Real Men Pee Outside

I had a classmate in seminary who, for some quirky reason, wouldn't go to the bathroom in someone else's house. So, I'd encounter him out in the bushes around the 'garden apartments' we all lived in around Alexandria. Once I watched him pee off a balcony.

For most of human history, there were no bathrooms inside. For much of the world, there still isn't.

Ponder, I'd encourage you, that by the accident of your birth, you have had indoor plumbing you're whole life when 99% of the people who have ever lived and probably 75% of the people alive today, don't.

I used to have to go to my grandmother's outhouse when I was there in Conklintown. It had two seats though I never shared it. And, yes, there were Sears catalogs there to, you know, do the paper work.

I've seen signs in bathrooms that said "The Business isn't finished until the paper work is done."

Ponder this: most of the people on the planet don't ordinarily use toilet paper. A big reason why many cultures find it vile if someone eats with their left hand. Oh, by the way, a lot of the people on the planet don't eat with forks and spoon and knives. They eat with their hands--or at least the right hand.

Steve Arbogast, a seminarian I worked with, spent several years in the bush in west Africa teaching. He told me the worst part of his reentry into American culture was when he went into a Super Stop and Shop and walked down the paper aisle. The shear amount of toilet tissue sent him out of the store to his car. For his time in Africa, toilet paper had been an instrument of barter better than American dollars or Euros.

In the winter, walking from my grandmother's house down to the 'two seater', you passed the strawberry patch, the chicken coop and the storage shed. You don't want an outhouse too close to your house after all. Cold nights the chickens and a couple of ducks would be all assembled around the edges of the outhouse. Decomposing human waste gives off heat, after all. So you'd have to shoo them away with your feet even to go into the outhouse.

It might be appropriate to give thanks for whatever bathrooms you have in your house and for toilet paper.

And, it is kind of manly to pee outside. I'd never pee off our deck...not me...never...don't even think for a moment...even in the dark.....

My Calendar and Me

Ok, it was like neverending joke around St. John's--I'd have something written on my calendar that made perfect sense to me (I assume) when I wrote it, and I'd have no idea what it meant when the day drew near. Harriet, the Parish Administrator, and Sue, the Secretary, became cryptograpraphers (Sorry, my spellcheck isn't working no matter how many times I click the ABC with a check on my page so I know I didn't spell that correctly--what it means is someone who can break codes) for me and my calendar.

But those days are over since I retired.

Well, I turned to March on my 'one month on a page' Episcopal Church Calendar' and read this on March 8: "Post 1st CaaOP" (all underlined; and below that) "83log" or "831og". It doesn't matter which it is, each, whether L or 1 before 'og', makes no f***ing sense to me.

I have as much knowledge of molecular biology (none!) as I do about what is written in my unmistakable hand writing on March 8, 2011.

I've pondered and pondered what on earth that collection of letters and numbers could possibly mean.

I have one idea. I think that maybe March 8 is the anniversary of my blogging and I was telling myself to "Post 1st COT on blog".

How in heaven's name did that become "Post 1st Caaop 83log"???

I'm betting that's what it means. But do I write that poorly or do my brain synapses fail so often.

Thanks for reading about me figuring that out. If I'm wrong, someone is going to be furious that I didn't "Post 1st Caaop" with them at "83log".

(I've always known I have a little number dyslectia {spell check still not working!}, but this makes me concerned for my learning disabilities in a new way....)

Wait, I just looked closely at what I wrote on March 7 again....The T of Tree, in my shorthand, looks like a P and what looks like '83 log' is really a 'B' that ended up looking like '83'.

Maybe it's not my disabilities, maybe it's my handwriting.

Thanks for helping me figure all that out and tune in on March 7 for a reprise of my first ever blog....

My Meyers/Briggs results

Ok, I was in Jungian analysis for 10 years so I believe in and have used the Meyers/Briggs Personality Inventory.

Here's what you need to know. I'm an ENFP--big surprise, huh, to those who know the M/B?

Since I retired I've gotten in touch with my Introvert as opposed to my Extrovert. I've always been near the middle on that and I realize I really enjoy being alone and pondering as much as I enjoy being with dozens of diverse people and hanging out with them.

I'm pretty much stuck with being a Feeling rather a Thinking person and being a Perceptive rather than a Judging person. I'm 2/3 to the FP side from the TJ side.

But I am off the scale completely Intuitive rather than, what is it? I can't even remember, oh, yeah, Sensate. I don't even score on the S scale of the N/F scale.

How I always explained the difference between the two to groups I've used M/B with was this: "A sensate personality takes something that needs to be assembled, organizes the pieces and begins with the instructions (having read them once or twice) with step one. An intuitive personality dumps the pieces out, throws away the instructions and looks at the picture on the box." I am like that to the Nth (ironically enough) degree. I am so N I wouldn't know S if it bumped into me, took my money and left me for dead.

So, after tonight's adventure with Facebook, I've decided it must be a counter-intuitive thing and I would never ever be able to figure it out.

Here's how it started.

I got an email that my friend Jo had written something on my Wall. (Nevermind that in all the time I've tried to master Face Book I've never figured out what 'my wall' was. But I clicked on the connection embedded in the email.

I was told I had "New Answers" to unlock. On the right were endless vertical ads for stuff I didn't want and wasn't interested in.

Jo had answered a question about me so I clicked on the spot and went to a page where there were actually 2 questions about me, though I'd never asked them.

Did Jim ever lie in an interview?
Did Jim ever not pick up a tab?

By the way, FB said 'James' which shows how much FB knows about me....

I needed 50 coins (whatever they are) to open either answer and I had, not unsurprisingly, zero coins since I have no idea whatsoever what they are or how I would get them if I wanted them.

Trying to negotiate away, I was asked if I wanted to 'view my matches'. There were hearts floating out of that question which made me think it was some kind of dating service. The only options were YES or NEXT. I took NEXT.

That brought me to a page that said something or someone called "Are you interested?" wanted access to everything on my FB, whatever that is since I can't find my way around it and have no idea what might be there.

The choice was ALLOW/LEAVE APP

I took LEAVE APP and may have arrived at what may be my 'wall' with 55 things from people I know and don't know with pictures and short sentences that I don't know what to do with.

I clicked on someone I don't really know and got sent--I suspect--to the Universe they inhabit with photos of them in stages of undress. Maybe this is the "Are you Interested" world, I have no idea, but I was able to get back to what might be 'my wall' but isn't anymore since I decided at that point I wanted to unsubscribe to FB and simply give up trying to intuit what the hell it is all about since nothing about it makes any sense to me.

I discovered I had 401 'friends' waiting to be 'friended' or whatever the word is. I also discovered that someone I've never heard of had invited me to a performance of The Highwaymen this Friday.

When I asked "help" to help me cancel my FB membership I was directed to a group called "Cancel My FB Membership" that had 311 members and wanted to 'friend' me.

I finally got to a page with the 'most asked questions' of HELP on FB. The most frequently asked question was "How do I cancel my account?"

Clicking on that I was instructed to go to my account page.

Clicking on that I got pictures of people I really love, including my daughter, 'who will miss you' if you commit social network suicide and cancel your account.

Mimi's picture almost made me hit 'cancel'.

But I'm just sick of trying to understand something that I simply don't understand. I think I could understand how to speak Albanian before I could comprehend what the Reason For and Usefulness Of FB is.

Even from the underhanded attempt to dissuade me of showing me my darling baby girl's photo, it took 3 more clicks and pages to finally do the deed of ending my unfortunate relationship with FB. Plus I had to type in some really goofy semi-disguised words. (Could someone who knows about such thing tell me this: Is there anyone who can't type in the squiggly letters and number correctly, and, if not, why, for God's sake???)

The page that came up when I finally, after 25 minutes or so, committed the equivalent of 'social network suicide', was a page from FB inviting me to join.

At that point I went for the big red X at the right-hand top of my screen.

It is finished....

(I do apologize for my hyper-intuitive personality that was absolutely incapable of joining you in the wondrous--I'm sure--bliss of being Face Book 'friends'. I have 2 phone numbers, an email address and live in a non-virtual spot on the planet where mail arrives. Stay in touch, please. I love you. You ARE my non-virtual 'friends'. I just couldn't take feeling so stupid and incompetent any more....)

Jim Bradley's Face Book Page
RIP 2/22/2011
(All will be well and all will be well and all
manner of things will be well....)
All things considered, I'd rather
be in Philadelphia....

I can see my house from here...

While I was out walking the dog tonight, I ascertained what I already kinda knew--we are on the landing pattern from the Hartford Springfield Airport.

Several planes passed over from the south-west heading north east and coming down while Bela sniffed month old snow and considered passing water or other bodily waste.

So, when you flying into Bradley from most anywhere south of here, you could look down and see our house. Right now it's the one with 9 foot piles of snow near the driveway. In the spring it would be the one with a multitude of brightly colored flowers. In the summer, the flowers and shrubs will be in full bloom. In the fall, there is a red maple in the back yard and a barking Puli on the deck.

So, if you fly into Bradley International Airport from the south, look down and see our house.

The one time my father visited before I went to West Virginia and collected him to come live with us for a few weeks until he started wandering away and then he lived in a nursing home in Hamden: that one time he was a free man and visiting his only child and his daughter in law and his two grand children, the stewardess noticed his last name was "Bradley".

"You're going to 'your' airport," she told him. And she brought him a free bourbon on the rocks because his name was the name of the airport whose landing path is over our house in Cheshire.

He enjoyed that wondrously and talked about it until he began to only talk about things that happened before I was born, and probably you too.

Here's what to ponder under your Castor Oil Tree today: what could you say to a stranger that would mean so much to them they'd talk about it years later?

Welcoming strangers, the Christian (and Jewish and Muslim and Buddhist) sacred writings all tell us, is like welcoming Angels unaware.

Perhaps we should all speak to a stranger every day and try to say something that makes them remember it.

How would that alter the occurring of the universe for both the stranger and us?

Something to ponder, sitting there under your Castor Oil Tree. Like Jonah...like me...like you....

The End of Life as we know it

So it won't be the rebellion in the Muslim world--Egypt, Tunisia, Libya , Iran, Birayn, and all that.

It won't be the deeply divided Federal Government or the Tea Party that does it.

It won't be global warming or climate change.

It won't be the Stock Market or Health Care or the Entitlements in the budget.

No, no, no, and once more no.

The End of Life as we know it has happened on the Farmington Canal.

The old Canal path is paved for six miles or more through Cheshire and Hamden. It begins just down the hill from where we live. We take our dog there every day to walk for about two miles--the length from Cornwall Avenue to the nest road that interrupts the Canal.

Hundreds of dogs are walked on the Canal. And people are scrupulous about picking up their dogs'...how should I put it...? bodily waste.

But since the snows began, no one carries a plastic bag with them. There is even a little container for dog poop bags at the beginning of the Canal. But for a month now, no one seems to be picking up the poop--and you can't get to the container because of the snow.

It is the snow and ice that has done it--destroyed the social contract that holds the fabric of civil life together. People always picked up their dogs' bowel movements and deposited it in the huge trash can the town provides for just such waste. But no more.

Dogs seem to love to climb up on the snow banks and do their business. Ours does, I assure you, slip-sliding away, he does his toilet. And I don't pick it up and put it where it belongs in the big huge trash can. No one does.

Worn out by winter and ice and snow the people of Cheshire leave their dogs' poop where it falls. When the melt came, it became apparent that we have all abandoned the rules of the tribe that kept us all civilized. No poop picked up. Chaos and anarchy--this is CHESHIRE for God's sake--we are citizens beyond compare, we obey the rules, we keep the trust, we bear each others' burdens and make life safe, livable, and poop free....But no more....

It has been the winter that has broken the bonds on humanity. And dog poop is the evidence that the social contract, the general agreement, the tender tendrils that bind us together into a culture and a society have been violated.

What's next we might ponder if we dare?

The end of Unions in, of all places, Wisconsin?

The Roman Catholics accepting confessions on I-phone aps?

Clarence Thomas not recluseing himself on any Supreme Court ruling involving the Health Care Bill since his wife works for a company that makes lots of money lobbying against the Health Care Bill?

The Chicago Cubs winning the World Series?

How can we survive such thoughts and events?

People of Cheshire, pick up your dogs' poop. Only then can we live in peace and know contentment....The Social Contract is a fragile thing. Only we can maintain it.

"Do-less..."

For over a week I've been what my grandmother would call "do-less". I've written almost nothing, besides the out line of the first meeting of my Mary of Magdala class that begins in March--that was good--but no prose or poetry. "Do-less" is when you can't 'do' anything. It was a common ailment among the way-faring youth of southern West Virginia.

I've tried to blame it on the milder weather. Something like a preemptive Spring Fever. But that isn't true. I know myself from years of Jungian analysis and what myself is trying to do is avoid 'what is'. I play Hearts on my computer for a couple of hours a day. I spent an hour in Stop and Shop today when what I needed would have taken 15 minutes tops. I found myself, a day or so ago, driving about a dozen miles to get home from a 5 minute trip. I go look at things that don't interest me in the least. I spent an hour in Bob's Store and didn't buy anything.

I know the symptoms of 'do-less-ness'. I'm frightened, fearful, a tad depressed.

The only way I know to deal with that is to talk about it. Since my blog is easier and cheaper than therapy, I'm going to try this first.

About 6 months ago, my urologist in Greenwich suggested I might need another therapy for the cancer that started 6 years ago and for which I had surgery and radiation and then lived 6 years thinking I was a 'survivor'.

What's wrong is my PSA. Most men over 45 know what that means. I have no idea what PSA stands for, what the real words are. But PSA shows up in blood tests for it. The gland that produces the PSA is the Prostate. Mine started producing too much 6 years ago and I had a biopsy and had Prostate Cancer. (I capitalize Cancer because where I come from, when I was a kid, before treatments became more sophisticated, people I knew called cancer, 'the Big C'. Like a capital letter and because they thought it would be a hex or something to say the word outloud....)

The prostate gland produces PSA. So when it is gone, there should be no PSA. Right? I had none right after the surgery. And for a couple of years I had PSA readings like 0.003 and 0.01. But in the past year (nine months actually) my PSA has doubled to something like 1.4 from 0.7. Minuscule if you're a healthy male under 50. (My PSA was 14.0 when I had the biopsy.) But when you don't have a prostate gland, 1.4 means there are prostate cancer cells living inside you and floating around.

Six months ago Dr. Stombakis, who did my surgery, suggested I might begin some what is called "hormone therapy". It is, in fact, "Anti-hormore therapy". You are given a drug that prevents the production of testosterone. I'd had bone scans and cat scans that showed nothing. He even said, 'the problem is, you have no cancer." I said, "whose problem is that?" His of course, since he didn't know what to do except start hormone treatment, which is what they do for the 1/3 of prostate cancer survivors whose PSA continues to rise when it shouldn't. I talked him into putting it off until my next blood test. Then Dr. Stombakis wasn't included in my insurance (though, God Bless them, the Episcopal Health people made my company pay him for almost a year. Being an Episcopalian has some perks!)

Plus I had a terrible urinary tract infection about 4 months ago and went to a hospital near me and was treated by a urologist who fixed the problem and looked like Kurt Vonnegut and WAS covered by my insurance. Well, after he got my many records and gave me a blood test, he said I needed to start the therapy.

Two doctors I trust profoundly said the same thing. Dr. Kurz said he'd not suggest it if I were 75. But I'm not 75 and would like to be some day 12 years from now. Prostate Cancer goes to the bone, not a cancer anyone wants.

So, a week from today, I'm starting the therapy and I am freaked out and 'do-less' because of it.

I just want to ask for your good thoughts and prayers, however you pray, that I'll be fine and the side-effects won't be too extreme and that I'll move through d0-less-ness and my fear and my depression and be ok until 75 and beyond.

Thank you in advance for that.

The 10 top reasons I'm joyful today

10. Linsey Lohan will not be on Letterman tonight.

9. I will not watch Letterman tonight, or ever.

8. It was warmer today and will, I'm told, be even warmer tomorrow.

7. I actually already planned the first session of my Mary of Magdala class at U Conn, Waterbury for March

6. I haven't had asthma all winter (knock on wood)

5. I'm married to Bern.

4. I have a bad Puli dog, the best cat in the Universe and two wonderful birds.

3. NPR is on all the time.

2. I'm not Lindsy Lohan OR David Letterman.

1. My President is smarter than I am (as it should be) plus my governor is too.

2.