On a limb with Claudia

I bumped into the slumlord man who owns the house next door to us. After the usual pleasantries, we started talking about his current and previous tenants. I shared with him the reality that the “nice boys” had not so nice visits from the police every single night after the bars closed. He was shocked.

Then he dropped the bomb.

“You know Simon? The plumber?” He asks.

“The guy with the weird girlfriend?” I ask.

“That was no girlfriend,” he says. “That was a Colfax prostitute.”

“A crack whore?” I ask.

“Well, I’m not certain if she did crack or not, but yes, she is a streetwalker.”

“Not a call girl?”

“I don’t think she saw… uh… clients here. I will say that she moved a fellow streetwalker into the apartment when she moved on. That woman said that two men broke the door down at three in the morning.”

“What!?!”

“I was surprised as well.”

I give him a “what-the-f***” look.

He adds, “I guess we’ve been fairly absent. At least, she wasn’t seeing people in the apartment… that we are aware of….”

So, I replay this conversation to D. He gets this weird look on his face. I tilt my head.

“What?”

“Well,” he starts then stops. He is instantly interested in the empty wine glass in his hand.

“Well what?” I ask again relishing in his discomfort.

“I was working on the basement one day and she came to the door. She asked me what I was doing. I told her I was working on the basement. Then she said… I just didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

“She said what?” I ask.

“She said that she could do anything. I thought she was looking for a job. I asked her if she could do drywall or paint. I mean, I figured she wanted some work, you know?”
I watch him blushed and stumble over his words.

“She said that she could do other things. I couldn’t figure out what she was talking about so I ignored her until she went away.”

“So you didn’t give her any work?” I ask. (Oh, come on, you would have asked too.)

Looking up suddenly, his face bright red. “What?! No! I mean come on! NO.”

I laughed.

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I’m driving home from the gym this morning, when I remember that I have to go to the market. I shrug, turn on my blinker and move in front of this guy in a Saab convertable. For the sake of clarity, this is on a 30 mph two lane street lined with tall trees and 1920s bungalows.

Well, Ok, it was a little close, but he sped up.

When I move over, he completely loses it. He flips me the bird, honks his horn, and starts screaming.

I don’t know what got into me but I started laughing.

So we turned the corner and are now side by side waiting at another traffic light. He rolls down his windows and continues screaming. His two white faced golden retrievers look at me with sad “make him stop” eyes. I continue laughing.

Finally I roll down my window and say, “You’re embarrassing your dogs.”

He says, “Your so f***ing stupid. I can not believe how stupid you are.”

I rolled up the window thinking: “I am missing those three IQ points.”

Then it strikes me, how stupid do you have to be to yell out your window at a stranger? I had to pull over I was laughing so hard.

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They jack up the gas prices so you can use it waiting while they work on the roads.

It’s always been this way.

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What is it with eldest children?
Here’s a study that was published under the headline: “Study says Eldest Children have Higher I.Q.s” (The difference in I.Q. between siblings was a result of family dynamics, not biological factors.)

Now I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, “Claudia, you’re just jealous.”

Read the article – Eldest children have higher I.Q.s by three points.  Three points! Three points is nothing, nada, nunka, nothing.  The I.Q. test itself is not accurate to three points.

And even then, let’s review.  My oldest sister had:

• a complete free ride.  While I started working at eleven years old, she just went to school until she was sixteen when she wanted to buy different clothing.  Her free ride included complete tuition, books, etc to college and medical school.
• everything she owned was not only new, but exactly what she wanted.  She had the books she wanted.  She never wore a hand me down.  She had new bikes, the car of her choice, every single thing she wanted.  Period.  The rest of us just lived with her choices.
• parents who talked to her.  Unless my parents were angry (read: drunk or dealing with a drunk) with me, they never spoke to me.  Never.

If all she got was three I.Q. points from having all the resources in the household handed to her, I’m wondering what exactly is wrong with her.  I mean really, wouldn’t you think it would be more than that??

Now, before you continue with your theory that I’m jealous, the truth is that I was lucky to never have to speak to my parents, to start working at eleven and to have her hand me downs.

Why? Because I got to make a life for myself rather than attempt to live the life that was handed to me.  I might be missing the three extra I.Q. points, but really, how much is freedom worth?
So she got all the resources, including the three extra I.Q. points, and I’m the lucky one.

Go figure.

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I always try to put up some music for your Friday. But I’m a bit befuddled today.

Last night, I went to see Breaking Benjamin and they were fabulous. Boy, if you get a chance, and you like rock, you owe it to yourself to check them out. Beyond their extraordinary talent, they are just plain fun. (Diary of Jane, Breath, So Cold – acoustic)

But I’ve already rambled about Breaking Benjamin.

And I wrote about Icky Thump by the White Stripes, this week’s favorite song.

I think today, I’ll encourage you to take a look at this video of Robbie Williams singing Angels at Knebworth, England 2003 (reported to be the UK’s biggest ever concert with around 375,000 people on consecutive nights). In a couple places, he almost cries as the audience sings the song.

In the middle of the chaos, Angels is a great song to remind you that you are loved.

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“What are you saying?”

“What do you mean?” She said.

“You just said something that sounded like you want me to perform your wedding,” I said.

“I did?”

“Actually, that would be great,” her fiance said. “Would you mind?”

“Would I mind what?” I asked.

“What you said,” he replied.

“What did I say?” I asked.

I look across the half eaten basket of corn chips to see that she’s crying into her cheese enchiladas.

“I just never thought of it. It’s dumb, I know, but it never occurred to me.”

“What?” I asked.

“Well, you know,” she said.

And that’s how I became a Reverand.

I wasn’t called by God.

I didn’t wake up one day and decide that I would like to perform weddings.

I didn’t spend a lot of money on a costly theological education.

I didn’t even do it to get in good with my mother-in-law. (She actually likes her zipper challenged preacher son-in-law.)

Nope.

I had this conversation with a bride and a groom, then spent three minutes on-line at the Universal Life Church.

You can call me “Rev”.

I think it’s going to be fun.

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“You are more influential than you think.”
John Wooden

I’m miserable about all the things that are happening in the world.

For months, I’ve felt overwhelming helplessness about the Middle East. I get distraught over the wall that has been built around Israel

and is now being built in Iraq.

Christ, we’re even building a 700 mile wall around our Southern border.

I mean, didn’t we celebrate tearing down the wall?

My neighbor’s son died in Iraq. No amount of supporting the troops changes that fact. He was nineteen years old and people tell me Iraqi’s kill their children.

A portrait of the President from the fallen in Iraq

Global warming? You think?

And please Tom Tancredo. If you really have nothing better to do – kick yourself out, you’re an immigrant too. (I do love Icky Thump by White Stripes.)

Oh, I could go on, but that’s not really the point of this blog, is it? The hope is to inspire.

Then, after reading Kevin Charnas’ thoughtful blog, I stumbled upon something I could actually do.

I believe in my heart, mind, body and soul that love is the most powerful force on the planet. I’ve seen love work miracles. What else would?

I started this practice and I wondered if you would join me.

Every morning, I think of the United States troops in Iraq and I send them love in the form of saying the Loving Kindness meditation** for them. From there I move to all of the soldiers, the entire country of Iraq, then the middle east. I keep my focus on loving from my heart – human to human – those who are caught up in the struggle.

And when the life is lost, I say a blessing enemy or friend, someone from my country or another, I bless them hoping that God will have mercy on their immortal soul.

I wonder if we try it, maybe, just maybe, we will actually make an impact. The research says that we can make a difference just by sending love.

It doesn’t take a lot of time, maybe five minutes at the most. I do it when I’m driving to the gym in the morning.

Will you join me?

** Lovingkindness meditation: “May you be filled with loving-kindness, May you be well, May you be peaceful and at ease, May you be happy.” Truthfully, saying “loving kindness” or “metta” (the poly word for lovingkindness) or even “love” is enough.

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Every morning around 6:30 am, I stand on a Lifecycle Eliptical machine and do ten minutes of aerobic exercise (ten heart rate sprints). I’m not really awake, but I’m there giving it my all.

The television in front of me is always tuned to this foreign language station. This particular television is always surrounded with men. They stand in front of it after taking a drink of water. The workout equipment around it are full of zoned out men. Well, and me.

In the interest of learning, I have been watching this foreign language station for the last six month. I hoped to pick up some of the language, maybe infiltrate the culture or hell, figure out what they are talking about. I’m smart, good with language, and I like men. I can do this.

Yeah.

Not a chance.

The foreign language station = ESPN Sports Center.

After all this time, I still have no idea what they are talking about. It’s not just that I don’t know the teams, it’s the manner in which they speak. It’s some secret guy speak.

I’m going to crack the code.

Any tips? Anyone have the Sports Center codex?

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Listen to this song (You are the one) by Shiny Toy Guns.

Doesn’t it sound like she’s saying: “you’ve got nose hairs painful?”

She’s not. At least that’s what the official lyrics say. (Like we believe them?!?)

But for a mind as perverse as mine? I’m trying to figure out how one could have painful nose hairs.

I know there’s a war and global warming and Lily Allen doesn’t want to be famous any more and all that important stuff.

But I bet if your nose hair was painful, you wouldn’t think of much else. Any thoughts?

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Some mornings Rosie and I play in the river. Actually, Rosie plays in the river and I must, must, must, RIGHT NOW, throw her another stick. She slips into the river, slides down the current and catches the stick.

One recent morning, we happened upon a man in swimming trunks. He was adjusting the trunks, like men do, and was dripping wet. Having grown up around a lot of people in swimming trunks, his swim trunk behavior didn’t mean anything to me. I only noticed him because he was in the way of a really good stick.

Then I heard it.

A woman, standing on top of a grassy hill, was screaming at the swimming trunks guy:

“You stupid homeless guy, put some g** d*** cloths on.”

I look up at the woman. What?  She’s bent over screaming while her friends are laughing.
She continues:

“You can’t just take a bath where ever you please, you f***ing, blah, blah, so and so, blah.”

I look back at the man and he’s taken off his swimming trunks, hung them on the great stick and is dancing around like a crazy person. I catch his eye. He winks, shrugs and dives into the river.

We decided to go down the river to play.

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