MY LATEST RANT

If you look at my blogs over the last year, you’ll see I’ve mostly bitched about waiting. I’ve had a bunch of good bursts of artistic inspiration (as the muse was never far away), but I’ve written on waiting, on temperance, on wishing, wanting and whittling away. I’ve reflected, renewed, reminisced, reconnoitered, and reconciled with personal demons. I’ve resurrected old articles and posted them anew. I’ve done everything accept stand on my head and whistle dixie from my arse, and yet seven months later I’m waiting still.

I know. It seems impossible that a company this big could take this long to organize key services, but after day one of the merger, it came to a screeching halt and the waiting started. What followed was the steady disassembling of our positions, the paranoia, the fear, and the attacks on our confidence. I overcame that. There was the vacuum vortex of conspiracy that threatened my peers and I, and we were almost turned into zombies by the utter and almost viral paralysis of one individual in authority. That situation didn't change until that individual found out she was being let go and sort of faded into the background of what was already hulking shadows and threatening questions.  We were completely cut off from what was happening by that. There were rude associates from the other side, people we had to work with but who made our lives miserable with undermining insults.  Disagreeing with this unprofessional treatment and lack of common respect implied not getting along with the team and was frowned upon.  This was followed quickly by the big projects that found me complying for the sake of the work. It was either that or sabotage their efforts, and I don’t do that. In between those happy jaunts, during which we won’t even go into what happened to my ego, there were days and days of soul sucking boredom when nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, happened in the office. I’ll take a good, difficult project any day.  I'll work hours on end if it means my mind is engaged.  But the boring day to day makes me weary. Having nothing to do at work makes me want to throw my computer out a window and jump after it.

I’ve tried very hard to be a trooper. I have one friend who tells me they are sizing me up, wanting to see what I’m made of so they can promote me. Another one tells me she’d be absolutely floored if I’m not layed off.  I’ve observed one lay-off after another, actually had to separate six of my own secretaries at one point, and have watched people be picked off from the sidelines as though by a sniper while everyone else worked harder to avoid be targetted. I have friends that I know I’m driving crazy with my ceaseless whining, and I’m wagering they think I should shut up and be thankful I have a job. So, I suppose every day I’m employed should be a good day … but does it count if my brain is fried and my attitude sucks?

What do I have to show for all this downtime? I can tell you that on Facebook Lady Bunny has so many pictures on her wall, it takes more than 5 minutes to scroll down them all. I’ve stared at Facebook so much, I actually go home to look at it again. I used up all my vacation time and much of my limitless sick time before January 1, and that was in self-defense. I’ve cleaned out our garage more than three times, and we’ve had no less than five garage sales as a result. The extra cash was cool.

I’ve done a lot of art over the last year. That much is true and good. I haven’t sold one piece, but I’ve given away much of it to people who were touched by the gesture. I believe it should be spread around regardless.

If this was happening ten or even just five years ago, I could tell these people to take their job and shove it and find something else with little effort. Now, it’s like trudging up hill in sewage. I’ve applied for more than 15 good looking positions since November 1, and have had few nibbles. Most of the time I’m overqualified or they won’t pay what I’m looking for, but the majority of the jobs out there are in high tech or health care, anyhow, so ... As much as I’d like to, I can’t walk away from this mess given the economy and the job market.  This feeling of confinement, of being trapped, is a big part of why I'm so aggravated.  I think I’m in a rut. If I wasn’t, I’d feel like I was using this time more effectively, wouldn’t I? Why aren’t I walking more or loosing more weight? Instead, it feels like it’s sucking the energy right out of me.

A year ago at this time, I was leading an integration sub-team of members from Paris, Mexico City, London, and New York, and leading conference calls across geographies at 6:00 a.m. in the morning. We were making plans for the merger. In the office, I was responsible for HR, new hire orientation, all the secretaries and workflow, finance, office services including safety and security, event planning, community service, data security, facilities and space management, and business continuity. I had 20 direct reports, and I was considered a business partner.  My input was valued.

Today, I have four people reporting to me and I attended a webcast entitled “Emergency Preparedness for Dummies”.

I’ve been through the first round of interviews for my new, restructured position which is comprised of about one quarter of what I was doing previously. The second round is imminent, and I feel like I did when Elizabeth was two weeks overdue and all I could is sit in the big chair and wait.

I’m in the last quarter and there isn’t a quarter back sneak in sight.

Pathetic.

iz otay ...

Play Nice, Twerps ...

Defyin' Grabities

Found on da inerwebz ...

25 Random Things About Me

A Facebook Experiment Run Amok ...

1. I have been desperately in love with Dolly Parton since I was a teenager … okay, more like obsessed. I consider her my celebrity guardian angel just like Charlene in “Designing Women”. In fact, I dreamt about her last night.

2. My partner, Leslie, is my best friend. She and our daughter are the only two people I can stand being around for longer than a few hours. Everybody else gets on my nerves even though I try not to show it.
3. I really like cats better than dogs, but everybody in my family is allergic … so I had to adjust. Now I love dogs, too. Especially Daizy.
4. I feel like I was a sleep walker until the year 1999 when I first saw one of the Holy Mothers. It’s corny, and kind of borderline zealotry, but it’s the truth. I was sleeping, and now I’m awake.
5. I was happier pregnant than I’d ever been in my life. I felt purposeful and awesome. Also, Leslie waited on me hand and foot, and that was kind of cool, too.
6.I am genuinely grateful that I live in a time period in history when two women can live together, have a baby, and not have to hide it or call each other "friends".
7. My artwork is a labor of love. If you ask me what I draw, I’d say whatever asked to be drawn. People wonder why I don’t do more with it and I wonder, too, but the truth is I am compelled to take care of my family right now, so I work. Maybe one day when our daughter is older and more independent, I’ll be ready to focus on it more constructively.
8. I get immense pride and a sense of accomplishment out of working to take care of my family. Doing so gives me purpose, which is important to me.
9. I have no sense of personal style. If Leslie didn’t dress me, I’d look like a complete dork every day. A true fashion disaster.
10. I like my job. It’s important to me to work with people, and I am very good at bringing a team together and encouraging everyone to reach for their full potential. But, I also need to make a good salary, a competitive one, or it’s hard to keep my heart in it. I found that out in Connecticut. I never thought money was important until I didn’t make much.
11. I think the internet and blogging are awesome because anyone can do it have an audience. I like having an audience.
12. I've been wearing make up since I was 15 ... I started because my dance teacher, Miss Connie, did it.
13. I’m no good at staying home. (as opposed to working). I tried that in Connecticut, too, and discovered I suck at it.
14. My favorite comic strip is “For Better or For Worse” and I’ve made sure our daughter loves it, too.
15. It was particularly important to me that our daughter hate peas … mission accomplished. They are disgusting, and I don’t care what Leslie says.
16. I didn’t discover my self-confidence until I was in my mid to late thirties … everything prior to that was sheer nerve.
17. I love San Francisco a lot, but don’t have the visceral connection to the land that Leslie does.
18. I’m a pretty forgiving person and will go back again and again if I think it’ll help a relationship … however, once I’m done … I’m done. Case closed.
19. I have a shallow streak that I’ve learned to accept.
20. I love my Leslie’s cooking … it’s the best there is.
21. Having acrylic nails done in a French manicure makes me feel good, even though it’s a bitch to type with them.
22. I don’t worry much about things, in general, but I do worry about what’ll happen to my mother when she’s ancient.
23. My most favorite movie is “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off”.
24. I love an excellent book, but admit that when I’m too into one, it’s usually escapism for the wrong reason.
25. I believe in magic, I really do, and have done some in my day.

Mark Twain Said It Best ...

"Keep away from small people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you too can become great." - Mark Twain

Radio Dweeb

Hello. My name is Donna Faber, and I’m a radio dweeb.

I admit it.

My partner (the love of my life whom I adore) Leslie is a radio dweeb, too. We both derive great pleasure from hearing our own voices on the radio, and so to satisfy this craving, we call in … frequently.

Leslie has been a radio dweeb for some time. She listens to Newstalk Radio 810 practically every day, and is up on the latest current events because of it. She really digs Ronn Owens, his debates and comments, and calls in with her own opinions now and again. Both of us love Len Tillum, who gives legal advice on the radio. He’s very informative and hashes over pertinent topics like “what happens if you rent a house from someone and then it goes into foreclosure.” It’s good stuff.

Now that the price of gas has gone down, I enjoy the luxury of a nice car ride into the city to work each day. It beats taking BART, which isn’t so bad really, although the cost adds up quickly, as well. We leave the house usually around 7:45 a.m., drop off Elizabeth first, and then I’m typically in the office by 9:00 a.m. During the ride, we listen to 101.3 on the radio, which is K101. Don Bleu does the morning show. He plays pranks on people called “Bloopers”, and they are absolutely hysterical. I mean, laughter is a great way to start your day, and this guy has no shortage of it. Anyway, this morning he talked about television shows that you enjoy so much you watch reruns of it. Like, a show that you dig so profoundly, you would plop your ass on the couch and watch it no matter when you ran into it. “Seinfeld” is one of those, and “Mash”, and “Leave it to Beaver”, and definitely “I Love Lucy”. Well, I called in and rattled on about my love of “Roseanne” (the first three seasons are the best, hands down), and then Leslie called in and was going on about Larry David’s “Curb Your Enthusiasm”. And we both got on the radio! Okay, it was slightly edited, but man, we were there enjoying our 30 seconds of fame in San Francisco. High five, baby! Right on! We were so thrilled!

Thereafter, I got into work, took a conference call I was scheduled for, and then it dawned on me.

I’m one of those people. One of those people who calls in to radio shows.

Hey, at least we have cell phones now. Otherwise, we’d be pulling over to add our personal commentary.

(sigh)

I’m a radio dweeb.

Shine Bright ...

... always.

Susan Powter is a Lesbian ...

... and I'm just so thrilled about it! She's got a lover that is a commedienne and looks ironically like Rosie O'Donnell (in a strange way ... maybe it's just the vibe). Anyhow, I've always had my eye on Susan. Glad to see she's found her inner Goddess and chooses to express it with personal love, too. She looks absolutely radiant!

Read a wonderful article about Susan here on Hufpo written by my favorite writer, Jane Devin. Jane always nails it down succinctly.

You rock, Jane ... you absolutely rock!

D~

Spectacular

Christmas in San Francisco

The funny thing about Christmas in San Francisco is that it’s very low key. You go to the East Coast and all the mainstream radio stations are playing hard core Christmas carols, everybody’s got decorations in their yard, and attending church (Catholic church, specifically) is first on the list of things to do. That’s not to say that San Franciscans don’t decorate, although there really isn’t much room. Many homes in the burbs are decorated. There’s an entire section in South San Francisco off of Chestnut Street that runs a fabulous (somewhat unspoken) competition each year. People pull up in tour buses to see it. You can tell which homes are own by a Filipino family, in fact, by the really cool lights they have in their windows, the ones that clearly aren’t UL Listed. The way the lights vibrate in and out is awesome. But in the city itself, the Christmas decorating is done in the interior in office buildings and stores, and of course inside the world of its children. The adult San Franciscans are busy being diverse, which means hanging baby Jesus on the tree is a no no (at least in the office), and the most intense celebrating is done within the sanctity and safety of family. We spend a lot of time being nondenominational in this city. When Christmas rolls around, San Franciscans, typically bustling and working and running around intently, are anxious to get home to the hearth, and for many of them that means traveling to wherever they came from.

San Francisco is more about Halloween, really … and the drag queens for whom most every day is a day to dress up. Sometimes I wish I were a drag queen, because then I’d have an excuse to wear false eye lashes every day like Miss Connie did. It’s funny what things from childhood leave the biggest impressions on us, isn’t it?

Christmas is approaching fast … just two days away, and my mind has cashed out completely. Last week, the push at work was intense. Deadlines, deliverables, and two big holiday events in the office left me completely pooped and reflecting on my health, happiness and the lessons I’ve learned over the last years. I’ve got plenty to do and absolutely to desire to do it. Nobody’s paying attention, anyway. People are in the office working, but you can see the glazed look in their eyes. Visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads. Even the administrative assistants who say they are catching up are catching much needed and well-deserved down time instead. What they’re doing now makes my days as an executive assistant look like a cake walk.

How do I feel?

I hesitate to use the word melancholy because I don’t admit to those kinds of feelings readily, but okay … I’m a little melancholy. We had such big plans in Connecticut around the togetherness of family and friends, and having those plans go up in smoke with immense finality was difficult. The grieving goes on, and I feel it the most this time of year.

I miss my grandmother, too, even if she is losing her marbles.

You can’t spend too much time pondering broken relationships when you’ve got a hyper eleven year old bouncing around, however. Powered on a cocktail of hormones and sugar (which, by the way, is present is practically everything we eat), and navigating a world that moves at the speed of light, our daughter is so busy agonizing over what’s in the packages under the tree (Santa is long since gone here), that she can barely contain herself. Everything is a debate, easily escalated into an argument, if we’re not careful. Our headstrong Aries daughter is a two parented project whose main ingredients include restraint and reason, applied with firm consistency and lots of hugs. She’s got a thing for reading in bed until the wee hours, no matter how lousy she feels the next morning. She takes pride in tearing through the books she reads at night and then asking me to fetch her another one from the bookshelf. She came into the office with me yesterday, and it was wonderful having her to myself. She kept so close to my personal space that I was either bumping her in the chest with my elbow (“Nana, that hurt!”) or stepping on her feet (“Ow! Why’d you do that for?”), both of which were immediately followed by hugs all around … reassurance and love in the face of accelerated growth in a lighting fast world. After tomorrow, we’re all home until January 5 of the New Year, for which Leslie is eternally grateful. Single parenting, even for just a day, can suck at times.

This year we will resurrect a long-standing Faber tradition and enjoy our Christmas dinner at The Palace Hotel in downtown San Francisco. It’s opulent and expensive, but I don’t care. We get all dressed up, enjoy the 150 foot tree in the main dining room, live music, and graze contentedly from a buffet that makes my knees weak. We will enjoy this dinner and spit in the face of an uncertain economic forecast for 2009. Like terrorism, fear will only give them a win. Fuck that. I work happily and my family and I enjoy our prosperity. Fresh shrimp all around on Christmas Day. I hope they have crab legs, too.

After that, it's back on the old diet. I've had to give up carbs completely to keep from blowing up like a blimp. Someone told me that all there is no such thing as whole grains or wheat any longer because the grains we eat off the shelves is re-engineered to make bigger crops. These hybrid grains are non-digestible to the human animal, which explains why our native American Indians have become obese alchoholics and why America is getting fatter by the minute. Sugars are everywhere. Now, I’m reading a booked called “The Zone” and am working on getting into it. I mean, just about everything accept meat is a carb, including vegetables, so it’s about cutting out the bad carbs, which is basically all the tastiest parts of our diet, and applying simple science to what we eat.

Food is a drug.

This is something I can understand.

It feels good getting these things off my chest …

Have a great holiday, ok?

Our Christmas Newsletter

Um, yeah ... I write a Christmas newsletter. I know it's tacky and all that, but I can't help it. I always want to brag about my family's accomplishments come this time of year, and as I get older I find fewer reasons to avoid doing it. So here is our 2008 newsletter entitled ...

The Faber Girls 2007 & 8: Getting Ready to Jump

Hello all …

It is with joy in our hearts that we write to you from our favorite place in the world … The San Francisco Bay Area. We had to move 3,000 miles across the United States (again) to come to that realization, but we did, and with a lot of hard work, a little bit of luck, and Leslie’s good real estate karma, we sold our home in Connecticut in a bad market and high tailed it back! We may be dense, but we are determined … and so we arrived here happy and in good health. In fact, the last time we wrote a Christmas letter like this was in 2006, when, after moving to one of the teeniest states in the country, we were still high on our adventure and looking forward to what we hoped would be a holiday full of family & friend reunions. It wasn’t meant to be, and so we spent most of 2008 getting ready to jump and all of 2007 deciding we wanted to.

It wasn’t all a drag, however. Elizabeth thrived at the private school she went to. Hamden Hall was academically enriching, and she found her most bosom friend there. She and Margaret will be friends forever, we are sure. If we could’ve snuck Margaret away with us, perhaps hidden in a suitcase, to avoid missing her, we certainly would have. But then her mother would miss her terribly herself. She and Elizabeth talk on the phone almost every day, and see one another regularly on her laptop’s videocam. Isn’t that something?

We picked up another dog there, as well. Daizy Mae is a boston terror, er … I mean, terrier, who is firmly attached to her “brudder from anudder mudder”, Jack Boy. Always at the ready, she is diligent about watching our surroundings, and is very urgently protective of Leslie, who both dogs have decided is boss. Daizy is the family sheriff.

One of the best things about being in CT was watching Leslie in action. Not only did mowing that god forsaken lawn get her in good physical shape, but she applied her talent as an informal interior designer to get the house we bought in shape for resale. And I’m telling you, she did it all. She replaced the garage doors, put in a new front door, and a new sliding door to the three season room. She put new flooring in the lower level, retiled the foyer, blacktopped the driveway, and painted everything in sight. She installed all new window coverings, and a black railing along the front porch. She installed a beautiful light/fan in the three season room, and had insulation pumped into the attic. Home Depot knew her by name. Before we knew it, we ready to sell. It was a beautiful place when we left it!

I could tell you countless stories about that process, the sale. Let’s see … one Saturday, Leslie was out tooling about when she realized she had 15 minutes to visit an open house just around the corner from us. Doing her homework by reviewing the market, she found the agent we’d eventually sign with.

Two days before the open house, Jack Boy, our Golden Retriever, swallowed a small stuffed dinosaur which got stuck between his stomach and intestines. As we were working on the house, he was throwing up absolutely everywhere. I don’t mean little doggie barph either; I mean unbelievable projectile vomiting that destroyed two carpets, a beautiful king size bedspread, and whatever else was in its path at the absolute worst possible time. It cost us upwards of $2,500 to get him fixed after that fiasco. How about the agent lady who represented the buyer? She was nothing less than a psycho who made a stressful situation even worse, if it was possible. I’ve written numerous blogs on that topic alone. Our agent, Stacy, was terrific, however, keeping an even keel through our neurosis (which can easily achieve stratospheric levels at times like that). She didn’t lose it until it looked like the other agent might have blown our deal completely … argh! What an ordeal!

The house was sold to a man who bought for his daughter, who was ironically a lesbian. She and her girlfriend were moving from Florida, and I’m convinced it was Leslie’s conversation with the father that really clinched the deal. She made sure he understood the neighborhood was a good and safe one. After stormy seas, our sale closed, and a day later we were off to the West Coast on another Faber adventure.

So … In late June of this year, we landed in South San Francisco not knowing when our things would arrive. The economy adversely affected even trucking, and so our belongings took much longer than expected. Ironically, however, our van arrived in no time whatsoever (the last time we moved it was weeks in the waiting). We spent the time looking for a place to live, which Leslie nailed down in no less than four days. We spent the rest of our transition in a Marriot Residence Inn enjoying a quasi-vacation. In short, we gave up about 3,000 square feet in Connecticut to live in a box, and once again we are spending most of our time in a 15x15 foot livingroom with two rowdy dogs who begin their raucous happy dance immediately when everyone arrives at home. It’s a small two bedroom, in a nice section of Belmont, and has a lovely deck in the back,and an entire posse of hummingbirds living in the unruly foliage that is our backyard. The rest of our things are in storage until we decide the housing market here is soft enough to invest again.

Elizabeth is attending Taylor Middle School with all her friends from Green Hills. She’s also met new friends and recently spent a week away from home attending outdoor education, which was a memorable event. A social butterfly, she has nailed down the social adeptly … but, of course, without ever forgetting Margaret. Leslie and I are often amazed at how she is capable of navigating her complex social scene which snakes through middle school and reaches across the country.

I have a wonderful job as a location manager working for a highly competitive consulting firm in the San Francisco Financial District. It is hard to put into words how good it feels to be back in the city, not to mention back in the saddle. I am surprised regularly at how much I learned at PwC, however (19 years of corporate boot camp indeed); and can testify that PBMS taught me things I needed to know (not to mention the wonderful people I worked with there). I took almost a year off when we were on the East Coast, and it convinced me I’d rather be working. Truly. As much as I needed the rest, I’m not the stay at home type.

Last but not least … our old van, Vera, who Leslie adored, was finally put out to pasture to make way for a new Chrysler Town & Country van that has swivel back seats and a table in the middle. Leslie named her Sexy Sadie. She and Sadie are getting to know one another.

The three of us are anxious to re-experience our favorite Bay Area holiday tradition and enjoy Christmas dinner at the Palace Hotel in downtown San Francisco. We look forward to many prosperous holidays going forward and wish all you the very same!

With Love,
The Fabers
December 2008

Something completely arbitrary ...

Our Resilience Tree: More Leaves

Like the national debt, the leaves on our resilience tree grow and grow and grow and grow ...

... and the red broom is at the ready.

D~

Post-Halloween

It’s raining today … I mean, really raining for the first time since we moved here in July. It’s kind of nice, too. Everything smells fresh, and the birds were raucous this morning. It gave me a reason to hunker down, get some rest, and even take a nap. Elizabeth has been heavy into her computer, we watched the “Sex in the City” movie (really a two and a half hour episode), and now “Lawrence Welk” is on television. Real cozy, family type stuff and I really needed it.

What a week … on Thursday, I pulled off a wildly successful Halloween event at work. It’s a trade off for what we can’t do on Christmas because we’re so busy honoring religious tolerance. I coordinated a week’s worth of decorating competitions, departments competing against one another with elaborate scary scenes, followed by a gathering and awards, with an office full of trick-or-treating for our children, and tables of children’s crafts projects. We had helium balloons everywhere, so when people arrived at the party, they would know they were some place special. Elizabeth came with one of her girlfriends, too and got more candy there than she did at home on Halloween night. The committee and I decorated everything in sight, casting aside professionalism in favor of fun and merriment. I’m talking about seriously cheesy decorations and tackiness around every corner! I worked for a week on my VooDoo Queen costume, too, determined as I was to dress for success. I hit the nail on the head. I had so much fun.

I find it slightly amazing to have a creative outlet like this in the office. People keep asking me if I’m ready to quit because they think its so much work, when the truth is, I’ve hit my stride, and feel at home there. I got personal satisfaction out of helping everyone come together as a team, in the spirit of competition, and then coaxing them into fully participating and having a splendid time of it. It was terrific. It’s been such a serious and uncertain year, everyone needed a dose of silly.

It was satisfying and exhausting.

I approached Friday, Halloween, and a short day in the office, already tired, but there was cleaning up to do. In the elevator, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and discovered folks from the party committee arrived early and had everything in order! All I had to do was euthanize a bunch of tired balloons and take down the decorations in my work station. It was all I could do not to throw myself at Mary’s feet in thanks. I ended up giving them a bottle of red wine to take home.

Speaking of home … there it was another story. The neighborhood barricaded the street for a block party, so of course, we had decorating to do outside. We got the obligatory inflatable skeleton head and all the trimmings, which the little kids couldn’t resist and parents stopped by for photo opportunities. Mother Nature was apprehensive and threw sprinkling rain on us now and again, but for the most part, She kept the worst at bay until today.

I have to admit, it all felt a little strange. Elizabeth went door to door on the block for a little while, but her bag was already full of candy from the office. She was in full costume, an undead convict, and had more fun giving candy to the itty bitties … let’s see, we had witches and skeletons. There was Minnie Mouse and Buzz Lightyear, too. They were adorable, but it was too dark to take decent movies, and so you’ll have to take my word for it.

I’m not sure what Leslie and I expected, but it wasn’t this. Maybe it was the block party people (we stayed at the house), drinking their margaritas and lighting fire crackers down the street, or the young, yuppy parents lit up like Christmas by the time they got to our house. Leslie definitely disliked them, and I found myself tolerating them. I’m unsure if it was the horrible Halloween experiences we had in Connecticut compared to the warm and cozy Halloweens we had on Sunnyside Drive in South City. Maybe we just expect too much, in general. That’s entirely possible.

From this, Leslie has determined that we don’t belong in the peninsula, but rather should be closer to the city, where there is even more diversity (and less tipsy yuppies). I have to agree. It’s very nice here, and I love the birds. Yet the house is very small (besides, we’re only renting it), and we’re living on an anthill. Like I said, we expect so much.

At the end of the night, as the rain got a bit heavier, we left a cauldron of candies outside the door under the easement, and settled into the fresh crab Leslie picked up at Whole Foods. They were fresh and scrumptious and topped a long, busy week off deliciously. Before sleep, I went outside and brought in the decorations I didn’t want ruined by the rain … my ravens, brooms and our mummy … you know, the important stuff.

I’ve spent the day reflecting on all this, the mixed feelings, and ultimately feeling very thankful for the good fortune we have in general. So, with this, I cast all the Halloween spooks back to the land of the dead and with them all the expectations. Next, when they come back, I’ll have more candy.

Maybe I’ll save all this left over for then.

I’ve got to do something with it, don’t you think?

Witch Tribute #3: Three is a Magic Number

If you believe everything that Sesame Street taught you, and for the most part I do, you’ll believe that three is a magic number. You’ll believe that the Crocodile King really did need a worthy son, the lady bugs all attended that picnic, and Gracie Slick really did sing a very clever song about numbers. She did, really. Like me, from the time of early childhood, you’ll know that three heads are better than one. Larry, Moe and Curly proved it. You may even know that two’s company and three’s a crowd. John Ritter proved that before his untimely demise. Most of all, three is a magic number to me personally. It’s the number of people in my family … 1, 2, 3. It’s also the magic number that brings us to our next tribute witches.

Witches and other magical women have appeared in threes since the beginning of time. Well, at least since the beginning of half way decent literature, making their first and precedent setting appearance in Shakespeare’s play “MacBeth”. As the official Three Witches or Weird Sisters, these supernatural women were drawn from mythology and legend, and represented rebellion and treason in the worst sense (as Wiki states it). We’re not talking about the Three Graces here, goddesses of charm, beauty and creativity. Or even the very lovely Maiden, Mother, Crone virtues in Wicca. Indeed, these are your more malignant types, representing deceit, betrayal and murder, all nefarious values upon which countless pieces of art and sculpture have been rendered throughout history.

The magic number three doesn’t lose its poignancy moving into modern media. It very simply transmogrifies into something more understandable, something that requires a lesser attention span. There are three sisters, all witches, in the series “Charmed”, which by the way, is set in San Francisco, the city I most adore. There were three vixens in the movie, “The Craft” before the fourth showed up and they all got greedy.

Three.

This leads me directly to my favorite witchy threesome, and the witches to which I give tribute in this installment … The Sanderson Sisters in Disney’s movie, “Hocus Pocus”.

Believe it or not, it was just on television yesterday.

These three sisters are my favorite for various reasons, not the least of which include Bette Midler, Sarah Jessica Parker, and Kathy Najimy.

“The movie opens in 17th century Salem, Massachusetts where three witch sisters — Winifred, Sarah, and Mary Sanderson — transformed a boy, Thackery Binx, into an immortal black cat as punishment for trying to prevent them from absorbing the life force of his younger sister, Emily. He fails to rescue her and instead is cursed to spend eternity as a black cat. The witches are tried and executed by the locals. However, thanks to a curse created by Winifred's magic spell-book, they vow to return when a virgin lights the Black Flame candle on a Halloween night when the moon is full (wiki).”

Winifred is play by Midler. She is the loud mouth, red-headed, buck-tooth sister, who is the most powerful magically, and the brightest lit of the three dim bulbs. Demonstrating where the lines between real life and television can often blur, it is no strange coincidence that Midler has since become a headliner in the modern day Sodom and Gomorrah, and holds her crowd in a hypnotic trance, just like she did in the movie. Her sister, Sarah, is played by none other than Sarah Jessica Park, aka Carrie Bradshaw, who reigned supreme in another fabled city known as New York, this time ruling with a a laptop, and an array of unusually hypnotic outfits. The last sister, the chubby one who was most prone to various canine tendencies, and rode on an airborne vacuum cleaner, was played by Kathy Najimy. Najimy also moonlighted as a plus size nun in Whoopie’s movie, “Sister Act”. Since then, she has lost considerable weight, shrinking & growing, shrinking & growing, thus demonstrating her powers of transmogrification. All three Sanderson sisters are undeniably stupid, so much so that they couldn’t outwit the three children who released them from 300 years of hell and then tried to send them back.

So, without further ado, I give you The Sanderson Sisters …

Witch Tribute #2: If You Want A Job Done Right, Do It Yourself

There is something inherently pathetic about a witch who won’t do her own dirty work. If you’re going to embrace the devil in your psyche, like those bitches on The O Channel’s television show “Snapped” (which we always seem to end up watching on Saturday mornings), the least you can do is wield the poison apple yourself. This is the lesson learned by the Evil Queen in Disney’s “Snow White”, who is our second tribute witch during this Fall Holiday Season.

One may argue that The Evil Queen, also known as Queen Grimhilde, is not a witch, but a royal matriarch, and therefore is disqualified from this tribute series. I would disagree with that. Any woman who is narcissistic enough to get hung up on her beauty, for example, or riches, or power, and then kill someone to protect it, should be elevated to witch status … um, evil witch status, that is. After all, every woman is a witch, and every witch is wise, right? Walt Disney certainly understood this. Glinda from “TheWizard of Oz”, for example, was incurably annoying, but she was, most certainly, what we might consider a good witch. It is interesting to note that Queen Grimhilde, voiced by Lucille La Verne, was also Disney’s first “serious” villain in a full length feature, and has yet to be surpassed for excellence in sheer malignancy.

Let’s acknowledge the presence of OCD, or obsessive compulsive disorder, in most all of these evil women, as well. Cruella had to have a Dalmatian puppy coat. Trying to realize that desire in a number of nefarious ways finally did her in. The evil queen, Narcissa (what a name!) in Disney’s “Enchanted” had a thing for her stepson. I’d rather not analyze that too closely, thank you, because he was a completely self-centered dolt whose teeth were way too big for his face. Yet, despite calling on her powers as a shape shifter and turning into a dragon just like Malificent (from “Sleeping Beauty”), who by all counts was an evil feary and not really a witch, she managed to be outdone by Love’s First Kiss, which is about as pathetic as it gets … truly.

Disney’s Evil Queen is a regal bitch who probably started out as a scullery maid. She happened to be graced with good looks. Perhaps she got lucky enough to find the King alone in his office when, after a difficult day on the stock market, he needed a good blow job. She was happy to oblige, after which one might speculate it was her good looks that found him enamored of her, so much that he had his first wife tossed unceremoniously from a parapet. The king neglected to reveal that he had a daughter by his first wife, who was also lovely, although very young. She, of course, was quickly banished to the Kingdom’s projects, where she shacked up with seven little people, because, after all, there can be only one good looking bitch in the castle. Descendants of the Roloffs, these little people took advantage of Snow White for house cleaning services and singing with woodland creatures, when they weren’t in the diamond mines slaving for the precious gems upon which the Kingdom’s failing economy was based. Before too long, the Kingdom would be forced to purchase those precious gems from other countries such as Far, Far Away, and the seven little homeys would have no choice but to work at Kingdom-Mart, where they would be fired if they were caught whistling on the job. In fact, it was this crash in the market that drove the King to his own death shortly after being married.

What made Grimhilde, now the reigning matriarch in the kingdom, so darn special was that she could read crystal balls. Some women are just born gifted, I guess. Soon, scrying became her chosen tool of divination, and she used it to find and promptly dispose of other young, lovely and nubile ladies in the realm. Nobody knows why she ended up with that annoying Magic Mirror, but it was he who couldn’t keep his big trap shut when the banished princess got old enough to be competition. Maybe one of the little people, thrust into a personal alcoholic hell after losing his job, couldn’t keep HIS big trap shut in the local pub. After all, he couldn’t get any insurance at Kingdom-Mart and so his addiction was never treated.

Anyhow, The Evil Queen sent some fucktard Huntsman to kill the princess, and demanded her heart be returned in a pretty little box. I just love little boxes. She threatened the Huntsman with death if he failed. Naturally, he did, and if that wasn’t enough, he tried to deceive her, as well, because he needed his job desperately. Jesus, you just can’t find good help these days. The Evil Queen, an alchemist at heart, descended into her dungeon laboratory, where she drank polyjuice to look like the old woman who worked in the Castle’s laundry.

The rest is history.

The fact that the Evil Queen sacrificed the very thing she coveted to get what she wanted is what perplexes me the most. It is, however, a testament to the severity of her OCD, which is undoubtedly what she would blame the entire mess on if she were arrested for premeditated murder and put on trial. She wasn’t, of course. People in true power, no matter what time in history, can get away with raping the country they live in, and having others killed for the sake of convenience. This, after all, is fact and can be seen time and time again by watching cable television and YouTube.

The moral of this story, if there is such a thing, is two-fold. First, let’s acknowledge that the Kingdom did not have a decent plastic surgeon. If it did, the Evil Queen would never have bothered with the Magic Mirror and the whole crises could’ve been averted. Second, is the age old axiom, if you want a job done well, you have to do it yourself.

Pretty box or no, if Grimhilde wanted Snow White killed, she should’ve put aside her class bigotry and racism and ventured into the projects to do it herself to begin with.

Let’s take a look at The Evil Queen in action …

Hey Jane, it's WTF Friday!

Jane Devin has a cool, recurring article called "What The Fuck Friday". Her narratives are typically very clever and rendered in a number of creative ways, the artistic approach of which is rivaled only by the comments left by her loyal following. Inspired by Jane, I offer up my own personal What the Fuck Friday, aka personal rant, echoe-ing a comment I left for Jane and offered up only this once.

All of a sudden the media and our government have discovered the link between the housing market (in the crapper) and the banking institutions (falling like dominoes). We’ve careened right over “recession” and taken our place at “the worse financial crises since the Great Depression”. The train is heading toward that cliff, and we’ve got the Goddess and her happy little natural disasters pushing the caboose, as well. We all know that New Orleans is still a mess … well, it is where the po’folk are. And what about Cincinnati? It’s not been the same since the floods in May and June. Houston? Still no commerce there, for the most part, although there are trucks all over trying to get the power back on for a million some odd people. How come the media isn’t saying much about that? No, we’re too interested in watching SNL spoof Sarah What’sername on YouTube. I watched our esteemed President on the news this morning try to instill the American public with confidence. Why? To assure us everything was okay, shove more poo-poo down our throats? No … the train is already running on the destruction of our country as we know it. Nothing he says is going to stop that. In fact, I’m convinced he aims to squeeze everything he can out of us before he takes his place in the history books. This morning he was trying to convince those of us who haven’t sold our house, pulled our savings, or sold our stock NOT to jump like fucking lemmings! He did everything but BEG us not to withdraw our 401K’s, which is probably the only thing, at this juncture, keeping “it” strung together.

That's not all.

My biggest WTF of the week is PMS. Yes, I said PMS. Fuck the country, it’s all about me. I started the week in an utter fog, barely articulate and not really able to organize my thoughts, never mind my desk. I mean, I just couldn’t get my head around it. Then, on Wednesday, at about 3pm, I got a splitting headache, the damn burst, the fog cleared, and I organized my desk in under 20 minutes.

What the fuck?

Hard Wired

Some of us are fortunate enough to be born to parents whose single greatest wish is to love and cherish us. They are the lucky ones, I think, although many times they are the clueless ones, as well, having absolutely no awareness of their blessings, buffered as they are by their own ignorance. Staggering about in a bubble of moronic superiority, these people are often oblivious to the troubles suffered by those around them. Others of us are born to parents who reluctantly fulfill what they view as a grudging obligation to parenthood. They put forth as little effort as possible, as little love as possible, and do so in as half-assed a manner as they can get away with. I was raised (sort of) by reluctant parents, which I’ve written about at length, and their legacy to me was an irrational fear of being abandoned.

There are still others of us, a large, even staggering majority, who are born into fear. This may be an existence where monsters are not only real but highly manifest in the behavior seen in our parents who, themselves irreparably damaged, hand down a legacy of terror, wrapped like a gift in ignorance, rage or sadism, as though it were a precious family heirloom. Of course, horror can be an outside element, too, like genocide, ethnic cleansing, war, famine, starvation and the like. I’ll stick to what I know in this narrative, which is your basic, suburban, family style dysfunction.

I like to think my daughter is one of the fortunate children, born into a loving family, although I also believe it is my responsibility to raise her with an awareness of the world at large. Unless we expose our children to the world’s difficulties in an appropriate manner, in a way they can assimilate and understand, they may grow to be terribly unprepared for the cesspool we live in and then perpetuate an entirely new kind of ignorance. For example, computers, the World Wide Web, chat rooms, and instant messaging are facets of our world, and while they have become an integral part of school and college, they are best used in moderation by growing children. Over use or use in desperation or abject loneliness can lead to misguided interaction, and then an introduction to on-line predators, of which there are many. As if there aren’t enough perverts in real life, now we have to worry about these sick-o’s predating our children in cyberspace, too.

You don’t have to serve in Bagdad to know there are many landmines on the American landscape.

For those of us born into a world of fear, passed down either helplessly or in ignorance, mayhap even deliberately by our parents, our perception is forever clouded by that toxic environment. When perpetually present at the earliest and most impressionable stages of development, I believe fear and its subsequent responses are burned into the hard wiring of our most impressionable childhood brains.

The question is: Can that hardwiring be deprogrammed?

I can’t help but be amazed at how well adjusted my daughter is in her relationships. I have to attribute the majority of this well adjusted upbringing to Leslie, however, who was self-aware as a little girl, and is equally as aware as an adult. I, on the other hand, had to grow and evolve to achieve the same personal realization. Elizabeth, or Liz, as she is referred to by her friends, knows what she does and doesn’t want in a friend, and she is very clear on her feelings when she is “dissed”. Yes, she actually uses that word. Elizabeth and Margaret are still best friends for life, for example, but they parted ways with Lindsay, the third in their trio, a while before school ended and before we left the State of Connecticut. In fact, at one point, Margaret’s mother, who plays tennis once in a while with Lindsay’s Mom, asked if the girls, the three of them, could get together for one last play date before we left. Elizabeth was adamant that she didn’t want to be mean, but she and Lindsay were no longer friends, and she did not want to have a play date. When the trouble with Lindsay started, she approached the problem analytically (which is her nature, an Aries/Virgo through and through), and because she isn’t an emotional beggar like I was, desperate for attention from parents, friends, or anyone really, she saw the truth of it and accepted what was happening. She did not view the failed friendship as a reflection of her self-worth. Nor did she hang on to the friend until the relationship soured and became destructive. I was impressed by her confidence and her certainty. Leslie and I discussed the issues that came up, because Margaret’s mom had mentioned it. I was eager to stand behind Elizabeth’s decision, which was justified and made in good conscience; but it was she, however, who understood and maintained her position despite the adults around her having differing opinions.

I remember having a bosom friend when I was six years old. Her name was Jennifer, and she was an angelic blonde. I loved her madly and intensely, as only a six year old can, and her family lived across the alley behind our house on Hawley Avenue. Her mother had flaming red hair and a pottery studio in a building behind the house. It was a magical place full of clay, sculpture and fire kilns. Leslie would say it was very seventies. The summer before second grade, a time when each kid year seems like ten years and summers go on forever and ever, they moved away. I was sad. I remember standing at the back window watching them pull away, perhaps with my own theme song music playing a sad requiem in my brain. It felt like my heart was breaking. Circumstances, however, hadn’t turned me yet into an emotional beggar, although they were steadily chipping away.

The friendships I had when I was a teenager were made of the usual stuff; things in common, like dancing school, fantasy, and a love of comic books and drawing. These relationships were woven together by the depth of my need and a desperate fear of abandonment, issues I know my daughter will never be burdened with. I was by no means a quiet little wall flower. I was a strange teenager, a drama queen, who was obsessed with children’s theater. As much as I loved my girlfriends, a eclectic group of confused and weird high school students, I desperately needed them, along with their approval and attention. You see, by this time at about 15 or 16, I had become an emotional beggar, molded as such by the emotional unavailability of my parents, and their repeated disappearances.

But what if, instead of abandonment, which began in my life at 4 years old, the issues my parents brought to the table were more mental illness or violence. What if, instead of leaving me, my mother kept me up all night, night after night, screaming about monsters she saw under the bed waiting for her? What if, instead of judging me and standing behind a shield of cult worship, my father had sexually abused me again and again? What if I grew up convinced on a most cellular level that bad things not only do happen to good people, but they can be more or less depended upon?

What if that deep fear response had been hard wired into my brain before I had any choice in the matter?

Is it possible to deprogram ourselves? If we know we are missing a critical part of the ability to overcome obstacles in our adulthood, things that hamper our ability to engage in the pursuit of happiness, must we accept this as the limit of our potential? Must we remain content to wallow in an understanding of misery while holding our long standing fear responses close as comfort, as we curse the power of positive thinking?

I believe there is healing in the world. It is available to everyone, but we must want it badly enough to override our fear responses in order to pursue it. And then we must stick with it long enough to allow it to work its magic.

They say that the Goddess helps those who help themselves, and this I know from experience to be true.

My question is: Will you take the leap of faith that gets you there?

End Note: All photos in this posting are from the Broadway Musical, "Wicked". All rights are reserved by the photographers, certainly not by me.