The Recovering Journalist

Important post from der Fuhrer

An important message to all on my important holiday mailing list (if you received Valentine's Day, you'll likely get St. Patrick's Day, etc. etc.): The mail might feature a little dictator decor this month.

I went to the post office a few days ago to mail a package and two square cards, which require extra postage. The ever-helpful and more than a little neurotic postman was happy to help.

You'd think that the Ballantyne Commons post office would stock up on supplies given the amount of people it services. But no. Everytime you go it's pretty much like this is a dry run for the postal service. Labels are everywhere, their paper backings strewn about. And forget about ever getting any special-issue stamps. The posters might show LOVE and Celebrate! stamps, but all you'll be getting is the Liberty Bell, my friend.

So I shouldn't have been terribly surprised when my postman turned his back to me and headed to a tiny back counter that had on it what appeared to be a New Balance shoebox (basically) filled with all the "odd" stamps.

"Well, I don't have any 20-cent stamps," he told me. "But I do have 10-cent ones!"

"Great," I replied. "Can I have 30 or so?" I asked. Looking at my two sad envelopes, the postman appeared confused."I'm mailing St. Patrick's Day cards soon and they're all square cards and envelopes," I explained. He nodded.

"I can give you 60 10-cent stamps," he said. Great, I thought.

"Fine," I answered.

Well, imagine my surprise when he plunked down 60 of these babies.

For all of you not in the know, this bad boy is the American Clock stamp, first copyrighted in 2002 (really? is that necessary?) and issued in 2003, from the oh-so-popular American Design Series, which also features (more famously) a Tiffany lamp and a Navajo turqoise necklace.

After a bit of research I discovered this fine piece of postage commemorates the Banjo clock, first made in 1805 by Simon Willard in Massachusetts. Despite its fascist features, this clock grew from home use to widespread popularity in schools and businesses - supposedly.

But as I stood there at the post office counter I knew nothing of the Banjo clock or its creator Simon Willard. All I knew was that before me sat a sheet of what looked like Nazi clocks, the favorite stamp of der Fuhrer. Between the camo-green and that awfully angry-looking eagle, how could I think anything else? How could the American government approve, copyright, print and distribute stamps that look like this? Who in the world could look at this and think, "We have a winner. Killer stamp design!

I looked down at my two sad square envelopes, which practically begged me not to place two American Clocks on each of them. It was bad enough they had un-festive Liberty Bells as it was. To make matters worse, the square envelopes thoughtfully suggest in tiny lettering: "Requires extra postage! A butterfly stamp!"

Butterflies might work for 20-cent stamps but when you cut down to 10 cents you get a Nazi timepiece.

My German and American heritages were offended simultaneously.

"You're kidding me, right? This is a real stamp? An American stamp? A stamp that's currently in usage?" I asked in disbelief. The guy nodded, clearly unsure about what was giving me pause. You could almost make out the thought bubbles over his head: "I thought I told her we didn't have 20-cent stamps. I checked the shoebox twice. These are lovely stamps!"

I sighed and handed over my money.

So to all of you receiving St. Patrick's Day mail from me, your envelope will be covered in postage. Most of it might be green, but I'm pretty damn sure it's not celebrating the same holiday I am.

Love lessons from my grow prince

Two or three years ago, maybe more, my sister gave me a host of presents that included a "Frog to prince" growth tank, if you will. It's a small plastic container that held a rather large green frog. Instructions detailed that the user should fill the container with water and watch, amazed, while the frog turns to a prince. After, the prince should grow to his full height in 72 hours.

That frog to prince kit has been in the side pocket of the passenger side door of my car for so long that I can't remember why it wound up in the car in the first place. I've had at least three different love interests ride shotgun in my car and on more than one occasion have thought, "Huh. Maybe the frog to prince thing spooked him in the door."

This occurred recently with my current boyfriend. It's not like this was the only thing in the car door. There's a mini umbrella, a package of thank-you notes (should I need them on the fly) and other assorted odds and ends that can be shoved in a side door pocket. I don't know exactly how it happened, but grow prince fell out of the door. He's been around so long that the glue from his packaging was no longer up to snuff and cardboard backing and frog prince separated for good.

"What is this?" my boyfriend asked.

"What does it look like?" I, a regular princess, snarkily replied.

"Frog to prince?" he said, mystified.

I told him to read the back of the cardboard packaging. You can tell by the wording that the frog and its concealed royalty aren't made in America. "Watch the prince to grow up." Then again, maybe the wording is onto something. ...

I quickly gathered the pieces and stuffed them back in the door. I didn't need to answer anymore questions about my vehicular frog prince.

I figured the fall was a sign from the universe that I might as well go ahead and grow the damn prince already. It was interesting.

I admit I should've taken time-lapse shots for the full effect. I'd apologize but I've already done so in the form of purchasing a NEW frog prince on clearance at CVS to repeat the process. So maybe photos will surface at some point. In short, here's what you need to know about how to grow a prince - and what I learned in the process.

Once you find and remember the frog, he really is as ugly as the fairy tales say. Mine had lost his coloring a tad. He had freakish eyes. I wondered if the thing would even disintegrate properly after all this time and exposure to oven-like temps in the Southern heat.

*Lesson* Whether you kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince or your prince initially seems a frog, no amount of bedtime stories or warnings will prepare you for how disappointing the frog can be.

I added water. And waited. And waited some more. My frog's pupils bled - black, weeping stains that muddied his face and swirled in the water. Eventually, a day later or so, he disappeared.

*Lesson* Despite how you might be told this time and time again, the frog stage can be a long one.

My prince was revealed. He was small as hell. And oddly colored. Why was my prince yellow? And for such a large frog, why was my prince so small? The water remained muddy and greenish.

*Lesson* Princes might not be perfect when they appear. Rather, they might not be the perfect you thought you were looking for.

A day or two later, my prince simply hadn't grown up. I painstakingly emptied the prince's gross froggy water through the weird slits in the container's top and refilled with rather hot water. The prince liked this and grew to a nearly normal size, a tad or two larger than the photo shown.

*Lesson* Being in hot water always helps princes grow up. Hell, being in hot water generally helps everyone grow up.

The larger my prince grows, the more he tilts to the side. This is puzzling. He's relatively firmly anchored. And he wasn't tilted before. He's still garish shades of yellow and red and seems to be losing his hair, but he seems content - even being in a confining container. He's grown up and I've likewise grown fond of him.

*Lesson* Nobody's perfect. Even princes.

Thank you to China for making this lovely little novelty that so perfectly captures every girl's fantasies and the surprising realities that generally accompany them. I'll try not to think of the lead paint involved and potential child labor and carcinogens.

Truly, however, my car in itself is a talisman to finding true love - a Subaru shrine to sweet sentiments and the quest to securing one's better half. I never thought about it until I removed Grow Prince from the car, but I have a frog prince keychain and some mistletoe in my dashboard container and somewhere in the cupholder region is a tiny plastic cupid, complete with miniscule man boobs. Moobs, as I'm told they're called.

Of late they've brought me luck but I'm nowhere near relinquishing them to some other hopeless romantic. Not yet, at least.

This post concludes birthday month - a fabulous time that for the first time felt like a true grown-up birthday. Sure, a big fuss was made - as was expected AND appreciated. But I honestly could've done without it this year. I wound up sick the majority of my birthday week and beyond and while it bothered me, it didn't really make me inconsolable like it might have in the past. That's progress, I figure! And true maturity. About time at 30, wouldn't you say?

More on birthday Bali spa experience anon. Sleep well and happy March! xoxo

Well, hello there!

Someone recently texted me asking if I had quit ranting. On here? Apparently for awhile. In real life? Not by a long shot. It's not the Regan way, my friends.

Happy holidays! Happy New Year! And, most important, happy Regan Birthday Month!

That's right! After much anticipation, we're mere days from Regan's big 30th birthday. It's been a buildup fraught with trepidation. Why am I not where I thought I'd be at 30? In any sense? Will I want to celebrate? Or cry in a locked bathroom?

Turns out most of these fears were unfounded and largely struck on birthday 29 only to slowly fade over the last year. Here, at five days to bday, I stand elated.

First: I shall be in Boston for my birthday - a city recently pounded by a relentless onslaught of snow AND a bunch of history and really cool cemeteries filled with people who never made it to 30. So there.

Second: Things could be worse. They always could be worse. Much worse.

Third: I recently discovered the show "1,000 Ways to Die," which (while overwhelmingly cheesy) greatly underscores point No. 2.

Fourth: My hair isn't gray. I'm as surprised as you are. My mother grayed in her teens. Granted, I had hoped I'd be dyeing my hair a shocking shade of red by now, but I'll take my hair color as long as I can get it.

Fifth: (And I'll end at five for now since my birthday lands on the fifth) I'm blessed with the greatest friends and family a girl could ever want. I teared up in my car late last night. I was driving home and an acoustic version of The Traveling Wilburys' "End Of The Line" came on 95.7 The Ride. I turned the volume as high as it would go. And as I smiled, my eyes welled with tears. There are so many people in my life who love me for me: always late (sometimes by hours); moody; critical; childish in spirit. Sure, there are good qualities that balance my more trying ones, but it's a rare thing in the world today to be seen in the raw and loved despite it all.

So to all who have loved Regan in the Raw, as one good reader was so lovely to suggest, I thank you. Let birthday month begin. And here's to 60 more years full of everything life has to offer: the good, the bad and the beautiful; the tragic, the funny and the heartbreaking - and the love that makes it all worthwhile.

Take two

I ran my second half marathon last weekend. I figured two within a month of each other would be a bit much, but was inspired to commit when I ran into friend Carrie Rabinowitz at the Turkey Trot with her family. Her son, Zach, was going to run his first half Dec. 11 in Thunder Road. Carrie prodded me to go ahead and sign up.

I continued to train after the Dowd half as if I would do Thunder Road, but could tell my body had weakened. I was tired all the time. I had a nagging pain in my right foot. After a few weeks of six miles runs and weekends of 9 and 10 mile runs I figured I'd go for it.

A friend's husband asked what I think about on long runs. "It's just a long time and running is so damn boring," he said (or something like it). What do you think about?"

This time around it was easy. I just kept thinking, "I could walk now. Or now. Or now."

I thought about the 100-year-old man who sidled up next to me at the convention center in his threadbare (and consequently see-through) running gear from 1962 who uncapped the largest tub of Vaseline I've ever seen and spread it all over his armpits and groin area while I tried to look away. A convention center full of hot, fit, young guys and who gets in my personal space? This guy.

I thought about the old guy in front of me whose sign read that this was his 52nd marathon THIS YEAR. Or the even older guy with the "100 marathon club" jersey who I had overheard talking about the marathon in Cape Town, Africa which is bordered by ocean. I'm lucky I get to local races on time I can't imagine making it to one in another country. One I might need shots for.

Then I rolled my ankle badly just before mile five. Through my music I could hear everyone around me gasp as I teetered toward the curb. Someone grabbed my arm and told me I might want to stop. I just shrugged.

I spent miles five through seven wondering if it was God's way of telling me to stop. Maybe a guardian angel had rolled my ankle FOR me. "God, if you mean for me to stop, you're going to have to do it again, I guess," I reasoned.

Miles seven through 10 I tallied why I should keep going. My endorphins kick in around mile seven so miles seven through eight or nine usually are pretty pleasant blurs. Ten has been a doozy for me. My stomach was growling. I don't handle food well while exercising and even sports drinks tend to give me a sugar spike that makes me feel like ass for the next five minutes. I carefully nibble protein bars or a bit of granola bar, but food is a fickle dance for Regan. It's best to attempt to eat well beforehand, power through and try to recoup after - at least when it comes to any Regan races.

I had already figured out that I could make it in even if I started walking, but I'd just wind up with a ridiculous time and loping right in front of the sag wagon. And for what? Mile 11 went on forever. The rest was decent.

I finished ahead of my last half at 2:11 and change. I'll take it - and the 26.2 finisher medal I got for doing the Dowd and Thunder Road. I think it's kind of cheating to add distances together like that. So I won't ever put a 26.2 sticker on my car. But I'll gladly take the medal, thank you very much!

Some girls finish looking as good as when they started. They have perky ponytails. They wear slimming black. They dance from foot to foot. I haven't watched myself, but I imagine from how I wind up at the end that I don't look like that.

I'm short, low to the ground. The Little Engine That Could. I don't drool on myself or anything but I certainly don't look sexy at the finish line.

It's not really the point, but it'd be nice.

Now to choose my next races. Do I tackle one at Folly Beach on my 30th birthday and hobble around the rest of the day? We shall see.

I've had a number of job interviews this week. Seems ole Regan is getting back in the game. I have three stories in the current issue of Ballantyne Magazine. I think my story about local athletic directors is my favorite, which was surprising because I had such angst about tracking everyone down. In the end, however, I had a blast with all five of the ADs I interviewed.

As always, I'll let you know where I wind up. More sooner rather than much later. Sleep well!

Dowd Y Half

Thunder Road Half

Submission

I went to Mass this morning. If I'm up in time, it's a pleasant way to start the day. Today, the church offered gifts of daily reflection books on the the gospel of St. Matthew, the inspiration of our church. The entry I read for today ends with "Dear Father, in every contingency of life, bitter or sweet, I pray for the strength to say: Here I am, I have come to do your will."

Submission to God's will, to duty and responsibility, destiny and necessity, is sometimes easier than others.

For a less Biblical reference, take the movie "Hot Tub Time Machine." Frequently the idea of fate, destiny and "the butterfly effect" is mulled, mused and ultimately abused.

If you had things to do over again, would you take the same actions? If you knew what would happen, would you do what you could to avoid it, despite unknown consequences? Do you do what is right, even when it's not fun or popular or pleasant? Can you summon a sense of peace to accept the current moment, the current crisis, and smile and do what you can to move forward?

A friend recently gave me the best compliment I've ever received. "You're cynical, but you're ultimately an optimist," she said. "You have one of the best attitudes of any of my friends. You always try to see the bright side, even if you're cynical and sarcastic about it."

Those comments have stayed with me and buoyed me lately. I hope that's how the world sees me. Sure, I'd like to drop the cynicism from time to time, but we can't have it all, right?

I'll take a peaceful acceptance of the present. And maybe a touch of divine strength if there's enough to go around.

I hope everyone had fabulous Thanksgivings. Mine was a fantastic moment in time that I'll always be thankful for. The day began with a White family Turkey Trot participation and ended with the tastiest turkey we've ever had, my mom's signature spinach casserole and homemade cream puffs, courtesy of my Grandma Bobbie. The best dish? The family gathered. xo

 

Chestnuts roasting on an early fire

Ever since Starbucks unleashed its stable of seasonal beverages the day after Halloween I'd been musing a post about how every retailer seemed to wordlessly agree on the Nov. 1 holiday onslaught this year. I know Christmas has encroached further and further on Halloween in recent years, but even last year it seemed that retailers were still tentative - a tree here, a wreath there and a hesitant air of "Do you want this stocking right now?" prevailed.

The numbers must've been convincing because the advanced merry-making is definitive this year. Ornaments hung in the store windows of a Boston Body Shop store Nov. 1. I was still carrying around a jack o' lantern purse. It was awkward. And I hate to say it, but they made ME feel like the awkward one.

And while I'd love to slam consumerism and anything that threatens the (albeit very commercial) solemnity of Halloween and all the attention it deserves, I rather like having more time with the holiday music this time around. While other years I've "Feliz Navidad"ed myself into a frenzy, I feel I've been able to temper by approach to savor the season so far. (Granted, turkey day hasn't even hit yet.)

I cycle peppermint mochas in with my nonfat caramel macchiattos. I listen to a few holiday songs on the radio then turn back to Beyonce and Talking Heads.

Jimmy Kimmel tonight sounded refrains that sounded more like Regan of yesteryear. And by that I mean last year. "There's only so long you can roast chestnuts before they turn into raisins," he quipped. "And there's only so many times you can listen to 'Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree' before the human body is programmed to self-destruct."

If you ask me, we need a little Christmas now.

*We'll see where I stand halfway through December.

Pictorial state of the union

Hello, my loves! Too much, not all good, has happened of late. But the highlights include a smashing Halloween with the whores of Wonderland (as well as my sister in her kick-ass, homemade Operation game costume) in Beantown ... 

 

 

And today, technically yesterday, I completed my first-ever half marathon in two hours and 18 minutes. According to my knees, 13.1 miles is the longest distance they'd ever like to run at once. They've put in a request for that to be the going limit. Right now I have to agree.

It was much more emotional than I thought it would be. Tears welled in my eyes at numerous points, and especially when I saw my dad at the finish along with my friend Trish, who had stayed hours after her 5K finish to hand me flowers. Of course I was passed by a blind man (who was fast as hell), a guy with a prosthetic leg, and I kept crisscrossing a guy who was severely disabled - and right at the end, as predicted, I was passed by a woman who could be my grandmother ... if my grandmothers were in wicked running shape. All in all, despite the frigid morning and my wicked headache, it turned into a beautiful, beautiful day.

I'm surprised by how proud of myself I am. I trained really hard for 12 weeks and stayed dedicated to the schedule. I'm proud that my training prepared me well. (I still can't get over how many hills there were - the hill back by Myers Park High School and the hilltop finish were pretty killer.) And because I think of marathons as being the ultimate in difficulty, I'm glad I didn't think too much about this being hard. It was a lot harder than I gave it credit for being. Especially with my little legs and shitty knees.

I plan to keep on running, though. The new running tights I've purchased are super warm and comfy as are my hat and gloves - a stark change from my training in August and September in heat that had me swooning. Thank you to everyone who helped support and encourage me and to all the race volunteers today. It was f'ing freezing earlier and I'm uber impressed by the kindness of strangers. Now, I welcome bedtime.

 

 
 

 

Life is hard - even close to Halloween

There's something going on in the universe. Something in the air. The temperature has shifted from balmy and hurricane hot to downright frigid. The Halloween decorations I've hung with care have gone from hanging horizontal to the ground due to 30 mph winds to hanging languidly wrapped around trees.

Change is in the air; it's all around. At times it carries the dry, crisp tang of crinkly, dead leaves. Othertimes it smells like the peculiar changing-season rot that seems to have overtaken a portion of the swamp I run across as part of my training. Part wet leaves, part something that smells strongly of antiseptic. As if Mother Nature is doing her part to break down, disinfect and get rid of what had come before to make way for a cold, barren season in which the heart waits for what lies ahead.

It's been a time of tense anticipation for my family as a number of life decisions hang in the balance. It's been a time of excitement fringed with frustration.

Today I had a frustrating conversation with someone who I care for. Not life-altering, just one of those relationships that could be more. I hung up the phone frustrated and disappointed. Mad at myself for enjoying a relationship so much that I could easily see it becoming something it isnt. Frustrated at myself for getting my hopes up in places I shouldn't, everytime I feel that pang of kindred spirit toward someone.

I laced up my sneakers and headed out for my long weekend run, hoping to bang it out early so I can enjoy Boston run-free for the weekend. I was surprised at the emotions I felt. Tears streamed across my cheeks at one point. I was shocked. I swiped at the moist salt and stared at my fingers in disbelief. Soon the frustration ebbed away and gave way to that familiar feeling of exertion. I pulled my sternocleidomastoid muscle recently, likely from the running, and it's freaked me out. It has the effect of swollen lymph nodes, minus the swollen nodes. Turning my head is difficult. Swallowing is uncomfortable. Running I have to be extremely careful to maintain decent form. And yet, I remain keenly aware these days just how much the human head weighs.

It got dark around mile 8 and I pulled out my phone to let my family know I was alive and only had a mile left and would call when I was done running. Someone nearly hit me with their car as I crossed a busy road. This really aggravated me. I had the right of way. And I know the car saw me. The driver and I made eye contact. He revved the engine. Once safely on the other side, I took my phone out. I was shocked at the multitude of messages, flashing lights, blinking missives and missed calls.

One friend has been disappointed in love. Another lost his young brother, who has a wife and young daughter. The wake is Halloween.

The impact of the latter took the wind literally out of my sails and lungs. I slowed to a walk, staring in disbelief at my phone. I reread the words over and over again. As my pace slowed, for the first time I felt how cold the air had grown. The chill stung my chest.

This friend has lost his only sibling. I thought of my sister, my only sibling. My best friend from the moment I met her.

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. Maybe my absolute favorite. I love the darkness, the night. I love the costumes, the pageantry, the sequins, the other side of self. I love the candy. I love the candlelight. I love the mischief. I love the moonlight.

But I also love how the holiday throws into sharp relief the juxtaposition and very fine line between the living and the dead. Contrary to what one might assume from my previous post, my Catholicism also comes with a great respect for All Saints Day, life, death, the triumph of good and the power of evil. Behind all the jack-o-lanterns and rubber masks is a poignant reminder that life cannot be without death. The two are inextricably linked.

My parents recently lost a friend to an aggressive brain tumor. He used to be a successful farmer before moving here a short time ago. My mother went to breakfast with his wife today. Recounting the day, my mom said, "She just has such a wonderful outlook on life and death; maybe it's having been on a farm and having been so close to it. She embraces it so fully."

As Americans who largely live luxuriously without having to kill our own meat or bury our own dead, death is only as close as we want it to be. We can remain at an arm's length from life too, if we like. Other people deliver our babies and even raise our children. We can stay home and never speak to anyone if we want to. I believe that such a distance began as a luxury but has become a great detriment to our people. I've heard many friends in the Peace Corps. remark how villagers in Third World countries are so much more comfortable with death. It's part of life. Sure there's sadness and grief. But the circle of life is palpable, unavoidable and almost comforting in itself.

Life is hard. I've been lucky to not lose anyone terribly close to me yet. Whenever someone I know passes from this world, however, it's impossible not to contemplate that crossover. How a person who was here, eating oatmeal and watching the news only days and hours ago, no longer is here as we knew him. Where does that leave those of us left behind?

As I send out fervent prayers for the comfort of my friend, I also listen to "This Is Halloween" as I pack to head to my own holiday revelry in Boston. It's a scary time, an unnerving time. A time to remember our dead. A time to respect the spirits of those who've gone before us, and to wonder if they're walking the same streets, drifting among us unseen, watching us as much as we continue to yearn and look for them.

This is Halloween. This is Halloween. Halloween, Halloween, Halloween, Halloween.

Ha- Ha- Halloween

Driving home a night or two ago a black cat crossed in front of my car rather leisurely. It stopped and sat on the curb staring back at me.

"Son of a bitch!" I said, slapping my steering wheel. By my rough calculations, I've only just neared the end of the bad luck brought on me by my last black cat crossing. Although, if my PowerBall numbers are any indication, that luck wasn't coming back anytime soon.

My high school boyfriend's family had a thing with keeping black cats as pets. I get it - due to unfounded superstition, black cats are homeless everywhere. They shuffle the streets, scraping by as best they can, all thanks to the misfortune of being born under a bad star with the "wrong" coat color.

If I had a black cat for a pet, I'm sure that would justify losing the superstition. Because I don't have a black cat, I reserve the right to remain cautious.

It doesn't help that I passed under a large ladder a million times while readying my parents' house for Halloween, either.

I'm the designated decorator for most holidays at my parents' house. And after my mom's knee replacement, I try to get up in the attic and grab all the decorations before anyone else has a chance to. My mom gets angry arguing that she can do it. As I retort, can and should are two entirely different things. That's all I need: a call from my dad that he found my mom paralyzed, having fallen from the attic through the upstairs hallway onto the ground floor, covered in a haphazard heap of spider webbing, pumpkin lights and jack-o-lantern votive holders.

I enjoy decorating for Halloween. It's one of my favorite holidays. I'll be in Boston for the holiday this year, part of a merry band that my best friend has dubbed "the whores of Wonderland." It's my first year with a sexy costume. No reason to go only halfway about it, am I right?

My dad only realized a few days ago that I wouldn't be around for the merry making this year. "You mean I might have to decorate by myself?" he asked, a slight look of terror on his face.

So I've started a little early. For me. The doorway is draped in black tulle and sheer orange curtains, the scariest mask I own crowns it all and orange and purple lights are threaded throughout spilling out onto the bushes on either side of the doorway. Giant spiders and Frankenstein masks stud the scene, along with ample pumpkins and lit jack-o-lanterns. Pairs of eyes glint from one of the trees. I've made a makeshift graveyard on one side of the house with headstones, ghosts and my favorite, light-up "Marcus the Carcass." He looks like he's emerging from the grave with light-up hands, feet and a giant scary head with white shaggy hair. Giant star lights dangle from a tree near the driveway, lighting up pumpkins and a stray skull. Plastic bones of femurs, hands and skulls are scattered around the property.

It still needs some work but it's getting there. I'll be able to board my plane with confidence. And I'm sure dad will remember to flick on the music and my new, mini-size strobe light. (All we need is for some kid to have an epileptic seizure on my parents' front step.)

In more honest-to-God criticism and ranting news, The Catholic News & Herald's latest issue promos on its front cover details on how to throw a Catholic-oriented All Saint's Day celebration. The graphic for the story is a headstone that reads: "Here lies an atheist ... all dressed up with no place to go." (By the by, I'm sure Jesus totally would put that on the cover of his newspaper.)

I'm working on my letter to the editor right now but am too angry to fashion anything other than expletives at this point. Shit like that is what's wrong with the world. Forget spending millions on some bullshit "welcome back to the church" program for fallen away Catholics (hello, recent bullshit program on behalf of the Diocese of Charlotte). Cut back on bullshit like this and you might have some churchgoers. In fact, cut crap like this and there might be a few more participants in organized religion in general.

The ideas were priceless too. Forego occult Halloween decorations and decorate your door like the pearly gates, dress like St. Peter, put pictures of your favorite saints in your windows and hand out saint cards instead of candy. Aside from the obvious, petty flaws with that idea (saint cards are pretty expensive and haven't been updated since some kindly nuns in the '50s drew them. who has  huge saint images for their front windows? pearly gates? really?), it doesn't even make any sense. You'd spend the whole night explaining (if possible) what the hell you were really going after and then have your house egged anyway. (This is not to say you shouldn't stand up for unpopular beliefs. Just that this is an unpractical, stupid one that shouldn't be defended.)

And what arrogance! As if Catholicism created the holiday. There's a reason All Saints Day falls when it does - stealing off pagan ritual for years. Plus, what's so wrong with it? It began as a Celtic All Hallows Eve, day of the dead celebration which acknowledged that not all spirits are friendly so maybe you should leave them treats. Catholics should totally be down with that. We believe in the devil. We believe in hell. Oh, but witches and goblins? Now that's some evil shit. You can't believe in that. Only Satan.

Keep it up. Soon we'll see a headstone that reads: "Here lies The Catholic News & Herald, formerly serving extremist Catholics."

I still haven't found what I'm looking for

While in New Orleans, I picked up a few CDs from street bands I really liked. One was kind of an old-time jazz band. Another was two women, Dorise & Tanya, who play guitar and violin. They kick ass. They play everything from classic standards to covers of popular tunes. The CD I picked out has U2's "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" on it. I'm listening to it now. While I'm still partial to the version that features Bono's crooning, there's something simple about the all-music version.

NOLA was interesting. I can't imagine living there, much less being there during or just after Hurricane Katrina. And still, the culture, food and architecture is breathtaking. I understand now why people from there say there's no place like it. They're right.

I have an unhealthy fondness for Bourbon Street and found an excuse to walk there every night. I'll expound upon this in a future, honest-to-God essay, but for now all I'll say is it should be comforting to women of every shape and size. The immaturity of the men on display might make you weep, but the too-tight G-strings and pasties on misshapen boobs would make any woman smile and stand a little straighter.

Favorite quotes from today:

"There's lots of frustration and toxicity, but we cling to the good times."

"Anyone can rub on someone and call it a massage. Everyone knows that."

Speaking of massages and the quote above, I received a two-hour massage this evening finally cashing in on my rapidly mounting Massage Envy monthly membership (you'll lose all your saved-up massages if you cancel your membership - thus, if you're not diligent - you'll find yourself getting massages every hour until you cancel ... like I'll be doing).

Yesterday I was slated for a long run. I got up later than I would've liked. The one-hour time difference from NOLA has surprisingly kicked my ass. I attended the Panthers game (what an abysmal team) and collected money afterward for the LAMB Foundation of NC. Didn't leave the stadium until a bit after 5 and didn't hit the streets in my sneakers until around 6. What I had hoped to be 10 miles was more and more looking like an 8-mile run. I picked up my pace. Around mile 4 my left leg felt really tight. I figured it'd work itself out. I was wrong. By mile 5 I felt a pop in my hamstring. I kept trying to walk-run, but it made my eyes tear. After limping a mile, it was getting quite dark. After two deer and an opossum crossed my path, I figured I better call in reinforcements.

I returned home and iced it all night. It's far better today, but I supplemented with an extra-long massage. I don't usually like to be talked to during massages, unless you're whispering sweet nothings in my ear. I now know this girl's life story. She had a stroke at 28. She's 29 now. Totally functioning but still scary. She still doesn't have health insurance. Her dad just recovered from non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. She's dating a guy who wants to be a sci-fi writer. His birthday is Nov. 9.

Among the personal history, I also learned some rather lurid details of the massage therapy industry. She hasn't run into as many smelly people as I'd hoped. None that she could recall, in fact. Lots of women and men in need of pedicures. Lots of men who need to shave their backs. And, what I wasn't really expecting (maybe my mind isn't dirty enough?) a much larger number of people getting off on the massage table than I would've expected. She's only had to terminate one massage session in six years for that very reason which, she assured me, is pretty good in terms of statistics. Still, it's surprising to me that every couple months she'll have a guy ask for a "happy ending" in all seriousness. (I'm not even going to discuss what an insult that term is to fairy tales and Happy Meals everywhere.)

Really? What arrogance! What ... utter shamelessness.

She admitted that women also go too far. She tried to class it up and philosophize it out, saying that it's all men and women who are disoriented about touch or aren't touched a lot. She talked a lot about how most all men, as we know, can't distinguish between different kinds of touch and massage is immediately sexual for them. Women are better at the nuances of touch.

Regardless, no one wants some guy going to town on the massage table, am I right?

Was this massage of mine relaxing? Maybe not as much as others I've had. Was it entertaining? Hell yes.

Not even close to Bourbon Street, but for Charlotte It'll do.