Buddhism - the dirty secret of the McCain campaign

Because I am a journalist and my contact information is splashed across news media directories worldwide, I get a lot of crackpot kind of emails. The latest comes from a man who’s appalled that John McCain recently met with the Dalai Lama and addressed him as “your Holiness.” “With his right hand,” declared the email writer, “John McCain confessed his Buddhist faith.” From his letter, you’d think Buddhism to be a four-letter word.

Yeah… crackpot emails generally don’t work, but they are even less effective when you send them to a reporter who’s also one of those Buddhists.

Newport’s Green Thumbs

When my contractor neighbor told us that Newport’s historic East Row was comprised largely of gays and older émigrés from Indian Hill (one of the nation’s richest ZIP codes), I thought he was exaggerating or homophobic or a combination of both. But after being greeted by four gay couples in the first four homes of the eight-home Newport Garden Walk Sunday, even I had to admit the astuteness of his observation.

Despite Esquire magazine’s declaration in 1957 of Newport as “the most wicked city in America,” the city today is surprisingly conservative. The Committee of 500, a team of religious do-gooders, first set siege on the “Sin City” in the 1960s, declaring war on the city’s gambling, vice and prostitution bosses - for more on the city’s history, go here. By the time Brandon and I both moved here, much of the evidence of Newport’s illustrious past had disappeared, existing largely today in the memories of local old-timers who recalled the city’s heydays with equal parts nostalgia and censure.

The East Row Historic District sits comfortably at the foot of what is called Mansion Hill – the mansion in reference is the Wiedemann Hill Mansion, which was built for beer baron heir Charles Wiedemann in 1894. The area became a favorite of wealthy business owners and merchants in the late 1800s and its financial demographic hasn’t much changed since. Still considered one of the most prestigious and expensive areas of the city, stately Italianate and Queen Anne style homes mingle along tree-lined streets with many boasting impressive (and professionally designed) back-yard gardens. Here are a few highlights from them and our tour:

More photos are available on our online photo gallery here.

Urban Dictionary Meme

I got this from my sister on MySpace, but I thought it’s be fun to pass around. Here are the rules:

1. Answer the survey question and then look up your answer on www.urbandictionary.com and paste one of the definitions found there along with your answer.

2. Post it on your blog and include illustrations if you like.

3. Link to the person who tagged you and tag more blogs if you feel so inclined.

Here’s mine:

1) Your name?: Rachel.

“A smart, sassy and sexy young woman who knows things from fashion to film to literature, from Manolo Blahniks to Mahatma Gandhi. She impressed everybody in the meeting. She’s such a Rachel.”

2) How old are you: 29

“29 is akin to, in the words of most, “Humping a Humpback whale. The 2 from sideways looks like a whale’s hump and tail, hence the whale part, and the 9 is you. 29 resembles you humping a whale. It is a strange new thing that is catching on rapidly.”

3) One of your friends?: Lisa

“A very attractive kind of the female gender who has a sultry gaze and a great figure. Lisas are usually attracted to common types of carbohydrates and will devour them vigorously if let loose without caution. Extremely attractive.”

4) Where will your next vacation be?: Hocking Hills (for our one-year anniversary in July). Hocking Hills wasn’t in the dictionary, so I typed in “woods” instead.

“Incarceration Term-Used to describe whites in prison/jail. Short for peckerwood, a derogatory term used to portray dumb white boys. Much like redneck.”

5) Favorite Food?: Veggie Samosa

“Indian savory pastries filled with curry, generally potato curry. Quite possibly the most perfect things ever created by humankind, they are a treat for all occasions and a cure for all ills. Well, except violent gastrointestinal upset due to overconsumption, and we won’t do that again now will we? Needless to say, they’re radtastic.”

6) Hometown? Milford

“a collection or gathering of attractive young to middle age mothers who guys want to bone.”

7) Word to describe yourself?: Creative

“What teachers call you when they don’t want to say you are a dumbass.”

8 ) Car you drive?: Sedan

“Town in (North)Eastern France were France got pwned badly by Germany on September 1st 1870.”

9) Last person you talked to on the phone?: Contractor

“Someone who doesn’t have the skills or talent to hold down a permanent job. They are inherently lazy and sneaky.”

10) Your occupation?: Reporter

“The “Reporter” (n) A Gordita combo meal from Taco Bell. Just as a firecracker has a report, so too does the Taco Bell Gordita. If you have it for lunch, the report will occur around 3 o’clock. In other words, you will have to pinch a loaf shortly after eating it. The “Report” time varies per person.”

I am tagging Ottermatic, Lisa, Deniselle, Lindsay and Thoughtracer.

Oddly reassuring

34 As a 1930s wife, I am Poor Take the test!

I can haz cheeseburger?

You’d think I’d get right on finishing up the last two papers of the entire academic year, but alas, I have been procrastinating endlessly all day. My latest procrastination find? The site I Can Haz Cheeseburger.

I’ve got lots of silly, funny pictures of our furbabies I can submit. Here’s my first submission. Meet Grayson, my beautiful cuddle cat who has a thing for odd positions and shoes.

Irony

I’ve spent a collective seven years in college, earning two degrees and a soon-to-be-completed master’s degree and amassing more than $50k in student loan debt so that I can write a feature story on lawn bowling.

The irony does not escape me.

On weddings

When Brandon and I got engaged, we both knew our wedding would be, to say the least, unconventional.

My ring is made of socially-friendly moissonite; Brandon’s is made of wood collected in an environmentally-friendly manner. I had already lined up the officiant: a Buddhist and pagan Catholic lay minister whom I met while writing a story on the opening of the spiritual retreat by her and her life partner. We would write our own vows. The setting was to be decided, but the ceremony was to be outside and any flowers to be in pots so I could throw them in my garden afterwards. The reception would be vegetarian and alcohol-free, prompting my brother to grumble about bringing in his own six-pack and bag of McDonald’s. In lieu of wedding gifts, we’d ask our patrons to donate to a non-profit charity.

It was after hearing NPR’s Talk of the Nation address contemporary weddings that we decided to elope. I planned the bulk of my wedding with three phone calls within two days. We got married a month after making the decision.

My mother was dismayed, of course, at being robbed of a chance to play mother-of-the-bride at the first wedding of our family, but I think even she enjoyed our garden-side ceremony in front of a Victorian mansion on an island forgotten in time.

Planning even a small wedding as mine was stressful, but memorable. I took great care to select things that meant something to us and would remember for a lifetime to come. I imagine the Bush family is experiencing that same kind of excitement in their family’s own first wedding this Saturday. The president sounds like every father about to walk his daughter down the aisle: flushed with pride, with a twinge of sadness as his child marks this next passage in her life. There is a tendency for people hold those in leadership positions to near superhuman standards, perhaps rightfully so. Still, it’s stories like that remind me of the humanity of even George Bush.

Weddings are joyful family events. As George Bush gears to celebrate his own daughter’s wedding, I only wish he would extend the same heady experience to everyone and not just those he deems worthy of the right to marry the one they love.

You love garden gnomes? I love garden gnomes!

Our only bathroom is in a chaotic state of remodel right now, prompting a Home Depot run last night for molding and paint. While waiting at the paint counter, I saw two men approach the department, deep in conversation. The shorter man was chubbier, and with his blonde hair, ruddy cheeks and bright blue eyes, he could have been the love child of Julie Andrews and comedian Jim Gaffigan. The taller, dark haired man seemed familiar and I placed him as the nice cashier I had around Easter time at the Dollar Store. When I married Brandon, I instantly became the cool aunt to three nephews and a niece. One of the official duties of the cool aunt is to shower them endlessly with sugar-laden gifts and the grossest, most absolutely revolting toys I can find for the boys. Fortunately, my niece despises those sticky balls you squeeze to see bugs, eyeballs and other disgusting internal organs squirt out. It was close to closing time at the store when I checked out, I remember, and the man must have been tired but he was extremely friendly. We talked about our nephews and nieces and somehow got on the subject of gardening. He told me how his partner had an obsession with garden gnomes and that they had 20 - 30 of them around their house and garden.

When I got home that night, I remember telling Brandon about the affable man at the store and his boyfriend’s garden gnome obsession. What struck me most is that the man felt no qualms in telling me about his “partner” - he didn’t worry that I would recoil in disgust nor did he seem to fear repercussion for his job should the customer be homophobic. In lieu of wedding gifts, Brandon and I asked folks to donate to Freedom to Marry, which advocates for gay marriage; it’s a cause we are both in support of, especially now that we ourselves enjoy the many economic and legal benefits of wedded bliss. I am a magnet for weird folk; really, I could dedicate a whole blog to the odd and eclectic people who manage to find me. So, maybe my general aura is one that exudes sheer hippieness and this man sensed I wouldn’t be revolted by the thought of him with another man. But still, the fact that this man felt completely open to relate stories of me and my husband with that of him and his boyfriend reassures me our entire culture hasn’t been hijacked by the religious right.

The man’s boyfriend seemed to be in distress, wandering about the paint section aimlessly, throwing his hands up in agitated despair. He looked at several booklets and compared paint chips and samples. Finally he approached me, pointing to a sage green color in a book and asked, “Ma’am, could you tell me if this is a weird color for the outside of a house?”

“Why, no,” I replied. “I think that’s a great color and…. I think it would probably go really well with garden gnomes.”

The man’s blue eyes instantly lit up. His face erupted into what I can only call a state of orgasmic bliss. “Really!” he exclaimed. ” I LOVE garden gnomes!” It was like Moses accepting himself as a Hebrew - “I will dwell in this land…”

His innocent exuberance was near painful so I gave up my game and explained to him the previous encounter I had with his boyfriend, who was standing behind him red-faced and doubled over in laughter. My husband walked up about this time and we relayed the whole exchange to him, prompting another round of laughter. Later, we passed them as we headed for the checkout counter and I heard the taller man laughingly telling the whole story again to someone on his cell phone. I’m sure it’s one story they’ll be telling for weeks to come.

Money doesn’t grow on trees; it grows on irises

The house was eerily calm and quiet Friday after Brandon left for his brother’s house in Louisville. He and Aaron and couple other guys have played Big Band music for the Saturday Derby Day Marathon there for years. Our new custom furniture was to be delivered Saturday, giving me an easy excuse for not going.

Since we met, we’ve only been apart on a few occasions. There was the week I went to Vegas on business in 2005 and last October when my sister and I spent two nights in Chicago. Still, I’ve never been alone in our house without him. The silence became stultifying; even the cats wandered about aimlessly, confused by the big open furniture-less room and Brandon’s absence. I could hear the whir of the air conditioner, the whine of sirens from the street below. I realized I was bored. Utterly and completely bored. Brandon had been gone half an hour.

So, I went shopping. And on Saturday, I did more shopping, buying scads of hanging flowers to plant in containers and baskets and large terra cotta pots. If Brandon was a bit shocked at the sudden nursery in our front yard upon his arrival home, he didn’t show it. Still, I quickly reassured him I bought it all out of my savings, and not with our joint credit card.

I completely ignored the book I was to read yesterday and planted instead. Reaching around my irises for the potting soil, I spied something folded inside the leafy fronds. It was a $100 bill.

Who says gardening doesn’t pay?

Resolution

I made a donation yesterday for $50 to the Colerain Township Firefighters Fund in memory of slain firefighters Brian Schira and Robin Broxterman.

The amount pales in comparison to what they and their families have lost.

Every time I think of Broxterman and Schira, tears form. Two lives, filled with hope and promise and passion, extinguished in a mere moment. I didn’t know either of them, but I know oh, so many people like them.

When I first heard two firefighters had been killed, my thoughts immediately turned to Bill Ellison, a firefighter who was kind to me when I was a shy, insecure Fire Explorer. In 2001, he died after suffering third-degree burns on more than 50 percent of his body, leaving behind a wife and young children. Sometimes I will hear the wail of a fire engine and think of Bill, with his goofy grin and carefree attitude. Now, I will also think of Robin and Brian.

Just as with journalism, you don’t go into the fire or EMS service to become rich. The profession yields riches of a far different, more valuable kind. The firefighters and paramedics I know are all passionate about what it is they do and in helping people.

About a decade ago, I was certified as an EMT in hopes of becoming a volunteer and rode with a few agencies. I even started paramedic school, but couldn’t finish it because I had overextended myself. Somehow through the years, that dream took second seat to finishing my bachelor’s degree and now, my master’s. But even now, almost 10 years later, I can still remember the name and address of the first patient who died while en route to the hospital. I remember mentally willing her back to life, chanting “live” over and over again to the steady whine of the heart monitor. I can still recall cradling the head of the man shot execution-style in the back of his head, while I artificially breathed for him and the emergency room doctor who proclaimed him an “organ donor” despite our best efforts. These experiences and more indelibly changed me in ways I can never quite explain.

As soon as I finish my graduate degree, I will renew my EMT certification. I will sign on to a local department as a volunteer. This I will do in the memory of Robin Broxterman and Brian Schira. After all, carrying on their mission is the least I can do.