Presbyfruit

Slogging along, church-wise

I've done very little with or for my church in the last year or so.  I thought I would find my mojo again, once I rested a little and recovered from the cyclical burnout endemic to church-lady-hood.  

I'm not there yet.

I no longer feel burned out.  And I've slowly started to re-engage:  I indicated an interest in serving communion on a regular basis;  my Nominating Committee duties are calling me back (this afternoon, in fact;  I'm currently, right this very moment, putting off making what I consider to be difficult calls asking for folks to come back on Session, Deacons and Trustees' Boards);  the Shema Circle meditation retreat is in a couple of weeks;  I spent a few hours this morning, along with tons of volunteers, cleaning the church.  

I'm re-entering, ever so tentatively.  But it's only in body.  

I'm not really sure what my problem is.  I'm in a calmer place about the anti-gay language in the Book of Order that went un-changed last year.  It doesn't seem as important in light of the events in my professional and personal life the last few months.  

Spiritually-speaking, I'm in a good place;  I meditate every day and frequently experience that much-sought-after sacred connection and connectedness.  

But the church thing---I'm just not sure what's going on.  

And I guess I won't figure it out this afternoon.

I've got to make those calls.

Trying to stay positive

And negative crazy talkers don't help much.  

This is how I define "crazy talker": someone you've only just met who rambles on and on in a disjointed fashion, using way too many details, including the first names of people you've never heard of, and who fails to see the look of dawning horror in your eyes that says, "Oh, shit.  I've got to get  away from this person or I might scream. Out loud."

I meet a lot of these people.  Perhaps I'm giving off a "I'm-a-good-listener" vibe.  I am, indeed, a good listener and I like people and I like to talk to people one-on-one.  

But I've recently decided that negativity, especially in my currently vulnerable (read: unemployed) state is bad for my health and my emotional well-being.

I'm trying not to read the comments on the online edition of our local newspaper, which are almost as bad as Youtube comments.  Which are very, very bad.

For awhile, I avoided my beloved Rachel Maddow's show;  during the health care debates, the toxicity of the discourse really got to me.  I've since gone back.  I can't stay away from Rachel.

Mostly, I'm trying to monitor any and all negative sentiment that I may feel, or say. 

And it's hard. Really hard. The meditation and obsessive exercise is helping a lot. Having a super-duper emotionally supportive spouse helps a lot.  Connecting online with friends and family helps a lot.

But it's still a daily struggle.  

And running into a crazy talker at my beloved Tai Chi class is not a good thing for me. I'll have to figure out a way to avoid her without appearing to avoid her.  

As facile as it sounds, my mantra has to be: "only happy thoughts."

Now, if I can just stop blogging negativity...

It's getting better

So the last day was pretty emotional. I was surprised that my boss never came out of her office to say goodbye to anyone. When I left, I stuck my head in her door to thank her for hiring me 17 years ago; I could tell she was upset and had avoided the emotional farewells for that reason.

I walked out, loaded my chair and the last boxes from my desk, and cried all the way home. The first Monday of my unemployment I was totally depressed and totally at a loose end.  Tuesday was hard. Wednesday was hard. Thursday was better, and it's been great ever since.  

I've been studying a lot, and getting some errands and cleaning done.  And I watched a really long BBC period drama, "Little Dorrit."  Highly recommended if you like that sort of thing.  

I've also been walking and meditating, nearly every day. I'm at 150 miles for the month, walking and riding the recumbent bike.  I've lost 21 pounds, mostly through stress and loss of appetite, but I'm hoping the exercise will keep the momentum going.

Generally, I'm feeling really good about things.  Positive, hopeful, fairly certain that there's a method in all this recent madness, and I'll come out on the other end happy and whole.

Limping toward the finish

My last day of work is this coming Friday.  I always figured I'd stay with my company until I retired.  I liked the work that much.  Plus the benefits were great, although as the years went by, we lost more and more of them.  One of the chief benefits was the opportunity to listen to my iPod while I worked.  Who else gets paid to listen to podcasts?

Which brings me to my next career choice.  I've started back to school to learn how to be a court reporter.  When I started my desultory little history blog a few months back, I had a heckuva time transcribing my podcasts.  I'm not a bad typist but I never dreamed it would be so difficult to transcribe something.  

So after the initial depression and devastation and crying jags (I'm not a cryer), I kept seeing articles about court reporters and the need for them and the nice salaries they can make.  And the job security.  And I thought: someone has to transcribe those podcasts for hard-of-hearing folks.  And I need a job!

So after 18 years, I'm back in the classroom.  And trying to keep my wits about me. Court reporting is most definitely not for sissies.  

In the meantime, I've been limping toward the finish line at my job.  If you had told me in July that I would be fervently wishing for it to end, I never would have believed it.  I'm so ready.  We've been let go (or "left go," as they incorrectly say around here) in shifts, so we're down to a skeleton crew.  We're all worried about whether the company can stay in business long enough to pay our severances.  Some of us are expecting severance paychecks to last until early 2010 (I'm one of them).  

And so, I keep telling myself: 4 more days.  Just 4 more days, and I can start a new life.

Stuff-Your-Feelings Lawncare Service: Mow, Don't Grow

July was dreadful.

To handle the dreadfulness, I did what I do best:  stuffed all my misery and mowed the grass like a woman possessed.  It's practically bald.

First there was the family reunion scheduled for the middle of the month.  I worried myself sick about this.  I would be seeing my father's family and my father, presumably, hopefully, without my father's wife.  Several years ago, she wrote a letter, photocopied it and mailed it to all his siblings and parents and a few nieces and nephews.  I never read it, but my brother paraphrased it for me.  She felt insulted by my mother's presence at family weddings and funerals since my parents' divorce.  She would never attend the yearly family reunion again.  After my father died, she would take back her maiden name.

So, I felt pretty certain she wouldn't be there.  I wouldn't have to see her.  I wouldn't have to deal with her.  Did I say she's only 2 years older than I?  That she was born 2 days after my parents married?  That I only met her once, at my grandfather's funeral, where my mother (my mother!) brought her over to introduce her, not knowing that she was boning my father at the time.

She was there.  

She and my father were in the campsite adjacent to my uncle's. I'm pretty sure my father knew I was there and deliberately did not come over to say hello.

Ouch.

I decided not to go back to the campground the next day, even though my elderly grandparents would be there.  I don't really have a relationship with them.  I'm one of 19 grandchildren, I don't think they ever really liked me, we haven't corresponded or had any contact since I was a teenager.  I knew if I showed up and saw my father I would be very upset.  I don't do upset, at least not in front of people. If I can help it.  I knew if I didn't show up, I'd feel guilty for not being a good granddaughter.  

I chose guilty.

The day we came home, my boss called and told me our office was closing.  I've been fearing this all year.  I didn't want to write about it because I knew that people were actually going through job loss, rather than just obsessing about it. One of my worst phobias is unemployment.  I haven't been without a job for 17 years.

And now, I'm unemployed.  With very few actual quantitative skills.  And I'm 42.

Several days later, our church sexton dropped dead while he was on vacation.  I was really fond of this man.  I think our personalities were similar and I've always had a soft spot for him.  He was an integral part of our church life.  

Next week, I'll usher at his funeral.  And surely, between then and now, will mow the grass several more times.

Farrah

In between early reports on Michael Jackson's death, I heard Shephard Smith of Fox say a few words about Farrah Fawcett.  He said something about her having been loved by lots of little boys in the 70's. 

And this little girl.  

I was a huge fan of "Charlie's Angels" when it aired in the late 70's.  And I

loved, loved, loved Farrah Fawcett-Majors. 

For Christmas in 1977 (or maybe it was '78), I got a shirt emblazoned 

with the iconic photo of Farrah in the red bathing suit.  

If my mother was suspicious about why her daughter wanted a shirt with a woman in a revealing swimsuit on it, she didn't say. I was obviously not out of the closet (being 10 or 11 years old) and just coming to terms with my realization that I might possibly be gay.  I hadn't yet realized it was something I needed to be ashamed of and suppress.  Otherwise, I would have admired the shirt on someone else and definitely not asked Santa Claus for it.

I remember my mother asking why I was interested in such a bimbo.  She said that when she was my age, she had idolized Elizabeth Taylor who was much classier than Farrah, in her estimation.  

I didn't care about her low opinion of Farrah.  I wore the shirt until the image was faded and barely recognizable.  When I was older and "Charlie's Angels" aired at midnight, I sneaked downstairs and took photos of the TV, trying to capture scenes (this was before home video, screen caps and youtube).  

When I think back to myself as a young, closeted baby dyke, Farrah Fawcett is there too.  RIP...

Pay it forward challenge

I just saw this on Angela's blog.  Since I'm currently struggling a bit with my ongoing spiritual dead zone and trying real hard not to panic about whether or not I'll still have a job in 2010, I'm going to do this.  I'll feel better doing something for someone else and not obsessing about bad economic news and existential angst.  Here are the rules:

"I will send a handmade gift to the first 3 people who leave a comment on this post requesting to join this Pay It Forward exchange. I don’t know what that gift will be yet and you may not receive it tomorrow or next week, but you will receive it within 365 days; that is my promise! The only thing you have to do in return is pay it forward by making the same promise on your blog."

Okay, here's the thing.  I'm not such a great knitter, and that's pretty much all I can do.  Squares and rectangles.  I do have a sewing machine that I want to learn to use, so perhaps I could do a simple square or rectangle on that. Whatever, let me do it for you.

What the ??

I recently bought a pair of Sony earbuds for my iPod.  I've gone through countless pairs of earphones and headphones ever since, oh about 1982 when I got my first Walkman knockoff.  The headphones never last because I wear the crap out of them.  

These were an upgrade from my iPod earbuds (which hurt my ears and kept falling out).  The new ones were perfect, the best I've ever owned.  

And this morning, when I woke up, they were on the floor looking like this:

Gone.  Totally eaten by what I assume was a mouse.  That is, I hope it was a mouse. Although all that rubber and plastic and electrical bits can't be good for such a little thing.  

I suppose we'll be smelling something really bad in the house soon.

Losing my mind

I've always been worried about the state of my poor little pea brain.  I protein-load and have since high school.  My breakfasts then were ham and eggs and cheese.  I hang upside down to increase the blood flow to my noggin.  I take vitamins and supplements that purportedly enhance memory.  Still, I worry about early onset Alzheimer's or just plain garden variety dementia.  

I'm not putting my car keys in the freezer yet, but I find myself zoning out more often and doing dopey things.  I mean, dopier than usual.

I call Kari on each of my federally-mandated breaks at work (we're a tad bit co-dependent, or perhaps we just like each other a lot).  Last week I called her and the line was busy.  I decided to take a quick walk around the block, which is in a residential area.  I put my phone in my back pocket and set off.  My ringtone is "Dancing Queen."  No more than 5 minutes later, I hear "Dancing Queen" behind me.  

My first thought:  wow, those people sure are playing their radio loud this morning. After other thoughts, such as "I like that song" and "maybe that's a CD and not the radio," I realized it was my phone.

Strange reaction to "Star Trek"

Kari and I went to see the new "Star Trek" movie this past week.  Kari grew up watching the original TV show.  I watched the first season or two several years ago, to see what all the fuss was about.  I liked them, and can easily see why people (i.e. Trekkies, or Trekkers) are obsessed with the show.

Leonard Nimoy appears in this new movie, looking his age.  At the end of the film, there's a shot of the USS Enterprise and he narrates the opening credits that were used in the original series. Here's a link to those credits:  Star Trek 1966 opening .

After the movie, Kari was bummed out for awhile.  She said she was really bothered by Nimoy's age and that it underscored for her the loss of her childhood.  I haven't told her, and she wasn't aware of it at the time, but I had to hold back the tears when Nimoy's narration came on the screen.  I felt the same way and may have been influenced by that rather sappy, but totally sad, Farrah Fawcett documentary the previous week.  These things that were so much a part of my childhood, they're gone, or going, or being replaced by newer, younger models.

It's part of the cycle, but it still sucks.

LIttle dog with little green boots

Rosie wearing little green dog Wellies after I mowed the grass: