Wednesday, August 20, 2014

I much prefer being an ostrich

Wtf, has the world has gone crazy while I was hiding from it?

Just last week I decided that I needed to be more aware of what is going on in the world. So I'm checking all the headlines a few times a day and reading various articles. It's worse than I remember. Much.

Is this summer more fucked up than usual? Or is it just my ignorance-is-bliss stance of late that has removed me from how crazy and hate-filled the human race can be?

Seriously -- why must people be filled with hate for other people simply because they don't look, or worship, or think like they do?

I'm not condoning Robin Williams suicide (also upsetting news), but honestly, the state of the world's affairs is seriously depressing and overwhelming. How do we effectively deal with it? There is so much sickness and death and bigotry and misunderstanding and greed and violence. Not to mention our own personal problems and struggles.

And the media? They are very little help. All this seriously upsetting shit is completely sensationalized. I mean, how long was the missing Malaysian plane the top story on CNN? (Or was it Fox? I haven't watched TV for months, so I'm not sure.) A month, two? Longer! Conspiracies, blame, live interviews, stinging sound bites. Anything to get the peeps to tune in.

And tune in they do. All day long. All night long. It's not good for you, people! (And you're only getting the story they're telling you.)

What is it about humans that draw us to bad news and tragedy? Why does traffic slow to a snail's pace even when the accident is cleared to the side of the road? Rubbernecking is for sickos.

I get that completely withdrawing from the events of the world is not the answer either, but can we get a little balance please?

There is amazing work going on in the world, and it gets so little air time. Why is that?

It does comfort me to know that the death of  B K S Iyengar today (it was still last night here) is getting coverage in media outlets as diverse as the Wall Street Journal to The  Guardian to Al Jazeera. And although the news of his death is on the one hand sad - he is with us no more - he was 95 years old and lived a life that made a difference to thousands (more likely hundreds of thousands) throughout the world. At least we can all agree that his work and life were inspirational, and worth reflecting upon.

So, here I offer you one of his better known quotes, one that reminds us (me) to seek equanimity even as the world falls apart around us.

“Yoga allows you to find an inner peace that is not ruffled and riled by the endless stresses and struggles of life.”  

Tuesday, August 19, 2014


Our tomatoes have taken off.

We have possibly our best crop ever.

Mistah Schleckah took one look at those tomatoes the other day and uttered the words only a man as wise as he could utter:

"We need to make BLTs."

Tomatoes? Check.

Bacon? We walked to the corner market and bought a pound. Which Mistah cooked outside on the side burner of the gorgeous gas grill we found free on the side of the road. But that's a story for a different day.


Well, Mistah told me we needed to buy white bread. I said, "I'm sorry. I can't buy white bread."

Instead, I bought a "Mini French Boule." (Mistah says "Mini French Boule" is French for "white bread.")

And the last ingredient? The L of the BLT?


Okay, then! Let's improvise!

We toasted the white bread Mini French Boule . . .

. . . we chilled the bubbly . . .

. . . we sliced the Prize-Winnah from our garden . . .

. . . and we cooked a couple of home-grown eggs. Thanks, Julie B-H!

And do you know what else we bought, on our successful walk to the corner market?

American cheese.

That's right, my friends. Fromage Américain.

A little eggie here . . .

. . . a little tomato there . . .

. . . a little bacon everywhere . . .

. . . and voilĂ .

The BECT. Who needs L when you have E and C?

But wait, what's this?

Oooh, Mistah snuck in a secret, open faced BCT.

How'd you like the BCT, Mistah?

Oh yeah.

But for me, it's all about the BECT. It's breakfast, it's lunch, it's summer, it's fresh, it's delicious . . .

. . . it's perfection.

Monday, August 18, 2014

whoopsie daisies

Pulled a Beth this morning, sorry loves! Here is a throwback to a time long ago, although nothing has changed. Shout out to my sisters Julie and Jane for the upgraded silence levels in their lives this week!


Too Much Noise

There is this book that the kids and I love where the main character, Peter, is all up in arms because his house is so noisy. The bed creaks, the floor squeaks, the tea kettle whistles, the leaves rustle. Peter, as you can see in the cover illustration, is not a content man.

He does what all storybook characters of a certain age do when they have a problem; he goes to see the wise man of the village. The wise man mentors Peter through the endlessly amusing task of bringing a series of noisy animals in his little house.


The wise man tells Peter to get a cow. Then he tells Peter to get a donkey, then a sheep, a hen, a dog, and a cat.


Peter does as he is told, he gets himself one of each of these animals, and then he gets pissed.


He returns to the wise man, fists raised in fury, and positively blows a gasket describing the moos and clucks and meows and baaas and woofs that are now corrupting his house.

The wise man tells Peter to get rid of the cat. And the dog. And the hen, the sheep, the donkey, and the cow.

Peter does as he is told. Then he sits in his house, and the bed creaks.

"Ahhhh", says Peter.

The floor squeaks,

“mmmmm” says Peter.


The teakettle whistles, the leaves rustle,


“Ahhhh, mmmmm” says Peter.


He loves his quiet house.


I need to find the wise man of my village, because my life is too noisy and I don’t have any barnyard animals to get rid of. Sure, I could eliminate the woof, but that’s honestly the least of my problems. It’s the incessant talking that is bringing out the Peter in me.


At work, the people love to communicate. I am constantly being forced to break away from my blogging work to respond, resolve, reassure, redirect, and reprimand as needed. But I get paid for this discourse so I really can’t complain.


When I leave work, however, my time is my own and my mouth just wants to stay shut.


At the gym, I don’t have to talk. I’m not a whooper or a small talker. I’m just there to get the job done.


But when I get home, I don’t have a single digit in the door before my peeps start in with the talking. Questions, stories, announcements, questions, songs, fights, questions, requests, questions, questions,questionsQUESTIONS

why aren't they on the high dive? how many flips was that? why isn't the board bouncy? which one is USA? are we winning? we're americans, right? when's the election? what if it's a tie? will george washington get to stay president? why is the board so bouncy? are we winning? why'd george washington start the war in iraq? is it over yet? are we winning? what will you say if barack wins? will you be so happy you'll cry? why are the boys wearing those little blue panties? what would your face look like if you won the bronze?

until I LOSE IT. I’m like Sharpay during all the singing and dancing in the cafeteria when she steps up to the railing and yells: “Everybody QUIET!”


And then I just stand there and soak up the blessed (albeit stunned) silence for a minute before I allow the guilt to creep in about what amean wife and mommy I am to wish so desperately for a mute button to control my own family.


Following the logic of Peter’s wise man, I could either encourage my family to increase their volume for a while, or I could increase the number of mouths talking at me in my house for a while.


After a few days in either scenario, I’m sure the return to normal would seem blessedly serene.


I can’t risk it though,

Not when the hush of Baja's beaches are so close by.