Tonight I went to a baby shower. I had carefully selected a gift of baby bath items, and I was excited to go. Typically, I don't like baby showers. It's very odd to sit in a room full of women chattering about their children and the pending birth and listen to them dispense advice, when I don't have a single thing to contribute.
But this was different. For one, I had never met the woman in my life. She is a young woman who recently immigrated to the states from Africa with her husband. She's expecting her first baby in a few weeks, and they have nothing. She has been attending our church as an investigator, and so a group of women got together and decided to throw her a shower.
This is why I love being LDS (aka Mormon). I love the fact that twenty women, most of whom did not know this sweet, shy sister, would open their homes, hearts and wallets to provide for someone who was so different from the rest of us. I love the camaraderie. I love knowing that I have an extended "family" of sorts, who would do the same thing for me, if needed.
The whole thing was incredibly overwhelming for the honoree. There is somewhat of a language barrier - she speaks only a little thickly accented English, and she hasn't been stateside long enough to learn, use or appreciate slang or casual English. Everyone was careful to include her in the pre-party conversations, stopping to explain things when she looked confused, and explaining traditions surrounding baby showers, which, not surprisingly, aren't common practice in Africa.
When she sat in the corner rocker to open her gifts, she was overwhelmed. For a brief moment she appeared to be a deer in the headlights, her warm, dark eyes searching for something that wasn't overwhelmingly foreign. In a room full of Caucasian women, she was the only one with dark skin. I dare say none of us had ever traveled to Ethiopia, and the only visible thing anyone had in common with her was another expectant mother.
She tentatively reached for a gift, and began the 45-minute process of unwrapping onesies, bath items, diapers, wipes, clothes and toys. The hostess sat next to her and carefully explained what some of the items were used for, as well as translated what the term "onesie" meant. After each gift, the honoree looked straight at the person from whom she had received the gift, eyes bright, and said a simple, "thank you."
At the end, one of the women brought in a gently used car seat her son had just outgrown. Another woman rolled in a brand-new stroller on which some other women had gone in together to purchase. It was presented with a gift card for the leftover funds.
I would have paid money to be a fly on the wall when she got home to the small apartment she shares with her husband. How did she relate the excited, eager women who dined on veggie trays, mini quiche, fruit and brownies and sought to understand more about her? How did she explain the mountain of gifts she received - all delivered by people truly yearning to make her transition to a new home, a new country and new motherhood a little easier? How did she explain how she felt?
I sat there, thoroughly enjoying myself, and my heart sang. I felt that warm, tingly sensation you get when your soul communes with heaven. I was heartened to feel so much goodness - the pending birth of a new baby, a group of women reaching out to help someone else, a new friend. I don't know what this young mother felt or if she understood the world of goodness she brought into our lives last night, but I hope so. I hope she knows that she has been embraced by one of the greatest group of women I've ever met. A group of noble women who immediately embraced me when I moved into the congregation last year, who have proven to be smart, sophisticated, funny, charitable and warm-hearted.
It's times like these when I truly realize just how much I enjoy the bond of sisters that is often forged among LDS women. It reminds me of the passage of scripture, "I was a stranger and ye took me in." I don't know how the young expectant mother felt, but I know that I am grateful for the little bit of heaven in which I was able to bask tonight.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Monday, August 22, 2005
Bring it on!
Today I saw the first glimpse of fall.
The weather, which has been searing and dank and suffocating, as August tends to be in the Mid-Atlantic, took a turn toward fall today. Still warm and sunny, the air lost it's heavy, languid feeling of summer, and the dry breeze that kissed one's cheek almost felt cool. It's temporary, but a definite prelude to fall, which will begin settling in in earnest in the next month.
I love fall. It is my absolute favorite time of year. I love everything about it. I love how the horizon darkens just slightly on my way home from work, the sunlight turns golden instead of yellow, the leaves put on a brilliant display of crimson, gold and orange, the shadows grow just a little longer and the air has a bite to it. I love the first days where you wear a jacket to ward off the morning chill, when foods with fragrant memories - pumpkin, cider and crisp apples - fill my kitchen. I love the settling of the summer bustle as the long winter awaits. I love the smell of wood smoke and cinnamon and damp leaves. I love the early morning fog, the influx of migratory Canadian geese and the rich colors that fill the landscape.
As a child, I loved beginning a new school year - new friends, teachers, subjects, routines. I love the anticipation of the fall and winter holidays.
It's still several weeks down the road, but this morning I stepped out of my house and was almost giddy at Mother Nature's brief nod to the change in seasons. Fall is on it's way. Bring it on.
The weather, which has been searing and dank and suffocating, as August tends to be in the Mid-Atlantic, took a turn toward fall today. Still warm and sunny, the air lost it's heavy, languid feeling of summer, and the dry breeze that kissed one's cheek almost felt cool. It's temporary, but a definite prelude to fall, which will begin settling in in earnest in the next month.
I love fall. It is my absolute favorite time of year. I love everything about it. I love how the horizon darkens just slightly on my way home from work, the sunlight turns golden instead of yellow, the leaves put on a brilliant display of crimson, gold and orange, the shadows grow just a little longer and the air has a bite to it. I love the first days where you wear a jacket to ward off the morning chill, when foods with fragrant memories - pumpkin, cider and crisp apples - fill my kitchen. I love the settling of the summer bustle as the long winter awaits. I love the smell of wood smoke and cinnamon and damp leaves. I love the early morning fog, the influx of migratory Canadian geese and the rich colors that fill the landscape.
As a child, I loved beginning a new school year - new friends, teachers, subjects, routines. I love the anticipation of the fall and winter holidays.
It's still several weeks down the road, but this morning I stepped out of my house and was almost giddy at Mother Nature's brief nod to the change in seasons. Fall is on it's way. Bring it on.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Joy
Today's topic of the day in church was a verse in Galatians that spoke of the "fruits of the Spirit." Two of the speakers spoke about the verse in macro terms, but one speaker took one of the elements and focused her entire 15-minute talk on it. She chose joy.
It was an interesting choice - usually people tend to go for the more doctrinally heavy topics in things like that - like Charity, Faith, Perseverance, etc. Joy is such a deceptively simple word, I think most of us tend to leave it by the wayside and try to interpret more complex matters.
I, for one, was glad she chose the subject. Over the past month - really since just before I got sick in early July - I've struggled with my state of being. I feel like I do in the middle of January - numb and tired with no zeal. I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, which means the amount of natural light and my moods are directly linked. In the dark, dreary days of winter, I struggle with depression. I have never suffered from it in the summer - even though this summer I've not been outside much. It scares me a little. Having SAD doesn't scare me so much. I know what it is, how to help ease the darkness, and that come late March and the first bursts of spring, I will be fine. Having the same feeling in August, however, doesn't bode well. SAD is not a summer disorder. This time around, there is really nothing at which to point a finger for my feeling this way.
I thought about joy a lot today - while I was reading this afternoon, while I spent the early evening hours having dinner at a friend's house, during the remainder of church services. Even though I've spent the past six weeks feeling sort of gloomy and numb, there are plenty of things which bring me joy. By no means is this a comprehensive list - merely some of the things that immediately sprang to mind when I thought of things that bring me immeasureable joy:
*Lingering in bed on a weekend morning as Himself holds me in his arms.
*Spending Sunday afternoon curled up in the dappled sunlight on the love seat, reading a book or the Sunday paper.
*Road trips to new places or beloved old ones.
*When Grover gives me a hug, asks me to read to him or allows me to claim a little piece of his heart.
*Singing in a choir.
*Watching the snow fall and knowing there is nowhere in the world you have to be.
*Camping on Boulder Mountain - which holds 19+ years of perfect memories.
*Solving a complex problem.
*Driving over the hill into the little valley I called home for 15 years to visit my family.
*Cooking for family and friends.
*Revisiting old photo albums and scrapbooks and savoring cherished childhood memories.
*Christmas morning.
*Thinking of the morning I knelt across the alter from the love of my life and said, "I do" - even on days when we're driving each other up the wall.
*Feeling the hand of God in my life.
I could go on forever. Simple, complex, mundane, extraordinary - there are so many little things that bring a contented sigh and a feeling that all is right in the world. May I never lose that feeling, and my my list never grow shorter.
It was an interesting choice - usually people tend to go for the more doctrinally heavy topics in things like that - like Charity, Faith, Perseverance, etc. Joy is such a deceptively simple word, I think most of us tend to leave it by the wayside and try to interpret more complex matters.
I, for one, was glad she chose the subject. Over the past month - really since just before I got sick in early July - I've struggled with my state of being. I feel like I do in the middle of January - numb and tired with no zeal. I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, which means the amount of natural light and my moods are directly linked. In the dark, dreary days of winter, I struggle with depression. I have never suffered from it in the summer - even though this summer I've not been outside much. It scares me a little. Having SAD doesn't scare me so much. I know what it is, how to help ease the darkness, and that come late March and the first bursts of spring, I will be fine. Having the same feeling in August, however, doesn't bode well. SAD is not a summer disorder. This time around, there is really nothing at which to point a finger for my feeling this way.
I thought about joy a lot today - while I was reading this afternoon, while I spent the early evening hours having dinner at a friend's house, during the remainder of church services. Even though I've spent the past six weeks feeling sort of gloomy and numb, there are plenty of things which bring me joy. By no means is this a comprehensive list - merely some of the things that immediately sprang to mind when I thought of things that bring me immeasureable joy:
*Lingering in bed on a weekend morning as Himself holds me in his arms.
*Spending Sunday afternoon curled up in the dappled sunlight on the love seat, reading a book or the Sunday paper.
*Road trips to new places or beloved old ones.
*When Grover gives me a hug, asks me to read to him or allows me to claim a little piece of his heart.
*Singing in a choir.
*Watching the snow fall and knowing there is nowhere in the world you have to be.
*Camping on Boulder Mountain - which holds 19+ years of perfect memories.
*Solving a complex problem.
*Driving over the hill into the little valley I called home for 15 years to visit my family.
*Cooking for family and friends.
*Revisiting old photo albums and scrapbooks and savoring cherished childhood memories.
*Christmas morning.
*Thinking of the morning I knelt across the alter from the love of my life and said, "I do" - even on days when we're driving each other up the wall.
*Feeling the hand of God in my life.
I could go on forever. Simple, complex, mundane, extraordinary - there are so many little things that bring a contented sigh and a feeling that all is right in the world. May I never lose that feeling, and my my list never grow shorter.
Battle Scars
Yesterday I went to Gettysburg for a day trip. Himself is visiting his family, and I hadn't felt well the day before, so I'd cancelled my weekend plans. So a friend and I set out to explore the fabled battlefield a little more in depth than we'd been able to before.
The detailed records that survived the battle provide an unusual opportunity to envision the horror of Gettysburg. With granite, bronze and marble columns, statues, markers and plaques, one can easily see the lines of battle, which historians recreate with startling clarity.
We purchased the CD which narrated the driving tour, and my afternoon was filled with images and sounds of the Civil War. A history nut by nature, I was entranced. I could easily picture the bloody fight in Devil's Den for Little Round Top or the crushing defeat of Pickett's charge on the gentle slopes of Cemetery Ridge. A battle that had long been just words on a page for me came alive.
At the very end of the tour, I felt, for a moment, the intense agony and horrific sadness of the bloody battle, as the narrator spoke of the actions of the Confederate and Union troops at the end of the three-day siege. As Lee's troops were retreating after a humiliating loss and Meade's troops scattered the battlefield nursing wounds and burying the fallen, the sky shook with thunder, the heavens opened and it began to rain.
Sitting in my car, gazing west toward the ridge line where Pickett's advances had begun early on 3 July 1863, I was struck by a thought, "God must have deeply mourned the loss of so many of his sons that day."
Suddenly the stifling heat and humidity didn't seem so brutal as I thought of the battle of Gettysburg in terms of something much bigger. I thought of the more than 50,000 men who were killed, wounded or captured that day. I pictured the beautiful emerald field stained crimson with drying blood. I saw Lee's troops marching very slowly back toward Virginia - heads hung low, throats burning, eyes stinging with unshed tears. I thought of Meade's troops, remaining on the battlefield surrounded with thousands of dead enemies, friends, brothers. I saw that they too moved very slowly - pausing to remember a fallen comrade, bending to tend to a wounded ally - all the time holding their breaths against the acrid stench of gunpowder and death, swallowing hard to keep from retching and crying out. Then I thought of their mothers and wives, days later, receiving word of the battle - clasping a hand to their mouths to stifle a silent scream, tears glistening on their sun-kissed cheeks as they wondered if the anxious young men they'd sent off to fight would ever come home. And I saw, in that brief mention of the storm that washed the physical evidence of the battle from the blades of grass, the tears of God.
I was amazed at the amount of emotion that miles of still-preserved grass and farmland could evoke. I was even more surprised by my own reaction to it - that my first thought was of the deep pain God must have felt as he surely watched his sons battle over what each felt right for the divinely designed promised land. For a brief second, I wondered if He had to turn his head, to wipe his eyes, to bite his lip to keep himself from reaching out and stopping the slaughter that was both senseless and necessary. I wondered if it was anything remotely like the horror he must have felt the night His Son was nailed to a cross on Calvary, as He then too had to turn away and withdraw His spirit in order to save the rest of His children.
I realized just how much the hand of Providence touches our lives every day. I glimpsed, for a brief second, what a terrible burden the follies and sins of man must be, even for the divine. I ached at the thought that, while I have been far removed from the battles of men like Gettysburg, I too contributed to the burden in Gethsemane - my own small burden so great I couldn't bear it myself, but instead accepted the Gift of an atoning sacrifice. In effect, I was humbled at the lessons learned on a searing hot summer day in rural Pennsylvania.
The detailed records that survived the battle provide an unusual opportunity to envision the horror of Gettysburg. With granite, bronze and marble columns, statues, markers and plaques, one can easily see the lines of battle, which historians recreate with startling clarity.
We purchased the CD which narrated the driving tour, and my afternoon was filled with images and sounds of the Civil War. A history nut by nature, I was entranced. I could easily picture the bloody fight in Devil's Den for Little Round Top or the crushing defeat of Pickett's charge on the gentle slopes of Cemetery Ridge. A battle that had long been just words on a page for me came alive.
At the very end of the tour, I felt, for a moment, the intense agony and horrific sadness of the bloody battle, as the narrator spoke of the actions of the Confederate and Union troops at the end of the three-day siege. As Lee's troops were retreating after a humiliating loss and Meade's troops scattered the battlefield nursing wounds and burying the fallen, the sky shook with thunder, the heavens opened and it began to rain.
Sitting in my car, gazing west toward the ridge line where Pickett's advances had begun early on 3 July 1863, I was struck by a thought, "God must have deeply mourned the loss of so many of his sons that day."
Suddenly the stifling heat and humidity didn't seem so brutal as I thought of the battle of Gettysburg in terms of something much bigger. I thought of the more than 50,000 men who were killed, wounded or captured that day. I pictured the beautiful emerald field stained crimson with drying blood. I saw Lee's troops marching very slowly back toward Virginia - heads hung low, throats burning, eyes stinging with unshed tears. I thought of Meade's troops, remaining on the battlefield surrounded with thousands of dead enemies, friends, brothers. I saw that they too moved very slowly - pausing to remember a fallen comrade, bending to tend to a wounded ally - all the time holding their breaths against the acrid stench of gunpowder and death, swallowing hard to keep from retching and crying out. Then I thought of their mothers and wives, days later, receiving word of the battle - clasping a hand to their mouths to stifle a silent scream, tears glistening on their sun-kissed cheeks as they wondered if the anxious young men they'd sent off to fight would ever come home. And I saw, in that brief mention of the storm that washed the physical evidence of the battle from the blades of grass, the tears of God.
I was amazed at the amount of emotion that miles of still-preserved grass and farmland could evoke. I was even more surprised by my own reaction to it - that my first thought was of the deep pain God must have felt as he surely watched his sons battle over what each felt right for the divinely designed promised land. For a brief second, I wondered if He had to turn his head, to wipe his eyes, to bite his lip to keep himself from reaching out and stopping the slaughter that was both senseless and necessary. I wondered if it was anything remotely like the horror he must have felt the night His Son was nailed to a cross on Calvary, as He then too had to turn away and withdraw His spirit in order to save the rest of His children.
I realized just how much the hand of Providence touches our lives every day. I glimpsed, for a brief second, what a terrible burden the follies and sins of man must be, even for the divine. I ached at the thought that, while I have been far removed from the battles of men like Gettysburg, I too contributed to the burden in Gethsemane - my own small burden so great I couldn't bear it myself, but instead accepted the Gift of an atoning sacrifice. In effect, I was humbled at the lessons learned on a searing hot summer day in rural Pennsylvania.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Wedding Bells
This weekend, Himself and I traveled to West Virginia to attend the wedding of an old Navy friend of his. After laboring for weeks on what was appropriate dress for an evening wedding in West Virginia, I settled on a summery suit. The only suit I should have worn, in hindsight, was my bathing suit. We arrived to find that the wedding was to be held outdoors. In August. Bad idea.
I am not sure whatever possessed the bride and groom to even consider an outdoor wedding in August. Certainly common sense, in this case, was derailed by emotion. There are two things which are reliably true about August: 1) It is ALWAYS hot in August if you are north of the Equator and south of the North Pole. 2) If you are east of the Mississippi, it will ALWAYS be humid. Combined, one is pretty much guaranteed that the entire month will be miserable.
So, we sat and suffered - melting in the 100-degree heat and 90% humidity - for half and hour. Himself and I placed bets on whether the grandmothers, resting on a bench under a large tree and looking deathly pale, or the groomsmen, dressed in full black tuxes, would pass out first. We prayed for the wind to stir the air, so thick with humidity it felt almost solid. We looked at each other and silently wondered how two seemingly bright college graduates could have been so blind to the elements.
We wiggled and fidgeted and silently groaned like school kids. As soon as the ceremony was over we, along with the other guests, dashed to the dimly lit air-conditioned ballroom where the reception was to be held, breathing a sigh of relief. Now the good part would begin.
Quiet chaos ranged as we realized there was no assigned seating. Uncomfortable, since the only people Himself knew were in the bridal party and the only person I knew was the groom himself, we found a corner table and sat down by ourselves. It felt like being the last one picked for a sports team in elementary school - staring across the room at the rest of the friends and relatives. Then, after an hour and a half of sitting and gulping water faster than the poor waiter could refill it, the bridal party arrived from whatever secret rendezvous happens between the wedding and the reception (since ours were on different days, I never did discover the secret even at our own wedding!).
We dined on hotel-issue rubber chicken and dull prime rib, and agreed later that whatever they paid for the food was too much. The highlight of the evening was the dancing and the DJ, as it is at most wedding receptions. And, of course, catching up with a few old friends and acquaintances. It was one of the few forays I've had into Himself's pre-Sara life - mixing with people who knew him after his divorce and before we met.
All in all, I'm glad we drove the 3+ hours to attend. Himself would disagree, but I think weddings are one of the greatest celebrations life has to offer. Still, I wonder at the sanity behind couples who spend thousands of dollars to entertain guests they see only briefly at the event, dine on less-than-stellar food, and drink enough to obliviate any memories.
It makes me more and more fond of our tiny little celebration we called a reception.
I am not sure whatever possessed the bride and groom to even consider an outdoor wedding in August. Certainly common sense, in this case, was derailed by emotion. There are two things which are reliably true about August: 1) It is ALWAYS hot in August if you are north of the Equator and south of the North Pole. 2) If you are east of the Mississippi, it will ALWAYS be humid. Combined, one is pretty much guaranteed that the entire month will be miserable.
So, we sat and suffered - melting in the 100-degree heat and 90% humidity - for half and hour. Himself and I placed bets on whether the grandmothers, resting on a bench under a large tree and looking deathly pale, or the groomsmen, dressed in full black tuxes, would pass out first. We prayed for the wind to stir the air, so thick with humidity it felt almost solid. We looked at each other and silently wondered how two seemingly bright college graduates could have been so blind to the elements.
We wiggled and fidgeted and silently groaned like school kids. As soon as the ceremony was over we, along with the other guests, dashed to the dimly lit air-conditioned ballroom where the reception was to be held, breathing a sigh of relief. Now the good part would begin.
Quiet chaos ranged as we realized there was no assigned seating. Uncomfortable, since the only people Himself knew were in the bridal party and the only person I knew was the groom himself, we found a corner table and sat down by ourselves. It felt like being the last one picked for a sports team in elementary school - staring across the room at the rest of the friends and relatives. Then, after an hour and a half of sitting and gulping water faster than the poor waiter could refill it, the bridal party arrived from whatever secret rendezvous happens between the wedding and the reception (since ours were on different days, I never did discover the secret even at our own wedding!).
We dined on hotel-issue rubber chicken and dull prime rib, and agreed later that whatever they paid for the food was too much. The highlight of the evening was the dancing and the DJ, as it is at most wedding receptions. And, of course, catching up with a few old friends and acquaintances. It was one of the few forays I've had into Himself's pre-Sara life - mixing with people who knew him after his divorce and before we met.
All in all, I'm glad we drove the 3+ hours to attend. Himself would disagree, but I think weddings are one of the greatest celebrations life has to offer. Still, I wonder at the sanity behind couples who spend thousands of dollars to entertain guests they see only briefly at the event, dine on less-than-stellar food, and drink enough to obliviate any memories.
It makes me more and more fond of our tiny little celebration we called a reception.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Folks in Arkansas Have it Right
Today, The Washington Post printed an article titled, "For Democrats, a Troubling Culture Gap." The article reports the findings of a group of Democratic strategists who interviewed voters in Wisconsin, Arkansas, Colorado and Kentucky. Big surprise: Morals win over electoral politics. The heart of rural America is still beating, which gives me great hope.
The article did a lot to validate how I feel, how I vote, and what I believe in regards to politics. It was nice to realize that somebody finally figured it out - though, with the story buried on Page A8, I doubt too many people in the DNC will pay attention to it.
I am a rare species - LDS, originally from Utah, and a registered Democrat. I spent my senior year at BYU active in the College Democrats organization (a surprising fact: though many don't even realize BYU allows Democrats - ha, ha - it has a very active chapter). People gasp, faint, fall over and assume that I cannot possibly be faithful to my religious beliefs while voting for the "other guy." I admit, my roots in registering as a Democrat came more from my belief that EVERY state needs a two-party system, and I was trying to bolster the beleaguered minority. That aside, I believe largely in the Democratic Ideology - small business, social awareness and activism, proactive government, etc. "Largely" is the key word - because I've voted Republican at least as often as I've voted Democrat, and there are some issues (ie Military) where I'm definitely more Republican in my ideology.
What people (politicians, the DNC and others) don't get is that being Democrat does not mean I feel inclined to surrender my traditional morals and values. The article pointed to some themes in how the study's participants felt, that mirrored almost identically how I feel:
That's it. No matter my political ideology I REFUSE to vote for someone who challenges or tries to negate my values and beliefs. Often, my voting pattern has been less about ideology and more about who is the better person to safeguard the religious, cultural and traditional beliefs that make up who I am.
I hope someone from the DNC is paying attention. It's time someone in the Democratic party wake up and realize here are a lot of us who are quietly ready to mutiny. For once, the good people of Arkansas and I agree on something.
The article did a lot to validate how I feel, how I vote, and what I believe in regards to politics. It was nice to realize that somebody finally figured it out - though, with the story buried on Page A8, I doubt too many people in the DNC will pay attention to it.
I am a rare species - LDS, originally from Utah, and a registered Democrat. I spent my senior year at BYU active in the College Democrats organization (a surprising fact: though many don't even realize BYU allows Democrats - ha, ha - it has a very active chapter). People gasp, faint, fall over and assume that I cannot possibly be faithful to my religious beliefs while voting for the "other guy." I admit, my roots in registering as a Democrat came more from my belief that EVERY state needs a two-party system, and I was trying to bolster the beleaguered minority. That aside, I believe largely in the Democratic Ideology - small business, social awareness and activism, proactive government, etc. "Largely" is the key word - because I've voted Republican at least as often as I've voted Democrat, and there are some issues (ie Military) where I'm definitely more Republican in my ideology.
What people (politicians, the DNC and others) don't get is that being Democrat does not mean I feel inclined to surrender my traditional morals and values. The article pointed to some themes in how the study's participants felt, that mirrored almost identically how I feel:
The good news for Democrats: All the groups
expressed dissatisfaction with the direction of the country and with the
leadership of the president and the GOP-controlled Congress.
Then came the bad news: "As powerful as the concern over these issues
is, the introduction of cultural themes -- specifically gay marriage, abortion,
the importance of the traditional family unit and the role of religion in public
life -- quickly renders them almost irrelevant in terms of electoral politics at
the national level," the study said.
Many of these voters still favor Democrats on economic issues. But they
see the Democrats as weak on national security, and on cultural and moral
issues, they view Democrats as both inconsistent and hostile to traditional
values. "Most referred to Democrats as 'liberal' on issues of morality, but some
even go so far as to label them 'immoral,' 'morally bankrupt,' or even
'anti-religious,' " according to the Democracy Corps analysis. (Balz, D., Washington Post, 8/10/05 p.A08)
That's it. No matter my political ideology I REFUSE to vote for someone who challenges or tries to negate my values and beliefs. Often, my voting pattern has been less about ideology and more about who is the better person to safeguard the religious, cultural and traditional beliefs that make up who I am.
I hope someone from the DNC is paying attention. It's time someone in the Democratic party wake up and realize here are a lot of us who are quietly ready to mutiny. For once, the good people of Arkansas and I agree on something.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Perils of Being Behind in Pop Culture
As I've mentioned before, I'm not an early adopter - especially when it comes to cultural revolutions. I'm the one who, were I alive in the 60s, would have still been wearing poodle skirts and saddle shoes not caring that the rest of the world wasn't even wearing clothes.
But sometimes I'm astounded at the perils of being a late adopter when it comes to pop culture. I finished book two in the Harry Potter series last weekend, with great intentions of rushing out for book three. The problem is - book three is nowhere to be found. I've looked in four bookstores and my local library, and no one has book three. They have books one and two and four and five, but not book three.
I'm beginning to wonder if I'm missing something - are there a large contingency of readers who just decided to jump on the tail end of the Harry Potter bandwagon, and we all read at the same speed? Is something in book six connected to book three, so all the people who have read both have to go back and read book three to refresh themselves on something they may have missed? Was book three printed as a limited edition?
I'm going to have to purchase it on Amazon. Not that I mind - it's cheaper than purchasing it in the store anyway. The problem is that now I've discovered what the rest of the world has been raving about for seven years, I'm impatient. I want to read it now, not later. And I'm too cheap to pay for express shipping.
But sometimes I'm astounded at the perils of being a late adopter when it comes to pop culture. I finished book two in the Harry Potter series last weekend, with great intentions of rushing out for book three. The problem is - book three is nowhere to be found. I've looked in four bookstores and my local library, and no one has book three. They have books one and two and four and five, but not book three.
I'm beginning to wonder if I'm missing something - are there a large contingency of readers who just decided to jump on the tail end of the Harry Potter bandwagon, and we all read at the same speed? Is something in book six connected to book three, so all the people who have read both have to go back and read book three to refresh themselves on something they may have missed? Was book three printed as a limited edition?
I'm going to have to purchase it on Amazon. Not that I mind - it's cheaper than purchasing it in the store anyway. The problem is that now I've discovered what the rest of the world has been raving about for seven years, I'm impatient. I want to read it now, not later. And I'm too cheap to pay for express shipping.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Outside Looking In
Work is my life. For better or worse, it is what has always defined me, what has always set me apart. It is, quite frankly, the one thing I do better than anything else. I have to be careful, as I could very well be a work-a-holic. Sometimes I am. Part of it comes from having been almost the sole support since my marriage, but part of it comes from it being the one thing I derive a fairly steady sense of satisfaction from.
That said, it has been a rough couple of weeks. For the first two weeks of July I was out of the office, either using "vacation" time (ie not coming to work, but still seemingly doing a lot of work via cell and e-mail) or sick (where I wasn't even seemingly doing a lot of work - I was flat on my back in bed for five days straight). For the next week, I was in so much pain, I only worked half a day in the office (generally catching up from being out), and half a day from home (trying to keep up with the new developments). I am fortunate that XYZ really does care enough to understand that there was no way I could physically handle a full week back in the office.
Unfortunately, when the world is spinning at one speed around you, and you're only spinning at half speed, you lose more ground than you make up. That is where I am today. From 11 to 3, I sat in three separate meetings for three separate projects, and in every single one I felt like the odd woman out. Nothing I contributed was useful. Everything I said was challenged. For one entire meeting I sat in the corner, saying virtually nothing. I am so lost. I'm so overwhelmed, I'm not sure where to begin, and so I don't.
I feel like I'm outside looking in and everything is surrounded with static. I don't feel like I'm "in touch" any more.
That said, it has been a rough couple of weeks. For the first two weeks of July I was out of the office, either using "vacation" time (ie not coming to work, but still seemingly doing a lot of work via cell and e-mail) or sick (where I wasn't even seemingly doing a lot of work - I was flat on my back in bed for five days straight). For the next week, I was in so much pain, I only worked half a day in the office (generally catching up from being out), and half a day from home (trying to keep up with the new developments). I am fortunate that XYZ really does care enough to understand that there was no way I could physically handle a full week back in the office.
Unfortunately, when the world is spinning at one speed around you, and you're only spinning at half speed, you lose more ground than you make up. That is where I am today. From 11 to 3, I sat in three separate meetings for three separate projects, and in every single one I felt like the odd woman out. Nothing I contributed was useful. Everything I said was challenged. For one entire meeting I sat in the corner, saying virtually nothing. I am so lost. I'm so overwhelmed, I'm not sure where to begin, and so I don't.
I feel like I'm outside looking in and everything is surrounded with static. I don't feel like I'm "in touch" any more.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Muggles, wizards and Voldemort, oh my!
I fisnished book two in the Harry Potter series today. I finished book one yesterday. While the rest of the world is chattering about the supposedly major plot twists in book six, I am still trying to keep the characters introduced in book one straight. Meanwhile, all of my friends who have read book six (almost everyone I know), are trying so hard not to talk about it around me, so they don't ruin anything. Two weeks' ago, I wouldn't have cared if I found out "the big twist" in book six. Today, I'm hoping that something else in pop-culture will take over the airwaves, e-mail and online forums, so I don't accidentally read something too soon.
I tried to read Harry Potter five years ago, and failed. I was convinced I wouldn't like it. Then my book club announced that it would be reading book six (I don't even know them well enough to remember the titles!) for it's September discussion. That left me exactly six weeks to read six books. Not impossible, since I love reading, but certainly made easier by the fact that they (so far) are an easy read (and that this weekend lent itself well to being lazily curled up in the sun on the love seat, reading).
I love them! I'm not typically one who likes books in the fantasy/sci-fi genre. I prefer realism. But there is something enchanting about the books - I guess because they are realistic, with a touch of magic thrown in. They remind me a lot of one of my all-time favorite children's series, The Great Brain books, where Tom (aka The Great Brain) is a lot like Harry - slightly mysterious, incredibly smart, and always in trouble.
I am itching to read number three - but I have to wait until I can either get to the library or the bookstore, whichever comes first. In the meantime, I'm catching up on other "mindless reading." It's the only thing I miss about being sick - I could read for hours and it didn't matter that I'd accomplished absolutely nothing.
Sadly, I have a feeling work is going to get in the way this week.
I tried to read Harry Potter five years ago, and failed. I was convinced I wouldn't like it. Then my book club announced that it would be reading book six (I don't even know them well enough to remember the titles!) for it's September discussion. That left me exactly six weeks to read six books. Not impossible, since I love reading, but certainly made easier by the fact that they (so far) are an easy read (and that this weekend lent itself well to being lazily curled up in the sun on the love seat, reading).
I love them! I'm not typically one who likes books in the fantasy/sci-fi genre. I prefer realism. But there is something enchanting about the books - I guess because they are realistic, with a touch of magic thrown in. They remind me a lot of one of my all-time favorite children's series, The Great Brain books, where Tom (aka The Great Brain) is a lot like Harry - slightly mysterious, incredibly smart, and always in trouble.
I am itching to read number three - but I have to wait until I can either get to the library or the bookstore, whichever comes first. In the meantime, I'm catching up on other "mindless reading." It's the only thing I miss about being sick - I could read for hours and it didn't matter that I'd accomplished absolutely nothing.
Sadly, I have a feeling work is going to get in the way this week.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Happy Clones
There are two questions which I loathe, when asked together. They are, "where are you from?" and "where did you go to college?" It's not that I don't have a great affinity for the very small town in red rock country, from which I hail. Nor is it that I have an issue with which institution issued my degree. It's that as soon as I answer "Utah" and "BYU" people get a knowing look, nod and say, "ahhhh." From that point on, everyone assumes they know everything about me. They assume (correctly, but still ...) my religion, as well as assuming they know everything about my cultural background, my lifestyle, my likes/dislikes, my philosophies on life and my political leanings. They create a visual image of someone who is more than likely too boring to have fun.
What I want to say, immediately after my answers, is "But I'm not a clone." I feel like one, when someone sizes me up after my answers, and finds a nice label to affix to my persona after assuming I must be like every other person from Utah or who attended BYU. It's the same when anything about anyone remotely connected to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (aka "Mormon Church") is published or aired - I have to drag out the "we're not clones" schpiel. Really. I swear. We're not. So when things like today happen, I feel a need to get my side out.
This morning, a friend sent me a recent article from a local paper. I thought the article was well-written, and obviously the journalist did some research. What sparked a few hours of conversation among friends and colleagues, however, was the attitude of the woman in the article. It bothered me that the woman in the article spent the entire article trying to convince the reader how happy she was. It bothered me she seemed to speak, albeit indirectly, for a larger group, when in reality most of what she said was her interpretation and opinion on life. I got the feeling she is still trying to convince herself she's happy.
To be fair, I am happily married, and have been for the past 2 1/2 years. The difference is, I loved being single. And I strongly suspect that I still would be happy, even if I hadn't gotten married in my mid 20s. Don't get me wrong, I love being married, but I definitely wasn't unhappy when I was single. I loved my life and I was happy. Great job, great friends, great family, a sustaining faith in who I was and where I was going, and a ton of dreams. I hold the opinion that people will only find happiness by being happy themselves. To quote a song lyric still floating around in my head from youth, "Happiness is not a destination, it's just a way to travel down the road."
If you aren't happy with your life, yourself, who you are and where you are going, you will never be happy with someone else. People can sense that about people.They want to be with people that are secure, happy, interesting, and know where they are going. The subject of the article is definitely interesting, but I don't think I could use the words "secure" and "happy" with her. I can't say I'd recommend her to any of my few remaining single male friends. I really hope the reporter got it all wrong and that she really is happy. Life is too short to waste being bitter.
What I want to say, immediately after my answers, is "But I'm not a clone." I feel like one, when someone sizes me up after my answers, and finds a nice label to affix to my persona after assuming I must be like every other person from Utah or who attended BYU. It's the same when anything about anyone remotely connected to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (aka "Mormon Church") is published or aired - I have to drag out the "we're not clones" schpiel. Really. I swear. We're not. So when things like today happen, I feel a need to get my side out.
This morning, a friend sent me a recent article from a local paper. I thought the article was well-written, and obviously the journalist did some research. What sparked a few hours of conversation among friends and colleagues, however, was the attitude of the woman in the article. It bothered me that the woman in the article spent the entire article trying to convince the reader how happy she was. It bothered me she seemed to speak, albeit indirectly, for a larger group, when in reality most of what she said was her interpretation and opinion on life. I got the feeling she is still trying to convince herself she's happy.
To be fair, I am happily married, and have been for the past 2 1/2 years. The difference is, I loved being single. And I strongly suspect that I still would be happy, even if I hadn't gotten married in my mid 20s. Don't get me wrong, I love being married, but I definitely wasn't unhappy when I was single. I loved my life and I was happy. Great job, great friends, great family, a sustaining faith in who I was and where I was going, and a ton of dreams. I hold the opinion that people will only find happiness by being happy themselves. To quote a song lyric still floating around in my head from youth, "Happiness is not a destination, it's just a way to travel down the road."
If you aren't happy with your life, yourself, who you are and where you are going, you will never be happy with someone else. People can sense that about people.They want to be with people that are secure, happy, interesting, and know where they are going. The subject of the article is definitely interesting, but I don't think I could use the words "secure" and "happy" with her. I can't say I'd recommend her to any of my few remaining single male friends. I really hope the reporter got it all wrong and that she really is happy. Life is too short to waste being bitter.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Stars and Stripes Forever
Today I had a meeting downtown. I think I am probably the only sane person who loves having meetings downtown (unless it involves rush-hour traffic, of course). I am fortunate to live in (okay, near, I'm too poor to live in) one of the greatest cities in the world.
Since I first laid eyes on the stunning views of the city as a 10-year-old child, DC has had an unmistakable pull on me. It's expensive, the traffic is terrible, and the hot, humid summers can be almost unbearable at times, and I love it. I absolutely love living here. I especially love being downtown. It is the only city that has felt like "home" since I moved out of my parents' house nine years ago.
Coming in from my office in suburban Virginia, I cross the Roosevelt Bridge. From the Roosevelt bridge, you really can't see much of the famous landmarks of the otherwise unremarkable DC skyline, but I still feel almost giddy about going into the city. My sunroof was open (the first day without oppressive heat and humidity in almost a week) and "God Bless the USA" was blaring from my CD player (Sidenote: this is yet another illustration of being a late adopter. I don't even have satellite radio). It was a particularly good day.
I've heard accusations that "God Bless the USA" is cheesy. But it is one of three songs (the others being "Stars and Stripes Forever," a song I exclusively relate with DC in my mind, and "America the Beautiful") that makes me swell with pride and emotion every time I hear it. It brings back memories of a day, almost four years ago, when I was standing on a pier at Norfolk Naval Base waiting to glimpse the USS Enterprise, returning home in glory as the first battlegroup involved in Operation Enduring Freedom. I was waiting for Himself, who left as my boyfriend and was returning as my fiance. "God Bless the USA" played over the loudspeaker, and the estimated 25,000 on the pier joined, teary-eyed, in singing along. To a group of people who had lived a very personal part of 9/11, the words meant more than most of us could admit without tearing up. To this day, it causes my eyes to water and my heart to beat faster.
Today was no different. Even as I was muttering euphemisms for four-letter words under my breath at the lack of parking and the unusually slow pedestrians eating up my green light ("No Right on Red" may as well be downtown's mantra, for as many signs as it is posted on), I paused to marvel at the grotesque grandeur of the Old Executive Office Building. I prayed for a red light at the corner of 16th and H streets so I could gape at the White House and the brilliant red flowers in Lafayette Park. I reveled in people enjoying lunch in Franklin Park. This is my city.
On the way home, I was forced to take the "scenic" drive, since the direct route is HOV only (2 people per car) during the late afternoon. I gleefully zipped along Whitehurst Freeway to Canal Road, which parallels the C&O canal and the Potomac, to Chain Bridge. It is shrouded in trees and expensive real estate and is one of my favorite drives in the city. I love the breathtaking view of the river as it tumbles over huge rocks below Chain Bridge. It makes for good thinking. I thought about how much I loved that there were sweeping patches of green in the middle of the city. I thought about how much I love the open space feeling of the city as a result of the height limit. I thought about my favorite places, how much I loved to escape my office when I worked downtown and just wander the streets during my lunch hour. I thought about my favorite drives, restaurants, places to visit, stores and interesting pieces of trivia ...
I couldn't think of a place I'd rather live right now, than with the greatest America has to offer only minutes from my backyard. I am truly blessed.
Since I first laid eyes on the stunning views of the city as a 10-year-old child, DC has had an unmistakable pull on me. It's expensive, the traffic is terrible, and the hot, humid summers can be almost unbearable at times, and I love it. I absolutely love living here. I especially love being downtown. It is the only city that has felt like "home" since I moved out of my parents' house nine years ago.
Coming in from my office in suburban Virginia, I cross the Roosevelt Bridge. From the Roosevelt bridge, you really can't see much of the famous landmarks of the otherwise unremarkable DC skyline, but I still feel almost giddy about going into the city. My sunroof was open (the first day without oppressive heat and humidity in almost a week) and "God Bless the USA" was blaring from my CD player (Sidenote: this is yet another illustration of being a late adopter. I don't even have satellite radio). It was a particularly good day.
I've heard accusations that "God Bless the USA" is cheesy. But it is one of three songs (the others being "Stars and Stripes Forever," a song I exclusively relate with DC in my mind, and "America the Beautiful") that makes me swell with pride and emotion every time I hear it. It brings back memories of a day, almost four years ago, when I was standing on a pier at Norfolk Naval Base waiting to glimpse the USS Enterprise, returning home in glory as the first battlegroup involved in Operation Enduring Freedom. I was waiting for Himself, who left as my boyfriend and was returning as my fiance. "God Bless the USA" played over the loudspeaker, and the estimated 25,000 on the pier joined, teary-eyed, in singing along. To a group of people who had lived a very personal part of 9/11, the words meant more than most of us could admit without tearing up. To this day, it causes my eyes to water and my heart to beat faster.
Today was no different. Even as I was muttering euphemisms for four-letter words under my breath at the lack of parking and the unusually slow pedestrians eating up my green light ("No Right on Red" may as well be downtown's mantra, for as many signs as it is posted on), I paused to marvel at the grotesque grandeur of the Old Executive Office Building. I prayed for a red light at the corner of 16th and H streets so I could gape at the White House and the brilliant red flowers in Lafayette Park. I reveled in people enjoying lunch in Franklin Park. This is my city.
On the way home, I was forced to take the "scenic" drive, since the direct route is HOV only (2 people per car) during the late afternoon. I gleefully zipped along Whitehurst Freeway to Canal Road, which parallels the C&O canal and the Potomac, to Chain Bridge. It is shrouded in trees and expensive real estate and is one of my favorite drives in the city. I love the breathtaking view of the river as it tumbles over huge rocks below Chain Bridge. It makes for good thinking. I thought about how much I loved that there were sweeping patches of green in the middle of the city. I thought about how much I love the open space feeling of the city as a result of the height limit. I thought about my favorite places, how much I loved to escape my office when I worked downtown and just wander the streets during my lunch hour. I thought about my favorite drives, restaurants, places to visit, stores and interesting pieces of trivia ...
I couldn't think of a place I'd rather live right now, than with the greatest America has to offer only minutes from my backyard. I am truly blessed.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Reflections on Mortality
I got a call a few minutes ago that nearly made my heart stop.
One of my colleagues in Part Deux of the company called to tell me that one of the sales representatives for a vendor we regularly use came through his brain surgery okay, but the tumor the doctors were convinced was benign came back positive for a malignant Stage IV brain tumor.
*SILENCE*
He's thirtysomthing, married, with three small children. Not someone whom I should be getting "the call" about. I don't know him well. In fact, there are people at XYZ who know him much better than I. But it didn't soften the blow any. It didn't stop me from saying, "but he's so young!"
I think, more than anything, it caused me to take a 30-second look at my own mortality. Two weeks ago I was diagnosed with an illness I will have for the rest of my life. It is more inconvenient (with sporadically painful episodes) than anything - it means I can't donate blood, but other than that it doesn't mean much more than the multiple days of sick leave I had to use. But it very well could have been a diagnosis that changed the course of the rest of my (and, by extension, Himself's,) life. It could have been cancer or MS or Parkinson's or any number of medical labels that make someone say, "but (s)he's so young!" It wasn't. But it could have been.
And that's what made "the call" so horrifying. It could have been about me. It could have been about Himself. It could have been about a good friend, my parents, a sibling. It made me think about Life for a few minutes - wondering if I was really spending my life the way I wanted/needed to. There is still so much to do, so much to learn, so much progress to be made.
I believe in life after death. It's the only thing that consoled me after the sudden loss of my beloved grandmother last summer. I know that my marriage to Himself is forever. But I haven't finished what I'm supposed to do in this life yet.
I want to grow old with Himself and our furture children. I want to learn to paint, play the guitar, throw wonderful dinner parties, understand the Book of Isaiah. I want to write a book, travel Europe, sail into port at Palma de Majorca, visit all 50 states, own a home, drive cross-country, get a Master's degree ... I could go on forever.
I am sure that our vendor is thinking thoughts like that , regardless of the end prognosis. I don't think it is the life that you've lived that flashes before your eyes, as much as the life you haven't lived. There is too much of my life ahead of me for calls like that.
Facing your own mortality is a very sobering thing.
One of my colleagues in Part Deux of the company called to tell me that one of the sales representatives for a vendor we regularly use came through his brain surgery okay, but the tumor the doctors were convinced was benign came back positive for a malignant Stage IV brain tumor.
*SILENCE*
He's thirtysomthing, married, with three small children. Not someone whom I should be getting "the call" about. I don't know him well. In fact, there are people at XYZ who know him much better than I. But it didn't soften the blow any. It didn't stop me from saying, "but he's so young!"
I think, more than anything, it caused me to take a 30-second look at my own mortality. Two weeks ago I was diagnosed with an illness I will have for the rest of my life. It is more inconvenient (with sporadically painful episodes) than anything - it means I can't donate blood, but other than that it doesn't mean much more than the multiple days of sick leave I had to use. But it very well could have been a diagnosis that changed the course of the rest of my (and, by extension, Himself's,) life. It could have been cancer or MS or Parkinson's or any number of medical labels that make someone say, "but (s)he's so young!" It wasn't. But it could have been.
And that's what made "the call" so horrifying. It could have been about me. It could have been about Himself. It could have been about a good friend, my parents, a sibling. It made me think about Life for a few minutes - wondering if I was really spending my life the way I wanted/needed to. There is still so much to do, so much to learn, so much progress to be made.
I believe in life after death. It's the only thing that consoled me after the sudden loss of my beloved grandmother last summer. I know that my marriage to Himself is forever. But I haven't finished what I'm supposed to do in this life yet.
I want to grow old with Himself and our furture children. I want to learn to paint, play the guitar, throw wonderful dinner parties, understand the Book of Isaiah. I want to write a book, travel Europe, sail into port at Palma de Majorca, visit all 50 states, own a home, drive cross-country, get a Master's degree ... I could go on forever.
I am sure that our vendor is thinking thoughts like that , regardless of the end prognosis. I don't think it is the life that you've lived that flashes before your eyes, as much as the life you haven't lived. There is too much of my life ahead of me for calls like that.
Facing your own mortality is a very sobering thing.
Snooze Button
For the past three weeks Himself has been "working" nights. I use the term loosely, because what he is really doing is working 3 12-hour shifts a week at one of the big hospitals in Northern Virginia for free. Even my internships paid me SOMETHING. But - alas, even with critical nursing shortages, nursing students in their final clinical rotation are free labor.
What matters most is the destruction of the idealism we had when he started on the night shift in the ICU.
"This will be great!" We said. "It will mean:..."
"We only have to use one car (my last fill-up cost me $37 for a car that has relatively good gas mileage!)!" This, by the way is true ONLY when he works daily, back-to-back, as otherwise our schedules overlap (I leave around 8 a.m., he gets home around 8 :45 a.m.; He leaves at 5:45 p.m., I get home around 6:15).
"I'll get the bed to myself!" (This was fine while I was sick, in pain, and couldn't handle Himself's constant wiggling - even in sleep. Now, I can hardly sleep. The bed is too big, the room is too dark, and even though I'm rappidly approaching 30, there is still a monster in my closet).
"Himself could do this when he starts full-time employment, and it would mean more money, more flexibility when we have kids, and we could pay off our debt faster." (Except, we neglected to realize that, in order to stay awake all night, Himself must sleep all day - every day, even when he's not working).
The worst part however, is the mornings he isn't working. About half an hour before my alarm goes off, Himself decides to come to bed. He spends a half hour tossing and turning and "getting comfortable," and I spend half hour wondering if he would have died by staying up 30 more minutes. Then, as I struggle to pull myself out of bed, Himself inveriably gives a little contented sigh and snuggles up with my pillow.
I'm starting to become a snooze button addict.
What matters most is the destruction of the idealism we had when he started on the night shift in the ICU.
"This will be great!" We said. "It will mean:..."
"We only have to use one car (my last fill-up cost me $37 for a car that has relatively good gas mileage!)!" This, by the way is true ONLY when he works daily, back-to-back, as otherwise our schedules overlap (I leave around 8 a.m., he gets home around 8 :45 a.m.; He leaves at 5:45 p.m., I get home around 6:15).
"I'll get the bed to myself!" (This was fine while I was sick, in pain, and couldn't handle Himself's constant wiggling - even in sleep. Now, I can hardly sleep. The bed is too big, the room is too dark, and even though I'm rappidly approaching 30, there is still a monster in my closet).
"Himself could do this when he starts full-time employment, and it would mean more money, more flexibility when we have kids, and we could pay off our debt faster." (Except, we neglected to realize that, in order to stay awake all night, Himself must sleep all day - every day, even when he's not working).
The worst part however, is the mornings he isn't working. About half an hour before my alarm goes off, Himself decides to come to bed. He spends a half hour tossing and turning and "getting comfortable," and I spend half hour wondering if he would have died by staying up 30 more minutes. Then, as I struggle to pull myself out of bed, Himself inveriably gives a little contented sigh and snuggles up with my pillow.
I'm starting to become a snooze button addict.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Counting Beans
I should have paid more attention in Norm's accounting class in college. Admittedly, with something over 900 students crammed into an auditorium, paying attention required a lot more effort than I was willing to put in some days, but I have a sneaky suspicion it would have paid off.
I balked at having to take accounting to work in public relations. My theory, in my "I know everything I'm a college student" phase, was that was what accounting departments were for, right? Wrong. I failed to realize the number of accounting-related tasks I'd be required to do, and do well, in my future endeavors. I don't think I gave Norm enough credit. He was a fabulous professor, but I was a knot-headed student. If there were 30 people in the class instead of 900, I would have been the one sullenly slumped in the back - only there because someone told me I had to be to get out.
Today I had to do a budget reconcilliation. I've successfully put it off for months, and now, I can no longer come up with any excuses for procrastinating any longer. To do my reconcilliation I had to enlist the help of the accountant, the ad agency and the systems manager for our accounting software. It is ridiculously humorous that it would take four people for me to figure out how much money I've spent. It's like balancing a million-dollar checkbook, only your errors could run $50,000 instead of 50 cents.
I don't like dealing with numbers. I can do an excellent budget - but reconcilling it is another story. Detailing it in revenue vs. expense style of classic accounting is something I rank right up there with mopping the floor and paying bills - I do it because I have to, not because I find any particular enjoyment in it.
I think I have to admit my academic counselor knew what she was talking about. Accounting is something I should have left college knowing.
I balked at having to take accounting to work in public relations. My theory, in my "I know everything I'm a college student" phase, was that was what accounting departments were for, right? Wrong. I failed to realize the number of accounting-related tasks I'd be required to do, and do well, in my future endeavors. I don't think I gave Norm enough credit. He was a fabulous professor, but I was a knot-headed student. If there were 30 people in the class instead of 900, I would have been the one sullenly slumped in the back - only there because someone told me I had to be to get out.
Today I had to do a budget reconcilliation. I've successfully put it off for months, and now, I can no longer come up with any excuses for procrastinating any longer. To do my reconcilliation I had to enlist the help of the accountant, the ad agency and the systems manager for our accounting software. It is ridiculously humorous that it would take four people for me to figure out how much money I've spent. It's like balancing a million-dollar checkbook, only your errors could run $50,000 instead of 50 cents.
I don't like dealing with numbers. I can do an excellent budget - but reconcilling it is another story. Detailing it in revenue vs. expense style of classic accounting is something I rank right up there with mopping the floor and paying bills - I do it because I have to, not because I find any particular enjoyment in it.
I think I have to admit my academic counselor knew what she was talking about. Accounting is something I should have left college knowing.
I've succumbed
I've gone and done it. I've succumbed to the "blogging" phenomenon. I'm one who resists being an early adopter because I am naturally averse to risk. Then I risk doing it because I've waited too long, and I don't want to be "just like everyone else."
For months the creative half of my brain has been shouting, "Yes! You should blog - you love to write, you love to give your opinion, you THINK in journal entries and blogs." and the rational half screams, "Really, Sara, do you want to hang all of your dirty laundry out? Do you REALLY want people reading your thoughts? And it isn't cool any more - you waited too long, now you're just jumping on the bandwagon because everyone is expected to do it."
It's how I ended up with a DVD player - because I waited too long, and everyone had one, and I no longer could function without one. It's why I still have a discman instead of an iPod.
And to think that I consider myself very tech savvy, and I was one of the first people I knew to have Internet access and e-mail. It's almost too painful to admit. I can sense my fellow Gen-Xers laughing at me.
So ... here I am. I'm blogging.
*Gulp*
For months the creative half of my brain has been shouting, "Yes! You should blog - you love to write, you love to give your opinion, you THINK in journal entries and blogs." and the rational half screams, "Really, Sara, do you want to hang all of your dirty laundry out? Do you REALLY want people reading your thoughts? And it isn't cool any more - you waited too long, now you're just jumping on the bandwagon because everyone is expected to do it."
It's how I ended up with a DVD player - because I waited too long, and everyone had one, and I no longer could function without one. It's why I still have a discman instead of an iPod.
And to think that I consider myself very tech savvy, and I was one of the first people I knew to have Internet access and e-mail. It's almost too painful to admit. I can sense my fellow Gen-Xers laughing at me.
So ... here I am. I'm blogging.
*Gulp*
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