PeaceBang

Boy, Dog, Summer

Look how happy Max looks! He’s laughing!

Desmond looks on while Max displays Optimum Bologna Ears.

“Nom, nom, nom, I am Sir Cute-A-Lot from the Kingdom of Chew-A-Lot and I will snarf and then chew this cute child!”

Add some watermelon and burgers fresh off the grill and you’ve got yourself just the perfect summer’s day, IMHO.

Boundary Negotiations Continue In the Parsonage

Notice Erm in the background, keeping her distance but comfortable on the radiator:

Just for free, we’re throwing in a velvety ears, smwoft muzzle and paw pads plus curled up Pose of Cuteness for you dog fans:

Notice the cat at rest and the dog in motion. Call Wolf Blitzer, we have a Situation:

“Hey! I tode you is okay to be on dis couch but not dis close! Now you make me yelling!”
Max: “Sorrysorrysorrysorry … just don’t whap me on my snout ‘kay?”

Fat and Domestic Abuse

SweetieBang and I have developed a little Saturday morning tradition. I wake up early, walk the dog for a few minutes, then come inside and read for class or church while Greg sleeps in. Then he wakes up, walks the dog for a second time (Max prefers to do his serious business with Doggie Daddy, which is fine with me!), then we go to Weight Watchers where I get weighed in, then we noodle around the mall or somewhere else, and have lunch together. I drive Greg to work and then I go home and work on church stuff or whatever else I need to do.

Lately I’ve been very happy with my Weight Watchers weigh-in, so I tend to do a little “Rocky” arm pumping victory jump when I share my news with him across the room from the scales. He, being a shy guy, gives me a little grin and saves all the “Heeeey, Skinny” comments for when we’re alone (really corny stuff like, “Where’d ya go? Oh, you turned sideways, I didn’t see you!”). He’s very supportive, but it means a lot to me that when we met I was as heavy as I’ve ever been and he was still attracted to me. Hetero men who manage not to have their libidos totally colonized by Madison Avenue and the fashion industry have a special place in my heart. This isn’t to say that all men are necessarily naturally attracted to heavy women, but plenty who are wouldn’t dare act on that attraction for fear of being thought less a man by their peers. As I’ve complained many times in the past, a simple cruise through the personal ads of any American newspaper or on-line dating site will inform even the most casual observer that American men are intensely fat phobic, equating extra pounds with sloth and fair game for ridicule and even demonization. It’s ugly out there for big girls. And no, it seems to matter not one bit if the fat-hating gent in question is himself in possession of a beer gut, flabby or distinctly unhandsome physique, ear hair, foul breath, rampant dandruff or is a self-absorbed, ignorant, unemployed marijuana addict who lives at home at the age of 47. “No fatties need apply!” There is no greater moral crime in America today than to be obese.

With this in mind, it suddenly and with some real horror occurred to Greg and me last weekend that some people probably think he goes with me to Weight Watchers to make sure I’m losing weight, like some abusive control freak boyfriend would do. And Lord forgive us — we laughed our heads off about it. As soon as we leave the Weight Watchers storefront now, we do this whole skit where I say, “Honey, I lost two pounds this week” and he makes a *slap* sound effect and growls, “I thought we said FIVE.” Or he’ll put his arm around my waist, softly grab a handful of flesh and sneer in my ear, “Two pounds? What about this?” And I pretend to cry and say, “I only got to the gym seven times this week! I’m sorry! I’ll do better!” And we laugh like hyenas and get iced coffees.

And yet there are couples who live this way. And I’m sure we all know some of them without knowing that this is going on behind closed doors.

Today we were in breathless hysterics because I lost over 3 lbs. this week (don’t congratulate me for my discipline, I’ve had some sort of flu since Tuesday night) and we decided that, in our skit, before the woman even got the word “three” out of her mouth to announce her great success for the week (”Sweetie, guess what? I lost thr…”), the guy would interrupt by saying, “STILL. FAT.” and totally shut her off.

Of course this is all the funnier to us because Greg is considerably overweight himself and first feared that if he entered the WW building with me, he’d be dragged into a meeting and would be counting points from that moment on. (”C’mon, big guy,” he imagined them saying. “Get on the scale!”).

It really isn’t funny. I know it and so does he. I remember being in my early twenties and starting to get seriously overweight (”seriously” back then being 20 lbs. or so, but in my own eyes I was an enormous blob and desperately insecure about it, although on my good days I felt sexy and curvy and angry that the rest of the world –including women — tended to be so stupid and hateful about women’s bodies). I read Fat Is a Feminist Issue by Susie Orbach and it really opened my eyes to the ways that the diet industry conspires with society’s misogynist impulses to keep women focused on shrinking down to an acceptable size so that they won’t get their teeny tiny brains on other things, like, say, running for president.

When I see slim, fit women at the gym doing their thing, I cheer them on. “Go, sister!” However, when I see them striding into a Weight Watchers meeting and they’re in their early 20’s or maybe not even that old, and they’re thin and beautiful and they’ve joined WW for $9 a week because they’re miserable about the six pounds they’re frantic to lose, I can’t cheer. I want to pull them over and say, “Lovely young woman, take a 45 minute walk three times a week, cut out the sugary beverages, eat three healthy meals a day and nothing in between and you’ll drop that six pounds in no time. Meanwhile, there are so many better things you could be doing with your time than weighing and measuring your food and attending Weight Watchers meetings on a Saturday morning. Whoever told you you should be here, or whatever put it into your head that you need to be a size 2 or 4, let’s do an exorcism for that and you can get out of here and go live large in mind and spirit, ’cause your body is nowhere near it.”

As Auntie Mame said, “Life is a banquet, and most sons-of-bitches are starving to death.” With starvation a reality for so many of the world’s men, women and children, it seems especially important to remind women that there is more important work for us to be doing than achieving conventionally sexy, impossible model proportions that occur naturally in something like 2% of the female population. Health is one thing. My heart and joints are thanking me today for having released 10% of my body fat. Anxiously capitulating to a fat-phobic society that has, at best, a very ambivalent relationship to women’s largeness of being on all levels, is another phenomenon entirely, and not a good one.

If I haven’t made this perfectly clear, let me say to the women reading this that if you are involved in a relationship with a man who viciously shames you about your weight, ridicules your body if you gain a few pounds, objectifies body parts with cruel nicknames, threatens to leave or cheat on you if you don’t lose weight or habitually tears you down, telling you that you’re lucky to have him and that you’re so fat no one else would want you, you are in an abusive relationship. You don’t need to go to Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig or LA Weight Loss Centers or Overeaters Anonymous. You need to call a domestic abuse resource center where you live, your best friend or family member, your minister or priest or other supportive and loving advocate for your health and safety, and make a plan to get out of the relationship. Okay? If you decide to lose weight at some point, that’s up to you.

And I promise that my chubby baboo and I will stop laughing about this issue from now on. We were only laughing because it’s such an atrocious scenario and all too common. Lord have mercy.

(Highly Recommended Natural Weight Loss Method: Beagle Puppy = four or five ten minutes walk per day = hundreds of extra calories expended per month and you won’t even notice it!)

Lunar Eclipse

I couldn’t get the photo to come out clear, but here’s a little slice of what it was like the other night during the lunar eclipse. We had just come out of “Jesus for Unitarian Universalists” and the moon was almost entirely shrouded in purply-dark. What a magical wintery moment it was.

Recent Photos of the Pacific Northwest and GA

Sunset at Yachats, OR

Another View of Sunset at Yachats, OR

Another view from my window.

Tom and me after the UU Christian Fellowship Communion Service. (Do you think the Ministerial Fashion Maven could manage to get her own self a little less frizzy and wrinkled? Apparently not! Physician, heal thyself!)
The Communion Table

Downtown Seattle, View from Queen Anne’s

The Adorable Parker licking her chops from the back seat of Tim’s car, Seattle.
Someone has a very naughty sense of humor!!!
And just because she’s so cute, here’s one for free.

Famously snarky UU blogger snaps other famously snarky UU blogger! Story at 11!!

This is why when I asked my office manager at church what my martini budget was for GA, I wasn’t kidding! The lovely Reverends Erika Hewitt, Nicole Kirk and Alison Miller at Andina, a fabulous Peruvian restaurant in Portland where we drank vodka infused with habanera peppers and rum with cardamom. Glorious!

Tension and Fear Give Way To Elation: Marriage Equality

It was so tense waiting in the chambers for the votes to come in.
I was thinking about how devastating it would be to have to walk away from this knowing that thousands of families would be thrown into emotional and legal chaos if the process went forward to a popular vote. I thought about how drastic a measure it is to actually amend the constitution to exclude gay people from being able to get married. I felt sick. I was so angry and disgusted by the opponents on the other half of the room, and then angry with myself for feeling so incredibly hostile.

I thought about Biblical values, about the fact that a “biblical” marriage in the Old Testament sense often meant polygamy, and how God calls us into covenants with each other and God that make our lives a sacred story rather than a series of random events leading to the grave. I tried to remember if Jesus ever gave any teachings about marriage other than against divorce, and I prayed “Those whom God hath joined, let no man put asunder.” I tried to remember all the other purity laws from Leviticus (other than that thing about it being an abomination for a man to lie down with another man) that all the self-righeous people across the room had violated, and how Jesus himself adamantly challenged and violated all kinds of purity laws set down in Leviticus and other books of the Hebrew Scriptures. I fumed and chewed my nails.

We all watched this screen:

We cheered for the legislators who changed their votes, and groaned, hissed and even boo’d the ones who said they would, but betrayed our cause in the end.

When it happened, it was so fast and so amazing. Joyful mayhem!

I only learned today, while eating a sandwich at Panera Bread, that my own Representative, Robert Nyman, did change his vote. I sat and cried on my sandwich, knowing that members of my own congregation had undoubtedly helped him become one of the nine Massachusetts legislators who changed their mind about the constititutional amendment. I know for a fact that one of my members had a long meeting with him on Wednesday. And I am gratified to think that one of my several letters and calls may have done some real good.

We chanted, “Thank you! Thank you!” and
after cheering our legislators I chatted with a lovely woman from a nearby town who would like to visit our church. She was one of the many people who stopped in the halls of the State House or on the streets to share the joy that day.

It was cool to see some of our senators and reps up on the balcony. I’ve never seen that before. I think they must have known they were making history and didn’t want to miss it.

This little guy didn’t know what all the fuss was about.

More from ABC Carpet and Home, NYC

Spring NYC 2007 064
Originally uploaded by Peacebang.

Those gray things sticking out of the wall behind me are crystals!

Spring Has Sprung

Spring NYC 2007 043
Originally uploaded by Peacebang.

Union Square in New York City was all abloom with flower stalls and produce stands.

It was almost miraculous to finally be out in the sunshine.
Here are some hydrangeas. I wanted you to see the bigger size, it’s just an explosion of color:

http://farm1.static.flickr.com/169/469069465_004eb81cf5.jpg

Amazing to get such vibrant colors from my little digital camera!

Modesty Sheet

When we first arrived in Antigua, we stayed at Palacio de Dona Beatriz at the outskirts of town. Lovely place with a great concierge named Rudy.

I saw that they offered an hour massage for $35 — who could resist? — so I ordered one up.

Jorge showed up right on time and set up his massage table in the chapel next to our room:

He had no sheet to cover me with. Imagine the flurry of flustered Spanish on my behalf as I hastened to my room to retrieve a pareo I had thought to pack (Gracias a Dios!), and imagine how quickly I got over my self-consciousness as this friendly man pounded me to within an inch of my life (in a good way) as I looked out the window at the volcanoes surrounding the city.

Holy bodywork, Batman!

Sick In Guatemala: A Photo Travelogue

Most people, when they go on an exciting trip, will focus on the great stories and minimize any mishaps. Me, I like to maximize the mishaps because, let’s face it, they’re often more interesting and dramatic than the usual “wow-it-was-beautiful” stuff. So indulge me, if you will, my stream-of-consciousness narrative of my last few days in Guatemala. And then, I promise you, I’ll tell more happy stories.

Humor me, amigos. Yesterday, January 27, went like this:

9:00 AM Arise in Antigua, Guatemala. Eat breakfast. Ignore low-grade fever, as Ibuprofen upsets the already-fragile stomach.
10:30 Depart for Guatemala City Airport. An hour on winding roads, thick fumes. I ride with a white cotton washcloth over my face. I am full of Dramamine.
2:55 PM Flight to Miami.
5:00 Arrive in Miami.
8:00 Board flight in Miami for Boston.
9:15 Be herded off airplane which is leaking hydraulic fluid.
11:30 PM Re-board another flight to Boston.
2:00 AM, January 28, Arrive Boston, elated at not having had digestive incidents or pain.

Immodium, immodium, immodium. Dramamine, dramamine, dramamine. Saludos, my wonder-working pills.

Wisdom earned:

I will never again travel winding roads without a good, sturdy plastic vomit bag within reach. But listen to me, estimados: if you must relinquish the contents of your stomach in a moving vehicle, relax your neck muscles, bow your head and let ‘er rip. Don’t, as I did, try to retain an elegant posture while you cack. You will find later that you have badly strained dozens of tiny muscles in your neck, tongue, jaw and face that you never even knew you had. They will protest. They will throb. You will hate every last one of them. You will think, How can my tongue hurt?

The body is home. We take it with us wherever we go, our touchstone, our spaceship. Wherever you go, there you are.

My cuerpo, my bodily home, was broken into on Wednesday by some kind of poisonous bug that invaded me after lunch first as an uncomfortably full feeling, then morphed into what I thought was an anxiety attack. Picture me sitting outside our little stone cabin, listening to birds screaming in the trees, gazing at volcanoes — no, not gazing…staring glassy-eyed — while my extremities begin tingling and some kind of gaseous brew begins stewing in my abdomen and rose up through my chest, leaving me breathless. Am I being possessed by some charocotel?*

Uh-oh. The body feels it before the brain registers it. Alarm. Stay calm, everyone. One doesn’t want to be alone at a moment like this. I walk down the cobblestone hill to the pool by the lake to inform my comadres that I am in distress:

They don’t think I was having a heart attack, do they? My forehead is felt, my pulse gently taken, my anxiety respected. No. Must have been something I ate at lunch.

When I say “lunch,” you must imagine a tuna melt on a plate and hear the “Jaws” theme playing in the background.

Nighttime: my two comadres sleep in the cabin and I listen to sounds from my estomago (stomach). Is there a local god of these particular volcanoes? Can I pray to Him to stop the molten lava burning me? I have never heard noises like this inside my body. I would not be surprised if my abdomen burst open and one of those creatures from “Alien” popped out.

The next day, Thursday: We ride a tuk-tuk into town (picture a cross between a moped and a golf cart) and do a bit of shopping. The haggling is not fun, it is aggressive and hostile. We take a tuk-tuk back to the posada. We get out at the lodge.

Oh.
Oh.

Oh God, may I please have a very cold Coke, straight up? Something is very wrong.

I sit on a chair back by the computers and the bar, panting, in a cold sweat. An old hippie woman with long white hair and childish bangs sits on a couch opposite me writing on her laptop. I pant and sweat. She ignores me. I want to lie down where she is sitting so badly. I begin to dislike her very much. She feels this strong wave of feeling, no doubt, and regards me with a cold eye.
“Why don’t you go to your room and lie down?” she accuses.

I assure her that as soon as I am able to walk up the hill to our cabin, I will certainly do so. For now, these stairs seem far too daunting:

She does not move from the couch. I want to be on that couch so badly. I continue to feel the greatest animosity toward her. She goes back to typing her all-important missive. It is probably a newsletter home to her friends telling them about her great humanitarian efforts on behalf of los indigenos of the Guatemalan highlands. As far as I know, her sacrifice amounted to staying at a gorgeous lakeside resort and spending an hour or two a day playing the guitar for orphans. She may have even contributed to the local economy by shopping in the village. Let’s give her the Compassionate Gringa Award of 2007, shall we?

I stop hating the woman — I simply don’t have the energy for it — and bang like Frankenstein’s monster to the bathroom across the lodge. I slide my back down the wall and land on the cold stone floor. Sweating, sweating, panting. I become dimly aware of my amiga in there with me, coaching me as I finally begin to retch and retch and retch into a wastepaper basket which is mercifully empty. A gaggle of Guatemalan women — hotel workers — stand outside the door in a gaggle, giggling. Would not one of them have a better idea, something motherly and comforting? Are they afraid to harm the American? Would one of them consider wrapping me up in one of those warm blankets they carry their babies in and holding me to her? I would be so grateful. Like this:

So go my delirious thoughts.

Later, I start a dose of Cipro, which rips through my stomach. More volcanic lava. Acid. Pain.
That night: Imagine the most ridiculous possible pose one might take on a bed (hint: including bedclothes and four pillows). Use your imagination.
Whatever you have imagined, that is the only position in which I am able to find any comfort and in which I finally fall asleep. Don’t ask me to describe it. Leave me a shred of my dignity.

We were supposed to go to the market in Chichicastenango on Thursday. None of us regretted missing it. A German woman was stabbed there last week, and none of us felt up to the crowds. I slept and read. I looked out the window at these lovely orchids:

Friday, we climb into a van for the return ride to Antigua. We decide to take the coastal route, as it will be less winding than the mountain route we took on the way in. (These guys did it standing up, but I did it in fits of nervous giggles and clutches at safety handle above the car window, affectionately referred to as the “holy s— handle”).

It is on this ride back to Antigua that I learn the Great Lesson of relaxing the neck and vomiting down into the bag. It has come to this: I am actually proud of my aim. For all the turmoil in my guts, I am neat and clean. The van is neat and clean. Small favors.

I begin to think about people who live with chronic nausea, for whom the world is a place of dangerously pungent smells, noxious fumes, and potentially stomach-churning foodstuffs. How much they must, as I have done, retreat protectively into themselves, shaky and vigilant, for the waves to pass, or to get less dramatic. I am excessively, ebulliently grateful for my general good health.

This guy, very debonair, hangs out with me:

* For some really great and wack stories about characoteles, read this:
http://www.zooscape.com/cgi-bin/maitred/WhitePulp/isbn0826321046