There were 30 of us who, with some trepedation, took our seats yesterday in the relatively new courthouse downtown.
I sat between the absolutely perfect stereotype of a thirtysomething gaming/design geek (I say this with authority and fondness - Himself has a collection of thirty- and fortysomething gaming/design geek friends) and the picture perfect young physician's wife. Hair perfect. Nails perfect. (I noticed her nails because mine looked like they had been attacked by a nail-biting monster, when in fact it was only the vegetable peeler.) Trendy clothes. Even trendier highlights. Book on child rearing.
We all sized up the three lawyers in perfectly tailored navy suits, white shirts and colorful ties and the "just graduated" newbie lawyer with two days worth of growth, a light gray off-the-rack suit and a muted blue tie. He looked like his student loans were probably higher than whatever he was making as the other lawyers' lackey. He still had the "crusading for a cause" light that burns in every new law graduate's eyes.
All of us dutifully answered the questions issued by the judge, reportedly to help weed out the crazies, the extremists and those with strong opinions on litigation and tort reform. Deep, probing questions like, "What is your favorite television show?"(The most popular response was CSI); "What books do you read?" (Most popular: A good book. Most interesting: Your honor, I don't like to read); "What are the ages of your children?" (Lengthiest response: 12, complete with a detailed explanation on how she acquired all 12 children as a result of being widowed and remarried - three times).
There were 30 people - 80% female, about 50% retired. Half married, half divorced/widowed/single. 95% lifelong residents of The Frontier. One PhD with a domestic partner, an Ivy League education and strong opinions regarding tort reform. One high-school dropout who had been homeless, ran marathons as a hobby and spent 20 minutes trying to understand the judge's explanation of "tort reform". One Pakistani cab driver. One lawyer. A handful who owned or worked for small businesses. A handful with college degrees. People in suits, jeans, flip flops (FLIP FLOPS? IN COURT?!) carrying briefcases, handbags, reading material and court validation letters.
There was a woman with bottle-red hair who spoke of how the television was her best friend. There was the daughter of a lawyer, who was called to elaborate on her experience in medical malpractice cases as a former paralegal. There were the stereotyes beside me - he was single, read sci-fi, worked as a designer, played video games in his spare time; she was married to a doctor, had three kids, played tennis and watched reality TV. There was the woman who had lost a son to a brain aneurism, the woman who hadn't been downtown in several years and the widow of a prominent area businessman.
For 4.5 hours we sat there, exchanging life stories as if we were a reunion of people who were catching up after several decades. I felt like someone in NPR's "Story Corps" project as the court painted 3.5-minute life sketches of all of us. When I left, too far down the list to make the panel of eight jurors needed to start the trial, I realized that judicial process just might work. The selected group truly seemed a fair representation of The Frontier's Pollock-like makeup - mostly monochromatic with a few colorful surprises swirled in.
I hope the verdict is newsworthy. I'm dying to know the finale.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
Another One Bites the Dust
The first order of business would be to find out what marketing genius thought that using the lazy, internal shorthand "WaMu" to replace a perfectly respectable sounding "Washington Mutual" was a good idea.
"WaMu" conjures up visions of hip hop, text messaging and killer whales. Which is exactly what a financial institution wants its customers to think of when they decide whether or not to place my hard-earned cash in a bank or under their mattresses ... if they want to ensure mattresses regain favored status as savings accounts.
(Sidenote: It is just for that reason I would never bank with WaMu - I want my money in a respectable insitution with an equally respectable name, complete with a legion of bankers wearing charcoal suits, white shirts and sensible 2" pumps or maroon ties, thankyouverymuch.)
Now, apparently, it doesn't matter.
Last night, the Feds stepped in, stripped them of their assets, their debts and the ridiculous sounding name and sold them off to JP Morgan Chase - which conjures up images of Brownstones, the Upper East Side and, well, J.P. Morgan. Tipping the favor back toward banks vs. mattresses as the best places to store money.
The problem is, it gives one more reason for the frantic pompous political windbags to scurry around Washington in a distracted frenzy, yelling "fire! fire! fire," trying to figure what side is most likely to win, so they can stand there. It's an election year, after all. The whole thing is a bit like musical chairs for old white guys.
Meanwhile, the little guys are scurrying around like ants at a picnic - gathering the last crumbs in hopes that they will be enough to stave off the famine when powers that be ride gleefully off into the sunset, somewhere in the vicinity of an offshore bank account where the three martini lunches come with little paper umbrellas.
"WaMu" conjures up visions of hip hop, text messaging and killer whales. Which is exactly what a financial institution wants its customers to think of when they decide whether or not to place my hard-earned cash in a bank or under their mattresses ... if they want to ensure mattresses regain favored status as savings accounts.
(Sidenote: It is just for that reason I would never bank with WaMu - I want my money in a respectable insitution with an equally respectable name, complete with a legion of bankers wearing charcoal suits, white shirts and sensible 2" pumps or maroon ties, thankyouverymuch.)
Now, apparently, it doesn't matter.
Last night, the Feds stepped in, stripped them of their assets, their debts and the ridiculous sounding name and sold them off to JP Morgan Chase - which conjures up images of Brownstones, the Upper East Side and, well, J.P. Morgan. Tipping the favor back toward banks vs. mattresses as the best places to store money.
The problem is, it gives one more reason for the frantic pompous political windbags to scurry around Washington in a distracted frenzy, yelling "fire! fire! fire," trying to figure what side is most likely to win, so they can stand there. It's an election year, after all. The whole thing is a bit like musical chairs for old white guys.
Meanwhile, the little guys are scurrying around like ants at a picnic - gathering the last crumbs in hopes that they will be enough to stave off the famine when powers that be ride gleefully off into the sunset, somewhere in the vicinity of an offshore bank account where the three martini lunches come with little paper umbrellas.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
View from the Board Room
For several years in my Other Life, I had a birds-eye view of the beginning of the financial nightmares addressed last night by President Bush and the major conversation point of all the talking heads.
From my view in the board room in DC - the real estate, financial and regulatory powerhouse good ol' boys club - what I saw didn't make sense. Of course, it was only me, the one who has had no formal economic, financial or business management education (though my longing for an MBA puts me at least in the "firmly interested, read everything" category). That should have given the world reason to pause - if I, the one whose solitary "F" on a test came in financial accounting, saw reason to go "what the...?!" things were already on their way south - and fast.
Things That Make You Go "Hmmm?" #1:
Year-over-year property appreciation growth of 17-20%. In Fairfax County, the median price of a single-family home in 2002 was $260k. In 2006 (the absolute peak of market), it was $500k. An increase of 92% in 4 years.
I sat in a meeting one day where Countrywide lenders (bidding to be the "preferred" lender on a project) said, "We can get absolutely anyone into a loan."
I sat in a first-time homebuyers informational session (one of my marketing events) and listened to a lender tell a couple, "you think you can afford x condo, but we could get you into y condo ($100k more) for $7k down, interest only, variable apr - you can refinance in 2 years." Guess what the couple did? Went for the "we'll have a second bedroom, but nothing to put in it, ever, because every single dime we make ON BOTH INCOMES is going to be paying our INTEREST ONLY mortage payment. We'll sell it in two years and make a fortune!"
Given my "aptitude" (or significant lack thereof) for numbers, it makes me wonder if I am clairvoyant. More likely, the contract one must sign to make a 7-figure-or-more salary must certainly read: thou shalt not use common sense, thou shalt wring all the money out of a company as fast as you possibly can, though shalt run the company into the ground if need be to see 20% return on investment, and - oh yes - shareholders, common people, taxpayers and your grandmother living off her pension backed by mortgage securities be damned.
Seriously.
From my view in the board room in DC - the real estate, financial and regulatory powerhouse good ol' boys club - what I saw didn't make sense. Of course, it was only me, the one who has had no formal economic, financial or business management education (though my longing for an MBA puts me at least in the "firmly interested, read everything" category). That should have given the world reason to pause - if I, the one whose solitary "F" on a test came in financial accounting, saw reason to go "what the...?!" things were already on their way south - and fast.
Things That Make You Go "Hmmm?" #1:
Year-over-year property appreciation growth of 17-20%. In Fairfax County, the median price of a single-family home in 2002 was $260k. In 2006 (the absolute peak of market), it was $500k. An increase of 92% in 4 years.
Dummy Logic: Something tells me incomes weren't going up 92%.
Reality '08: If it's too good to be true, and actually IS true, it won't last. And, funny thing, incomes didn't go up 92%.Things That Make You Go "Hmmm?" #2:
I sat in a meeting one day where Countrywide lenders (bidding to be the "preferred" lender on a project) said, "We can get absolutely anyone into a loan."
Dummy Logic: Anyone? Seriously? Aren't there rules about this kind of thing? You are saying this on year 5 of a double-digit upswing, you're talking interest-only, no money down, variable interest loans - do you think "Anyone" will be able to pay that back in 5 years when the market has changed and his $1.5k/month payment has become $3k and his $80k job has become only $85k?
Reality '08: Countrywide. In shambles. Match. Set. Point.Things That Make You Go "Hmmm?" #3:
I sat in a first-time homebuyers informational session (one of my marketing events) and listened to a lender tell a couple, "you think you can afford x condo, but we could get you into y condo ($100k more) for $7k down, interest only, variable apr - you can refinance in 2 years." Guess what the couple did? Went for the "we'll have a second bedroom, but nothing to put in it, ever, because every single dime we make ON BOTH INCOMES is going to be paying our INTEREST ONLY mortage payment. We'll sell it in two years and make a fortune!"
Dummy Logic: I'm not even going there. I nearly choked on my crudite.
Reality '08: Forclosure rates are up 27%.Things That Make You Go "Hmmm?" #4: Companies buying old real estate (rentals) for ridiculous prices, raising the price to an even more ridiculous level (selling as for-sale condos) and then putting them up for sale to "get a piece of the action."
Dummy Logic: Huh? Am I the only one that thought that was a ridiculous way to do business?
Results '08: It didn't even take that long. By '06, pure flip conversions were slashing their prices by $100k. Is it wrong to say "I told you so?"Things That Make You Go "Hmmm?" #4:Pseudo mortgage companies and developers - suddenly "experts" - enter the game to make a quick buck.
Dummy Logic: We're leaving the handling, sales, development and flow of capital to novices? And greedy ones at that.
Reality '08: Four words and an acronym: Bear Stearns. Lehman Brothers. AIG. The dominioes keep falling.
Given my "aptitude" (or significant lack thereof) for numbers, it makes me wonder if I am clairvoyant. More likely, the contract one must sign to make a 7-figure-or-more salary must certainly read: thou shalt not use common sense, thou shalt wring all the money out of a company as fast as you possibly can, though shalt run the company into the ground if need be to see 20% return on investment, and - oh yes - shareholders, common people, taxpayers and your grandmother living off her pension backed by mortgage securities be damned.
Seriously.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
This Is The Stuff Nightmares Are Made Of
Thanks to an old friend for bringing this to my attention.
Brings back memories of our all-day Thursday work sessions with our ad agency when I worked in Virginia.
Unfortunately, they were often just like this.
Brings back memories of our all-day Thursday work sessions with our ad agency when I worked in Virginia.
Unfortunately, they were often just like this.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Visiting the Past
It has been more than a decade since I last stepped foot in the valley I called home for a couple of years in college. Since the years there were my only true "stereotypical" college years (ie heavy on the socializing, living with roommates and seeing 3 a.m. numerous times), there are a lot of memories jam-packed into a valley that likely sports as many cows as people, and where the university and town's populations are about equal.
Himself and I had been planning to visit for weeks, and, only several breaths later, cancelling the visits, for a myriad of reasons. In the plan's third incarnation, we decided to take a quick day trip, picnic in the canyon and wander around campus (or drag Himself around campus, which is probably more accurate).
Sidenote: Only people who have lived in the insanity of a large metro area understand why a 200-mile round-trip drive could be considered a "quick day trip" (as in less than half a day). In reality, it's no big deal because we used to drive that distance, twice, every other weekend when bringing Grover to visit - during Friday rush hour through two cities. A Sunday drive to the Great Frozen North doesn't even come close.
From the moment we descended into the valley I felt an intense wave of nostalgia. I pointed out random landmarks (old and new) to Himself as we drove - including the fact that the left-turn arrow at 4th and Main was met with,
A picnic in the canyon was met with adventure: when Himself and Woodstock launched leaf boats down the river, when Woodstock spent lunch time stuffing her lunch in the cracks of the picnic table (note to self: remember a tablecloth next time), when Woodstock kept yelling at the squirrels in excitement - puzzled as to why they kept scampering away, and when we threw the trash bag in the trunk only to discover one very angry wasp trapped inside.
But it was the campus itself that made me get all warm and mushy inside. Even more than 10 years after leaving, I still felt at home. Like the campus was mine. It was full of memories - croquet in the snow, buying a bag of bread ends at the on-campus bakery (too poor to buy the actual loaves), the heated sidewalks (a necessity in sub-zero temps), sledding down Old Main Hill, Big Blue, going to homecoming on a blind date, climbing three flights of stairs in the ag science building (past the best ice cream on the planet) for 5-day-a-week comms classes (I noticed that there is a new building housing some of comms - praise the alumni donors!), painting posters (always with "free food!" on them) in the student council suite, the opera-loving Dean who was my boss, Italian sodas at the monthly poetry and a beverage nights...
In truth, the stoplight at 4th and main was a symbol of my transition from itty bitty town to larger world. I loved the diversity, the vibrance, the sense of community (so formed because once the snows set in, no one can actually leave the valley without a lot of work and a harrowing drive out the canyons). I made friends quickly and easily, imersing myself in everything that sounded remotely interesting. I quickly found my niche and, while there were dark days, days of stress and frustration and male-induced-angst, I loved it. I had amazing roommates and mentors and professors and quirky landlords who wrote "no sleeping on the couches" into the lease.
And yet, I always knew it was fleeting. The very first day I moved into my apartment (the dungeon beneath a dentist office across from campus), I took a walk to where you could see the over whole valley from the west end of campus. As I stood there breathing in unseasonally cool air (the first snow storm would come only days later), I had the distinct impression,
I was wrong.
Two years later, I left it all - student council, a fabulous job, wonderful roommates, a fledgling major (the near collapse of which was the one thing, as it turns out, that could make me listen to the voice in my head) - an academic junior with more credits than a typical transfer student, unsure where to go. I accepted a job on the East Coast, then a position in a highly regarded major at a university farther south. I graduated with good grades, found a good job and a life of adventure and chaos in my beloved adopted state of Virginia.
But I never forgot the person I became in the valley of the cows, bitter canyon winds and eternal winters where the university was the center of the universe.
It felt good to wander around campus, void of all but a handful of students, looking very nearly like it did when I was first starting out on the adventure of life. It felt good to share the last piece of my history with Himself, to remember the days of $60 food budgets and $400 monthly paychecks ... to remember, and cherish the years I spent there, growing up, growing wiser and moving forward.
All Hail the Aggies.
(And my advanced apologies for rooting against you in next weekend's football game).
Himself and I had been planning to visit for weeks, and, only several breaths later, cancelling the visits, for a myriad of reasons. In the plan's third incarnation, we decided to take a quick day trip, picnic in the canyon and wander around campus (or drag Himself around campus, which is probably more accurate).
Sidenote: Only people who have lived in the insanity of a large metro area understand why a 200-mile round-trip drive could be considered a "quick day trip" (as in less than half a day). In reality, it's no big deal because we used to drive that distance, twice, every other weekend when bringing Grover to visit - during Friday rush hour through two cities. A Sunday drive to the Great Frozen North doesn't even come close.
From the moment we descended into the valley I felt an intense wave of nostalgia. I pointed out random landmarks (old and new) to Himself as we drove - including the fact that the left-turn arrow at 4th and Main was met with,
"This is a great concept!"(Yes, stoplights were a novelty - at the time I left, my hometown's one stoplight was only three years old). It made me sound like an incredible hayseed, and I'm sure I had seen left-turn arrows before - after all I had been to most of the major cities in the west and a handful in the east before leaving for college. I just remember the exact feeling I had when I first hit that intersection, and for whatever reason, it was one of amazement.
A picnic in the canyon was met with adventure: when Himself and Woodstock launched leaf boats down the river, when Woodstock spent lunch time stuffing her lunch in the cracks of the picnic table (note to self: remember a tablecloth next time), when Woodstock kept yelling at the squirrels in excitement - puzzled as to why they kept scampering away, and when we threw the trash bag in the trunk only to discover one very angry wasp trapped inside.
But it was the campus itself that made me get all warm and mushy inside. Even more than 10 years after leaving, I still felt at home. Like the campus was mine. It was full of memories - croquet in the snow, buying a bag of bread ends at the on-campus bakery (too poor to buy the actual loaves), the heated sidewalks (a necessity in sub-zero temps), sledding down Old Main Hill, Big Blue, going to homecoming on a blind date, climbing three flights of stairs in the ag science building (past the best ice cream on the planet) for 5-day-a-week comms classes (I noticed that there is a new building housing some of comms - praise the alumni donors!), painting posters (always with "free food!" on them) in the student council suite, the opera-loving Dean who was my boss, Italian sodas at the monthly poetry and a beverage nights...
In truth, the stoplight at 4th and main was a symbol of my transition from itty bitty town to larger world. I loved the diversity, the vibrance, the sense of community (so formed because once the snows set in, no one can actually leave the valley without a lot of work and a harrowing drive out the canyons). I made friends quickly and easily, imersing myself in everything that sounded remotely interesting. I quickly found my niche and, while there were dark days, days of stress and frustration and male-induced-angst, I loved it. I had amazing roommates and mentors and professors and quirky landlords who wrote "no sleeping on the couches" into the lease.
And yet, I always knew it was fleeting. The very first day I moved into my apartment (the dungeon beneath a dentist office across from campus), I took a walk to where you could see the over whole valley from the west end of campus. As I stood there breathing in unseasonally cool air (the first snow storm would come only days later), I had the distinct impression,
"You aren't going to graduate from here."I don't know why I felt that way, but it was the clearest impression I've ever had. There were words in my head and I felt ... puzzled. I had fallen in love with the Ivy League feel of the campus - old brick and stone buildings,lush green landscaping - and accepted the money the school threw my way. I fought against it, figuring if I filled up my days and nights and became a vital part of the university's community that nothing could make me leave.
I was wrong.
Two years later, I left it all - student council, a fabulous job, wonderful roommates, a fledgling major (the near collapse of which was the one thing, as it turns out, that could make me listen to the voice in my head) - an academic junior with more credits than a typical transfer student, unsure where to go. I accepted a job on the East Coast, then a position in a highly regarded major at a university farther south. I graduated with good grades, found a good job and a life of adventure and chaos in my beloved adopted state of Virginia.
But I never forgot the person I became in the valley of the cows, bitter canyon winds and eternal winters where the university was the center of the universe.
It felt good to wander around campus, void of all but a handful of students, looking very nearly like it did when I was first starting out on the adventure of life. It felt good to share the last piece of my history with Himself, to remember the days of $60 food budgets and $400 monthly paychecks ... to remember, and cherish the years I spent there, growing up, growing wiser and moving forward.
All Hail the Aggies.
(And my advanced apologies for rooting against you in next weekend's football game).
Monday, September 22, 2008
A Little More West Wing, Anyone?
West Wing was one of my all-time favorite shows - loved the writing (most of the time), the characters (some more than others) and the premise.
So it was with delight that I read Maureen Dowd's op-ed column in the New York Times this weekend - an encounter with President Bartlett and Senator Obama, penned by Aaron Sorkin.
It made me miss West Wing, and it made me wonder what Sorkin would do with the show if it was going on in the midst of this all-jumbled-up election season.
Is it sad I like fictional politics more than real politics these days?
So it was with delight that I read Maureen Dowd's op-ed column in the New York Times this weekend - an encounter with President Bartlett and Senator Obama, penned by Aaron Sorkin.
It made me miss West Wing, and it made me wonder what Sorkin would do with the show if it was going on in the midst of this all-jumbled-up election season.
Is it sad I like fictional politics more than real politics these days?
Anonymous
File this under "Housekeeping":
I have had a couple of people ask me over the past couple of weeks why there are virtually no photos on my blog and why all the "code words".
The reasons are twofold.
1. I spend much of my professional life online - Googling my name will pull up a variety of things in which I've been involved over the last several years. I have a very strong need to compartmentalize my personal and professional lives. At one point during my life in VA, I was being stalked at a jobsite and had to travel there with "back-up." It was a lot of unnecessary drama, but made me very cautious about things. (That was re-emphasized during the Great Job Disaster for entirely different reasons). The only way to keep them separate is to not link my personal blog to anything that would identify me in the professional world. It's not that I'm totally anonymous - there are plenty of things that give me away - it just takes some work.
2. While I talk about Grover and Woodstock and Himself, the blog is largely self-reflecting. I don't blog to update family. I blog because it's an outlet ... and I happen not to mind if anyone (or no one) reads it. I'm also not quite comfortable posting photos that visually identify my family in a non-protected space online.
In short, it's caution. Which, given my guarded self, fear of heights and phobia of falling down flights of stairs, it shouldn't be much of a surprise.
End of administrative update.
Back to your regularly scheduled programming.
I have had a couple of people ask me over the past couple of weeks why there are virtually no photos on my blog and why all the "code words".
The reasons are twofold.
1. I spend much of my professional life online - Googling my name will pull up a variety of things in which I've been involved over the last several years. I have a very strong need to compartmentalize my personal and professional lives. At one point during my life in VA, I was being stalked at a jobsite and had to travel there with "back-up." It was a lot of unnecessary drama, but made me very cautious about things. (That was re-emphasized during the Great Job Disaster for entirely different reasons). The only way to keep them separate is to not link my personal blog to anything that would identify me in the professional world. It's not that I'm totally anonymous - there are plenty of things that give me away - it just takes some work.
2. While I talk about Grover and Woodstock and Himself, the blog is largely self-reflecting. I don't blog to update family. I blog because it's an outlet ... and I happen not to mind if anyone (or no one) reads it. I'm also not quite comfortable posting photos that visually identify my family in a non-protected space online.
In short, it's caution. Which, given my guarded self, fear of heights and phobia of falling down flights of stairs, it shouldn't be much of a surprise.
End of administrative update.
Back to your regularly scheduled programming.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Tales of an Insomniac, Night 4
Chronic sleep issues have plagued me since young adulthood (or younger adulthood, as the case may be, I'm not exactly old). However, the past four nights have been ridiculous.
Night 1, I blamed on not feeling well - achy, sore throat, general feeling of post-incident-of-being-flattened-by-a-Mack-truck. I tossed. I turned. I kicked Himself. He poked me back. I flailed. I piled all the covers on and kicked them all back off.
Night 2, I still blamed on not feeling well, though I had taken medication earlier to prevent that excuse. It didn't really work. I laid in the quiet stillness and breathed. I listened to Woodstock breathe over the baby monitor. When I knew Himself was absolutely asleep, I turned on the lamp and read.
Night 3, I took the laptop to bed with me and started to watch the season finale of NCIS online. Himself chose that moment to go to bed. I went on an expedition to find is iPod headphones (I own no headphones). Except, well, except we moved TWO MONTHS AGO, and apparently that box hasn't been unpacked. As I turned back to return to the bedroom, an entire tower of CDs fell over, without me managing to touch them. I muttered. Loudly. Himself wanted to know why I was wandering around with all the lights on causing things to fall over. I eventually found an old crossword puzzle book, one of my old cures for insomnia. It took 2 hours to work. The last time I saw the clock, it was 3:30 a.m.
I expected to be ravished when I woke up the next morning at precisely the same time Woodstock did (no, it was not a coincidence). I wasn't. I expected I would fade late in the day. I didn't any more than usual. Of course, one of the hallmarks of my insomnia is going for DAYS without more than 3 or 4 hours of sleep and then needing 11-12 hours a night for weeks to make up for it. All of this was fine prior to the arrival of Woodstock, of course.
Day 4 (last night) was even worse. I went to get gas at 11:30 p.m., before the Sunday bewitching hour of midnight. We didn't particularly need gas, we don't ever drive the car on Sundays and the tank was 1/3 full ... but, well, just in case - and I needed something to do. It didn't work. I washed the dishes - by hand. I puttered. Sometime around midnight I decided to make bread. It helped exhaust me, but did nothing to bring on feelings of leaded eyelids. And, to be honest, bread made at midnight isn't as good as bread made at a normal daylight hour ... it's finicky enough as it is, I was just asking for disaster by undergoing the task in the wee hours of the morning.
And then ... nothing. Sleep still did not come. I counted the hours, minutes, seconds until morning. I curled up next to Himself. I counted sheep, worked another New York Times crossword puzzle and waited.
I waited clear into Day 5.
Night 1, I blamed on not feeling well - achy, sore throat, general feeling of post-incident-of-being-flattened-by-a-Mack-truck. I tossed. I turned. I kicked Himself. He poked me back. I flailed. I piled all the covers on and kicked them all back off.
Night 2, I still blamed on not feeling well, though I had taken medication earlier to prevent that excuse. It didn't really work. I laid in the quiet stillness and breathed. I listened to Woodstock breathe over the baby monitor. When I knew Himself was absolutely asleep, I turned on the lamp and read.
Night 3, I took the laptop to bed with me and started to watch the season finale of NCIS online. Himself chose that moment to go to bed. I went on an expedition to find is iPod headphones (I own no headphones). Except, well, except we moved TWO MONTHS AGO, and apparently that box hasn't been unpacked. As I turned back to return to the bedroom, an entire tower of CDs fell over, without me managing to touch them. I muttered. Loudly. Himself wanted to know why I was wandering around with all the lights on causing things to fall over. I eventually found an old crossword puzzle book, one of my old cures for insomnia. It took 2 hours to work. The last time I saw the clock, it was 3:30 a.m.
I expected to be ravished when I woke up the next morning at precisely the same time Woodstock did (no, it was not a coincidence). I wasn't. I expected I would fade late in the day. I didn't any more than usual. Of course, one of the hallmarks of my insomnia is going for DAYS without more than 3 or 4 hours of sleep and then needing 11-12 hours a night for weeks to make up for it. All of this was fine prior to the arrival of Woodstock, of course.
Day 4 (last night) was even worse. I went to get gas at 11:30 p.m., before the Sunday bewitching hour of midnight. We didn't particularly need gas, we don't ever drive the car on Sundays and the tank was 1/3 full ... but, well, just in case - and I needed something to do. It didn't work. I washed the dishes - by hand. I puttered. Sometime around midnight I decided to make bread. It helped exhaust me, but did nothing to bring on feelings of leaded eyelids. And, to be honest, bread made at midnight isn't as good as bread made at a normal daylight hour ... it's finicky enough as it is, I was just asking for disaster by undergoing the task in the wee hours of the morning.
And then ... nothing. Sleep still did not come. I counted the hours, minutes, seconds until morning. I curled up next to Himself. I counted sheep, worked another New York Times crossword puzzle and waited.
I waited clear into Day 5.
The Yiddish Mammal Mucous Water Chronicles
I've spent the past hour reading blogs of a dozen or so people I knew from childhood but haven't seen in at least a decade, if not longer. I've been reading the endless littany of updates on the kiddos and the sweet adoring words for the spouses. All on perfectly adorable blogger backgrounds that look like scrapbook pages. (Note: at this point, I sound sarcastic. I am not - this is one of those places where inserting a tone of voice would clarify the words. You just have to trust me on this).
I returned to my own blog, with a slimy green background (like pond scum!), where the only photo in recent memory is of Woodstock's hand petting a sheep's nose. And while there are posts dedicated to Himself's sweetness (did I just use those two words together?!), there are a lot more posts where I am just kvetching (I often long for a Yiddish grandmother, if for nothing more than the food and the fabulous vocabulary).
It is now clear there are two types of bloggers:
Those penning sweet love songs, surrounded by adorable kiddos, angelic choirs and flower petals(99.99%)
-AND-
Those kvetching about sheep's snot in pond scum (0.01%)
I'm just saying ... fitting in isn't exactly my thing.
I returned to my own blog, with a slimy green background (like pond scum!), where the only photo in recent memory is of Woodstock's hand petting a sheep's nose. And while there are posts dedicated to Himself's sweetness (did I just use those two words together?!), there are a lot more posts where I am just kvetching (I often long for a Yiddish grandmother, if for nothing more than the food and the fabulous vocabulary).
It is now clear there are two types of bloggers:
Those penning sweet love songs, surrounded by adorable kiddos, angelic choirs and flower petals(99.99%)
-AND-
Those kvetching about sheep's snot in pond scum (0.01%)
I'm just saying ... fitting in isn't exactly my thing.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Bank Thieves
Anyone who knows me knows I'm picky about grocery stores. Probably annoyingly picky. There are three things that will make me love a grocery store forever:
It's also nice if they have a great international foods aisle and cheese section, but they are second-tier requirements after the above three.
You'll notice there is one thing that ISN'T on there and that is A BANK. I'm not sure why banks/grocery stores felt the need to combine, but for me, it is a big fat hassle. I am not going to start shopping at a grocery store because it has such-and-such bank inside. I am not going to start banking at a bank because it is inside such-and-such grocery store.
I never need the bank and the grocery store at the same time. Ever.
Case in point:
I bank at the largest bank in The Frontier. I have banked there for three decades (yes, since my first savings account was started at birth). I have had a checking account there through all of my moves. I don't pay a dime to bank there - even when I had to deposit my own paychecks (when I actually got them) at The Factory. I'm not interested in banking anywhere else. Reason stands that banking at the largest bank in the area would mean access to a large number of easily accessible ATMs and branches.
HOWEVER, the closest bank to my house? Inside a grocery store. The closest bank to my office? Same thing, although it least it has a drive-up window.
It wouldn't be quite as bad if they had outside ATMs, but no, the ATMs are inside the store. Meaning if I need to hit an ATM up for cash, I have to take Woodstock out of her seat, schlep her into the store, use the ATM (one-handed, always fun), schlep her back out of the store, buckle her back in the seat and then be on my merry way. Heaven forbid if I need to use the actual services of the bank - the bank-in-a-store-models have far fewer tellers, much longer lines and a feeling of general chaos.
It makes me hate the grocery stores the bank is in - every time I drive by I catch myself thinking,
It does no good to change banks because every other bank in The Frontier appears to think putting a branch in a grocery store is a good idea. Hogwash.
Although, come to think of it ... my new job was just announced in the morning paper, prompting the CEO of the bank to send me a note, which someone (probably his assistant) hand-signed. And the last line says,
- Fresh produce (as much sourced locally as possible)
- An in-house butcher - where they cut and package their own meat
- Happy people
It's also nice if they have a great international foods aisle and cheese section, but they are second-tier requirements after the above three.
You'll notice there is one thing that ISN'T on there and that is A BANK. I'm not sure why banks/grocery stores felt the need to combine, but for me, it is a big fat hassle. I am not going to start shopping at a grocery store because it has such-and-such bank inside. I am not going to start banking at a bank because it is inside such-and-such grocery store.
I never need the bank and the grocery store at the same time. Ever.
Case in point:
I bank at the largest bank in The Frontier. I have banked there for three decades (yes, since my first savings account was started at birth). I have had a checking account there through all of my moves. I don't pay a dime to bank there - even when I had to deposit my own paychecks (when I actually got them) at The Factory. I'm not interested in banking anywhere else. Reason stands that banking at the largest bank in the area would mean access to a large number of easily accessible ATMs and branches.
HOWEVER, the closest bank to my house? Inside a grocery store. The closest bank to my office? Same thing, although it least it has a drive-up window.
It wouldn't be quite as bad if they had outside ATMs, but no, the ATMs are inside the store. Meaning if I need to hit an ATM up for cash, I have to take Woodstock out of her seat, schlep her into the store, use the ATM (one-handed, always fun), schlep her back out of the store, buckle her back in the seat and then be on my merry way. Heaven forbid if I need to use the actual services of the bank - the bank-in-a-store-models have far fewer tellers, much longer lines and a feeling of general chaos.
It makes me hate the grocery stores the bank is in - every time I drive by I catch myself thinking,
"You stole my bank!"In essence, it's the truth, because they gobbled up a bank, stuck it inside in the most inconvienient location possible and then essentially keep the bank from putting a respectable branch in the general vicinity because they "already have a branch in the store."
It does no good to change banks because every other bank in The Frontier appears to think putting a branch in a grocery store is a good idea. Hogwash.
Although, come to think of it ... my new job was just announced in the morning paper, prompting the CEO of the bank to send me a note, which someone (probably his assistant) hand-signed. And the last line says,
"Please let us know if there is anything we can do to help you."I'm sure they are thinking "investment strategies, mortgages, corporate banking needs" but they did ask ...
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Happy Birthday Dear Sister
Today is my favorite (and only) sister's 25th birthday.
She is the queen of organization, maternal genes and home decor. She can go from absolute girly princess with closets of fabulous clothes, perfectly coiffed hair and just the right accessories to rough-and-tumble "hangin' out with the guys" in no time at all.
She bakes. She decorates. She is the most fantastic packer on the planet (she can get an amazing amount of items in a very small amount of space - and proved to be a huge asset during all the times I have moved out of, or back to, my parents' house). She can organize anything, and probably should own stock in Rubbermaid. She loves clothes and always looks perfect. She also loves four-wheeling, hunting, camping, hiking, rappelling, canyoneering and snowboarding as much as she loves jewelry and buying frilly outfits for her little girl.
She ended up with the most fantastic nurturing genes - first exercising them at a very young age on our youngest brother (barely a year younger) - who grew up not knowing how to function without her in his life. She was always "the mom" when we played house - even though I was half a decade older. She is creative, funny and can sleep in longer than anyone else I know.
She is fiercely competitive and enormously talented. As a kid, she once quipped "I'd like to play a game I don't always win." She has a sweet tooth and an apparently super metabolism to go with it. She was my coloring-in-bed-on-Saturday-mornings partner for years and even though she only had 24 hours free, she flew to Virginia to be with me on one of the most important days of my life.
Most of all, she loves helping people. She knew she wanted to be a nurse practically from birth, and nothing stood in her way. She has the most amazing spirit of charity I've ever known and would do anything to help anyone.
At the age of 3 she made my bed every day for 6 months because I told her it was "the right thing to do." She would have made it every day for the rest of forever had I not forced the issue when she was sick and Mom found out about it. I'm not sure my bed has been made regularly since.
She married eight months after I did and gave birth to her little girl four months prior to Woodstock's arrival. I have called her for countless advice and reassurance. She has cried with me, laughed with me, tolerated my not-as-organized self and loved me more than I deserved sometimes.
When I grow up, I want to be just like my "little" sister.
Happy 25th Birthday to the best sister I could ever ask for.
She is the queen of organization, maternal genes and home decor. She can go from absolute girly princess with closets of fabulous clothes, perfectly coiffed hair and just the right accessories to rough-and-tumble "hangin' out with the guys" in no time at all.
She bakes. She decorates. She is the most fantastic packer on the planet (she can get an amazing amount of items in a very small amount of space - and proved to be a huge asset during all the times I have moved out of, or back to, my parents' house). She can organize anything, and probably should own stock in Rubbermaid. She loves clothes and always looks perfect. She also loves four-wheeling, hunting, camping, hiking, rappelling, canyoneering and snowboarding as much as she loves jewelry and buying frilly outfits for her little girl.
She ended up with the most fantastic nurturing genes - first exercising them at a very young age on our youngest brother (barely a year younger) - who grew up not knowing how to function without her in his life. She was always "the mom" when we played house - even though I was half a decade older. She is creative, funny and can sleep in longer than anyone else I know.
She is fiercely competitive and enormously talented. As a kid, she once quipped "I'd like to play a game I don't always win." She has a sweet tooth and an apparently super metabolism to go with it. She was my coloring-in-bed-on-Saturday-mornings partner for years and even though she only had 24 hours free, she flew to Virginia to be with me on one of the most important days of my life.
Most of all, she loves helping people. She knew she wanted to be a nurse practically from birth, and nothing stood in her way. She has the most amazing spirit of charity I've ever known and would do anything to help anyone.
At the age of 3 she made my bed every day for 6 months because I told her it was "the right thing to do." She would have made it every day for the rest of forever had I not forced the issue when she was sick and Mom found out about it. I'm not sure my bed has been made regularly since.
She married eight months after I did and gave birth to her little girl four months prior to Woodstock's arrival. I have called her for countless advice and reassurance. She has cried with me, laughed with me, tolerated my not-as-organized self and loved me more than I deserved sometimes.
When I grow up, I want to be just like my "little" sister.
Happy 25th Birthday to the best sister I could ever ask for.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Rising Out of The Dust
In the past month I have reconnected with a lot of old friends rising from the dust of former lives - from middle school/junior high, high school, college and several former employers. It's alternately terribly exciting and dreadfully awful.
Why is it that nearly TWO DECADES after I first stepped foot into middle school, whenever I talk to someone from those four (mostly horrible) years I am sucked back into feeling like the awkward, Kmart-clothed, goofy, pegged-and-acid-washed-pants persona of my early adolescence? Seriously. Does one ever just grow up and forget that they were not the lone dork on the planet at that point - that 99.9% of the population could also lay claim to that title in some shape or form?
Perhaps my anxiety-ridden descent into madness each time I hear from a friend who knew me during that time period is because I went to junior high the same number of years as elementary school (if you don't count half-day Kindergarten), giving me more than ample time to develop my special brand of obsessive dorkiness. No one should spend the same number of years trapped in early adolescence as they did having lunch recess.
Maybe it is because I still firmly believe that the shirt my mom made me wear on the first day of 6th grade was THE UGLIEST SHIRT EVER and that it did indeed scar me for life.
Maybe it is because I still remember the multiple pairs of carefully coordinated slouch socks in a dozen different colors, the LA Gear high tops (conveniently the only pair of shoes in a 50-mile radius that fit) or the fact that I tripped and fell running track in PE twice a year, without fail, four years in a row (on a cinder track - I have the scars to prove it).
Maybe it is remembering the four years of braces, the lack of a single athletic bone in my body (small town athletes = royalty) or the fact that I was one of the tallest people on the planet three of those four years (ironically, once I was okay with being tall, I quit growing - and have been the same height for roughly 16 years).
Whatever it was, I've nearly gone comatose over the last month any time I've reconnected with someone who knew me between the ages of 11 and 14. Each time, I pray I won't hear the dreaded phrase, "You haven't changed at all!"
Why is it that nearly TWO DECADES after I first stepped foot into middle school, whenever I talk to someone from those four (mostly horrible) years I am sucked back into feeling like the awkward, Kmart-clothed, goofy, pegged-and-acid-washed-pants persona of my early adolescence? Seriously. Does one ever just grow up and forget that they were not the lone dork on the planet at that point - that 99.9% of the population could also lay claim to that title in some shape or form?
(As a side note, It should be said that I pity anyone who had to spend four years in middle school/junior high. Through a quirk of re-aligning schools and new construction, there were three classes of people who had to endure four years of acne- and hormone-fueled trauma just to get on with real life. Combine it with the year we all spent in high school together and it's rather amazing we didn't end up in either one giant lovefest for all of the obsessive-compulsive, algebra-sluffing, label-obsessing time we spent together).
Perhaps my anxiety-ridden descent into madness each time I hear from a friend who knew me during that time period is because I went to junior high the same number of years as elementary school (if you don't count half-day Kindergarten), giving me more than ample time to develop my special brand of obsessive dorkiness. No one should spend the same number of years trapped in early adolescence as they did having lunch recess.
Maybe it is because I still firmly believe that the shirt my mom made me wear on the first day of 6th grade was THE UGLIEST SHIRT EVER and that it did indeed scar me for life.
Maybe it is because I still remember the multiple pairs of carefully coordinated slouch socks in a dozen different colors, the LA Gear high tops (conveniently the only pair of shoes in a 50-mile radius that fit) or the fact that I tripped and fell running track in PE twice a year, without fail, four years in a row (on a cinder track - I have the scars to prove it).
Maybe it is remembering the four years of braces, the lack of a single athletic bone in my body (small town athletes = royalty) or the fact that I was one of the tallest people on the planet three of those four years (ironically, once I was okay with being tall, I quit growing - and have been the same height for roughly 16 years).
Whatever it was, I've nearly gone comatose over the last month any time I've reconnected with someone who knew me between the ages of 11 and 14. Each time, I pray I won't hear the dreaded phrase, "You haven't changed at all!"
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
How To Buy Razors at the Ghetto Wal-Mart
1. Coordinate (for the first time ever), Himself's (always surprising, because he waits until the most critical moment) revelation that he needs new razors with your plan to be in the same proximity as a store that sells them that very day.
2. Arrive at said store (Ghetto Wal-Mart) with Woodstock in tow, who is mildly cranky (very mildly cranky) after getting her polio and pneumo/meningitis vaccines yesterday.
3. Arrive in razor aisle. Thank heaven that Gilette has not come out with a new razor system, as Himself MUST upgrade each time they do. (Soon 5 blades won't be enough, they'll need 20 so it does your entire face at once!)
4. Go to take razors off the bar on which they are hanging. Except, they don't come off. Tug repeatedly. Investigate bar from which razors are hanging ... it is somehow locked, holding the razors hostage.
5. In the interest of time, investigate "lesser" (ie last year's models) Gilette razors, thinking you'll explain the dilemma to Himself who will (hopefully) happily take the lesser razors and be happy.
6. Discover that ALL razors are in LOCKDOWN - somehow prevented from coming off the bar on which they are hanging.
7. Wander the health and beauty aisles looking for a Wal-Mart associate to tell me I'm not crazy and they can rescue the razors from lockdown .... for EIGHT MINUTES.
8. Give up and head for customer service podium halfway across the store. Woodstock starts to get grumpy. It is dinner time. Wandering up and down the feminine hygiene, toothpaste and razor aisles has done nothing to deter the rumblings of her tummy.
9. Ask customer service lady why on earth I cannot get the razors off their bar. She indicates they've done it ON PURPOSE to prevent people from stealing the razors.
10. Bite tongue so as not to say "and what is to stop one from stealing them once an associate has rescued the razors from lockdown and they're in one's cart?" Associate must have read my mind, because she verbalizes my exact sentiment.
11. Firmly tell associate what I think of so-called razor policy, compounded by the fact that there are NO associates in health and beauty at all - and the only reason I even ventured over to the customer service podium is because this is DESPARATION. Himself has NO razors and three-days' growth and has to work tomorrow.
12. Proceed to then spend $100 on razors, spot remover, stain remover, baby yogurt, Woodstock's milk and a handful of other necessary items.
13. Leave Ghetto Wal-Mart vowing to never return. I do this every time, and I rarely go, but good grief - men's safety razors on LOCKDOWN? That is indeed the very last straw.
2. Arrive at said store (Ghetto Wal-Mart) with Woodstock in tow, who is mildly cranky (very mildly cranky) after getting her polio and pneumo/meningitis vaccines yesterday.
3. Arrive in razor aisle. Thank heaven that Gilette has not come out with a new razor system, as Himself MUST upgrade each time they do. (Soon 5 blades won't be enough, they'll need 20 so it does your entire face at once!)
4. Go to take razors off the bar on which they are hanging. Except, they don't come off. Tug repeatedly. Investigate bar from which razors are hanging ... it is somehow locked, holding the razors hostage.
5. In the interest of time, investigate "lesser" (ie last year's models) Gilette razors, thinking you'll explain the dilemma to Himself who will (hopefully) happily take the lesser razors and be happy.
6. Discover that ALL razors are in LOCKDOWN - somehow prevented from coming off the bar on which they are hanging.
7. Wander the health and beauty aisles looking for a Wal-Mart associate to tell me I'm not crazy and they can rescue the razors from lockdown .... for EIGHT MINUTES.
8. Give up and head for customer service podium halfway across the store. Woodstock starts to get grumpy. It is dinner time. Wandering up and down the feminine hygiene, toothpaste and razor aisles has done nothing to deter the rumblings of her tummy.
9. Ask customer service lady why on earth I cannot get the razors off their bar. She indicates they've done it ON PURPOSE to prevent people from stealing the razors.
10. Bite tongue so as not to say "and what is to stop one from stealing them once an associate has rescued the razors from lockdown and they're in one's cart?" Associate must have read my mind, because she verbalizes my exact sentiment.
11. Firmly tell associate what I think of so-called razor policy, compounded by the fact that there are NO associates in health and beauty at all - and the only reason I even ventured over to the customer service podium is because this is DESPARATION. Himself has NO razors and three-days' growth and has to work tomorrow.
12. Proceed to then spend $100 on razors, spot remover, stain remover, baby yogurt, Woodstock's milk and a handful of other necessary items.
13. Leave Ghetto Wal-Mart vowing to never return. I do this every time, and I rarely go, but good grief - men's safety razors on LOCKDOWN? That is indeed the very last straw.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Paying Bills: A Story of Insanity
Every month for the last 8 years, I have logged onto a certain website to pay a certain bill.
EVERY SINGLE MONTH.
Same site.
Same username.
Same password.
No problems.
Until today, when I went to pay my bill (due tomorrow). Suddenly, it doesn't work. Rather, the website works, but it no longer likes my ridiculous combination of letters and numbers and special characters (no spaces, please!), case-sensitive, and please make sure it is at least 10 characters long.
I try again. No luck. Repeating it does not good. Neither dones banging my head against my laptop (or the desk).
I click on "Forgot Username or Password?" a chirpy little link that assumes I'm just stupid and haven't been entering my enormously lengthy password AT LEAST 96 times over the last eight years.
It informs me that "we're sorry, but we cannot retrieve or reset your username or password. Please set up a new account."
Desparate, I do. I immediately run into trouble.
Of course it comes back with a bright red "please call us immediately or we're putting you in lockdown" error message.
A phone call, a couple of transfers and one aggravated self later, I manage to pay my bill and get a new online account and a new security code and security word. All of which ensures I won't remember any of them next month.
I move on to the next bill, which I have been paying online every month for the last SEVEN years. Last month they changed their login system and made everyone choose new usernames (case-sensitive, please!) and passwords (a long string of letters and/or numbers, no special characters, no words you can find in the dictionary - seriously!).
Of course, after seven years of logging into the system a particular way, there is no possible way for me to remember the username/password combo I chose just last month.
Repeat head banging.
They are a little nicer and actually send me my username and the option to resest my password.
Somehow I suspect next month is going to be just as much fun
EVERY SINGLE MONTH.
Same site.
Same username.
Same password.
No problems.
Until today, when I went to pay my bill (due tomorrow). Suddenly, it doesn't work. Rather, the website works, but it no longer likes my ridiculous combination of letters and numbers and special characters (no spaces, please!), case-sensitive, and please make sure it is at least 10 characters long.
I try again. No luck. Repeating it does not good. Neither dones banging my head against my laptop (or the desk).
I click on "Forgot Username or Password?" a chirpy little link that assumes I'm just stupid and haven't been entering my enormously lengthy password AT LEAST 96 times over the last eight years.
It informs me that "we're sorry, but we cannot retrieve or reset your username or password. Please set up a new account."
Desparate, I do. I immediately run into trouble.
- Account number. Check.
- Security word. What the...? It's been eight years - I don't remember even having a security word. Going with the standard financial security question, I enter my mother's maiden name.
- 3-digit security number. Check. Except, well ... it seems to have DISAPPEARED.
Of course it comes back with a bright red "please call us immediately or we're putting you in lockdown" error message.
A phone call, a couple of transfers and one aggravated self later, I manage to pay my bill and get a new online account and a new security code and security word. All of which ensures I won't remember any of them next month.
I move on to the next bill, which I have been paying online every month for the last SEVEN years. Last month they changed their login system and made everyone choose new usernames (case-sensitive, please!) and passwords (a long string of letters and/or numbers, no special characters, no words you can find in the dictionary - seriously!).
Of course, after seven years of logging into the system a particular way, there is no possible way for me to remember the username/password combo I chose just last month.
Repeat head banging.
They are a little nicer and actually send me my username and the option to resest my password.
Somehow I suspect next month is going to be just as much fun
Sunday, September 14, 2008
As it Turns Out, Fairs Have ... Animals.
Okay, lest someone call me ridiculously uninformed, I did know that fairs had animals, I just didn't realize one could actually view them.
Growing up, the county fair, held the second week of August, was a big deal. A HUGE deal, actually, as it included the town's only parade longer than 2 minutes. It tended to run a whole hour, which was an eternity in a small town like ours. But more than just the parade, the entire fair was a big deal.
Over all of my years of fair-going, however, I don't remember a livestock portion - until the the "proper" fair grounds opened, long after the magic had worn off and I had left home. Even then, I am quite sure I never actually visited any of the animals.
Until yesterday.
Himself was working (again), so Woodstock and I ventured out to the state fair. Right off, I knew it was going to be good - I got shaded street parking 1.5 blocks away, negating the need to pay $5 to park in a dirt lot in the full sun. I wasn't exactly sure what we were going to see or do at the fair, after all, my total budget for the event was the $6.50 entrance ticket.
Soon after arriving, however, I discovered ... the animals. Lots and lots of animals. Whole warehouse-style barns full of animals. Woodstock shrieked in delight. Every square inch of her body vibrated in ecstasy as she realized that the animals were all at her eye level.
She loved the sheep the most - naked (sheared) little critters who shoved their shiny black noses through the metal gates to sniff her out. She giggled - even after being covered in sheep snot when one sneezed on her as we passed by (I didn't think that was quite so funny).
I eventually gave in and held Woodstock so she could actually pet some of the sheep noses being thrust in her direction. She squealed and giggled and bounced up and down. I tried to keep her from leaping into (or sucking on) the sheep's pen and snap a photo of her petting the sheep, resulting in the rather poor attempt at "illustration of a moment" above.
We also visited the cows, goats and the pigs. The goats brought just as much elation as the sheep (and more worry from me, as I had visions of goats gnawing on Woodstock's t-shirt if we got too close). Woodstock was only mildly interested in the cows until she got eye-level with a month-old calf. Suddenly, cows were something small, furry and active - her definition of an exciting animal.
Hours later, having exhausted my $6.50 worth of little girl giggles, we headed for home, exhausted.
As it turns out, fairs with animals make for pleasant outings with little ones. We just might be back next year.
Growing up, the county fair, held the second week of August, was a big deal. A HUGE deal, actually, as it included the town's only parade longer than 2 minutes. It tended to run a whole hour, which was an eternity in a small town like ours. But more than just the parade, the entire fair was a big deal.
Over all of my years of fair-going, however, I don't remember a livestock portion - until the the "proper" fair grounds opened, long after the magic had worn off and I had left home. Even then, I am quite sure I never actually visited any of the animals.
Until yesterday.
Himself was working (again), so Woodstock and I ventured out to the state fair. Right off, I knew it was going to be good - I got shaded street parking 1.5 blocks away, negating the need to pay $5 to park in a dirt lot in the full sun. I wasn't exactly sure what we were going to see or do at the fair, after all, my total budget for the event was the $6.50 entrance ticket.
Soon after arriving, however, I discovered ... the animals. Lots and lots of animals. Whole warehouse-style barns full of animals. Woodstock shrieked in delight. Every square inch of her body vibrated in ecstasy as she realized that the animals were all at her eye level.
She loved the sheep the most - naked (sheared) little critters who shoved their shiny black noses through the metal gates to sniff her out. She giggled - even after being covered in sheep snot when one sneezed on her as we passed by (I didn't think that was quite so funny).
I eventually gave in and held Woodstock so she could actually pet some of the sheep noses being thrust in her direction. She squealed and giggled and bounced up and down. I tried to keep her from leaping into (or sucking on) the sheep's pen and snap a photo of her petting the sheep, resulting in the rather poor attempt at "illustration of a moment" above.
We also visited the cows, goats and the pigs. The goats brought just as much elation as the sheep (and more worry from me, as I had visions of goats gnawing on Woodstock's t-shirt if we got too close). Woodstock was only mildly interested in the cows until she got eye-level with a month-old calf. Suddenly, cows were something small, furry and active - her definition of an exciting animal.
Hours later, having exhausted my $6.50 worth of little girl giggles, we headed for home, exhausted.
As it turns out, fairs with animals make for pleasant outings with little ones. We just might be back next year.
Friday, September 12, 2008
6 a.m. - Time for a Vocabulary Lesson!
Woodstock has been sleeping in our room for the past 5 nights in the pack-n-play because she got sick all over everything in her room, I washed/sanitized it (many praises to the inventor of the sanitize cycle on the washing machine) and promptly got sick before I could get her room back together. Then, well, then I just got lazy, because I'm on day three of being well and she's still sleeping in our room.
This morning, around 6 a.m., she woke up. She wasn't ready to get up, oh no - as a matter of fact, she seemed to be quizzing herself on her vocabulary. I had to cover my mouth with a pillow because I didn't want to disturb the obviously serious educational review going in the "zoo" (as Himself calls the pack-n-play).
It went something like this (picture Woodstock holding her binky in front of her as if she was talking to it):
Happy, happy, happy
Uh oh uh oh
No no no
Puppy (this would be a new word she started saying last night)
Pu-pa (purple)
Baeh (bear)
Happy, happy, happy
DADDY! (always said with an !)
No no no
Mamamamamamama
Hi
Uh oh
Followed by some random baby gibberish that makes it sound like she's having an actual conversation - if you could only understand what she was saying.
Then back to her list of words - liberally dosed with "happy, happy, happy" which seems to be her favorite word/phrase of late. Most likely because who expects a one-year-old to say "happy happy happy", which means she gets LOTS of attention for doing it, perpetuating the repitition.
She eventually drifted off to sleep.
I couldn't stop chuckling.
This morning, around 6 a.m., she woke up. She wasn't ready to get up, oh no - as a matter of fact, she seemed to be quizzing herself on her vocabulary. I had to cover my mouth with a pillow because I didn't want to disturb the obviously serious educational review going in the "zoo" (as Himself calls the pack-n-play).
It went something like this (picture Woodstock holding her binky in front of her as if she was talking to it):
Happy, happy, happy
Uh oh uh oh
No no no
Puppy (this would be a new word she started saying last night)
Pu-pa (purple)
Baeh (bear)
Happy, happy, happy
DADDY! (always said with an !)
No no no
Mamamamamamama
Hi
Uh oh
Followed by some random baby gibberish that makes it sound like she's having an actual conversation - if you could only understand what she was saying.
Then back to her list of words - liberally dosed with "happy, happy, happy" which seems to be her favorite word/phrase of late. Most likely because who expects a one-year-old to say "happy happy happy", which means she gets LOTS of attention for doing it, perpetuating the repitition.
She eventually drifted off to sleep.
I couldn't stop chuckling.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
We Will Never Forget
This morning, I walked out to the car to go to work. There were flags lining the street (it is a church service project - the flags are put out on federal holidays).
I stopped. And thought. And wondered what federal holiday I had missed and panicked about what to do with Woodstock (Miss Jan is closed on federal holidays).
And then I remembered.
"We Will Never Forget" - banners, signs, people, ads, music, artists shouted.
Except, seven years later, for a small moment, I had.
I was in Baltimore on 9/11/01. I knew people in NYC, at The Pentagon and people who lost family members and close friends. Just 12 months before I had been living across the street from The Pentagon. I picked up the phone and called my mom at work. The secretary asked who was calling. I said, "Her daughter in Virginia." The secretary made a little, shocked "oh" noise and paged Mom immediately. I longed to be somewhere safe - which, at the moment, was not standing on the twentysomethingth floor of a hotel next to one of the nation's busiest harbors across from another World Trade Center.
I came home to Navy fighter jets flying loaded, to a strangely silent, barren horizon as you looked over to the Naval Base from the HRBT. Not one ship stood at the pier.
I had nightmares for months. For five weeks I spent weekdays at my barren, quiet apartment and weekends with a friend. I couldn't stand being alone. I spent my lunch hours that week with colleagues at prayer services at the Baptist church across the street.
Himself and I passed e-mails back and forth through a Military censor - once a day. For that, I was extraordinarily fortunate. Others headed to the Gulf were not so lucky.
I stood and looked into the crater of Ground Zero and watched the neighboring buildings fall and rise over the course of 5 1/2 years on various trips to Manhattan. I watched the Pentagon rebuild as slightly paler bricks replaced the flag hanging over the burning crater in the wall. I watched as the new memorial began construction. Noted the subtle changes in life, in attitude, in fervor.
Each subsequent year, I observed the moment of silence for the Twin Towers and The Pentagon and Flight 93. I attended memorial services or contemplated where we were versus where we are. Time passed. I got used to carrying a small wallet, empty pockets and no liquids - to save time going through security at any place that seemed remotely significant.
Then, I moved to The Frontier and life changed so significantly, the little reminders were no longer there. I didn't drive by The Pentagon several days a week. There were no more random road trips or business trips to NYC. The only security I encountered was in the airport - which now just seems annoying rather than an invasion of a peace we took for granted.
And then, last year I brought Woodstock home from the hospital on 9/11. I watched the memorial service on TV as I nursed her, but my tears were for the pain in my body, the frustration with not being able to figure out how to feed one's starving infant rather than for the loss of life, of innocence of national security.
It was that thought that returned to me this morning in the shower - the memory of bringing Woodstock home for the first time, rather than the memory of loss.
We Will Never Forget - but we will slowly replace the sensations, the memories, the horror.
And I'm not sure how I feel about that.
I stopped. And thought. And wondered what federal holiday I had missed and panicked about what to do with Woodstock (Miss Jan is closed on federal holidays).
And then I remembered.
"We Will Never Forget" - banners, signs, people, ads, music, artists shouted.
Except, seven years later, for a small moment, I had.
I was in Baltimore on 9/11/01. I knew people in NYC, at The Pentagon and people who lost family members and close friends. Just 12 months before I had been living across the street from The Pentagon. I picked up the phone and called my mom at work. The secretary asked who was calling. I said, "Her daughter in Virginia." The secretary made a little, shocked "oh" noise and paged Mom immediately. I longed to be somewhere safe - which, at the moment, was not standing on the twentysomethingth floor of a hotel next to one of the nation's busiest harbors across from another World Trade Center.
I came home to Navy fighter jets flying loaded, to a strangely silent, barren horizon as you looked over to the Naval Base from the HRBT. Not one ship stood at the pier.
I had nightmares for months. For five weeks I spent weekdays at my barren, quiet apartment and weekends with a friend. I couldn't stand being alone. I spent my lunch hours that week with colleagues at prayer services at the Baptist church across the street.
Himself and I passed e-mails back and forth through a Military censor - once a day. For that, I was extraordinarily fortunate. Others headed to the Gulf were not so lucky.
I stood and looked into the crater of Ground Zero and watched the neighboring buildings fall and rise over the course of 5 1/2 years on various trips to Manhattan. I watched the Pentagon rebuild as slightly paler bricks replaced the flag hanging over the burning crater in the wall. I watched as the new memorial began construction. Noted the subtle changes in life, in attitude, in fervor.
Each subsequent year, I observed the moment of silence for the Twin Towers and The Pentagon and Flight 93. I attended memorial services or contemplated where we were versus where we are. Time passed. I got used to carrying a small wallet, empty pockets and no liquids - to save time going through security at any place that seemed remotely significant.
Then, I moved to The Frontier and life changed so significantly, the little reminders were no longer there. I didn't drive by The Pentagon several days a week. There were no more random road trips or business trips to NYC. The only security I encountered was in the airport - which now just seems annoying rather than an invasion of a peace we took for granted.
And then, last year I brought Woodstock home from the hospital on 9/11. I watched the memorial service on TV as I nursed her, but my tears were for the pain in my body, the frustration with not being able to figure out how to feed one's starving infant rather than for the loss of life, of innocence of national security.
It was that thought that returned to me this morning in the shower - the memory of bringing Woodstock home for the first time, rather than the memory of loss.
We Will Never Forget - but we will slowly replace the sensations, the memories, the horror.
And I'm not sure how I feel about that.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The Origin of Sara
Where did I come from?
It's a rhetorical question. I know. I know it in a literal and in a spiritual, cosmic sense. Yet tonight as I told my mom I was making moussaka for dinner, and she asked what it was... I wondered how I got to the point where I even thought of trying moussaka, let alone making it. After all, the only time I saw eggplant as a kid was when Grandpa couldn't find anyone else to give it to. Not to mention, sharp cheeses were to be found only at Christmas when Grandpa's sister would send a deluxe cheese basket from New York - the cheeses largely met with a cautious scorn.
It made me think about my other quirks and the century-old "Nature v. Nurture" question.
I could go on. There are a hundred little things that make me so different than my small-town, mono-everything upbringing predicted. And I wonder ... why? How did sushi become my favorite food? When did economics grow to fascinate me? To whom do I owe my wanderlust?
Why did I turn out just a little differently?
In the same breath, I wonder if it is also why I often feel alone.
It's a rhetorical question. I know. I know it in a literal and in a spiritual, cosmic sense. Yet tonight as I told my mom I was making moussaka for dinner, and she asked what it was... I wondered how I got to the point where I even thought of trying moussaka, let alone making it. After all, the only time I saw eggplant as a kid was when Grandpa couldn't find anyone else to give it to. Not to mention, sharp cheeses were to be found only at Christmas when Grandpa's sister would send a deluxe cheese basket from New York - the cheeses largely met with a cautious scorn.
It made me think about my other quirks and the century-old "Nature v. Nurture" question.
- I grew up in a small town - and prefer the vibrancy of a larger metro area.
- I grew up eating an abundance of fresh vegetables, that didn't include eggplant, zucchini, summer squash that was cooked any way but creamed or sweet potatoes beyond Thanksgiving weekend - zucchini (squashes of any type), eggplant and sweet potatoes are practically staples in my adult kitchen.
- I grew up eating a particularly typical diet, with predictable, simple flavors - now, I revel in complex flavors and exotic techniques and ingredients.
- I love public radio, the theater, art museums, historical "wide spots in the road," and Civil War battlefield sites - most of which would make my family giggle and say "That's Sara for you."
- I grew up where girls dreamed of being mothers to a houseful of children in a town where extended families bought up whole blocks. I drooled over high heels, dreamed of a corner office and a colonial house on a tree-lined street in the East.
- The book on my nightstand is The China Price. It generally draws a "what on earth are you reading that for?" question from anyone who happens to catch me reading it.
I could go on. There are a hundred little things that make me so different than my small-town, mono-everything upbringing predicted. And I wonder ... why? How did sushi become my favorite food? When did economics grow to fascinate me? To whom do I owe my wanderlust?
Why did I turn out just a little differently?
In the same breath, I wonder if it is also why I often feel alone.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Happy 1st Birthday Woodstock
To my precocious, independent, sweet baby girl ... I am more in love with more you than the moment you were first placed in my arms.
I love that after I sang 'Happy Birthday' to you this morning, you have gone around the living room saying "happy, happy, happy" off anad on all day.
I love that you can entertain yourself for minutes on end while watching the birds out the window - yelling and pointing and bouncing up and down the whole time.
I love that you love to sit and look at books - that you jabbers whole unintelligible conversations to her stuffed monkey and that when you're done hanging out in her crib you will often cry "all done!"
I love that the world is all right in your eyes if we come armed with "milk" (the sign we use for her bottle), her binkie or a hug.
I love that you call ducks "quack quacks" and love to hang out outside.
I love that you get so excited to see Daddy when he comes home for work or me when I come to get you from Miss Jan's.
I love that your excitement is contagious, your smile infectious and your personality delightful.
Happy 1st Birthday Woodstock!
I love that after I sang 'Happy Birthday' to you this morning, you have gone around the living room saying "happy, happy, happy" off anad on all day.
I love that you can entertain yourself for minutes on end while watching the birds out the window - yelling and pointing and bouncing up and down the whole time.
I love that you love to sit and look at books - that you jabbers whole unintelligible conversations to her stuffed monkey and that when you're done hanging out in her crib you will often cry "all done!"
I love that the world is all right in your eyes if we come armed with "milk" (the sign we use for her bottle), her binkie or a hug.
I love that you call ducks "quack quacks" and love to hang out outside.
I love that you get so excited to see Daddy when he comes home for work or me when I come to get you from Miss Jan's.
I love that your excitement is contagious, your smile infectious and your personality delightful.
Happy 1st Birthday Woodstock!
Monday, September 08, 2008
Things You're Glad They Never Told You
Woodstock went to the doctor today for her 12-month "almost-well baby" check-up. Terrorized by the multiple blood draws early yesterday morning, she started clinging to me and wailing the minute we walked into the office.
As the pediatrician (one of my favorite people on the planet) and I were discussing the records faxed over by the hospital, I asked what the micro-panic was concerning the odd rash and blood results Woodstock had (which is what led us to 7 hours in the ER versus 2).
She looked at me and said: Meningitis.
It's probably a good thing they didn't tell me that as I sat, sleep-deprived, in the hospital room.
On that note, Woodstock's blood culture came back negative for meningitis and she appears to have made a nearly full recovery from whatever it was she had.
As the pediatrician (one of my favorite people on the planet) and I were discussing the records faxed over by the hospital, I asked what the micro-panic was concerning the odd rash and blood results Woodstock had (which is what led us to 7 hours in the ER versus 2).
She looked at me and said: Meningitis.
It's probably a good thing they didn't tell me that as I sat, sleep-deprived, in the hospital room.
On that note, Woodstock's blood culture came back negative for meningitis and she appears to have made a nearly full recovery from whatever it was she had.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Rites of Passage
There are certain rites of passage that scream "you're an adult now!" - most notably the first time you unpack your things in a home that doesn't contain parentals, siblings or anything quite the same as that with which you've always been surrounded.
The same goes for parenting, I suppose. There are lots of little rites of passage to mark your "arrival" at parenting - first cold, first non-well-baby trip to the doctor (double pneumonia and tonsilitis - 5 weeks ago), first urgent care visit (pink eye - 6 weeks ago), and first trip to the ER (stomach virus, dehydration, bacterial infection of unknown cause - last night).
When we do milestones, we do them with grand style.
And now I'm wondering - what the heck happened to the healthy little kid who spent 11 months of her life virtually illness free?! I'm doing so as I am propping my eyelids open with my fingers. Since Friday morning, I've had 5 hours of sleep. (In Woodstock's defense, Friday night's lack of sleep was my own doing, not hers).
It's official - I'm a "real" parent now.
The same goes for parenting, I suppose. There are lots of little rites of passage to mark your "arrival" at parenting - first cold, first non-well-baby trip to the doctor (double pneumonia and tonsilitis - 5 weeks ago), first urgent care visit (pink eye - 6 weeks ago), and first trip to the ER (stomach virus, dehydration, bacterial infection of unknown cause - last night).
When we do milestones, we do them with grand style.
And now I'm wondering - what the heck happened to the healthy little kid who spent 11 months of her life virtually illness free?! I'm doing so as I am propping my eyelids open with my fingers. Since Friday morning, I've had 5 hours of sleep. (In Woodstock's defense, Friday night's lack of sleep was my own doing, not hers).
It's official - I'm a "real" parent now.
Friday, September 05, 2008
What I Did on My Summer Vacation
Left my old job ("old" as in 13 months old - good grief can I not stay somewhere beyond the point where I get three weeks of vacation?!)
Got a new job ("new" as in went to work for one of The Factory's clients).
Moved (to the house next door to the Hobbit Hole - to keep up with the "hohum" theme of summer).
Road trip to some of the state's national parks - making me understand why people with more than one child buy large vehicles - we spent several hours driving down Highway 89 with two adult males over 6' in the front and me, Grover and Woodstock squished in the back.
One aborted camping trip due to Woodstock's sudden onset of double pneumonia.
Several trips to the zoo.
That's it.
The summer gleamed with so much promise the April weekend I took Woodstock for a walk, wore flip flops for the first time and gave long, gushing prayers of gratitude for more sunshine and less inversion.
And somehow, it sailed right by - lost amidst the job drama, the move, Grover's visit, unpacking and Woodstock's birthday party. Essentially, I've spent the entire summer tied in knots.
*sigh*
Got a new job ("new" as in went to work for one of The Factory's clients).
Moved (to the house next door to the Hobbit Hole - to keep up with the "hohum" theme of summer).
Road trip to some of the state's national parks - making me understand why people with more than one child buy large vehicles - we spent several hours driving down Highway 89 with two adult males over 6' in the front and me, Grover and Woodstock squished in the back.
One aborted camping trip due to Woodstock's sudden onset of double pneumonia.
Several trips to the zoo.
That's it.
The summer gleamed with so much promise the April weekend I took Woodstock for a walk, wore flip flops for the first time and gave long, gushing prayers of gratitude for more sunshine and less inversion.
And somehow, it sailed right by - lost amidst the job drama, the move, Grover's visit, unpacking and Woodstock's birthday party. Essentially, I've spent the entire summer tied in knots.
*sigh*
Thursday, September 04, 2008
365 Days
365 Days (or 366, if you are being technical, since this is leap year) ago, Himself ordered pizza for dinner and I went into labor (no, there is no corrolation).
We lived in the Hobbit Hole. I was liking my job at The Factory and we were both elated over Himself's job at the university. The house was clean and I had been cooking up a storm.
How much has changed in a year ...
We lived in the Hobbit Hole. I was liking my job at The Factory and we were both elated over Himself's job at the university. The house was clean and I had been cooking up a storm.
How much has changed in a year ...
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
The Birthday Duo
When I found out I was pregnant with Woodstock, due in early September, there are two things I requested of the universe:
1. She be born in late August, so as to dispense with all the school deadline nonsense (in case we're still living in a state with a Sept. 1 deadline by the time Woodstock is old enough to go to school). As a kid who missed the deadline by 9 days, then ended up forgoing the 3rd grade to rectify the issue, I'm especially sensitive to it.
2. If she was born in September that she be born on a day other than my birthday. I had always felt bad for my grandmother who shares a birthday with my aunt. "How sad, I thought. She had to spend her birthday in a hospital giving birth." What I didn't realize is that giving birth was the cool part - it was the eating hospital food for one's birthday that was really crummy.
As it turns out, she was born in September. On Sunday, September 9, to be precise. Which also happens to be MY birthday.
Other than the fact that last year's birthday present (Woodstock) cost me several thousand dollars and a whole host of medical paperwork nightmares, I shrugged off the combined birthdays. It was, after all, kind of cool to see the State Vital Records guy put on his glasses, scrunch his eyes and say, "is this a typo or was she really born on your birthday?" It was also rather humorous when the pediatric urgent care nurse queried as to whether Woodstock was really nearly 30 - and if so why she was being seen at a pediatric clinic (the result of a bad habit of writing my birthday year instead of hers).
But this morning, I remembered why I didn't want to share a birthday, when Himself asked if I could find a baby sitter for Tuesday night so we could celebrate my birthday.
I started to nod my head. Then I said, "No. I can't. It's Woodstock's birthday too." Yes, she's only a year. Yes, she is not going to remember it. Yes, her "party" was last weekend. But I might as well start making accommodations now.
I'm already going to be on her hit list when she's 13 because we share a birthday, a middle name and nearly identical year-old baby photos (this according to my mother. I haven't seen said photos in so long I can't corroborate this). I don't need to give her any other fodder for what is certainly going to be angst-ridden, teenage rant against the parentals at some point in the next 12 years. *sniff* *poutylowerlip* "You don't love me. You left me with a sitter on my first birthday ever."
There is going to be enough to put me in the teenage "you don't love me" category, I'd rather not add to it quite yet.
Starting next year (I wasn't smart enough to think of it this year), I'm not working on OUR birthday. We'll spend the day together doing something fun. And while I'm not ready to concede spending my birthday at Chuck-E-Cheese (she is, after all, Himself's child too), I really don't mind the idea of celebrating my birthday twice -with Woodstock on OUR birthday with friends/family and with Himself on another day.
After all, Woodstock is the one birthday present that will never get returned, go out of style, get stored in the garage, gather dust or end up in some long-forgotten corner of my memory.
Not a bad birthday present.
1. She be born in late August, so as to dispense with all the school deadline nonsense (in case we're still living in a state with a Sept. 1 deadline by the time Woodstock is old enough to go to school). As a kid who missed the deadline by 9 days, then ended up forgoing the 3rd grade to rectify the issue, I'm especially sensitive to it.
2. If she was born in September that she be born on a day other than my birthday. I had always felt bad for my grandmother who shares a birthday with my aunt. "How sad, I thought. She had to spend her birthday in a hospital giving birth." What I didn't realize is that giving birth was the cool part - it was the eating hospital food for one's birthday that was really crummy.
As it turns out, she was born in September. On Sunday, September 9, to be precise. Which also happens to be MY birthday.
Other than the fact that last year's birthday present (Woodstock) cost me several thousand dollars and a whole host of medical paperwork nightmares, I shrugged off the combined birthdays. It was, after all, kind of cool to see the State Vital Records guy put on his glasses, scrunch his eyes and say, "is this a typo or was she really born on your birthday?" It was also rather humorous when the pediatric urgent care nurse queried as to whether Woodstock was really nearly 30 - and if so why she was being seen at a pediatric clinic (the result of a bad habit of writing my birthday year instead of hers).
But this morning, I remembered why I didn't want to share a birthday, when Himself asked if I could find a baby sitter for Tuesday night so we could celebrate my birthday.
I started to nod my head. Then I said, "No. I can't. It's Woodstock's birthday too." Yes, she's only a year. Yes, she is not going to remember it. Yes, her "party" was last weekend. But I might as well start making accommodations now.
I'm already going to be on her hit list when she's 13 because we share a birthday, a middle name and nearly identical year-old baby photos (this according to my mother. I haven't seen said photos in so long I can't corroborate this). I don't need to give her any other fodder for what is certainly going to be angst-ridden, teenage rant against the parentals at some point in the next 12 years. *sniff* *poutylowerlip* "You don't love me. You left me with a sitter on my first birthday ever."
There is going to be enough to put me in the teenage "you don't love me" category, I'd rather not add to it quite yet.
Starting next year (I wasn't smart enough to think of it this year), I'm not working on OUR birthday. We'll spend the day together doing something fun. And while I'm not ready to concede spending my birthday at Chuck-E-Cheese (she is, after all, Himself's child too), I really don't mind the idea of celebrating my birthday twice -with Woodstock on OUR birthday with friends/family and with Himself on another day.
After all, Woodstock is the one birthday present that will never get returned, go out of style, get stored in the garage, gather dust or end up in some long-forgotten corner of my memory.
Not a bad birthday present.
Monday, September 01, 2008
The Nightmare Before Labor Day
Saturday night, I had my worst panic attack in a long time.
It probably didn't help that my sister had showed me earlier that evening what she and the other nurses at work do when they're bored - they look up bookings for the county jail to see if they know anyone (sadly - both of us did, and I haven't lived in that county for 12 years!).
It probably didn't help that Woodstock's party, by everyone else's accounts successful, was one of the most miserable things through which I've subjected myself in months ... a virtual kaleidescope of sound and color and movement that threatened to send the whole world off kilter.
It probably didn't help that, with all my attempts to minimize traffic through the house on Saturday (thereby minmizing the impact on the rental carpet that is easy to stain and impossible to scrub), I have two HUGE spots that are going to require both time and money to remove.
It probably didn't help that there were SEVEN people spending the night Saturday night - guest room, nursery, living room, family room all had bodies in them and Woodstock was in our room. There was nowhere to de-program.
It probably didn't help that I woke up to Himself nearly smothering me (or so it felt) from a horrible dream, that I can only remember vaguely.
I started to sob hysterically. Himself, already perplexed by the fact that I would drastically spring to the other side of the bed if he happened to touch me, tried to calm me down.
The darkness was thick. I had to swallow any noise that came from the rising tide of panic engulfing me from the inside out, as Woodstock was sleeping soundly only feet away. I wanted to be held and yet the sensation of touch made me recoil. Every little thing, every little sensation, noise, sight - collectively was magnified into something greater. The whirring in my head was audible. The dread in the depth of my soul was palpable.
After I exhausted all of the emotional outburst of the attack, I fled to the bathroom (the only room not occupied by a sleeping body). I rescued my aromatheraphy bottles from the cavernous dungeous of the under-the-sink cabinet and ran a bath with a generous amount of lavendar bubbles. I ran the bath hot enough to sting my skin and require slow acclimation. I read about China's economy,disecting the panic attack to better understand the triggers and my reaction as I read about Chinese labor laws, factory conditions and rise to economic power.
I scrubbed my feet with an aromatherapy scrub. I lathered in lavendar. I inhaled deeply. I tried to visualize sleep. It worked so well that I napped for nearly an hour and woke to tepid water and wrinkled appendages.
I crept up the stairs for a glass of water, then back to my bedroom. Out came the fuzzy socks and medicated foot rub that takes the ache out of almost anything. Out came a fresh pillow and Himself's warm arms.
And I wondered how on earth to stop the crippling anxiety of the winter from creeping back in. Summer cannot last long enough.
It probably didn't help that my sister had showed me earlier that evening what she and the other nurses at work do when they're bored - they look up bookings for the county jail to see if they know anyone (sadly - both of us did, and I haven't lived in that county for 12 years!).
It probably didn't help that Woodstock's party, by everyone else's accounts successful, was one of the most miserable things through which I've subjected myself in months ... a virtual kaleidescope of sound and color and movement that threatened to send the whole world off kilter.
It probably didn't help that, with all my attempts to minimize traffic through the house on Saturday (thereby minmizing the impact on the rental carpet that is easy to stain and impossible to scrub), I have two HUGE spots that are going to require both time and money to remove.
It probably didn't help that there were SEVEN people spending the night Saturday night - guest room, nursery, living room, family room all had bodies in them and Woodstock was in our room. There was nowhere to de-program.
It probably didn't help that I woke up to Himself nearly smothering me (or so it felt) from a horrible dream, that I can only remember vaguely.
I started to sob hysterically. Himself, already perplexed by the fact that I would drastically spring to the other side of the bed if he happened to touch me, tried to calm me down.
The darkness was thick. I had to swallow any noise that came from the rising tide of panic engulfing me from the inside out, as Woodstock was sleeping soundly only feet away. I wanted to be held and yet the sensation of touch made me recoil. Every little thing, every little sensation, noise, sight - collectively was magnified into something greater. The whirring in my head was audible. The dread in the depth of my soul was palpable.
After I exhausted all of the emotional outburst of the attack, I fled to the bathroom (the only room not occupied by a sleeping body). I rescued my aromatheraphy bottles from the cavernous dungeous of the under-the-sink cabinet and ran a bath with a generous amount of lavendar bubbles. I ran the bath hot enough to sting my skin and require slow acclimation. I read about China's economy,disecting the panic attack to better understand the triggers and my reaction as I read about Chinese labor laws, factory conditions and rise to economic power.
I scrubbed my feet with an aromatherapy scrub. I lathered in lavendar. I inhaled deeply. I tried to visualize sleep. It worked so well that I napped for nearly an hour and woke to tepid water and wrinkled appendages.
I crept up the stairs for a glass of water, then back to my bedroom. Out came the fuzzy socks and medicated foot rub that takes the ache out of almost anything. Out came a fresh pillow and Himself's warm arms.
And I wondered how on earth to stop the crippling anxiety of the winter from creeping back in. Summer cannot last long enough.
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