me off: a dirty glass left in the sink, the bags of an overnight guest not placed in a spot out of my sight, the failure to wipe the sink and surrounding counter in the bathroom to guard against potential water spots, the failure to rub your feet together multiple times to ensure you didn't track any unnecessary debris into my bed, and last, but certainly not least, a wet bath-mat made me batty. I mean really, bath-mats weren't made to get wet right? One should always make sure they are bone-dry before stepping out of the shower.

Needless to say, my issues had the collateral effects of disrupting the lives of the individuals around me. I've since apologized, and thankfully, been forgiven for my actions.

One of the most important things I learned during my twenties was the necessity of moderation. Though I enjoy a clean household and maintain one to this day, I've learned to let some things go and no longer freak out over the occasional, uncontrollable, accident (enter animal vomit).

But lately, as in my early twenties, most of my efforts have been directed towards re-centering myself. I've tackled a lot in the last year --- graduating, moving, and starting a job to name a few. And, I've found myself gravitating to certain behaviors, in moderation of course, that allow me to feel more comfortable. One of these behaviors, believe it or not, has been to simply make my bed each day. Now you must understand, I was never one to leave the comforter rolled up or pillows askew. But a few years ago, I quit obsessing about whether the sheets had the rights creases or the throw pillows were perfectly aligned.

As you are able to tell from the picture above, I wouldn't win any awards at West Point for the current condition of my bed. In fact, I'd probably pick up a demerit or two. But the slight modification of tending to my nest each morning in way that puts sometimes-sloppy creases in my sheets and the throw pillows in clumsy positions has made all the difference in the world. It's helped, among other things, to restore order in my life --- healthy, non-neurotic, and well-balanced order. For that, I'm thankful. And for that, I'll continue to take the two minutes each morning required to make a bed.

Addiction

2008-12-17T08:14:00.002-06:00

Because of work (many of my clients are drug addicts) and recent happenings in my life (no, not my own problems), I've spent a lot of time thinking about addiction. I plan to write more about it later; right now I must address the pile of papers on my desk that eagerly awaited my arrival. But, as I read through older posts from The Stone's Colossal Dream last night, I came across this one, which included a poem entitled "Addiction" by Sheryl St. Germain.

Addiction
In memory of my brother, Jay St. Germain, 1958-1981

The truth is I loved it,
the whole ritual of it,
the way he would fist up his arm, then
hold it out so trusting and bare,
the vein pushed up all blue and throbbing
and wanting to be pierced,
his opposite hand gripped tight as death
around the upper arm,

the way I would try to enter the vein,
almost parallel to the arm,
push lightly but firmly, not
too deep,
you don't want to go through
the vein, just in,
then pull back until you see
blood, then

hold the needle very still, slowly
shoot him with it.
Like that I would enter him,
slowly, slowly, very still,
don't move,
then he would let the fist out,
loosen his grip on the upper arm--

and oh, the movement of his lips
when he asked that I open my arms.
How careful,
how good he was, sliding
the needle silver and slender
so easily into me, as though
my skin and veins were made for it,
and when he had finished, pulled
it out, I would be coming
in my fingers, hands, my ear lobes
were coming, heart, thighs,
tongue, eyes and brain were coming,
thick and brilliant as the last thin match
against a homeless bitter cold.

I even loved the pin-sized bruises,
I would finger them alone in my room
like marks of passion;
by the time they turned yellow,
my dreams were full of needles.

We both took lovers who loved
this entering and being entered,
but when he brought over the
pale-faced girl so full of needle holes
he had to lay her on her back
like a corpse and stick the needle
over and over in her ankle veins
to find one that wasn't weary
of all that joy, I became sick
with it, but

you know, it still stalks my dreams,
and deaths make no difference:
there is only the body's huge wanting.

When I think of my brother
all spilled out on the floor
I say nothing to anyone.
I know what it's like to want joy
at any cost.

Sheryl St. Germain

For the Love of the World

2008-12-16T11:00:00.004-06:00

I came across the poem "For the Love of the World" a couple of days ago. I jotted down the author's name to look it up at a later date. But what made me decide to post it today was another very different kind of poem (more textured and layered) I stumbled upon when I visited one of my favorite blogs, The Stone's Colossal Dream.

Both struck me in very different ways. I hope you enjoy them.

For Love of the World
by Charlotte Tall Mountain

For the love of a tree,
she went out on a limb.

For the love of the sea,
she rocked the boat.

For the love of the earth,
she dug deeper.

For the love of community,
she mended fences.

For the love of the stars,
she let her light shine.

For the love of spirit,
she nurtured her soul.

For the love of a good time,
she sowed seeds of happiness.

For the love of the Goddess,
she drew down the moon.

For the love of nature,
she made compost.

For the love of a good meal,
she gave thanks.

For the love of family,
she reconciled differences.

For the love of creativity,
she entertained new possibilities.

For the love of her enemies,
she suspended judgment.

For the love of herself,
she acknowledged her worth.

And the world was richer for her.

Yet Another Reason to Love Gardenias

2008-12-16T06:55:00.005-06:00

There are plenty of reasons to love Gardenias. Last week, however, I discovered yet another. Only after I shlepped the Gardenia and a few other potted plants from outside into my bedroom in order to ward-off both death by frost and destruction from my cats (who are not allowed into my bedroom), did I realize the cute little sign that explained the sturdiness of this flowered-plant species.

I was somewhat miffed at the time because this pot, in particular, deposited a large amount of dirt in my living room as I hauled it through the house. I am able to now, after a week, appreciate the bright side: I'll have one less living thing to worry about when the next freeze bears down on us.

))<>((

2008-12-15T21:02:00.002-06:00

From the movie entitled, "Me and You and Everyone We Know."

I shared this clip with a co-worker not too long ago and we laughed uncontrollably for a good half-hour. He reminded me of it the other day, and I just couldn't resist posting it here.

Sadly this clip is the shortest one I could find that truly captures the particular strain of the movie's essence I wanted to share. On the whole, the film was strange and weird, but hilarious at the same time.

Believe it or not, the tee-shirts are available for purchase here.

Brutal Battles

2008-12-15T15:44:00.008-06:00

"Running has given me the courage to start, the determination to keep trying, and the childlike spirit to have fun along the way. Run often and run long, but never outrun your joy of running."
---Julie Isphording, Marathon winner

Somedays you hit the pavement and running is fun and easy. Everything in the universe, it seems, lines up correctly. You feel great, empowered, and energized. Yesterday was, unfortunately, not one of the those days. Courage and determination were certainly present, but I'll have to work in order to add the "fun" Julie Isphording mentioned into the equation.

I set out to run yesterday's 10K, a distance of 6.2 miles, between 50-55 minutes. I finished within my goal. My "official" time, according to the New Orleans Track Club website, was 54:55. My real time, however, was 54:35. In spite of the use of chips --- a means to accurately measure when participants finish the race --- the chip failed to properly record the correct time I crossed the start line, 20 seconds after the official clock began to tick. But no sweat, I know my true time and that's all that matters.

Yesterday's run, all things considered, was a success. It served to help me become familiar with how races operate. I'd never heard of a chip prior to yesterday. I also have a better idea of how early I should arrive at the Mardi Gras marathon in order to prepare in a way that will allow me to feel comfortable. And because I started to have breathing problems (enter my friend asthma) only a couple of miles into the race, I should probably schedule another appointment to more aggressively treat my asthma in the upcoming weeks.

Due to my lack of oxygen issue at mile two, the remaining 4.2 miles were truly a test of my mental tenacity. That's what I've come to appreciate and love about running. In years past, my commitment to running was sporadic at best. When I ran, vanity motivated most of the miles I logged each week. But during the course of the last year, and particularly in the past two months, the mental challenges have me hooked.

I read that once running gets into your blood it's there for life. The difference from my first race in October, the Race for the Cure, and the Larry Fuselier Race yesterday was the type of individuals who signed up to compete. Most of yesterday's participants were life-long runners --- it was clear from their respective physiques. And it was nice to see a lot of couples who've shared, among other things, a life-long passion for running.

My favorite part of the race occurred around mile 2.5, right in the midst of my asthma flare up. I truly battled with the idea of walking for a couple of minutes. As my brain was fighting with my body, a man --- who by a generous estimate was in his late sixties, but more likely his early seventies --- passed me. As he edged by, he uttered these wonderful words of encouragement, "You can do this. You are doing terrific." His two sentences kept me going. It was clear this man had the "courage" to start running years ago, the "determination" to stick with it, and most of all still knew how to capture the "child-like spirit" to keep it "fun" along the way.

I hope my newfound passion for running continues to seep into my blood. I also hope, in forty years, I'm able to run by a thirty year old woman and utter similar words that instill confidence in her abilities and enable her to finish the race both strong and proud.

"Official" Results

2008-12-14T20:09:00.004-06:00

While not truly official, the results to the Larry Fuselier Race may be found here. I'm too tired to blog about it tonight, but due to issues with the chips used to track time, my actual time was 20 seconds faster.

I'll explain further tomorrow. Right now I'm headed to sleep. Though the race was somewhat brutal, I am able to rest my head on my pillow with a feeling of overall success. I'm pretty sure that's what this is all about, so I hope plenty of sweet dreams are in store.

A Day of Rest

2008-12-13T13:57:00.005-06:00

Today is a day of rest. No, I'm not referring to the one mandated by Halakha (Jewish law) that I spoke of in the post below. But rather, a day off from the normal running schedule I've followed to prepare for the Mardi Gras Marathon.

Saturdays have been set aside for "pace runs" --- by that I mean I run a pre-determined number of miles at the pace I plan to maintain in the half-marathon. Because my target pace is rather aggressive for someone who's never run a half-marathon before, these runs usually don't exceed four miles. I've used Sundays, thus far, to complete my long runs, which are a vital part of the training process. But, because I opted to sign up for tomorrow's Larry Fuselier 10K race, there will be no running for me today. Only rest and lots of stretching.

Gut Shabbos!

2008-12-12T14:39:00.006-06:00

It wasn't until several months after I started to attend services when I realized the individuals I encountered were saying Gut Shabbos --- as it is pronounced in Yiddish --- instead of Good Shabbos. But, the most common greeting on Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath, is Shabbat Shalom. Either way, I'm happy it's Friday and I'm happy Shabbat is near.

Honoring Shabbat was one of the first things I embraced as I began to study Judaism. The idea of Shabbat as an island of time, a day away from the material things of this world, was/is appealing. In the beginning, before I'd ever attended services, I would prepare myself a lovely meal, light candles, say the proper blessings (as best I could), and usually spend the evening reading and simply appreciating life.

Once I started to attend services, the way in which I celebrated Shabbat shifted from week to week. Since I moved to New Orleans I haven't really settled into a rhythm with Shabbat. I'm not bothered by the lack of a set routine on Friday evenings. I do, however, want to start being more cognizant of the importance of this day. I want to use it as a means to shed the stress of the past week and to reenergize my mind, body, and soul.

Last week, a friend of mine and I planned to attend services at Temple Sinai. We were both looking for an intimate spiritual experience. The new Rabbi at Touro Synagogue, Alexis Berk, was set to be officially installed, so we figured services there would be too ceremonial for our liking. At the last minute, however, we realized Temple Sinai's services were joined with Touro Synagogue's to celebrate the installation. Thus, we opted to break bread and enjoy a glass of wine to welcome the Sabbath Bride in our own special way. It was a nice evening.

I'm not certain yet what I'll do tonight. There's a good chance I'll attend services. It's been a couple of weeks, and I think it's what my soul is yearning for. I will, undoubtedly, make Shabbat special in some way.

Gut Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom everyone.

Snow in Louisiana: The Varying Perspectives of Southerners and Yankees

2008-12-11T22:17:00.011-06:00

This is how it all started. Well, not quite with the picture above, but with a text from my folks at 5:09 A.M. stating, "It's snowing here." Then, at 5:20, I received another text with a link to pictures --- including the one above. At 5:36 came the following email, "We woke up at different times during the night to check the snow condition just like kids, finally at 4:30 we saw it. It's is beautiful! Wish you were here."

How adorable are they? I love how in most of the shots either my mom or poppa posed in the pictures. I wish I'd been there too; Jacques would have loved to run around in the snow. I'm certain of it.

But, back in New Orleans, there were flurries outside of my house....

Then my car when I arrived to work....

A couple of shots from my office windows.....

Shockingly, the first work email about the snow didn't arrive in my inbox until 8:11. My favorites included:

Northerner: it's snowing (subject line only)

Native of NOLA: Impossible. This is New Orleans.

Midwesterner: I know it's so cool! I wish it would close court.

Native of NOLA: We do shut down when this happens.

New Yorker #1: I nearly spit my morning tea out laughing when they announced SCHOOL CLOSINGS.

Native of NOLA: Is that snow? I knew we let too many yankees come here. Yawl done brought your weather.

New Yorker #2: One advantage to having an office where nobody is actually from New Orleans is that we Yankees are actually well equipped to deal with this.

Native of NOLA: New Yorker, Thank you. You can have my trial. But don't believe you will have anyone for the jury. Unless they are snow birds.

New Yorker #2: Always turn into the skid. When you shovel, get low and lift with your knees. You can take the boy out of Albany.....

Texan: This Southerner has been trying to drive for the last fifteen minutes. Any idea how to keep the snow from clogging up the back window? My defroster is on and I still can't see.

It certainly was a fun day to be a New Orleanian.

Why I Love GOP

2008-12-10T20:29:00.003-06:00

No fears: I'm certainly not talking about the Grand Old Party. Tonight I am, instead, raving about one of my favorite pasta dishes. It is not only incredibly easy to make, but also delicious. The GOP stands for garlic, olive oil, and parsley. Simple, yet tasty.

For the last two nights I entertained guests at my house. Monday was a larger party, and last night my friend Michelle came over for both dinner and for a pre-arranged puppy play date between Jacques and her dog Jordan. Michelle was initially worried about how the two pups would get along. Specifically, she worried about Jacques being territorial since Jordan, another male dog, would be entering his space. I reassured her that Jacques is, what I've termed, a puppy politician. He's never met another dog he didn't get along with. Sure enough, the two pups were thick as thieves by the end of the night. They chased balls, one another, and colluded in their efforts to befriend/corner my cats. By the end of the evening, both Jacques and Jordan were rightfully exhausted.

I thoroughly enjoyed welcoming folks into my living space on Monday and Tuesday. But tonight, particularly with the change in weather, I wanted to curl up on my couch with a good book. Dinner, of course, had to be handled. And to save money and improve my diet for the marathon training, my goal has been to prepare nearly all of my meals at home.

Tonight, the GOP was the perfect option. I threw in a chicken breast for protein sake and complimented the meal with my grandmother's potato salad recipe (left-overs from the gumbo).

I'm off to do a little more reading and then plan to retire early. I have an early morning run to complete before work, so sleep within the next hour is essential. Good night.

The Countdown

2008-12-10T08:33:00.002-06:00

Get this widget!

Boys Aren't Mean But My Friends Are Great

2008-12-09T13:22:00.004-06:00

Let me start by saying this post will be disjointed at best. I used the picture above because it will help to segue into the story I want to tell below. That story involved a cupcake rather than a cookie on a stick. But both the cookie and cupcake were pleasant surprises from wonderful people in my life.

First, the cookie. Of course I don't think boys are mean, generally. And really, when I pause to think about it, I don't know of any specific boys who are mean either. But a friend of mine, a couple of days after my recent relationship ended, called to see if I was home from work. She said she was in my neighborhood and wanted to drop a little something off at my house. I --- as I've found myself doing more and more these days --- was unfortunately still at the office. But, when I arrived home I found the cookie in a bag with a sweet card attached. It was not meant to bash my ex, but to lift my spirits. It worked, even if only momentarily.

Last week, when I returned from court, I found a cupcake lying near my keyboard. I was incredibly hungry, and thus, failed to pause to take a picture before I ravenously devoured it. But the story behind the cupcake, like the co-worker who left it there, is special.

Last week my co-worker, L, lost her grandfather. L is one of the hardest working folks at our office and she has a huge heart. My view on work and on life generally is that if I can make a difference in one person's life, then I've done my part. Based on my standard alone, L had not only done her part, but exceeded it multiple times.

The night before her grandfather's funeral, L sent out an email to our entire office. The subject wasn't about her recent loss, but instead, about an important upcoming event in one of her client's lives. For privacy sake, I'll refer to L's client as John. John is a character. He loves L and because of his nearly daily visits to her office several of the other attorneys, including myself, have come to know and also adore John. So what was the special event? John was set to celebrate the first year anniversary of his sobriety the next day. Since L was going to be out of the office attending the funeral, she asked us to congratulate John if we happened to see him around the office.

Luckily, as I drove into work the next morning, I immediately spotted John, dressed as dapper as ever, talking with his friends in front of our office building. It was the perfect opportunity to show support for John's amazing milestone. I stopped my car, rolled down the window, and gave the biggest and loudest shout-out possible. John threw his hands into the air and started to dance around in joy, while all of his friends clapped and gave him high-fives in support.

It was a proud moment for John, as it should have been. Combating substance abuse is not an easy task for anyone. But, most of our clients come from impoverished backgrounds and grew up in situations that cause me to wonder, if put in similar circumstances, how I would have fared. So their ability to "make it out" is, I believe, extra special.

It was also a proud moment for me. I thought of L and all of the work she's done to help John arrive at the place he is today. But, I also thought of how amazing she is because L is very close to her family, and yet in a time of extreme loss and pain, she was still thinking of others. Rather than keeping my thoughts to myself, I picked up the phone and left her a message. The message was simple: L, you are an amazing person; your thoughtful email truly made a difference in John's life; I'm so happy to work with you; and I'm here if you need anything today.

The very next day L left the aforementioned cupcake on my desk with a sweet note thanking me for being such a great friend in the last few months. Yet another example of how selfless she is.

The cupcake, due to the amount of work piled up on my desk, was my lunch that day. But as a very wise person in my life stated when I relayed the story to her, "Nutritional nourishment may have been missing from your meal, but emotionally you were certainly satiated." I agree.

I have only lived in New Orleans for eleven months. But, I've met so many amazing people that have truly become friends of mine in every sense of the word. I'm blessed and thankful.

The Image is Everything

2008-12-08T08:11:00.007-06:00

A friend and beloved mentor sent this image to me on November 5th, the day after the Presidential election. No words were necessary.

I, or should I say my legs, share the same sentiment today. Mondays, according to my training schedule for the half-marathon, involve "Stretch and Strengthening." After all the miles I completed last week, there will be much more stretching than strengthening at the gym today. As for my feelings on the matter, I won't attempt to reduce them to words.

Lives Remembered

2008-12-08T05:21:00.020-06:00

Lives Remembered: Photographs of a Small Town in Poland 1897-1939 is an exhibit currently on display at the World War II Museum in New Orleans. If you haven't been it's worth a trip. I saw the exhibit last night and attended a screening of "Inheritance," a film about the child of a high-ranking Nazi officer who struggles to come to grips with the truth about her parents, mainly her father, and her own demons that resulted from simply being born to the two individuals.

I could write several pages on my views of the film alone. It, much like a film I saw last week entitled "The Boy in the Stripped Pajamas," raised conflicting feelings within my soul. I may blog about it later, but if you'd like to read my friend Sara's take on "The Boy in the Stripped Pajamas," you may find it here.

As I drove home last night, I realized the irony in the title of the exhibition (Lives Remembered) and my recent struggles. I remembered how I wanted to see the exhibit the weekend my parents were in town to celebrate my birthday. Instead, we went to the Insectarium, partially because I believed it would be interesting and partially because I thought it would please the guy I was then dating. Due to our trip to the Insectarium and due to my failure to speak up about my true desires, a day that was supposed to include the Insectarium, Lives Remembered, and dinner turned into something different.

I blame no one but myself for my failure to see the exhibit that night. For better or worse, my most recent relationship was one where I held close to nothing back, emotionally, but likely compromised more of me than should have felt comfortable. When it ended, I was left with far more questions than answers as to why things didn't work. What I've learned is how sometimes, no matter our desire to know, the answers will continue to elude us. I am a very analytical person, but I reached a point where the analysis was crippling. Rather than remembering "us" my focus, thus, shifted to remembering my life and all of the wonderful aspects that encompass me --- the compassionate friend, daughter, worker, and human being.

So this weekend, I set out to do the things I enjoy, the things that make me me. On Saturday, I stocked my kitchen with groceries from, in my opinion, the best grocery store in the Greater New Orleans area, Dorignac's. Yesterday, I awoke to a clean house with a fully (and I mean fully) stocked pantry. I prepared myself a wonderful breakfast and then headed to the dog park with Jacques. After an hour or so of him romping around and acting like a fool with the other pups, we headed to the office for several hours of paper work. When I returned home, I went for a long run, the longest I've completed in over eight years. And even though, initially, I didn't know anyone who planned to attend the exhibit and film showing, I opted to attend alone (my friend Tzipa joined me later).

The bottom line: during the last several weeks I've experienced ups and downs. Making the adjustment from having someone in your life you look forward to seeing at the end of the day to being alone is not easy. The weekends, I've found to be the toughest. But, my efforts in the last few weeks to process the lessons learned certainly had their place and paid off. The processing, however, is over. This weekend was about remembering my life and what makes me special. Luckily, I didn't have to work too hard to appreciate me.

To keep in the vein of reconnecting with my passions, I'm off to prepare a lovely pot of gumbo at this early hour. I've invited guests over tonight to share in the warmth of not only the food, but also the warmth of my home, friendship, and all of the love that's about to go into the large pot.

I Love Steroids

2008-12-07T16:14:00.003-06:00

It's true; I do love steroids, corticosteroids. I have asthma, but for the last four years I failed to take medicine to treat my symptoms. Last week I decided if I seriously intended to train to run long distances, the wise decision would be to pay a visit to an asthma professional. I know, I'm brilliant right? Go ahead and say it.

Anyway, the doctor I saw was thorough and pleasant. He placed me on maintenance therapy for asthma in the form of a corticosteroid and also provided a script for a rescue inhaler. After five days of taking the maintenance medicine, I could finally breathe on my run today. You'd be surprised what a difference that makes.

My Heart is Broken

2008-12-05T17:45:00.004-06:00

I grabbed this box of Wheat Thins while at the supermarket the other day. I saw reduced fat, whole grain, and french onion. All seemed right in the world, so I was good to go. I was mistaken.

One of my majors in undergrad was Kinesiology, which is technically the study of human movement, but encompasses all things fitness oriented. In addition, I was a college athlete, and was told to a mind-numbing degree how to regulate my diet. This, of course, included the practice of examining labels prior to a purchase.

I'd like to blame my failure to notice that the "new-and-improved" reduced fat Wheat Thins contained a ridiculous amount of sodium --- which I realized immediately upon opening the box and popping one into my mouth this evening --- on the fact that I was in a rush at the supermarket. But, once I examined the box and realized 16 crackers contained 290 mg of sodium, 12% of the recommended intake per day, I closed it and reached for my beloved bag of Smartfood. As I enjoyed the first handful of this delicious popcorn, I flipped the bag around to feel "smart" about my second choice. Much to my dismay, 1 & 3/4 cup of Smartfood contains 290 mg of sodium too.

What's a girl to do? It hurt. It shook me to my core. This wound may take time to heal. I couldn't even bring myself to post a picture of my beloved snack on this blog. I guess it's celery and baby carrots from here on out.

No Turning Back

2008-12-04T11:14:00.003-06:00

Paid my entry fees today.

No excuses. Forward movement only, lots of it.

Adult Decisions

2008-12-04T09:42:00.003-06:00

I would not go back in time. I have no desire to be 15, 21, or even 25 again. But the youthful sense of being care-free, I must admit, I sometimes miss. I'm feeling a little of that today because I decided to cancel my NY trip.

Of the list of things I set out to overcome roughly five years ago, becoming more financially responsible is all that remains. In spite of the free flight and the free place to stay, once I put my pencil to the paper the trip simply didn't make sense.

I feel good about the decision. I've derived a plan to save money for a get-away at the beginning of next year. Once I reach my goal, I'll book the flight. Then, perhaps, I'll truly have a care-free vacation, unlike the ones of my youth that put me further and further into debt. Growing up isn't so bad after all.

How Under Armour and My New Polar RS400sd Saved the Day

2008-12-03T15:25:00.003-06:00

So yesterday was freezing -- at least it seemed that way to me -- and the last thing I felt like doing was running in the cold. Luckily, while I was in Atlanta, my folks and I went to several sporting goods stores. My parents have been adorable; I think they are just as excited as I am about the Mardi Gras Marathon. Of course, they plan to attend. To assist in my efforts they offered to purchase any running gear I needed. I, therefore, left with several pairs of awesome running socks, a great hat, and several pieces of Under Armour clothes suitable for running in cold temperatures.

Yesterday, for the first time, I donned my Under Armour and hit the streets of Uptown. In spite of the bitter wind, I remained warm the entire run. I tried out my new heart rate monitor too, and it is amazing. I'm sure I'll write more about it once I figure out how to operate all of the features. Anyhow, I finished roughly half of the distance of a half-marathon in 55 minutes. Not too bad. My goal for the actual race, though I'm keeping it private for now, is a little more aggressive than yesterday's pace. But, I am still 8 weeks out, so there is hope.

I Heart Jacques

2008-12-02T06:43:00.007-06:00

Of course I'm partial, but I'm certain I have the best dog in the world. You see, my natural alarm woke me up at 5:30 this morning. This, however, was only 30 minutes before my real alarm, because I planned to go for a run prior to work. But when I stepped out of bed, I realized my decision to sleep with the AC on 68 degrees last night was a poor one. The thermostat in my house was marking 64 degrees. Yikes.

So, what does this have to do with Jacques? Well, he could simultaneously be considered the lowest and highest maintenance dog in the world. He is, sadly, afraid of humans - sometimes I understand why - but loves other dogs. And though Jacques has been much less anxious on our walks around my neighborhood lately, he is also perfectly content to walk right outside of the door, do his business, and return to reclaim the warm spot on his bed. Once I realized it was 35 degrees outside this morning, I simply opened the door to my courtyard and entertained myself by creating the picture above while Jacques handled the rest.

How a Brownstone in Brooklyn Saved My Trip to NY

2008-12-01T19:26:00.005-06:00

The picture above is of a duplex in Atlanta; it's my old apartment, two blocks away from Piedmont Park. But more than the lovely park, I miss evenings on the front porch hanging out with my favorite folks from the neighborhood, Todd and Desiree.

So, of course during my visit to Atlanta this past weekend I stopped by Todd and Desiree's house to catch up. During our conversation, I mentioned that I was supposed to take a trip to NY this upcoming weekend, but decided to cancel because I couldn't justify spending money on a hotel room. As I continued to talk, Desiree got up out of her chair, grabbed an item off of the counter, walked over to me, and placed keys to their Brownstone in my hand. Todd then jotted down the address, the area in Brooklyn where their house is located, and the relevant cross-streets.

I'm thrilled. Desiree's company temporarily transferred her to NY, so she'll be there to welcome me, and Todd will arrive in the City on Thursday. The highlight, however, will be Ms. Gertie, the pup in the family. She was one of Jacques's best buds from Atlanta, and of course, she'll make the trek with Todd on Thursday too.

One thing is certain: tons of shots of Ms. Gertie are forthcoming.

Making Sense Out of Facebook's Strengths and Weaknesses

2008-12-01T10:49:00.002-06:00

Evidently Facebook has an application where your "friends" vote on how they perceive your strengths and weaknesses. So, this morning I received an email telling me my strengths included nicest, best singer, and best mother (potential). My weaknesses, however, were that I was voted best mannered and most trustworthy. WTF? Will someone explain who the hell thinks I sing well, but more importantly, how having good manners and being a trustworthy person is a weakness.

I'm confused.

A NY Times article on Mumbai and the West Wing

2008-11-30T08:09:00.005-06:00

As I read the article "What They Hate About Mumbai" this morning in the NY Times, I was reminded of one of my favorite episodes of the West Wing - "Isaac and Ishmael."

The episode aired right after 9/11 and was written by Aaron Sorkin immediately following the attacks on the World Trade Center. The story line includes a possible breach in White House security that occurs as a group of high school students are visiting. My favorite scene, found below, discusses why terrorist organizations hate America. The answer, which is given toward the end of the clip, basically suggests extremist groups find America's pluralism to be unpalatable.

I certainly don't believe anyone is able to analyze with certainty the emotional components of a terrorist group's actions. But Suketu Mehta's NY Times article basically makes the same argument as the writers of the West Wing. In it he states: "There's something about this island-state that appalls religious extremists, Hindus and Muslims alike. Perhaps because Mumbai stands for lucre, profane dreams and an indiscriminate openness."

Much like President Bush's call, after 9/11, for Americans to "fight back" by supporting the airlines, rather than avoiding traveling altogether, Mehta makes the same plea about Mumbai. He plans to book a flight and grab a beer at the Leopold Cafe. Since I share his desire, maybe my earlier post wasn't as strange as I thought. Maybe I'll see if Mehta wants a travel partner.

Garmin Forerunner 305 vs. Polar RS400sd

2008-11-29T21:19:00.007-06:00

As you all know, I plan to run a half-marathon on February 1st. The goal in the next 8-9 weeks is to simultaneously increase endurance while avoiding injury. I tend to run too fast, so monitoring my pace will be important. Therefore, I have decided to purchase a device which, among other things, will gauge my heart rate and pace.

I've currently narrowed the options down to either the Garmin Forerunner 305 (pictured above in red) or the Polar RS400sd (black). Any thoughts from you runners out there?

Why?

2008-11-29T18:08:00.005-06:00

After receiving emails from readers in response to my earlier post entitled "Why not give this another whirl?" where I mentioned my conversion to Judaism, I decided to share the speech I delivered the night of my conversion ceremony.

I plan to have it professionally framed as a gift to my children one day. In the meantime, the Internet form of memorializing it will have to do.

“Why?” During the last 18 months, this one-word question has been posed to me on numerous occasions. When asked, I’ve secretly longed for a fantastic tale to tell. The truth, however, does not involve a magical “ah-ha” moment. Instead, a series of gradual – and sometimes confluent – events eventually led me to choose to take my place among the Jewish people. My first memory of a time when I thought this may be it was when I read that Israel means “to wrestle with God.”

As I proceeded along my path toward Judaism, I wrestled not only with God, but perhaps, at times, too much with myself. It seems unfathomable to me now, but I remember driving to Beth Shalom in Baton Rouge and sitting in the parking lot for 15 minutes trying to find the courage to walk inside. Initially I worried my otherness would be apparent to every Jewish person I encountered at services, and because I wasn’t engaged to, or even dating someone Jewish at the time, I worried that folks would think my desire to convert was odd. Ironically, when I began to date someone Jewish, my concerns didn’t dissipate; instead I became sensitive to people assuming I was opting to convert because of him.

Thankfully, most of my worries, doubts, and anxieties have been supplanted by feelings of confidence and peace. I stand here today, as I did prior to entering the waters of the Mikvah this past Monday, with a love of Judaism and immense pride in my decision to become a Jew.

For me personally, Judaism – particularly as it is expressed through the Reform movement – simply makes sense. To fully explain the aspects of Judaism that resonate with me would require that I stand here and talk for more minutes than you are likely willing to endure. Thus, what follows is an abbreviated list: I love Judaism because of its emphasis on action over faith, on deed over creed, and because of its focus on the present life rather than the afterlife; I love that everyone is encouraged to read the Torah and join in the debate; I love that minority opinions in the Mishnah were preserved, and how this highlights the importance of respecting views other than your own, even when you hold the prevailing viewpoint; I love that in Judaism, people are not born blemished, and thus are not in need of salvation, but instead have both good (yetzer hatov) and bad (yetzer hara) inclinations, and the free will to choose between the two. Lastly, anyone here tonight who knows me, understands the social justice aspects of Judaism – expressed through tzedakah and tikkun olam – would have alone captured my attention. I love the idea that we are partners with God, and thus, are charged to actively assist him to repair the world and to complete creation.

I came across a quote recently by an individual who was capable of many things, including stating what he loved about Judaism more succinctly than I. Because I think his assessment is on target, I’d like to share it with you. On the topic of Judaism, Albert Einstein wrote the following: “A desire for knowledge for its own sake, a love of justice that borders on fanaticism, and a striving for personal independence – these are the aspects of the Jewish people’s tradition that allow me to regard my belonging to it as a gift of great fortune.”

I, too, feel very fortunate. I’d like to thank Rabbi Cohn, Cantor Coleman, and all of the individuals at Temple Sinai who’ve reached out and warmly welcomed me into this congregation. I look forward to the remainder of my journey that lies ahead and to becoming actively involved, as a Jewish woman, in this congregation and in the larger New Orleans community.

The Right Wing

2008-11-27T21:32:00.005-06:00

I'm spending Thanksgiving in Atlanta, GA with my parents and my aunt and uncle. My time here has been lovely. My family is great, but if you've read any of my earlier posts, you already know my political views vary greatly from theirs.

When I arrived last night, my uncle mentioned heading to the Right Wing Tavern to grab a bite to eat. Of course, I automatically assumed we were going to a wing joint. No complaints on my end. When we arrived, however, the "Right" part of the equation became very clear. The restaurant, believe it or not, had life-size cardboard cutouts of John McCain and Sarah Palin. Unfortunately, I have too much tact or I would have captured as many photos as possible. A few shots of the menu were all I could muster.

Just in case you are wondering, I ordered the Reagan wings, which were the spiciest ones offered. To calm my conscious, I told the waiter to pretend as if I'd ordered the Lincoln wings (milder version) with a tad bit more spice. What can I say? One does what one can.

Vacation in India?

2008-11-27T21:12:00.008-06:00

Tuesday night I met a couple of friends for dinner prior to leaving town for Turkey Day. During the course of our conversation I expressed my desire to take an exotic vacation in the near future. When pressed for a destination I responded Mumbai, India. The response was prompted by a book I finished last week entitled Shantaram, which is set in Mumbai. Ironically, one of the targeted sights in Wednesday's terrorist attacks, Leopold Cafe (see link to article below), was a favored hangout of the characters in Shantaram.

It's all a little strange. More odd, perhaps, is that my answer to the question remains the same. I would go to India in a heartbeat.

NY Times Article: http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2008/11/26/world/asia/20081126-mumbai-attacks.html?partner=permalink&exprod=permalink

This is how tortoises do it

2008-11-22T20:02:00.004-06:00

Thought I'd share a sight I stumbled upon while at the NOLA Zoo today. Though the view was hilarious, the surrounding comments were priceless.

From the children: "Mom, he's got two heads" and "He's a big fat turtle."

From a mother: "It's nature."

There were also two women without children nearby. One commented: "Turtles sure do take their time." The other replied: "I wonder how long this one takes."

Mardi Gras and Oh the Places We Will Go

2008-11-11T12:31:00.006-06:00

It's official. I'm going to run a marathon, or at least a half-marathon, on February 1, 2009.

On my run this morning, I thought of all of the strides (no pun intended) I've made in the last few years. Running in a marathon has always been a goal of mine. But because I had a lot of speed as a kid, I was labeled a sprinter. Sadly, in spite of the fact that I enjoy running distance and am fairly good at it, I've allowed myself to be crippled by the idea that I don't do distance well. No more.

My shoes and feet must be forewarned: we have lots of ground to cover. Mardi Gras Marathon here we come!

Credit where credit is due

2008-11-08T09:43:00.002-06:00

While these shots of the boy were a lot of fun.......

An email containing the following picture got the whole thing started....

Serious thoughts

2008-11-08T09:39:00.006-06:00

Jacques's brain, unlike mine, focused on serious events this morning. Instead of my own ideas, I'll go with Ariel's, which are certainly more clever.

"Professor Jacques ponders the sad state of affairs when his students would rather watch TV than play fetch with him."

"Professor Jacques solves the Yang-Mills existence and mass gap as he drifts off for his afternoon puppy nap."

"Like, thinking is like, totally hard for us blondes."

Mad bruises

2008-11-08T09:20:00.004-06:00

I realize this isn't the most attractive picture I could have posted. The scrapes and bruises are residual effects of an injury I sustained while playing ultimate frisbee last weekend. It was my first attempt at the game. I had a lot of fun.

The whole affair, however, made me think of how many times as a softball player I left the field with similar injuries. I also thought of how cool it would be if I had taken pictures throughout the years and could now post them in their proper order. I realize it's a little strange, but that's where my brain went this morning. I'm learning that sometimes, I simply have to follow it.

Why not give this another whirl?

2008-11-05T19:39:00.005-06:00

I suppose this post should have preceded the last one. But, I'm pensive tonight and I never know if the mood will bring a rash of creativity or a lack of it. It's weird: sometimes words flow quite easily from my mind onto the page, and other times all the effort in the world only yields a clumsy sentence or two.

So, it's been quite a while. I'm not exactly sure of the timeline, but maybe something like two years since I've posted on this blog. So much has changed since then. I've graduated, am working as a public defender in New Orleans, celebrated my 30th birthday, converted to Judaism, and recently ended a relationship with a guy that I was certain would last much longer than it did. I've grown. I now know I'm capable of being a partner to another human being, the kind of partner I want to find for myself -- open, giving, accepting, nurturing, and loving. I'm wiser, and yet in many ways, I feel the same; I'm still searching, still uncertain about my future, and still simultaneously appreciating and struggling to accept that this is what life is about.

I'm reminded tonight of a question posed to me about the canoe in the picture above. "Why the canoe?" someone asked. I replied months ago by stating: "no matter what, this life is one we ultimately travel alone. of course, we share what we can with others....and the sharing makes life extra special. in the end, though, the course we take is ours to determine. the image of the canoe provides a sense of comfort. i am a capable captain and I can steer it wherever i'd like. that thought is liberating."

In retrospect, it's all about balance, I suppose; it's about knowing when to take the reins yourself and when to rely on others for help.

No guarantees, but I'll probably write soon. I feel it coming on.

Sometimes it's best to let others say it for you: Take II

2008-11-05T19:35:00.000-06:00

Hope Alone

Let's not drag this out, everything's in motion
Though I've only ever loved you kind and with devotion
I remember when I met you and even from the start
I thought one day you'd probably just come home and break my heart
It's funny what you know and still go on pretending
With no good evidence you'll ever see that happy ending
You were looking for your distance and sensing my resistance you had to do your will
I had to learn the hard way
We were just an empty dream too big for hope alone to fill
I know I'm a dreamer, so I'll give you that
Still I hope I'm more than just a place you laid your hat
You're a land of secrets, its only citizen
And though I paid my dues I was never allowed in
And so I am a stranger but especially today
As I get sad and lonely and you get your way
You were looking for your distance and sensing my resistance you had to do your will
I had to learn the hard way
We were just an empty dream too big for hope alone to fill
Holding out for change I know we never stood a chance
So I could only wait and watch you slip right through my hands

--- The Indigo Girls

Free Speech Fun

2007-06-30T12:17:00.000-05:00

A Love Story in 3 Pictures

2007-03-29T07:44:00.000-05:00

My friend Jenee sent me the following email this morning. Because I'm not a fan of the mass forward, I figured I'd post it on my blog. It's simply too funny not to share.

p.s. I know my blogging commitment has been pretty awful as of late. But, please cut me some slack for the next few weeks. I've made a firm commitment to my studies this semester. It may be a little late, but I'm finally plugged into school, and it feels pretty good.

Cutie Pie

2007-03-01T09:50:00.001-06:00

There may not be a picture that better captures the essence of Austin, my nephew. The helmet is superhero tough guy gear. But notice, he's also holding a rolling pin. The relevance? Well, Austin is the spitting image of my father. My dad beams every time Austin enters the room. They share killer baby blues, and long, curly eyelashes. My father would love nothing more than for Austin to share his passion for hunting. Were it not for loud protests from my mother and I, he would have given Austin a gun for his 4th birthday. Unfortunately, I'm not kidding.

Much to my father's dismay, Austin has an amazingly tender heart. Instead of a desire to harm animals, he is routinely fascinated by their beauty. I hope societal pressure doesn't convince Austin to drop his rolling pen in exchange for more "manly" pursuits, unless of course, that is what he truly desires.

The Mind

2007-02-19T16:19:00.001-06:00

Since I started therapy eight months ago, I intended to file a claim with BlueCross in the hopes of having them foot the bill. My policy doesn't cover mental health, but I figure it was worth a shot. Yesterday, I finally emailed my therapist to inquire about the proper procedures. She, of course, was willing to help me fill out the forms and also indicated I would need the following information: her license number, cpt code, diagnosis code, etc.

Diagnosis code? The thought made me chuckle a bit. I remember a similar occasion that occurred with my first therapist. I'm not sure how the subject came up. Perhaps I asked what the hell was in the huge file he lugged to every session, or maybe we were simply discussing trivial insurance matters. The only thing I'm certain of is how my chest tightened at the mention of "my diagnosis." For several seconds, I sat there speechless.

At age 20, the thought of being a little crazy slightly appealed to me. I was still reeling from two awful relationships and several bad decisions that left me alienated from my family. Although I had emerged from the worst of it, I still carried my armor wherever I went. I was tough. I was impenetrable. At least that's what I told myself. If I were officially deemed crazy this would supply yet another mask to don, another layer of protection. Yet, at that moment the label terrified me. As my therapist explained the need for a diagnosis in every case in order to satisfy the insurance companies, my anxiety began to dissipate. Not surprisingly, I was diagnosed with General Anxiety Disorder.

I was reminded yesterday of not only my past fears and emotions, but also our society's unhealthy attitudes towards mental illness. It is the pariah of the medical profession and the dark secret of many families. I have numerous friends who refuse to either take anti-depressants or see a therapist, while others speak of their practices only furtively. I, on the other hand, have always candidly discussed therapy and the instances when I've taken anti-depressants. Therapy is not an easy process. It takes a lot of courage. I believe wholeheartedly that my willingness to genuinely self-reflect makes me stronger than most folks. So why, yesterday, did those two words - diagnosis code - pique my interest? If I went to a physician because I felt a little ill, would it matter if he deemed it a mild case of influenza or a common cold?

Played out in the real world, society's view of mental defects may result in pernicious consequences. One example is a typical scenario capital defenders face when their clients are mentally retarded. In 2002 the Supreme Court, in Atkins v. Virgina, finally declared the execution of mentally retarded offenders was unconstitutuional. I've heard more the one attorney recount instances wherein they explained to a mentally retarded client, in painstaking detail, that this fact alone would save their life. However, the attorney's efforts are often met with great disdain due to the shame associated with mental deficiencies. Clients often refuse to allow their lawyers to publicly mention the words mental retardation, even if it means death. One woman told me the only tactic that worked with her client was to tell him that they were only pretending he was retarded. With only an IQ of 60, he went right along with the plan.

I know this post was a little disjointed, but what do you guys think about mental illness? Is it different from other illnesses? If so, why? If not, why do we as a society approach it differently?

Gary Tyler

2007-02-08T11:25:00.002-06:00

In 1974, Gary Tyler was sentenced to death for a murder he didn't commit. I met Gary two years ago at LongTermer's Day at Angola. He is an amazing man - very sincere and very jovial. Gary's case is a perfect example of the legal lynching I described in my earlier post, Strange Fruit.

The NY Times recently ran three editorials on the Tyler case: A Death in Destrahan, Gary Tyler's Lost Decades, and today's piece They Beat Gary So Bad. I'll defer to the pros and allow the Times to tell the story. Since the articles were published in the NY Times Select, they may not be accessible to everyone, so I've copied and pasted them below.

Side note: Gary's attorney, Mary Howell is one of the finest people I've met in the legal world. I hope to be like her when I grow up. She's truly learned to balance life with her passion for the law. And balance, my dear friends, has never been my forte.

Feburary 1, 2007
A Death In Destrehan

By BOB HERBERT
On the afternoon of Oct. 7, 1974, a mob of 200 enraged whites, many of them students, closed in on a bus filled with black students that was trying to pull away from the local high school. The people in the mob were in a high-pitched frenzy. They screamed racial epithets and bombarded the bus with rocks and bottles. The students on the bus were terrified.

When a shot was heard, the kids on the bus dived for cover. But it was a 13-year-old white boy standing near the bus, not far from his mother, who toppled to the ground with a bullet wound in his head. The boy, a freshman named Timothy Weber, died a few hours later.

That single shot in this rural town about 25 miles up the Mississippi River from New Orleans set in motion a tale of appalling injustice that has lasted to the present day.

Destrehan was in turmoil in 1974 over school integration. The Supreme Court's historic desegregation ruling was already 20 years old -- time enough, the courts said, for Destrehan and the surrounding area to comply. But the Ku Klux Klan was still welcome in Destrehan in those days, and David Duke, its one-time imperial wizard, was an admired figure. White families in the region wanted no part of integration.

When black students were admitted to Destrehan High, they were greeted with taunts, various forms of humiliation and violence. Some of the black students fought back, and in the period leading up to the shooting there had been racial fights at a football game and inside the school.

While the Weber boy was being taken to a hospital, authorities ordered the black students off the bus and searched each one. The bus was also thoroughly searched. No weapon was found, and there was no evidence to indicate that the shot had come from the bus. The bus driver insisted it had not come from the bus, but from someone firing at the bus.

One of the black youngsters, a 16-year-old named Gary Tyler, was arrested for disturbing the peace after he talked back to a sheriff's deputy -- one of the few deputies in St. Charles Parish who was black. It may have been young Tyler's impudence that doomed him. He was branded on the spot as the designated killer.

(Later, at a trial, the deputy, Nelson Coleman, was asked whose peace had been disturbed by Mr. Tyler's comments. ''Mine,'' he replied.)

Matters moved amazingly fast after the shooting. Racial tension gave way to racial hysteria. A white boy had been killed and some black had to pay. Mr. Tyler, as good a black as any, was taken to a sheriff's substation where he was beaten unmercifully amid shouted commands that he confess. He would not.

It didn't matter. In just a little over a year he would be tried, convicted by an all-white jury and sentenced to death by electrocution.

The efficiency of the process was chilling. Evidence began to miraculously appear. Investigators ''found'' a .45-caliber pistol. Never mind that there were no fingerprints on it and it turned out to have been stolen from a firing range used by the sheriff's deputies. (Or that it subsequently disappeared as conveniently as it was found.) The authorities said they found the gun on the bus, despite the fact that the initial search had turned up nothing.

The authorities found witnesses who said that Mr. Tyler had been the gunman. Never mind that the main witness, a former girlfriend of Mr. Tyler's, was a troubled youngster who had been under the care of a psychiatrist and had a history of reporting phony crimes to the police, including a false report of a kidnapping. She and every other witness who fingered Mr. Tyler would later recant, charging that they had been terrorized into testifying falsely by the police.

A sworn affidavit from Larry Dabney, who was seated by Mr. Tyler on the bus, was typical. He said his treatment by the police was the ''scariest thing'' he'd ever experienced. ''They didn't even ask me what I saw,'' he said. ''They told me flat out that I was going to be their key witness. They told me I was going to testify that I saw Gary with a gun right after I heard the shot and that a few minutes later I had seen him hide it in a slit in the seat. That was not true. I didn't see Gary or anybody else in that bus with a gun.''

Mr. Tyler was spared electrocution when the Supreme Court declared Louisiana's death penalty unconstitutional. But in many ways he has in fact paid with his life. He'll turn 50 this year in the state penitentiary at Angola, where he is serving out his sentence of life without parole for the murder of Timothy Weber.

February 5, 2007
Gary Tyler’s Lost Decades

By BOB HERBERT
Destrehan, La.

The term “time warp” could have been coined for this rural town of 11,000 residents that sits beside, and just a little below, the Mississippi River. A remnant of the sugar-plantation era, the region’s racially troubled past is always here, seldom spoken about but inescapable, like the murk in the air of a perpetually stalled weather front.

The Harry Hurst Middle School is on the site of the old Destrehan High School, which was the scene of violent protests during the integration period of the 1970s. Local residents have tried to blot out the murder case that made Destrehan High notorious three decades ago, but there’s a big problem with that collective effort to forget. The black teenager who was railroaded into prison (and almost into the electric chair) for the murder of a white student in 1974 is still in prison all these many years later. He’s middle-aged now, still suffering through a life sentence without any chance for parole in the notorious state penitentiary at Angola.

There is no longer any doubt that the case against the teenager, Gary Tyler, was a travesty. A federal appeals court ruled unequivocally that he did not receive a fair trial. The Louisiana Board of Pardons issued rulings on three occasions that would have allowed Mr. Tyler to be freed.

But this is the South and Mr. Tyler was a black person convicted of killing a white. It didn’t matter that the case was built on bogus evidence and coerced witnesses, or that the trial was, in the words of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit, “fundamentally unfair.” Mr. Tyler was never given a new trial and the pardon board recommendations were rejected by two governors.

(Lurking in the background as the case unfolded was David Duke, a former grand wizard of the Ku Klux Klan who was very active politically in Louisiana and always ready to inject his poison into the public issues of the day. If you drive around Destrehan and nearby communities today you will still see some of the old blue-and-white campaign signs for Duke.)

Mr. Tyler, a sophomore at Destrehan High, was on a bus filled with black students that was attacked on Oct. 7, 1974, by a white mob enraged over school integration. A shot was fired and a 13-year-old white boy standing outside the bus collapsed, mortally wounded. Mr. Tyler was arrested on a charge of disturbing the peace after he talked back to a sheriff’s deputy.

Although the bus and its passengers were searched and no weapon was found, Mr. Tyler was taken into custody, savagely beaten and accused of committing the murder. A gun was “found” during a subsequent search of the bus and witnesses were rounded up to testify against Mr. Tyler. It turned out that the gun (which has since disappeared) had been stolen from a firing range used by officers of the sheriff’s department. All of the witnesses who fingered Mr. Tyler would eventually recant, saying they had been terrorized into testifying falsely by the authorities.

Mr. Tyler was represented at trial by a white sole practitioner who had never handled a murder case, much less a death penalty case. He kept his meetings with his client to a minimum and would later complain about the money he was paid.

The outcome was predictable. Mr. Tyler was convicted and sentenced to die in the electric chair by an all-white jury. At 17, he was the youngest prisoner on death row in the country. He almost certainly would have been executed if the U.S. Supreme Court had not ruled the Louisiana death penalty unconstitutional.

The Fifth Circuit ruling in 1981 said that an improper charge to the jury had denied Mr. Tyler the presumption of innocence at his trial. “It is folly,” the court said, “to argue that the erroneous charge did not affect the central determination of guilt or innocence.”

What was folly was any expectation that Mr. Tyler would be treated fairly at any point. Despite the appeals court ruling, he was denied a new trial on a technicality.

Now consider this, because it will tell you all you need to know about racial justice in the South. A 19-year-old black man named Richard Dunn was shotgunned to death as he was heading home from a benefit dance in support of Mr. Tyler at Southern University in New Orleans in 1976. A white man, Anthony Mart, was arrested and convicted of shooting Mr. Dunn from a passing car.

Gary Tyler’s current attorney, Mary Howell, ruefully explained what happened to Mr. Mart for the cold-blooded killing of a black stranger: He was sent to prison for life but was pardoned and freed after serving about 10 years.

February 8, 2007
‘They Beat Gary So Bad’

By BOB HERBERT
ST. ROSE, La.

Juanita Tyler lives in a neat one-story house that sits behind a glistening magnolia tree that dominates the small front lawn.

She is 74 now and unfailingly gracious, but she admits to being tired from a lifetime of hard work and trouble. I went to see her to talk about her son, Gary.

The Tylers are black. In 1974, when Gary was 16, he was accused of murdering a 13-year-old white boy outside the high school that they attended in nearby Destrehan. The boy was shot to death in the midst of turmoil over school integration, which the local whites were resisting violently.

The case against young Tyler — who was on a bus with other black students that was attacked by about 200 whites — was built on bogus evidence and coerced testimony. But that was enough to get him convicted by an all-white jury and sentenced to die in the electric chair. His life was spared when the Louisiana death penalty was ruled unconstitutional, but he is serving out a life sentence with no chance of parole in the state penitentiary at Angola.

Ms. Tyler’s sharpest memory of the day Gary was arrested was of sitting in a room at a sheriff’s station, listening to deputies in the next room savagely beating her son.

“They beat Gary so bad,” she said. “My poor child. I couldn’t do nothing. They wouldn’t let me in there. I saw who went in there. They were like older men. They didn’t care that I was there. They didn’t care who was there. They beat Gary something awful, and I could hear him hollering and moaning. All I could say was, ‘Oh Jesus, have mercy.’

“One of the deputies had a strap and they whipped him with that. It was terrible. Finally, when they let me go in there, Gary was just trembling. He was frightened to death. He was trembling and rocking back and forth. They had kicked him all in his privates. He said, ‘Mama, they kicked me. One kicked me in the front and one kicked in the back.’ He said that over and over.

“I couldn’t believe what they had done to my baby.”

The deputies had tried to get Gary to confess, but he wouldn’t. Ms. Tyler (like so many people who have looked closely at this case) was scornful of the evidence the authorities came up with.

“It was ridiculous,” she said. “Where was he gonna get that big ol’ police gun they said he used? It was a great big ol’ gun. And he had on those tight-fitting clothes and nobody saw it?”

The gun that investigators produced as the murder weapon was indeed a large, heavy weapon — a government-issued Colt .45 that had been stolen from a firing range used by the sheriff’s department. Deputies who saw Gary before the shooting and those who searched him (and the rest of the black students on the bus) immediately afterward did not see any gun.

“I don’t know where the police got that gun from,” said Ms. Tyler. “But they didn’t get it from my son, that’s for sure.”

Ms. Tyler worked for many years as a domestic while raising 11 children. Her husband, Uylos, a maintenance worker who often held three jobs at a time, died in 1989. “He had a bad heart,” Ms. Tyler said.

She shifted in her chair in the living room of the small house, and was quiet for several minutes. Then she asked, “Do you know what it’s like to lose a child?”

I shook my head.

“I always felt sorry for that woman whose son was killed,” she said. “That was a terrible time. I remember it clear, like it was yesterday. But what happened was wrong. The white people, they didn’t want no black children in that school. So there was a lot of tension. And my son has paid a terrible price for that.

“They didn’t have no kind of proof against him, but they beat him bad anyway, and then they sentenced him to the electric chair.”

Ms. Tyler visits Gary at Angola regularly, the last time a few weeks ago. “He’s doing well,” she said. “And I’m glad that he’s able to cope. He tries to help the young ones out when they come in there. He always tells me, ‘My dear, you have to stay strong so I can stay strong.’ So then I just try to hold my head up and keep on going.”

She looked for a moment as if she was going to cry, but she didn’t.

“It’s just sad,” she said. “I wonder if he’ll ever be able to come out. I wonder will I live long enough to see him out.”

This one's for CJ.

2007-02-03T19:38:00.001-06:00

If you've missed it, Ms. CJ has been demanding another post. I took this picture last month, the day she and her new gf were coming into town. This car happened to be parked next to me at the grocery. As CJ mentioned in the comments to this post, she's been through a lot recently. Her visit to Baton Rouge that weekend was a homecoming of sorts. In that context, how perfect is this picture? I meant to show it to her during our visit. But with a little assistance from my friend ADHD, of course I forgot.

Strange Fruit

2007-02-02T10:32:00.008-06:00

Last weekend I attended a showing of Strange Fruit at the Jewish Film Festival in Baton Rouge. I love jazz and Billie Holliday. Not surprisingly, after I read a synopsis of the film, particularly how it delved into the history of the song's lyrics and the civil rights movement, I was sold.

Strange Fruit's eerie and pointed lyrics unabashedly describe the racist practice of lynching in the South. The song was penned by Abel Meeropol, a Jewish school teacher. The story behind both the song and its author mimicked the lyrics in many ways; each turn revealed an unexpected twist that left me stunned.

The documentary was brillantly put together. The film maker, Joel Katz, was also on hand to answer questions after the viewing. My only issue, one I didn't have the nerve to articulate, was an inference that state sanctioned killings are a thing of the past. In reality, lynching is so closely tied to the death penalty that capital defense lawyers and scholars refer to the penalty as legal lynching. Stephen Bright, Director of the Southern Center for Human Rights in Atlanta, and one of our nation's leading capital defense attorneys recently responded to the following question:

You’ve written extensively about race, class, and the death penalty. What are the connections between them?

Bright: "The death penalty is a direct descendent of slavery, lynching, and racial oppression that has been going on in this country since it was founded.

When the South was getting bad press for lynching people in the 1920s, ’30s, and ’40s, the perfunctory death penalty trial became a way of accomplishing the same thing. There are many examples where the authorities told the mob, "Let the courts take care of it." The understood message was that the person would be given a quick trial, appointed some incompetent lawyer and, after a perfunctory trial, sentenced to death and then hung, shot or electrocuted.

Race continues to be a major factor in determining who is sentenced to death, in part because of this history and in part because the courts are the part of society least affected by the civil rights movement. People of color are largely excluded from participating in the system as judges, jurors, prosecutors, and lawyers.

The two most important decisions in every death penalty case are made by the prosecutor. First, the prosecutor decides whether to seek the death penalty. The prosecutor always has discretion to seek or not to seek the death penalty. She is never required to seek death. Second, the prosecutor has complete discretion in deciding whether to offer a sentence less than death in exchange for a defendant’s guilty plea. The overwhelming majority of all criminal cases, including capital cases, are resolved not by trials, but by plea bargains. In the 38 states that have the death penalty, 97.5 percent of chief prosecutors are white. In 18 of the states, all of the prosecutors are white.

The primary connection between class and the death penalty is that those who cannot afford lawyers are often assigned lawyers who lack the skills, resources and often even the inclination to defend a death case.

The courts have held that the lawyer assigned to defend a poor person, even in a capital case, need not be aware of the governing law, be sober or even be awake. In Houston, three people have been sentenced to death at trials in which the defense lawyer fell asleep from time to time. A woman was sentenced to death in Alabama at a trial where her lawyer was so drunk that the trial had to be suspended for a day so the lawyer could sober up.

Beyond that, the death penalty is imposed mostly on people who grew up in debilitating poverty--who survived the most horrendous physical, emotional and sexual abuse during nightmarish childhoods that most people cannot even imagine. The death penalty has become the ultimate weapon in class warfare that is being fought top down against the poorest and the most powerless people in our society."

Katz didn't deny the presence of racism and xenophobia in the United States. However, the harsh realities of lynching, along with its public nature, renders any attempted juxtaposition to today's penalty to appear misplaced. We are able to gawk, without appropriate guilt, at pictures of lynched human beings. In fact an exhibit, Without Sanctuary, recently allowed folks to do just that.

It's easy to believe our internal dialogue: "We wouldn't be so barbaric today." However, the only real change is that we've altered the means by which we mete out the punishment; we presently resort to ways which allow us, not the person we are killing, to be more comfortable. The electric chair made that which was once public, private; it hid from our collective conscience the penalty's grave injustices. Yet still over time, the smell of burnt flesh when bodies accidently caught on fire became unbearable to the individuals whom were forced, or chose, to witness. Enter lethal injection to save the day. It seems so, well, medical. The gurney and the doctor presiding over the affair make the "procedure" appear legit.

More than ever, it is easier to disengage and pretend like our silence isn't a form of acquiescence. This is precisely what I did after I was diagnosed with kidney disease. In spite of entering law school with the clear goal of practicing public interest law, I began to look into other areas - like estate planning or tax. Captial defense, I reasoned, was too stressful. I needed to take care of myself. What I really needed was a wake-up call. Thankfully, that came last Sunday.

Friday Romp

2007-01-26T17:24:00.001-06:00

After two weeks of awful, depressing weather, the pups finally got reprieve from the indoors. The biggest casualty of their imprisonment was a checkbook Jacques decided to devour. I guess he too, knew, it was basically worthless.

Dog

2007-01-24T17:30:00.003-06:00

After reading this post today, I was reminded of a Lawrence Ferlinghetti poem, "Dog." On this 14th consecutive day of Seattle-like weather, I thought why not go a little West Coast.

Dog 

The dog trots freely in the street
and sees reality
and the things he sees
are bigger than himself
and the things he sees
are his reality
Drunks in the doorways
Moons on trees
The dog trots freely thru the street
and the things he sees
are smaller than himself
Fish on newsprint
Ants in holes
Chickens in Chinatown windows
their heads a block away
The dog trots freely in the street
and the things he smells
smell something like himself
The dog trots freely in the street
past puddles and babies
cats and cigars
poolrooms and policemen
He doesn’t hate cops
He merely has no use for them
and he goes past them
and past the dead cows hung up whole
in front of the San Francisco Meat Market
He would rather eat a tender cow
than a tough policeman
though either might do
And he goes past the Romeo Ravioli Factory
and past Coit's Tower
and past Congressman Doyle of the Unamerican Committee
He’s afraid of Coit’s Tower
but he’s not afraid of Congressman Doyle
although what he hears is very discouraging
very depressing
very absurd
to a sad young dog like himself
to a serious dog like himself
But he has his own free world to live in
His own fleas to eat
He will not be muzzled
Congressman Doyle is just another
fire hydrant
to him
The dog trots freely in the street
and has his own dog’s life to live
and to think about
and to reflect upon
touching and tasting and testing everything
investigating everything
without benefit of perjury
a real realist
with a real tale to tell
and a real tail to tell it with
a real live
barking

democratic dog
engaged in real

free enterprise
with something to say
about reality
and how to see it
and how to hear it
with his head cocked sideways
at streetcorners
as if he is just about to have
his picture taken
for Victor Records
listening for
His Master’s Voice
and looking
like a living questionmark
into the
great gramophone
of puzzling existence
with its wondrous hollow horn
which always seems
just about to spout forth
some Victorious answer
to everything

2007-01-23T10:43:00.000-06:00

Saints/Abita Beer TV Commercial

The one good thing about Sunday's game.

The City's Got Spirit

2007-01-15T13:33:00.001-06:00

Over the break I attended my friend Betsy's wedding. It was in New Orleans, where both she and her husband have lived the majority of their lives. It was beautiful, very warm, and very intimate. Really, it was very New Orleans.

Betsy's husband, Chris, is a musician. So the music, of course, was fantastic. They hired The Hot Club of New Orleans, a popular local Jazz group. My favorite part of the evening was when they performed "Bourbon Street Parade." Up to that point, the dance floor had been more or less avoided by all. However, when the first note rang out, nearly every native New Orleanian left their seats, folded their napkins in half, and began marching around the room, violently waving their arms and napkins in the air. It moved me to tears.

You Either Love It or You Hate It

2007-01-15T11:37:00.001-06:00

My first memory of New Orleans is of a Paul Young concert my parents and I attended in 1985. "Everytime You Go" was wildly popular. Young's gesture of pointing towards himself, and then towards the crowd in sychrony with the lyrics, was unforgettable. After the concert, we walked down Bourbon street. At age seven, I was mildly confused and immensely intrigued by the sites we encountered. As I curiously peered into one of the strip joints, a doorman warned, "Don't look in here girl; it'll make your eyes pop out!" It didn't, of course. Although I was shocked at the time, the City has since shown me far worse. Still, I'm smitten.

I suck

2007-01-11T23:13:00.001-06:00

The first week of school is over. I'll be back tomorrow with a vengeance. Cut me some slack or cuss me in the comments. Your choice.

Free-thinking kitty

2007-01-02T21:00:00.001-06:00

Meet Jezebel, my free-thinking cat who loves to shit outside of the box.

During the last 8 years, I've grown accustomed to finding an occasional a turd or two lying near the litter box. To combat the problem, I searched the Internet for articles, read each of them several times, and tried every suggested tactic to curb her fowl habit. Nothing worked. Instead, Jezebel's diversified her pooping habits; at this point any old spot will do.

The experts claim cats don't act out. If your kitty is missing the box, anxiety or heath issues are usually to blaim. But when it comes to Jezebel, I'm simply not buying it. I doubt it is a coincidence that fresh piles of cat crap usually appear when I choose to spend the night away from home. After all, this is the same cat who once snuck into the room and bit an ex of mine on the neck when we were doing the deed. She's not right, but neither was the ex. Perhaps Jezebel was trying to warn me. Someone needed to, however, that's a story for another day.

Stolen blog idea.

2006-12-28T23:25:00.000-06:00

I took several delectable photos for blog entries I planned to write today. Just wait, you'll see how truly delicious these shots are. But, because I failed to download the photos onto my laptop b/f heading over to my g-friends to shack, this stolen idea is all i've got. The premise is 5 things you probably don't know about me, which started here...but may also be found here, here, here, and and here.

These are mine:

1. From ages 6-9, my nightly routine included a walk-through my home to make sure the doors had been locked and the appliances turned off. Then, once I'd ensured everything was taken care of, I'd check once again (and sometimes one more time).

2. I spent all of my 8th grade year in "isolation" because my teacher couldn't get me to shut up.

3. My favorite snack as a child was a mayo, mustard, and ketchup hotdog without the wiener.

4. Most of my friends will never believe this, but social situations freak me out. I'm pretty sure this phobia largely contributed to my unhealthy drinking habits of my early 20s.

5. I've eaten chicken fried steak for breakfast nearly every day this month. Today is day 3 without the gluttonous treat!!! I think I've finally broken the cycle.

2006-12-18T13:46:00.000-06:00

Morose Monday

There are no plans to make this a weekly feature. But rather than fight my present melancholic mood, I've opted to wallow in it a bit.

Heavenly Creatures is one of my favorite movies. It's titillating, yet disturbing. And, I must confess, Kate Winslet kind of does it for me.

Not quite theraputic.

2006-12-15T14:33:00.000-06:00

Stress ravages my body each semester. The only variable is the form in which it appears. This semester the muscles in my ass and legs completely knotted up. I couldn't sit for longer than 5 minutes without losing the feeling in my toes. I stretched. I ran. I cried. I took long, hot baths. Nothing worked. So the night before my first exam, I ignored the barely-three-digit figure in my bank account, and scheduled a massage at Bumble Lane (a new upscale spa, located near Whole Foods. ain't that fancy?). The massage was great. As an ex-collegiate athlete, I've probably experienced more massages than any other non-billionaire 28 year old. And Dwayne, the massage therapist, was hands down the best masseur or masseuse I've encountered.

After a week of exams and incessant bitching about my damn legs, my parents offered to pay for another massage. I was delighted and immediately called to see if Dwayne was available. He was. So after handing in my last exam, I sauntered over to Bumble Lane, ready to relax and unwind.

The first 40 or so minutes of my massage were delightful. But then, I began to sense something was amiss. Because I'm not a modest person when it comes to my body, I was startled by my sudden uneasiness. This feeling was warranted, however, because less than 5 minutes later Dwayne subtly but surely began touching me in an off-limits location. I, of course recoiled, still not quite grasping what occurred. He asked if I was okay. I hoped I'd misinterpreted the situation. A million different thoughts were racing through my mind. I said I was fine. Then, he asked, "Do you want me to go further?". WTF? My response was a stern, "No thank you."

So there I was, face down on a massage table, trying to absorb what just happened and trying to figure out the appropriate response. I have a spontaneous spirit, and that spontaneity has placed me in precarious positions too many times. Not suprisingly, one of my many goals in therapy was/is to become less reactive to people and to situations. A minute or two passed. If my thoughts were read aloud, bystanders would've heard phrases like,

"What made him think I'd allow him to touch me?"

"I can't f'in believe that just happened?",

"How dare he?",

"Handle the massage; I'm quite apt at pleasuring myself",

"WTF?",

"WTF?",

"WTF?".

But, the card I'd received in the mail earlier that week, a handwritten note of thanks from Dwayne for my previous massage, also entered my stream of consciousness. The MF had my home address. Crap! Anyone who knows me, knows I'm a big ol' chicken. Worse yet, I'm a set-in-my-ways chicken who refuses to share my living space with a lover, much less a roommate. I felt trapped. If I turned him in, a good night's sleep would be out of the question. I would be in constant fear. I was enraged.

The massage ended. Dwayne apologized again, and I gave him the best piece of shit stare I could muster. I felt violated. I was.

After a phone call and brief chat with my therapist that night, I decided to wait a week or so to report the SOB. I hoped the delay would disguise my identity. I didn't want the skeevy nutjob knocking on my door.

A week passed, and I reported Dwayne today. But, in the interim my thoughts and feelings about the situation were in constant conflict. I was livid about what occurred. But, part of me didn't want to make the phone call, part of me didn't want to think about it anymore. Although I grew up in an environment where adults imbibed to outrageous excesses and where physical altercations were as consistent as the nightly news, I am blessed because sexual abuse was absent from my home. Too many of my friends have first-hand experience with that hell. I can't and won't attempt to draw any parallels here. I know my experience was only a taste of the poision unwillingly injected into others. But nonetheless, it sucks and it hurts.

2006-12-04T23:26:00.000-06:00

Cameron Diaz & Kate Winslet Under A Table?

Making Letterman blush isn't an easy task. Go Kate.

Cabin fever.

2006-12-02T14:29:00.000-06:00

Too much studying. Not enough caffeine.

Dwell or Print?

2006-12-02T14:23:00.000-06:00

One of the many difficult questions Jinx ponders throughout a typical day.

Studying Sucks

2006-12-02T14:16:00.000-06:00

I hate this time of the year. I want to be out at the local farmer's market today. I want to go over to my neighbor's house and help him decorate for the Christmas party he's throwing tonight. I want to "accidently" slip some of the delicious treats he's making into my mouth. Instead I'm stuck behind this desk wishing it were the Spring semester rather than the Fall. It's not so bad in the spring, this studying thing. Sure the weather is nicer and folks are outdoors soaking up every bit of the sun. But, winters in the South are are pleasant. Though there's still enough humidity to ruin a perfectly good hair day or to make your face glow in undesireable ways, I love this time of the year.

There's only 6 days left in this final exam period. Two exams stand between me and 5 weeks of freedom. Yesterday's battle with Income Tax was brutal. I'm not sure who won. Right now I'm too tired to care. So my wish today is for supernatural powers. Send some my way if you'd like.