Twinkly Jesus Woman! TA DA!

I'm reading Furiously Funny by The Bloggess and it reminded me that I love to write for my blog and that I haven't in a long time. Brace yourself.

Getting a Cosmic Name

I took a class called “Expanding Your Mental Equivalent” and on the last night, we did this activity: one person was “it” and everyone else called out words they thought suited that person, like “beauty” and “wisdom” and “cedar tree.” When you were “it,” you were supposed to close our eyes and listen for the words that you really liked and then put them together to make your "cosmic name" (I think that was the point, but I was mentally busy making up my own versions and trying not to laugh).

I had a hard time keeping it together throughout because that’s what happens to me during these kinds of activities, but I managed to be pretty appropriate until it was my turn.

In my defense, I was egged on by Camille (not her real name), who is six feet tall and by her own admission weighs 320 pounds and always is dressed to the nines. (Nine what?? I never understood that one but I’m not one to look a gift cliché in the mouth.) Camille says she wants to be like me when she grows up so she holds a place in my heart. She is every inch a southern belle so it’s always joyous, for me, when she says things like, “People in Seattle are not pretty. Excuse the language, but in any given situation, there is literally no one to eye-fuck.”  But I digress.

The Name is Conferred by the Cosmos

So it becomes my turn and the words offered were complimentary but weren’t causing any moisture. HOWEVER, when I woke up this morning, my cosmic name arrived! Full-blown—right between my eyes! I AM TWINKLY JESUS WOMAN! HEAR ME ROAR!

I am Twinkly because a woman I know said when she told her husband I was coming over, he said, “Isn’t she the one who always has a twinkle in her eye?” High praise indeed! What he was seeing were my attempts to not say what I’m really thinking because experience has proven that I have the inappropriate gene. I’ll go for funny every time and that often isn’t good, like at funerals or when asked, "Do you know how fast you were going, Ma'm?" It is a relief that, to at least one person, I am “twinkly” instead of a congenital doofus and apparently my subconscious agreed.
 

The J.C. Connection

Now, about Jesus. I am a big fan, but maybe not in the way you think. As a small Catholic child, the guy in the nightgown was interesting but didn't encourage connection. But ever since I found an article in Popular Mechanics about some forensic anthropologists who built a much more believable replica of J.C. and described why they think he looked like this, I can relate. He's nothing like what we’ve been told anno domini.

This guy looks relatable, like someone I could follow around and maybe wash his feet if they needed it. (Not with my hair, though. Ew.) I like what he probably said (check out Document Q) and try to live up to it. Being called Jesus Woman makes my heart sing. Disclaimer: I am not, however, probably within the majority definition of “Christian.”

Also, he was Jewish and I have been a Judeophile (look it up) since the 4^th grade when I was best friends with Madeline Rochelle (Bunny) Hiller who taught me some Yiddish and that sour cream goes on just about everything.

My daughter Terry says I am a Jewish wannabe. I say I just like hanging with people who value smarts, humor, and have a social conscience. And who are impressed with all the Yiddish I know. Thank you, Marsha Mamie Miller.

Here’s what the forensic anthropologists came up with:

This is someone I could have coffee with and get into interesting discussions with.

Finally, obviously (or not), I am a Woman. My subconscious added that since no one in the class called out that word and my subconscious needed it to deliver my spectacular cosmic name. In fact, none of these words came from the cosmic name game so the name is even more valid. It was delivered straight from the Cosmos.

So if you want to address me as Twinkly Jesus Woman, I will not only answer, you will be on my nice list. Business cards are on order. I think this calls for a tiara and maybe a cape.

 

Stuff from Terry's 50th Birthday and Some Other Whoozypootz

[This was writen around Christmas, 2009, but I didn't post it then. It aged well, like fine wine or stinky cheese, so I published it.]

Goodness, it's been a while since I've done an entry. But what better way to while away a Friday evening that to get boiled on the leftover wine from Terry's birthday party and show off in print?

The party was a big success, which just goes to prove that no matter how geeky you are, you can be a social success if you throw a lot of money at a caterer and have an open bar.

The best part was having Terry's birth father and her adoptive father in the same room for the first time ever. I was married to Stan, her birth father, for 5 months 49 years ago and quickly lost touch. I was married to Rich, the man who raised her, for almost 22 years. As I observed them both from across the room, I had the stunning revelation that I'd married the same person two times! Very nice, social, friendly. Not like me at all. They are sweet, I am salty. I'm glad I knew them.

Christmas was loads of fun, but how can you help it if you have Wii, bar-sized air hockey, and lots of intelligent and amusing relatives. Mine bring food, otherwise we'd all starve.

In September, Ben moved to Las Vegas with his girlfriend and Liv went off to college in Washington, D.C. (Please send donations; her father bailed on paying her tuition). Ben is working at Toys Or Else and finding himself. Liv is going to American University and learning how to save the world. They are both doing great and came home for Christmas, admitting they miss the strange and wonderful family that spawned them.

[Handy hint: Japanese plum wine mixes quite nicely with Pinot Grigio.]

I am going down the home stretch of my training as a Religious Science Practitioner (see the Wednesday, November 5, 2009, post on that topic). I love what I do and it seems to be making me over. I hope I don't lose the saltiness, though. There's got to be a way to be funny and holy at the same time.

All in all, 2009 was a good year and 2010 looks to be the same, only better.

Get Me a Man!

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Long time no write. Curse you, FaceBook.

Having had a Grey Goose Gibson at dinner, I have had yet another enlightenment moment: I may be ready to allow a gentleman partner into my sphere of influence. (There was a nice clean one at the next table in a heavy silk shirt but he looked taken.)

I use the word "gentleman" loosely because as I pondered the requirements while looking out over Lake Washington from the window of my (current) favorite restaurant, it became clear to me that a bit of blue collar really would be welcome. You know, a Rhodes Scholar who worked his way up from the lower middle class.

Here is what I came up with so far, in no particular order.

1. Accomplished. No grey ponytail who's spent the last 60 years "finding himself." Someone educated, professional, established, and filthy rich, but looking for more meaning in life now that he's made it.


2. Few or no relatives. They really complicate things and I have a big batch already. Or, if he has relatives, they adore me.


3. Spir-chul. He has to recognize and appreciate—adore would be good—my not-so-evident sainthood. Not too woo-woo, though. Crystals and Tarot cards need not apply.


4. Prone to hilarity. Someone who gets why a poster of a giant perfume bottle with a hovering dirigible that says "Eau de Humanity" is funny.


5. Has his own bedroom. Cuddling is fine but sleeping in the middle of the bed is finer.


6. Comfortable with gas. This one is important as we get older and gastointestinal events are more common and less controlable. See #4, above.


7. Doesn't expect me to move very fast. Or vigorously. He can participate in sports but he cannot expect me to do more than cheer him on. If I'm not busy.

I'll add more when I think of them. This should get you started looking. Oh, and he should be over 55.

Tasty

Savory is this planet

Yummy

Lip-smackin’ colors

Sugar-dusted deserts

Crunchy mountains

Sweet flora and succulent fauna

Like a gingerbread house,

We are consuming our home.


(If you'd like to respond and don't want to sign up for Blogger, send me your message at wogatha@gmail.com.)

Act Out

Joy is a verb:

Skip like a stone across a still water

Jump to the stars and they'll greet you—"Beloved!"

Life adores you; love It back

Say "Yes!"

Yes


If you'd like to respond and don't want to sign up for Blogger, send me your message at wogatha@gmail.com.

Preview of My Funeral

As part of my coursework for Practitioner Studies, I had to design my own funeral or memorial service and write a eulogy. Luckily, I had given this some thought so the assignment was a slam dunk. I knew you'd just love to know about it, so here you go.

I plan to be cremated, so there will be a memorial service, not a funeral. I also plan that it should be a whopping good party with lots of music, laughter, and sobbing. It will be held in a big public space, probably at Center for Spiritual Living in Seattle, because I plan to be really popular by then and we'll need space for all the mourners.

The Agenda

1. Everyone arrives and is seated; a flute and harp duo are playing softly in the background; the mood should be subdued. Everybody'd better behave, damn it.
2. There will be a large chip-and-dip bowl prominently displayed in front of a picture of me. More on that later. (Media will be confined to the rear of the room and the periphery so as to not break the mood.)
3. My daughters Terry, Johanna, and Katie will be in charge, welcome everyone, and introduce the minister of my choice to officiate.
4. The minister says a few words.
5. The first event will be a DVD of me reading my own euology. See the script below.
6. Individuals are invited to come forward and say a few words. (This is the sobbing part.)This should take a long time because, as I said, I plan to be really popular by the time I die.
7. This portion of the event being over, everyone moves to the Fellowship Hall where a lavish spread has been catered by Canlis (what else do you do with life insurance money?) and a rockin' good band is playing "Another One Bites the Dust" as people enter. This is the eating and dancing and laughing part.
8. My daughters bring the big chip-and-dip bowl to the party and put it in another prominent place with my picture for everyone's viewing pleasure.
9. The big party now proceeds into the early morning hours. Use some of the life-insurance money to hire people to clean up.

The Ceramic Piece
About that big chip-and-dip bowl, or maybe a cake server on a pedestal: Charlie Krafft has already been contacted (it was easy; he's a friend of my brother-in-law, the famous and wildly entertaining Jim Woodring) to make my cremains into a lovely bone china ceramic piece. My daughters have been instructed to bring me to all future family events in this form so I can keep attending them. My family is a bunch of very amusing whackos and I don't want to miss a single get-together.
The Video Script

Hello, Beloveds. I have a few final words to say and I thank you in advance for listening.
The first funeral I ever went to was for my brother David’s father-in-law, Leo. He was anti-religion and the hired minister who spoke about him never knew him. I didn’t like Leo much; he was an old lech who always made me very uncomfortable, but I remember thinking how sad and false the service was and vowed that I wouldn’t have that.
I thought carefully that day about what I would want said about me. It was simple: I wanted someone who knew me to say, “she wasn’t anywhere near as good as she thought she was and not anywhere near as bad.”
That eulogy I wrote in my head years ago is no longer adequate, mainly because I got over feeling superior—life knocks that out of you if you live long enough, as I have. I’ve also gotten over that very special feeling that I am superiorly bad, too.
The truth is, I’m not as important as I thought I was when I was a young woman at Leo’s funeral and, paradoxically, I am way more important than I knew then. My life has mattered, not because of any external accolades, but because I have had the joy and gift of knowing Good—Good in the universe and Good in every person I've met.
If all has gone as planned (and it had better or I’m coming back to haunt you) there is a lovely bone china something made from my cremains by Charlie Krafft, the world-famous ceramic artist. I planned this years ago, as soon as I found out Charlie provided this service. If and when the piece breaks, Terry has been asked to smash up the pieces and divvy them up among you girls so you can put them in urns on your mantels. Until then, please take me to all family parties in this new form.
You are all so creative and weird and hilarious and unique. I don’t want to miss a single event when you all get together.
That’s all I have to say. I’ve loved life. I’ve known I was loved, and I’ve learned a lot. When you remember me, remember that I loved you with all my heart and tried to show you as often as possible what treasures you are.
Now go party down and celebrate that you are alive because it will be over almost before you know it.

A Good Story About Goodness

Here's a story that I like. Jack Kornfield, if you don't know, is a Buddhist monk and psychologist who always has something relevant to say.

In Soul Food, Jack Kornfield and Christina Feldman tell the story of an Illinois family whose daughter became ill and was diagnosed with a life-threatening blood disease.

A search went out for a compatible blood donor but none could be found. Then it was discovered that her six-year-old brother shared her blood type. The boy's mother and doctor sat down with him to ask if he would be willing to donate blood to save the life of his sister.

To their surprise, he did not answer right away. He needed some time to think about it. After a few days, he came back to his mother and announced he would do it.

As Kornfield and Feldman write, "The following day the doctor brought both children to his clinic and placed them on cots next to each other. He wanted them to see how one was helping the other. First he drew a half pint of blood from the young boy's arm. Then he moved it over to his sister's cot and inserted the needle so her brother could see the effect. In a few minutes color began to pour back into her cheeks.

"Then the boy motioned for the doctor to come over. He wanted to ask a question, very quietly.

‘Will I start to die right away?' he asked.

"You see, when he had been asked to donate his blood to save his sister's life, his six-year-old mind understood the process literally."

He believed he was trading his life for his sister's. No wonder he needed a few days to mull it over.

I love this story. People of all sizes are amazing.