Last week I looked in the mirror and was startled to realize I was looking at my 13-year-old self (13 plus several pounds and some assorted stretch marks - of course!).
There, in the mirror, was the same face that stared back at me at 13, and it made me want to cry.
When I was 13, I had THE WORST skin. Horrible. It began a series of trips to the dermatologist. My mother (bless her porcelin-skinned genes) was worried about acne scarring (and about me eventually blaming her for everything that went wrong in my life because someone had to be responsible for looking like I'd been attacked with a red Sharpie in my sleep).
I tried every single product on the market - including a 2-year stint on a drug now known to cause serious, long-term side effects. The meds helped on Tuesdays, Saturday mornings and every other Wendesday afternoon - in other words, there was no real evidence that they had any kind of measurable, lasting impact.
No worries, my mother said, this only lasts a little while. In 10 years, you will look back and laugh at this.
Except, it has been nearly TWENTY years, and I'm not laughing. I am still looking at the same face in the mirror. Oh yes, over the last decade there have been times when it hasn't been so bad - I went an entire nine months feeling like an adult, as my skin magically cleared up while pregnant with Woodstock. But those times were few and far between.
In college, I tried a new-to-market "miracle" drug. It took care of my skin all right, but I had to sign my life away, traipse into the doctor's every month for a blood test, and it made my joints hurt and my mouth shrivel up for lack of saliva.
It wasn't worth it.
I tried a mail-order solution that works, but only as long as you use it. It was axed in the first round of budget cuts after college (yes, I had more disposable income making $400/month in college than I do now ... go figure).
I have used every single brand of cleanser on the market - drugstore and high end. Doesn't matter. They all work more or less the same. In fact, the ones marketed to teens in the drugstore work the best, because I have teenaged skin.
Most of it is related to a hormone imbalance, but it doesn't make it any easier.
I have an odd plea to the universe: Just once I want to look my age instead of 13. Just once I want to look in the mirror and not see painful little bumps. Just once I want to proclaim - to hell with the make-up I'm going naked (on my face)!
Maybe I should dress up as a teenager for Halloween this year.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Dear Recruiter/Employer
My resume is hanging out in cyberspace. I haven't touched in in four months, but it's still there.
Every once in awhile, a recruiter/employer sifts to the bottom of the stack and finds my lonely, not-updated-since-June resume. A resume/profile where my last four jobs use the words "Director" or "Manager." A resume where one job uses the world "million" several times in relation to budgets, development portfolio value, etc. A resume that clearly states I have managed teams, processes and people. A resume that demonstrates I have been employed, full-time for all but a year of the last decade.
There is one title that uses the word "sales" - but if you read the title and/or the line items of what I do, one would quickly grasp that in addition to my mostly marketing-management tasks, I managed sales processes, sales training. I DID NOT SELL ANYTHING.
Also, random pet peeve and useful piece of information: SALES and MARKETING ARE NOT THE SAME THING! In a perfect world, marketing support sales and the two work closely together but they are not, nor will they ever be, the same thing. (While we're on the subject, telemarketing is not marketing either).
So WHY on earth I keep getting random calls/e-mails from recruiters or employers asking me to interview for ANY of the following positions is beyond me:
-Marketing Assistant. Sorry, I'm not interested in going BACKWARD down the career ladder to the tune of 7 jobs ago.
-Sales anything. I don't sell. I don't want to sell. You clearly have not read my resume even though your e-mail to me starts out, "I'm impressed by your real esthate sales experience." No you aren't, because I've never sold real estate.
-Telemarketing call center manager. Just because the words "marketing" and "manager" happen to appear in my resume, does not mean I'm qualified for, nor interested in, a job that would also add "tele-" and "call center" to my resume.
-Entry-level anything. I am not kidding when I say I have had two phone calls in the past four months regarding an employer wanting me to interview for a marketing position. Upon further discovery, I found out it was an entry-level position. What on earth could they possibly be thinking? The first woman was a bit startled to realize what my salary requiremenet would be. I can't imagine why.
You have not read my resume very closely if you still think I am in DC. I haven't lived/worked there in (gasp!) 17 months. I could be persuaded to relocate, but saying, "since you are in the DC area..." does not fill me with great confidence as to your reading abilities.
Telling me you're interested in me interviewing for a position, but how would I rate my ability to use the Internet doesn't win you any bonus points either. Let's just dispense with the obvious - I've worked for two "dot coms," and I've had four different positions where my SOLE responsibility was online marketing/pr/advertising. It is a fair question if you haven't seen my resume, or if you were talking to me in 1997. But you have, and it's not.
Contacting me about a job that is in the $25-30k range is not going to win you any brownie points either - unless it is a part-time, work-from-home, consulting gig. Then I might think about it. I don't even have to put my salary range on my resume - even though I was chronically underpaid (this is not just wishful thinking, this is a documented fact) for my first five years out of college, the words "manager" or "director" on my resume combined with anything remotely geographically connected to DC should tell you something. $25-30k isn't going to persuade me to take a job - even one in the middle of nowhere. I'm already there.
**End of Rant** Off my soapbox.
My apologies to Heidi, who is one of the finest recruiters/headhunters I've known. My apologies also to the other fine recruiters/headhunters with whom I've had the privilege to work. This is not about you.
Every once in awhile, a recruiter/employer sifts to the bottom of the stack and finds my lonely, not-updated-since-June resume. A resume/profile where my last four jobs use the words "Director" or "Manager." A resume where one job uses the world "million" several times in relation to budgets, development portfolio value, etc. A resume that clearly states I have managed teams, processes and people. A resume that demonstrates I have been employed, full-time for all but a year of the last decade.
There is one title that uses the word "sales" - but if you read the title and/or the line items of what I do, one would quickly grasp that in addition to my mostly marketing-management tasks, I managed sales processes, sales training. I DID NOT SELL ANYTHING.
Also, random pet peeve and useful piece of information: SALES and MARKETING ARE NOT THE SAME THING! In a perfect world, marketing support sales and the two work closely together but they are not, nor will they ever be, the same thing. (While we're on the subject, telemarketing is not marketing either).
So WHY on earth I keep getting random calls/e-mails from recruiters or employers asking me to interview for ANY of the following positions is beyond me:
-Marketing Assistant. Sorry, I'm not interested in going BACKWARD down the career ladder to the tune of 7 jobs ago.
-Sales anything. I don't sell. I don't want to sell. You clearly have not read my resume even though your e-mail to me starts out, "I'm impressed by your real esthate sales experience." No you aren't, because I've never sold real estate.
-Telemarketing call center manager. Just because the words "marketing" and "manager" happen to appear in my resume, does not mean I'm qualified for, nor interested in, a job that would also add "tele-" and "call center" to my resume.
-Entry-level anything. I am not kidding when I say I have had two phone calls in the past four months regarding an employer wanting me to interview for a marketing position. Upon further discovery, I found out it was an entry-level position. What on earth could they possibly be thinking? The first woman was a bit startled to realize what my salary requiremenet would be. I can't imagine why.
You have not read my resume very closely if you still think I am in DC. I haven't lived/worked there in (gasp!) 17 months. I could be persuaded to relocate, but saying, "since you are in the DC area..." does not fill me with great confidence as to your reading abilities.
Telling me you're interested in me interviewing for a position, but how would I rate my ability to use the Internet doesn't win you any bonus points either. Let's just dispense with the obvious - I've worked for two "dot coms," and I've had four different positions where my SOLE responsibility was online marketing/pr/advertising. It is a fair question if you haven't seen my resume, or if you were talking to me in 1997. But you have, and it's not.
Contacting me about a job that is in the $25-30k range is not going to win you any brownie points either - unless it is a part-time, work-from-home, consulting gig. Then I might think about it. I don't even have to put my salary range on my resume - even though I was chronically underpaid (this is not just wishful thinking, this is a documented fact) for my first five years out of college, the words "manager" or "director" on my resume combined with anything remotely geographically connected to DC should tell you something. $25-30k isn't going to persuade me to take a job - even one in the middle of nowhere. I'm already there.
**End of Rant** Off my soapbox.
My apologies to Heidi, who is one of the finest recruiters/headhunters I've known. My apologies also to the other fine recruiters/headhunters with whom I've had the privilege to work. This is not about you.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Thinking Out Loud, Part V
A continuation of this ...
It doesn't really matter what the summer was like. There were two blissful weeks where I felt absolutely perfectly happy, as long as I didn't think about the future. I worked part-time at The Factory. Turned off caring about anything related to it and enjoyed the warm summer afternoons I got to spend with Woodstock - swimming in the backyard kiddie pool, mostly - in an attempt to beg her to tolerate water/bathing.
There was a 7-day period where I didn't work at all "between jobs" at The Factory and The Office. Grover had arrived, along with a friend of Himself's from Virginia, and I puttered and took the kids swimming and went to the zoo and rejoiced in life as a stay-at-home mom.
Himself remarked about the light in my eyes. The panic attacks that were coming almost daily decreased. I had only one.
The rest of the summer zoomed past too fast - the best laid plans went awry and summer ended with me feeling like I had gained so much early on and lost it in a flurry of moving, Himself's out-of-town trips and work schedule, my new (respectable and stable, if dull) job and Woodstock's dramatic foray into her first real illnesses.
Now it is fall. On the brink of winter's onslaught. This week marks my 1-year anniversary returning to work following Woodstock's birth. She is 1 year, 7 weeks old. I can feel the terror start to take over again. The anxious static in the background beginning to wake up after a lazy summer nap. I see myself slipping here and there - clinging to Woodstock, smelling her babyfine hair, holding her close to stave off the inevitable nightmares.
I've gone through weeks of insomnia, nightmares, nights where I can do nothing but drag my feet down the stairs and into bed - all the things that marked the post partum downward spiral.
This time, I'm fighting back with everything I can muster. I am walking, doing yoga, eating well, forcing time with friends, saying no when I know I can't handle something - even if it seems petty or awkward or, dare I say it, disobedient. On the advice of my former headshrinker, I am writing it out ... where it will be read. Not because it doesn't tear me up to have someone know what is going on inside my head, but because, in her words, "there has to be an accountability factor." I can't talk about it yet, out loud, so writing to an invisible audience is the remedy.
This time, there is a small support network of real-life people I see beyond my office or computer screen. "You need to make friends," everyone told me in my darkest moments. "You need to get out." I couldn't. I was paralyzed, crippled by the absolute inability to string together one coherent sentence without crumbling to fine dust in a spectacular display of snotty, tear-stained weakness. I felt as if I was hiding some terrible secret ... in reality, I was.
The change in employment, the passing of Woodstock's infancy (something I mourn daily - there are whole periods of time, weeks of her life, where I remember nothing but what I captured in no fewer than 300 photos of just Woodstock - as if I could cut out the darkness and just preserve the light), the move, the brief sunny respite in this desert at the top of the mountains all helped. I had something positive to talk about, something interesting to share. I began to read again - newspapers, books, anything I could get my hands on.
I got to know my next-door neighbor, we met a couple at a class we are taking, I forced myself to face the disasterous fallout from the weeks and months of not opening the mail or answering the phone. There is a plan in place. I am working to gain control of what I can and not caring about what I can't.
I am healing. Slowly, one day at a time, I am coming back to life.
It doesn't really matter what the summer was like. There were two blissful weeks where I felt absolutely perfectly happy, as long as I didn't think about the future. I worked part-time at The Factory. Turned off caring about anything related to it and enjoyed the warm summer afternoons I got to spend with Woodstock - swimming in the backyard kiddie pool, mostly - in an attempt to beg her to tolerate water/bathing.
There was a 7-day period where I didn't work at all "between jobs" at The Factory and The Office. Grover had arrived, along with a friend of Himself's from Virginia, and I puttered and took the kids swimming and went to the zoo and rejoiced in life as a stay-at-home mom.
Himself remarked about the light in my eyes. The panic attacks that were coming almost daily decreased. I had only one.
The rest of the summer zoomed past too fast - the best laid plans went awry and summer ended with me feeling like I had gained so much early on and lost it in a flurry of moving, Himself's out-of-town trips and work schedule, my new (respectable and stable, if dull) job and Woodstock's dramatic foray into her first real illnesses.
Now it is fall. On the brink of winter's onslaught. This week marks my 1-year anniversary returning to work following Woodstock's birth. She is 1 year, 7 weeks old. I can feel the terror start to take over again. The anxious static in the background beginning to wake up after a lazy summer nap. I see myself slipping here and there - clinging to Woodstock, smelling her babyfine hair, holding her close to stave off the inevitable nightmares.
I've gone through weeks of insomnia, nightmares, nights where I can do nothing but drag my feet down the stairs and into bed - all the things that marked the post partum downward spiral.
This time, I'm fighting back with everything I can muster. I am walking, doing yoga, eating well, forcing time with friends, saying no when I know I can't handle something - even if it seems petty or awkward or, dare I say it, disobedient. On the advice of my former headshrinker, I am writing it out ... where it will be read. Not because it doesn't tear me up to have someone know what is going on inside my head, but because, in her words, "there has to be an accountability factor." I can't talk about it yet, out loud, so writing to an invisible audience is the remedy.
This time, there is a small support network of real-life people I see beyond my office or computer screen. "You need to make friends," everyone told me in my darkest moments. "You need to get out." I couldn't. I was paralyzed, crippled by the absolute inability to string together one coherent sentence without crumbling to fine dust in a spectacular display of snotty, tear-stained weakness. I felt as if I was hiding some terrible secret ... in reality, I was.
The change in employment, the passing of Woodstock's infancy (something I mourn daily - there are whole periods of time, weeks of her life, where I remember nothing but what I captured in no fewer than 300 photos of just Woodstock - as if I could cut out the darkness and just preserve the light), the move, the brief sunny respite in this desert at the top of the mountains all helped. I had something positive to talk about, something interesting to share. I began to read again - newspapers, books, anything I could get my hands on.
I got to know my next-door neighbor, we met a couple at a class we are taking, I forced myself to face the disasterous fallout from the weeks and months of not opening the mail or answering the phone. There is a plan in place. I am working to gain control of what I can and not caring about what I can't.
I am healing. Slowly, one day at a time, I am coming back to life.
One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other ...
(Identifying details have been changed to protect the guilty, the employed and the semi-innocent)
This morning I read through my weekly press clippings to find this:
ACTUAL MEDIA ARTICLE
I scratched my head. Funny how it appears XYZ Inc. presented a very large sum of money to three organizations as a result of our [Name of Event Here] two weeks ago. And funny how it seems they raised all this money at the event.
Curious, I went back to the e-mail/release I sent the reporter. It looks nothing like what was written.
ACTUAL MEDIA RELEASE
Not even close.
This morning I read through my weekly press clippings to find this:
ACTUAL MEDIA ARTICLE
XYZ Inc. supports Nonprofit Cause
XYZ Inc. presented $XX0,000 recently to three benefited charities: $XX0,000 went to the Charity A $XX,000 went to Charity B and $XX0,000 went to Charity C.
Sponsoring Nonprofit Sara Works For with its [Name of Event Here] in October, XYZ Inc. was able to raise the funds at the event. [Brief statement about Nonprofit Sara Works For Here].
I scratched my head. Funny how it appears XYZ Inc. presented a very large sum of money to three organizations as a result of our [Name of Event Here] two weeks ago. And funny how it seems they raised all this money at the event.
Curious, I went back to the e-mail/release I sent the reporter. It looks nothing like what was written.
ACTUAL MEDIA RELEASE
[Nonprofit Sara Works For] Raises $XX0,000 for Nonprofit Cause
[An intro paragraph and a quote].
Generous donations from [Name of Event] sponsors like XYZ Inc. and ABC Inc., other corporate and private donations, and donations received that evening from guests of more than $XX,000, were distributed among the event’s three benefited charities. [Nonprofit Sara Works For] was able to present checks Saturday totaling $XX0,000 to Charity A, Charity B and Charity C.
Not even close.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Wandering In the Dark
In high school, when I briefly flirted with the idea of attending a small liberal arts school in Wisconsin, my father practically begged me to reconsider. Not because it was a known party school, not because the tuition was enough to feed a small third-world country for a day, not because the words "small and liberal arts" were used in the same sentence, not because I would be moving thousands of miles away to a land inhabited by roughly as many cows and bars as people. No, all of those would have been a sure fire way to get me to flee gaily to the cheesehead capitol and stay there whether I liked it or not, just to prove a point. Rather, he practically begged me to reconsider my musings because it SNOWED there. (To be fair, I'm sure the other reasons crossed his mind several dozen times, but he knew me well enough to deter me with my weakness rather than with his worst nightmares come true).
It's a well known fact that I hate winter. Unfortunately, Himself hates to be hot, so we're trapped in the middle horizontal third of the country where the summers are hot (hoorah) and the winters are frigid (you can see Himself hoisting his skis and singing praises at each new patch of snow that shows up on the mountains).
However, it isn't the snow or the cold or the scraping of one's windows that I hate as much as the lack of light. It is nearly physically impossible for me to function without daylight. Artificial light doesn't cut it. I crave real, honest-to-goodness sunshine.
For this reason, I loathe the week before Daylight Savings ends and winter officially begins (regardless of what nature says, winter begins when it is dark when you get up and dark when you get home). I left my house this morning at 6:34 a.m. to wander around in the pitch blackness that only winter can bring as Day 2 of Operation Fitness commenced. Unlike Virginia, where everyone is halfway into their 2-hour commute at 6:30 a.m., no one is actually up and out at that hour in The Frontier, this close to the city.
I wandered around in the dark for 45 minutes. I passed three people and maybe four times that many cars. It felt as if I was exercising at 3 a.m. rather than the more-than-sensible 6:30 a.m.
The entire time (while praying I wasn't going to be hit by a car or incapacitated by the uneven terrain caused by sidewalks that appear and disappear at random in my enighborhood) I contemplated how I could hibernate through winter or move to the southern hemisphere where it is now spring. No longer is my dream of being a snowbird and owning two houses good enough - now I want those houses to be in two different hemispheres so I don't have to deal with dark mornings and cold days any more.
Seriously, in the days of telecommuting, wireless Internet and automatic deposit, would it be so wrong for me to consider apartment hunting in, say, a small beachside town in South America?
It's a well known fact that I hate winter. Unfortunately, Himself hates to be hot, so we're trapped in the middle horizontal third of the country where the summers are hot (hoorah) and the winters are frigid (you can see Himself hoisting his skis and singing praises at each new patch of snow that shows up on the mountains).
However, it isn't the snow or the cold or the scraping of one's windows that I hate as much as the lack of light. It is nearly physically impossible for me to function without daylight. Artificial light doesn't cut it. I crave real, honest-to-goodness sunshine.
For this reason, I loathe the week before Daylight Savings ends and winter officially begins (regardless of what nature says, winter begins when it is dark when you get up and dark when you get home). I left my house this morning at 6:34 a.m. to wander around in the pitch blackness that only winter can bring as Day 2 of Operation Fitness commenced. Unlike Virginia, where everyone is halfway into their 2-hour commute at 6:30 a.m., no one is actually up and out at that hour in The Frontier, this close to the city.
I wandered around in the dark for 45 minutes. I passed three people and maybe four times that many cars. It felt as if I was exercising at 3 a.m. rather than the more-than-sensible 6:30 a.m.
The entire time (while praying I wasn't going to be hit by a car or incapacitated by the uneven terrain caused by sidewalks that appear and disappear at random in my enighborhood) I contemplated how I could hibernate through winter or move to the southern hemisphere where it is now spring. No longer is my dream of being a snowbird and owning two houses good enough - now I want those houses to be in two different hemispheres so I don't have to deal with dark mornings and cold days any more.
Seriously, in the days of telecommuting, wireless Internet and automatic deposit, would it be so wrong for me to consider apartment hunting in, say, a small beachside town in South America?
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Thinking Out Loud, Part IV
A Continuation of This...
Spring came in fits and starts - teasing with warm weekends and sunny days here and there - enough to keep hope that the snow wouldn't last forever. With spring, the backyard of the Hobbit Hole came alive in color - tulips, blossoms, the first hint of green in grass.
With spring, came news that the Hobbit Hole was up for sale. The news felt as if I had swallwed a grapefruit whole. Coming from the real estate world, I knew what it took for a home to sell - pristine cleanliness and staging. The Hobbit Hole regularly looked like an F5 tornado had struck inside, since I could barely make myself cook dinner, let alone function enough to keep my house clean every, single day with only an hour's notice. I spent much of the season on pins and needles. I felt the weight of the world beging to press down even harder. Wife, mother, employee, chef, maid ... and what about that stack of mail that hadn't been opened ... ?
Using the excuse "I forgot" about mine and Woodstock's hospital bills was ridiculous. No one in his right mind in the billing office would believe I had curled up in a mental ball and hibernated for the entire winter. During the course of the winter, I hadn't answered the phone either. I went three weeks without answering it at all. I would sit and stare blankly at the wall and listen to the machine click on. Only rarely would the fact that someone had left a message even register. Himself would answer it if it turned out to be someone he knew - otherwise, he let me ignore it.
He let me ignore everything. During the course of his unemployment, at the urging of my head shrinker, he spent a lot of time with Woodstock. He spent more time cleaning and cooking. He tolerated my sharp recoil at the thought of being touched or held as well as could be expected. He deserves far more credit than I could ever give ... for just hanging on.
The first really warm weekend - one warm enough to wear bare feet outside - came in late April. With it came the Hobbit Hole's first open house, following a week of hell at The Factory. I cleaned and panicked. I stayed up late and got up early, scrubbing and organizing - frantic to make everything perfect. Woodstock had an allergic reaction and wasn't feeling well. Himself, who by now was employed, worked late, then had to work Saturday too.
An hour before the scheduled open house I had a full-blown panic attack - calling the landlord's wife and sobbing on their machine. "I just can't do it." Their house was perfect. The one I was renting from them would never look that way. I knew they needed it to sell. It had to be perfect. The agent showed up and I was feeding Woodstock in the nusery - showered, but still in messy pajamas, a look of frenzied desperation on my face. My The show went on. I came home after the open house and realized I had nothing to do - the house was clean. I had no hobbies. No mindset to relax. And no cleaning to do. I paced the house for an entire hour. Woodstock was sleeping. I began to feel like a caged animal. I felt like I was suffocating.
Spring continued. While I started to feel again and have some hope that I could return to "normal," The Factory continued to crumble - I would put in my time at the office, come home, fix dinner, take care of Woodstock and work long into the wee morning hours after she (and Himself) had gone to bed. I was sleeping 3-4 hours a night, if at all. There was no time to continue to heal, and the anxiety portion took control - the background static of life drove me to the brink of my sanity. I was working 12-to 14-hour days trying to juggle ridiculous Wicked Witch requests that got in the way of clients. I couldn't keep up with the ridiculousness of what was being asked. I kept most of what I saw and heard to myself, trying to protect my team. Scathing editorials of my performance were a weekly occurance because it was impossible for me to do what was asked/expected. I walked on eggshells.
I made promises - to my friends, my family, myself, random people ... and I couldn't keep them. Breathing took almost all of my effort. I continually thanked God that He, in his infinite wisdom, had sent me Woodstock - whose happy little soul seemed never to need more of me than I was able to give.
And then, for the third time in just over a year, the bottom of life as I knew it fell out. It was the worst day and the best day - as sometimes liberations are. I could not keep up with the demands The Factory put on me, nor was I willing to play the ridiculous game. Even a healthy person wouldn't have been able to put up with it long. I felt like I had failed my team - that I hadn't been able to protect them from The Wicked witch. In the process, I had failed myself ... I cried because I had begged to leave, and always the answer was "not yet."
At that point, the entire summer stretched ahead of me, deliciously sunny, hot and bright ... if I didn't care about the bank balance.
To Be Continued ...
Spring came in fits and starts - teasing with warm weekends and sunny days here and there - enough to keep hope that the snow wouldn't last forever. With spring, the backyard of the Hobbit Hole came alive in color - tulips, blossoms, the first hint of green in grass.
With spring, came news that the Hobbit Hole was up for sale. The news felt as if I had swallwed a grapefruit whole. Coming from the real estate world, I knew what it took for a home to sell - pristine cleanliness and staging. The Hobbit Hole regularly looked like an F5 tornado had struck inside, since I could barely make myself cook dinner, let alone function enough to keep my house clean every, single day with only an hour's notice. I spent much of the season on pins and needles. I felt the weight of the world beging to press down even harder. Wife, mother, employee, chef, maid ... and what about that stack of mail that hadn't been opened ... ?
Using the excuse "I forgot" about mine and Woodstock's hospital bills was ridiculous. No one in his right mind in the billing office would believe I had curled up in a mental ball and hibernated for the entire winter. During the course of the winter, I hadn't answered the phone either. I went three weeks without answering it at all. I would sit and stare blankly at the wall and listen to the machine click on. Only rarely would the fact that someone had left a message even register. Himself would answer it if it turned out to be someone he knew - otherwise, he let me ignore it.
He let me ignore everything. During the course of his unemployment, at the urging of my head shrinker, he spent a lot of time with Woodstock. He spent more time cleaning and cooking. He tolerated my sharp recoil at the thought of being touched or held as well as could be expected. He deserves far more credit than I could ever give ... for just hanging on.
The first really warm weekend - one warm enough to wear bare feet outside - came in late April. With it came the Hobbit Hole's first open house, following a week of hell at The Factory. I cleaned and panicked. I stayed up late and got up early, scrubbing and organizing - frantic to make everything perfect. Woodstock had an allergic reaction and wasn't feeling well. Himself, who by now was employed, worked late, then had to work Saturday too.
An hour before the scheduled open house I had a full-blown panic attack - calling the landlord's wife and sobbing on their machine. "I just can't do it." Their house was perfect. The one I was renting from them would never look that way. I knew they needed it to sell. It had to be perfect. The agent showed up and I was feeding Woodstock in the nusery - showered, but still in messy pajamas, a look of frenzied desperation on my face. My The show went on. I came home after the open house and realized I had nothing to do - the house was clean. I had no hobbies. No mindset to relax. And no cleaning to do. I paced the house for an entire hour. Woodstock was sleeping. I began to feel like a caged animal. I felt like I was suffocating.
Spring continued. While I started to feel again and have some hope that I could return to "normal," The Factory continued to crumble - I would put in my time at the office, come home, fix dinner, take care of Woodstock and work long into the wee morning hours after she (and Himself) had gone to bed. I was sleeping 3-4 hours a night, if at all. There was no time to continue to heal, and the anxiety portion took control - the background static of life drove me to the brink of my sanity. I was working 12-to 14-hour days trying to juggle ridiculous Wicked Witch requests that got in the way of clients. I couldn't keep up with the ridiculousness of what was being asked. I kept most of what I saw and heard to myself, trying to protect my team. Scathing editorials of my performance were a weekly occurance because it was impossible for me to do what was asked/expected. I walked on eggshells.
I made promises - to my friends, my family, myself, random people ... and I couldn't keep them. Breathing took almost all of my effort. I continually thanked God that He, in his infinite wisdom, had sent me Woodstock - whose happy little soul seemed never to need more of me than I was able to give.
And then, for the third time in just over a year, the bottom of life as I knew it fell out. It was the worst day and the best day - as sometimes liberations are. I could not keep up with the demands The Factory put on me, nor was I willing to play the ridiculous game. Even a healthy person wouldn't have been able to put up with it long. I felt like I had failed my team - that I hadn't been able to protect them from The Wicked witch. In the process, I had failed myself ... I cried because I had begged to leave, and always the answer was "not yet."
At that point, the entire summer stretched ahead of me, deliciously sunny, hot and bright ... if I didn't care about the bank balance.
To Be Continued ...
Thursday, October 23, 2008
It is Well
This hymn, and the story behind it, makes me cry. It brings peace and a knowledge that regardless of life's challenges, there is always someone whose arms are waiting for me and someone who has struggled far more.
1. When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
when sorrows like sea billows roll;
whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
Refrain:
It is well with my soul,
it is well, it is well with my soul.
2. Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
let this blest assurance control,
that Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
and hath shed his own blood for my soul.
(Refrain)
3. My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
(Refrain)
4. And, Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
the clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
the trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
even so, it is well with my soul.
(Refrain)
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Thinking Out Loud, Part III
A Continuation of This
It snowed and snowed and snowed. The valley became thick with fog, heavy clouds, inversion and perma-snow. We went nearly three months before we saw our lawn - only to have the snow return. People said it was the worst winter in years - in nearly a decade. Funny thing, all of my winters in The Frontier (all 4 of them) have been "record-setting" winters in the snow/cold temps/storms categories. I must have some sort of mighty influence on Mother Nature. If so, I'm calling in a favor this year. I'll conserve water, let my lawn die, whatever if only we can have a mild winter.
I felt like a heathen praying desperately for sunshine and clean air last year when the rest of The Frontier, trained from childhood to pray for moisture in this high-altitude desert wilderness, prayed for snow. But pray I did. For sunshine and sanity, mostly.
The darkest day came in mid-January. The details are seared into my memory forever. Himself had just lost his job. Woodstock was sick with a bad winter cold. I felt as if I was weighted down by concrete. My boss at The Factory had a tyrranical fit over some perceived slight that would not have even been an issue had she not spent the entire prior week galavanting with stars and power brokers in the ridiculously over-the-top film festival up the canyon. I was driving in a blizzard to pick up Woodstock. I had nearly slid off the road trying to drive a stick-shift up a long, steep hill in stop-and-go traffic. My nerves were frayed, my hope was shattered, my soul was drowning.
I did something I have never done before, or since: I pulled over and called my mom. I started to cry when she answered the phone. I cried for nearly a full 5 minutes before I could compose myself enough to plead,
She and my sister came. Bless their bosses who didn't question when they called in over the weekend to say the storm (forecast well in advance) prevented their return for a couple of days. Bless them - who spent the weekend cleaning, organizing and working to make The Hobbit Hole a refuge instead of an anxiety-ridden lair.
I sobbed the day they left. I wanted to fling myself at the end of the snowy driveway and beg for them to take Woodstock and I to the sunny respite of their homes in the south. Every ounce of adult sensibility was called into play to keep me from getting into my own car and following them home.
The mailman came daily, but not a single piece of mail was opened in our home for three months. NOT ONE. I took it, in its piles and let it build up. I couldn't bear what its contents might hold. I couldn't even bear to get up in the mornings. The Frontier felt like the Arctic Wilderness - barren, unforgiving and isolated.
Work got worse. The Factory was a web of lies and deceit and broken promises. Any chance I had at getting anywhere was eliminated when I refused to call my contacts in an attempt to make them potential clients. There was no way I was going to put my reputation on the line for things I could not control. And still the answer was, "Not yet. Be patient. It's not time to leave."
Eventually, I started head-shrinking. Talking it out helped. Realizing that I was sick helped, but it wasn't something I could admit out loud. It would have been easier to declare I had cancer than to say my diagnosis out loud: Post-partum depression and severe anxiety disorder, on top of my typical seasonal affective disorder. My entire adult life had been dedicated to cultivating the impression of a put-together, strong, independent woman. Even under the weight of wanting to just disappear, I couldn't admit I needed help - from anyone. In my world, asking for help meant needing to reciprocate. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't repay. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't be weak. I had to keep it together - to earn a living for my family, to take care of my baby, to survive. Admitting I needed help went contrary to everything inside of me - wise or not.
I scratched out each day, waiting in an eternal state of suspension for spring - for the tulips, the daffodils, any sign that my winter prison would thaw and leave me better able to heal.
To be continued ...
It snowed and snowed and snowed. The valley became thick with fog, heavy clouds, inversion and perma-snow. We went nearly three months before we saw our lawn - only to have the snow return. People said it was the worst winter in years - in nearly a decade. Funny thing, all of my winters in The Frontier (all 4 of them) have been "record-setting" winters in the snow/cold temps/storms categories. I must have some sort of mighty influence on Mother Nature. If so, I'm calling in a favor this year. I'll conserve water, let my lawn die, whatever if only we can have a mild winter.
I felt like a heathen praying desperately for sunshine and clean air last year when the rest of The Frontier, trained from childhood to pray for moisture in this high-altitude desert wilderness, prayed for snow. But pray I did. For sunshine and sanity, mostly.
The darkest day came in mid-January. The details are seared into my memory forever. Himself had just lost his job. Woodstock was sick with a bad winter cold. I felt as if I was weighted down by concrete. My boss at The Factory had a tyrranical fit over some perceived slight that would not have even been an issue had she not spent the entire prior week galavanting with stars and power brokers in the ridiculously over-the-top film festival up the canyon. I was driving in a blizzard to pick up Woodstock. I had nearly slid off the road trying to drive a stick-shift up a long, steep hill in stop-and-go traffic. My nerves were frayed, my hope was shattered, my soul was drowning.
I did something I have never done before, or since: I pulled over and called my mom. I started to cry when she answered the phone. I cried for nearly a full 5 minutes before I could compose myself enough to plead,
"Please come."The Parents live 300 miles away - through three major mountain passes and some of the highest (ie snowiest) terrain in the state. My mom works full-time. The weekend forecast was for more storms.
She and my sister came. Bless their bosses who didn't question when they called in over the weekend to say the storm (forecast well in advance) prevented their return for a couple of days. Bless them - who spent the weekend cleaning, organizing and working to make The Hobbit Hole a refuge instead of an anxiety-ridden lair.
I sobbed the day they left. I wanted to fling myself at the end of the snowy driveway and beg for them to take Woodstock and I to the sunny respite of their homes in the south. Every ounce of adult sensibility was called into play to keep me from getting into my own car and following them home.
The mailman came daily, but not a single piece of mail was opened in our home for three months. NOT ONE. I took it, in its piles and let it build up. I couldn't bear what its contents might hold. I couldn't even bear to get up in the mornings. The Frontier felt like the Arctic Wilderness - barren, unforgiving and isolated.
Work got worse. The Factory was a web of lies and deceit and broken promises. Any chance I had at getting anywhere was eliminated when I refused to call my contacts in an attempt to make them potential clients. There was no way I was going to put my reputation on the line for things I could not control. And still the answer was, "Not yet. Be patient. It's not time to leave."
Eventually, I started head-shrinking. Talking it out helped. Realizing that I was sick helped, but it wasn't something I could admit out loud. It would have been easier to declare I had cancer than to say my diagnosis out loud: Post-partum depression and severe anxiety disorder, on top of my typical seasonal affective disorder. My entire adult life had been dedicated to cultivating the impression of a put-together, strong, independent woman. Even under the weight of wanting to just disappear, I couldn't admit I needed help - from anyone. In my world, asking for help meant needing to reciprocate. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't repay. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't be weak. I had to keep it together - to earn a living for my family, to take care of my baby, to survive. Admitting I needed help went contrary to everything inside of me - wise or not.
I scratched out each day, waiting in an eternal state of suspension for spring - for the tulips, the daffodils, any sign that my winter prison would thaw and leave me better able to heal.
To be continued ...
Monday, October 20, 2008
Mixed-up Meal
We had one of those meals over the weekend that friends and family alike will likely tease us about for years to come.
In an attempt to focus on cleaning and organization (tasks I loathe), I put off grocery shopping until after Himself got home from work on Saturday. I thawed out a pound of hamburger to make something for dinner. Except, well, neither Woodstock nor I nor Himself actually particularly like ground beef. I like it in moussaka or Spanish rice, but that is about it. And since I had neither a good hard aged cheese for moussaka or tomato juice for Spanish rice, neither was an option.
I spent nearly half an hour searching for a recipe in my volumes of recipe books for something using ground beef that would satisfy us all. Nothing lept out at me other than meatballs, but one cannot make meatballs with only a pound of meat.
In desperation, I went hunting for random things that sounded good. Tempura batter mix, green tomatoes, sweet potatoes, a package of jalepeno brats (the only kind of sausage I can stand - mostly becuase they're so lean you have to spray the pan before you cook them - no grease!- and the jalepenos kill the sausage flavor). Some apples from the last farmer's market of the year...
When Himself came home, the kitchen smelled of fall - peppers, sweet potatoes, green tomatoes, brown-sugared apples ... he asked what I was making. I coyly replied that I wasn't going to tell him, because if I listed it on a menu he would laugh at me.
We dined on tempura-battered fried green tomatoes, roasted sweet potatoes and jalepeno brats, cut into medallions, and apple cardamom upside down cake for dessert. There is something about tempura batter that makes fried foods infinitely more palatable to me. There is something about roasting that makes the flavors of already rich sweet potatoes burst in a celebration of crisp leaves and cold nights. There is something about the first fruits of fall that make a meal seem more "cozy" and warm. Never mind that they were all sort of jumbled up on a menu.
Himself didn't laugh at me. In fact, we both remarked on how it was the perfect light fall meal.
Of course, he was the only one who didn't laugh. I could hear my mom rolling her eyes as she said, "only in your house."
No one roasts veggies, fries green tomatoes or eats jalepeno sausage in our families. Sometimes I wonder where we came from.
In an attempt to focus on cleaning and organization (tasks I loathe), I put off grocery shopping until after Himself got home from work on Saturday. I thawed out a pound of hamburger to make something for dinner. Except, well, neither Woodstock nor I nor Himself actually particularly like ground beef. I like it in moussaka or Spanish rice, but that is about it. And since I had neither a good hard aged cheese for moussaka or tomato juice for Spanish rice, neither was an option.
I spent nearly half an hour searching for a recipe in my volumes of recipe books for something using ground beef that would satisfy us all. Nothing lept out at me other than meatballs, but one cannot make meatballs with only a pound of meat.
In desperation, I went hunting for random things that sounded good. Tempura batter mix, green tomatoes, sweet potatoes, a package of jalepeno brats (the only kind of sausage I can stand - mostly becuase they're so lean you have to spray the pan before you cook them - no grease!- and the jalepenos kill the sausage flavor). Some apples from the last farmer's market of the year...
When Himself came home, the kitchen smelled of fall - peppers, sweet potatoes, green tomatoes, brown-sugared apples ... he asked what I was making. I coyly replied that I wasn't going to tell him, because if I listed it on a menu he would laugh at me.
We dined on tempura-battered fried green tomatoes, roasted sweet potatoes and jalepeno brats, cut into medallions, and apple cardamom upside down cake for dessert. There is something about tempura batter that makes fried foods infinitely more palatable to me. There is something about roasting that makes the flavors of already rich sweet potatoes burst in a celebration of crisp leaves and cold nights. There is something about the first fruits of fall that make a meal seem more "cozy" and warm. Never mind that they were all sort of jumbled up on a menu.
Himself didn't laugh at me. In fact, we both remarked on how it was the perfect light fall meal.
Of course, he was the only one who didn't laugh. I could hear my mom rolling her eyes as she said, "only in your house."
No one roasts veggies, fries green tomatoes or eats jalepeno sausage in our families. Sometimes I wonder where we came from.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Thinking Out Loud, Part II
A Continuation of This ...
The problem was ... it is all I did. Ever. I worked. I thought about work. I hung out with people from work. I loved what I did, I didn't have any kids, my house would be messy whether or not I was actaully home to clean it, I didn't exactly have any hobbies and Himself's schedule was never predictable.
It wasn't so much that work was an idyllic life - far from it. It was more that work was where I felt the most comfortable - in my element. I was good at what I did. Adulthood did nothing to diminish my love of learning - whether it was about motorcycles, construction or new technologies. Going to work was like going to school - a place to learn, be challenged, meet friends and think.
Then came the pregnancy, numerous upheavals in our already topsy-turvy life and an almost spur-of-the-moment move to The Frontier. No worries. I had a plethora of interviews with good, solid, name-brand firms. None of the jobs would be in real estate, but the writing was on the wall - the economy wasn't going to sustain a huge real estate employment base for much longer, and I was up for a new adventure.
After a weekend of nerves and prayer and reflection, I took a job with "The Factory" a small tech start up, which weeks later rolled into another start-up - the kind of things that The Frontier is known for. I broke my previously iron-clad rule of working for only medium-sized and larger companies. Himself found a stellar job with even better benefits (no matter that he was bored stiff). I didn't actually like my job, but it didn't worry me. It typically took me six months to acclimate to a new situation and I was seven months pregnant.
Woodstock came during my favorite month, at the beginning of my previously favorite season (it's hard to love fall in The Frontier when you know winter is coming right behind it). The first few days of her life were perfect - light and sunny, I was surrounded by family. And then everyone left me. Himself went to work. The Family went home. I remember the sunlight streaming through the Hobbit Hole's windows ... longing for Woodstock to get big enough I could take her outside. At the ripe old age of 2.5 weeks she made her first trek to the grocery store. At 3 weeks, she made her first road trip. Never one able to just sit at home, I took advantage of Woodstock's perenially sunny, even-tempered nature and made it a goal to set out on an adventure each day, even if it was just around the block in my pajamas with her in the Snugli.
Between outings, feedings, diaper changes and middle-of-the-night 'naps,' I worked. Part-time, it was supposed to be. Part-time, the pay was. Part-time work, it wasn't. I was expected to be available at the drop of a hat, take calls, answer e-mails - feel guilty if I wasn't accessible. Heaven forbid I take a nap. Sleep depravation and desparation to keep a job I'd only held for weeks drove me to the brink of insanity.
I sobbed the day I dropped Woodstock off at Miss Jan's for the first time. The leaves crunched under my feet, the air blowing down the canyon nipped at my nose, my heart felt heavy and my eyelids felt like they'd never open if I let them droop closed in slumber.
I cried when I sat in my car and listened to Radio West (in the mornings) and Fresh Air (in the afternoons) while I pumped. I'm not quite sure if it was for leaving Woodstock at 7 weeks old or the hormones or because I was so utterly miserable every day. Maybe it was because The Wicked Witch chose those times to try and track me down, leaving messages that told me I needed to be "more accessible," as if I was out joyriding in the company car.
And the snow began to fall...
To Be Continued ...
The problem was ... it is all I did. Ever. I worked. I thought about work. I hung out with people from work. I loved what I did, I didn't have any kids, my house would be messy whether or not I was actaully home to clean it, I didn't exactly have any hobbies and Himself's schedule was never predictable.
It wasn't so much that work was an idyllic life - far from it. It was more that work was where I felt the most comfortable - in my element. I was good at what I did. Adulthood did nothing to diminish my love of learning - whether it was about motorcycles, construction or new technologies. Going to work was like going to school - a place to learn, be challenged, meet friends and think.
Then came the pregnancy, numerous upheavals in our already topsy-turvy life and an almost spur-of-the-moment move to The Frontier. No worries. I had a plethora of interviews with good, solid, name-brand firms. None of the jobs would be in real estate, but the writing was on the wall - the economy wasn't going to sustain a huge real estate employment base for much longer, and I was up for a new adventure.
After a weekend of nerves and prayer and reflection, I took a job with "The Factory" a small tech start up, which weeks later rolled into another start-up - the kind of things that The Frontier is known for. I broke my previously iron-clad rule of working for only medium-sized and larger companies. Himself found a stellar job with even better benefits (no matter that he was bored stiff). I didn't actually like my job, but it didn't worry me. It typically took me six months to acclimate to a new situation and I was seven months pregnant.
Woodstock came during my favorite month, at the beginning of my previously favorite season (it's hard to love fall in The Frontier when you know winter is coming right behind it). The first few days of her life were perfect - light and sunny, I was surrounded by family. And then everyone left me. Himself went to work. The Family went home. I remember the sunlight streaming through the Hobbit Hole's windows ... longing for Woodstock to get big enough I could take her outside. At the ripe old age of 2.5 weeks she made her first trek to the grocery store. At 3 weeks, she made her first road trip. Never one able to just sit at home, I took advantage of Woodstock's perenially sunny, even-tempered nature and made it a goal to set out on an adventure each day, even if it was just around the block in my pajamas with her in the Snugli.
Between outings, feedings, diaper changes and middle-of-the-night 'naps,' I worked. Part-time, it was supposed to be. Part-time, the pay was. Part-time work, it wasn't. I was expected to be available at the drop of a hat, take calls, answer e-mails - feel guilty if I wasn't accessible. Heaven forbid I take a nap. Sleep depravation and desparation to keep a job I'd only held for weeks drove me to the brink of insanity.
I sobbed the day I dropped Woodstock off at Miss Jan's for the first time. The leaves crunched under my feet, the air blowing down the canyon nipped at my nose, my heart felt heavy and my eyelids felt like they'd never open if I let them droop closed in slumber.
I cried when I sat in my car and listened to Radio West (in the mornings) and Fresh Air (in the afternoons) while I pumped. I'm not quite sure if it was for leaving Woodstock at 7 weeks old or the hormones or because I was so utterly miserable every day. Maybe it was because The Wicked Witch chose those times to try and track me down, leaving messages that told me I needed to be "more accessible," as if I was out joyriding in the company car.
And the snow began to fall...
To Be Continued ...
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Thinking Out Loud, Part I
Once upon a time, I was an awkward little kid who had to run around the building at recess because I was so klutzy and had a phobia of falling off of things that I didn't actually play at recess. I'm probably the only kid in the universe who could have listed recess as my most-hated subject.
Even at 6, I was well aware that I was odd. No one else had to run laps around the building. No one seemed to understand that I didn't exactly hate running around the building, I just hated being singled out. I still do. Let me plan the party, dress
in black and manage logistics. Don't make me play hostess.
In my small town back-in-the-day, sports were everything, which is why recess was such a big deal. Athletes were worshiped. I spent many afternoons crying after school because I knew, even at 6, that I wasn't designed for anything requiring athletic ability. My dad taught me to play baseball and basketball and croquet (not sure how that fits into this, but it is humorous that he taught me a lawn game during a time we didn't actually have any lawn). It wasn't that I didn't like sports or activity - I loved playing with my family. I loved watching Braves baseball games and Cougars football games with my dad. I just didn't like recess. At all.
One day, after a particularly showy display of snot and tears after school, my mom told me, "People have different talents. Some are good at some things, others are good at other things. No one is good at everything." She told me that school was my talent.
I spent the rest of my life pursuing school with every ounce of talent I had. As it turns out, I was pretty talented musically as well, but, blessed with a practical brain, it was a side project and I never put much work into it.
The academic pursuit propelled me through a series of jobs that were just perfect for me. Jobs that were chronically underpaid, but full of opportunities and mentoring and growth beyond my wildest dreams. Jobs that allowed me to travel, manage teams, manage multi-million dollar budgets, develop and execute campaigns, meet some of the most talented people in business and grow exponentially. All things that were worth far more than the abominable salary I made my first five years out of college.
And I thrived.
To be Continued ...
Even at 6, I was well aware that I was odd. No one else had to run laps around the building. No one seemed to understand that I didn't exactly hate running around the building, I just hated being singled out. I still do. Let me plan the party, dress
in black and manage logistics. Don't make me play hostess.
In my small town back-in-the-day, sports were everything, which is why recess was such a big deal. Athletes were worshiped. I spent many afternoons crying after school because I knew, even at 6, that I wasn't designed for anything requiring athletic ability. My dad taught me to play baseball and basketball and croquet (not sure how that fits into this, but it is humorous that he taught me a lawn game during a time we didn't actually have any lawn). It wasn't that I didn't like sports or activity - I loved playing with my family. I loved watching Braves baseball games and Cougars football games with my dad. I just didn't like recess. At all.
One day, after a particularly showy display of snot and tears after school, my mom told me, "People have different talents. Some are good at some things, others are good at other things. No one is good at everything." She told me that school was my talent.
I spent the rest of my life pursuing school with every ounce of talent I had. As it turns out, I was pretty talented musically as well, but, blessed with a practical brain, it was a side project and I never put much work into it.
The academic pursuit propelled me through a series of jobs that were just perfect for me. Jobs that were chronically underpaid, but full of opportunities and mentoring and growth beyond my wildest dreams. Jobs that allowed me to travel, manage teams, manage multi-million dollar budgets, develop and execute campaigns, meet some of the most talented people in business and grow exponentially. All things that were worth far more than the abominable salary I made my first five years out of college.
And I thrived.
To be Continued ...
On The Recent Snowstorm
It snowed this weekend. SNOWED! As in 3" of the white stuff all over the yard on Sunday morning. As in we had to turn on the heat because our house is leaky and poorly insulated. As in we had to dig out not just jackets but actual COATS.
As in ... winter is almost here.
*sigh*
I was complaining about the early arrival of Old Man Winter, until I realized that this is NORMAL - realizing that last year I was pretty much in the same state of mourning, as evidenced by this post, which still rings very, very true.
It's going to be a long time until spring comes again.
As in ... winter is almost here.
*sigh*
I was complaining about the early arrival of Old Man Winter, until I realized that this is NORMAL - realizing that last year I was pretty much in the same state of mourning, as evidenced by this post, which still rings very, very true.
It's going to be a long time until spring comes again.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Dream A Little Dream
I have this ridiculously impractical dream:
A colonial-style house on a smallish (1/4 acre) lot in a New England town. Preferably one within a reasonable train ride to a major city (NY, Boston, I'd even consider a "minor" city like Portland, ME - doesn't really make a difference).
We had a perfect honeymoon in New England - 10 fabulous days during "sprinter" (the calendar said spring, but coming from the south, it felt suspiciously like winter). After that, we trekked to New England every year - sometimes for a quick weekend flight, sometimes for a leisurely drive.
Each trip reminded me that a) living anywhere where the cost of living is HIGHER than in DC is not terribly smart and b) old towns = really narrow streets. However, each trip also served to remind me that I really, really love New England.
I'm having one of those days when I say, "to heck with it - let's just move somewhere else."
Except ... well, it is a whole lot harder than the first time I did it - with an airline ticket and two over-sized suitcases. Every subsequent move to a new place has meant more headache. More connections to leave behind, more stuff (Woodstock doubled my space requirements), a higher cost involved and more risk.
It's a nice dream though. Maybe when I'm 70, we'll call Woodstock and Grover, have them take what they'd like out of the house, gather up the basics and spend our quiet years in a colonial house on a smallish lot in New England.
A girl can dream, can't she?
A colonial-style house on a smallish (1/4 acre) lot in a New England town. Preferably one within a reasonable train ride to a major city (NY, Boston, I'd even consider a "minor" city like Portland, ME - doesn't really make a difference).
We had a perfect honeymoon in New England - 10 fabulous days during "sprinter" (the calendar said spring, but coming from the south, it felt suspiciously like winter). After that, we trekked to New England every year - sometimes for a quick weekend flight, sometimes for a leisurely drive.
Each trip reminded me that a) living anywhere where the cost of living is HIGHER than in DC is not terribly smart and b) old towns = really narrow streets. However, each trip also served to remind me that I really, really love New England.
I'm having one of those days when I say, "to heck with it - let's just move somewhere else."
Except ... well, it is a whole lot harder than the first time I did it - with an airline ticket and two over-sized suitcases. Every subsequent move to a new place has meant more headache. More connections to leave behind, more stuff (Woodstock doubled my space requirements), a higher cost involved and more risk.
It's a nice dream though. Maybe when I'm 70, we'll call Woodstock and Grover, have them take what they'd like out of the house, gather up the basics and spend our quiet years in a colonial house on a smallish lot in New England.
A girl can dream, can't she?
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Woodstock Funnies
Taking Matters into Her Own Hands. Woodstock started really walking late last week, after a week of some tentative (but only when prompted) steps. Now, she finds great joy in the journey. Whenever she stands up and walks around, she pauses, claps her hands together in glee and exclaims, "Yay!" Which is exactly what we did each time she took a few steps, under great coaxing, the first few days. Once she started doing it on her own, we stopped making such a big deal. It appears she has given up on us and now has formed her one-woman cheering section for such accomplishments.
Future Model. Himself called earlier to tell me that Woodstock climbed up on big Rubbermaid container of photos, etc. to get to the laundry basket (of clean laundry, thank goodness!). She sat down, pulled the laundry out all around her, put some on her head, looked at Himself and said, "Cheese!"
Strange Words. Every once in awhile, Woodstock says something that makes us go, "huh?" A couple of weeks ago, when I asked her if she wanted milk, she said "Boppie!" and started signing "milk." I've never used the term "boppie" before. As it turns out, Miss Jan uses that term for bottles. It doesn't matter if we ask if she wants milk or a bottle, she always replies "Boppie" without fail. Late last week, she started putting her hands high in the air and saying "Uppie!" when she wants up. Last night, she thought it might also work as a code word for "get me out of my car seat!" Sadly, she was mistaken. "Uppie" is another word I've never uttered in my adult life.
At All The Wrong Times. Heidi's LiLa gave Woodstock some blocks with cool little plastic canisters in the middle. Woodstock loves taking the middle out and wearing the block as a bracelet. She wore one all the way to church on Sunday. Midway through the most solemn (and quiet) point of the service, the block fell off her wrist. Not wanting to cause great commotion to recover it, I left it sitting on the floor and tried to distract Woodstcok with something else. She paused, looked at me with a puzzled expression, pointed at the block and (VERY loudly) exclaimed "UH OH!" When I sheepishly retrieved the block, Woodstock put it back on her wrist, clapped her hands and said, "Yay!" There was a barely disguised chuckle that rippled through our portion of the congregation.
Miss Independent. Woodstock has taken to eating her daily yogurt herself - which usually means her chair, tray, bib, face, hands ... everything within a 500-foot radius is covered in the stuff. When she is done, she gives you 0.3 seconds' notice that she is done - by raising her hands and saying "Alldeee, alldeee!" She has, however, discovered that she gets quite the reaction if she takes her yogurt-covered hands and pulls her hair on each side while saying "Alldeee!" sculpting it into a sugar-and-milk-crusted hairdo that only a bath can fix.
Future Model. Himself called earlier to tell me that Woodstock climbed up on big Rubbermaid container of photos, etc. to get to the laundry basket (of clean laundry, thank goodness!). She sat down, pulled the laundry out all around her, put some on her head, looked at Himself and said, "Cheese!"
Strange Words. Every once in awhile, Woodstock says something that makes us go, "huh?" A couple of weeks ago, when I asked her if she wanted milk, she said "Boppie!" and started signing "milk." I've never used the term "boppie" before. As it turns out, Miss Jan uses that term for bottles. It doesn't matter if we ask if she wants milk or a bottle, she always replies "Boppie" without fail. Late last week, she started putting her hands high in the air and saying "Uppie!" when she wants up. Last night, she thought it might also work as a code word for "get me out of my car seat!" Sadly, she was mistaken. "Uppie" is another word I've never uttered in my adult life.
At All The Wrong Times. Heidi's LiLa gave Woodstock some blocks with cool little plastic canisters in the middle. Woodstock loves taking the middle out and wearing the block as a bracelet. She wore one all the way to church on Sunday. Midway through the most solemn (and quiet) point of the service, the block fell off her wrist. Not wanting to cause great commotion to recover it, I left it sitting on the floor and tried to distract Woodstcok with something else. She paused, looked at me with a puzzled expression, pointed at the block and (VERY loudly) exclaimed "UH OH!" When I sheepishly retrieved the block, Woodstock put it back on her wrist, clapped her hands and said, "Yay!" There was a barely disguised chuckle that rippled through our portion of the congregation.
Miss Independent. Woodstock has taken to eating her daily yogurt herself - which usually means her chair, tray, bib, face, hands ... everything within a 500-foot radius is covered in the stuff. When she is done, she gives you 0.3 seconds' notice that she is done - by raising her hands and saying "Alldeee, alldeee!" She has, however, discovered that she gets quite the reaction if she takes her yogurt-covered hands and pulls her hair on each side while saying "Alldeee!" sculpting it into a sugar-and-milk-crusted hairdo that only a bath can fix.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Black Tie
The Office had it's Annual Lifetime Achievement Award Gala on Saturday. It was the first event I've worked on since I left Virginia. I have missed event planning immensely ... it's the adrenaline boost I haven't had in 16 months. I started working at The Office three months ago - at the tail end of planning, but I was able to roll up my sleeves and get involved, which I loved.
John Walsh was our honoree this year. Let me just say this - he is one of the most generous, warm-hearted people I've ever met - celebrity or otherwise, which made me even happier we were honoring him for his 25 years of crusading for children's safety. He is the real deal - he truly cares.
He gave an unscripted acceptance speech which was passionate and powerful. We found his notes later that he had scribbled on the back of some scratch paper during dinner - five bullet points - and yet his speech was as polished as anyone's on the teleprompter.
It was the only black tie charity event I've ever gone to where I felt good about the result. Yes, the gala was at the only 5-diamond hotel in The Frontier. Yes, we dined on salmon and filet mignon. Yes, it was black tie. Yes, the giveaways were beautiful. But we gave $900,000 away to three organizations who make keeping kids safe their mission - National Center for Missing & Exploited Children, Internet Crimes Against Children Taskforce and the McGruff Safehouse Network. There was no cheesy auction. We raised $50k of that at the dinner through pledge donations. It felt okay to have a big celebration for donations of that magnitude. It especially felt okay to have a big celebration for John Walsh.
It is refreshing to see that in this economy there are still individuals and organizations who care enough to realize that there are still crimes, still predators, still kids who go missing. It was refreshing to see all of the celebrity figures there - entertainers, actors and the award recipient - who were human. Who didn't act like the world owed them a favor. Who were gracious and kind and generous and warm-hearted.
It was nice to sit and de-brief and talk about next year - to feel part of a team - to share highlights and lowlights and know that the ones who have a say are actually listening.
It is such a contrast with The Factory. The Factory wasn't generous. It didn't care about anything or anyone or any cause that couldn't connect it to big names. It didn't listen. It didn't trust. It stripped people of humanity and feeling and only championed a call for "more money!"
Slowly, my faith is being restored in humanity.
HUGE thanks to Erin for volunteering to help us out!
John Walsh was our honoree this year. Let me just say this - he is one of the most generous, warm-hearted people I've ever met - celebrity or otherwise, which made me even happier we were honoring him for his 25 years of crusading for children's safety. He is the real deal - he truly cares.
He gave an unscripted acceptance speech which was passionate and powerful. We found his notes later that he had scribbled on the back of some scratch paper during dinner - five bullet points - and yet his speech was as polished as anyone's on the teleprompter.
It was the only black tie charity event I've ever gone to where I felt good about the result. Yes, the gala was at the only 5-diamond hotel in The Frontier. Yes, we dined on salmon and filet mignon. Yes, it was black tie. Yes, the giveaways were beautiful. But we gave $900,000 away to three organizations who make keeping kids safe their mission - National Center for Missing & Exploited Children, Internet Crimes Against Children Taskforce and the McGruff Safehouse Network. There was no cheesy auction. We raised $50k of that at the dinner through pledge donations. It felt okay to have a big celebration for donations of that magnitude. It especially felt okay to have a big celebration for John Walsh.
It is refreshing to see that in this economy there are still individuals and organizations who care enough to realize that there are still crimes, still predators, still kids who go missing. It was refreshing to see all of the celebrity figures there - entertainers, actors and the award recipient - who were human. Who didn't act like the world owed them a favor. Who were gracious and kind and generous and warm-hearted.
It was nice to sit and de-brief and talk about next year - to feel part of a team - to share highlights and lowlights and know that the ones who have a say are actually listening.
It is such a contrast with The Factory. The Factory wasn't generous. It didn't care about anything or anyone or any cause that couldn't connect it to big names. It didn't listen. It didn't trust. It stripped people of humanity and feeling and only championed a call for "more money!"
Slowly, my faith is being restored in humanity.
HUGE thanks to Erin for volunteering to help us out!
Friday, October 10, 2008
Because I'm Too Tired To Think of Anything
(Thanks to Heidi for the inspiration)
8 TV Shows I Like to Watch:
1. NCIS
2. Friends
3. House Hunters
4. Law & Order SVU
5. Food Network (yes, it's a channel, not a show, I realize that)
6. Will & Grace
7. Frasier
8. The first two seasons of Gray's Anatomy (when it had excellent writing and wasn't a prime-time soap).
8 Things That Happened Yesterday:
1. Himself and I went to our finance class
2. Finalized TV spot schedule for post-gala TV spots
3. Washed dishes
4. Kissed Woodstock a thousand times
5. Hugged himself
6. Made macaroni and cheese
7. Promoted gala
8. Distributed media alerts
Clearly, my life is horribly dull.
8 Favorite Places to Eat:
1. Bilbo Baggins
2. Tachibanas
3. Pho 2000
4. Kneaders
5. Eastern Market
6. Taste of Saigon
7. Sushi & West
8. Captain George's
8 Things I'm Looking Forward To:
1. Spring
2. Christmas
3. Going to bed
4. Tomorrow's gala - to see everything come together
5. Watching Woodstock grow up
6. Seeing family
7. Receiving my raise
8. Being debt free!
8. Things on My Wish List:
1. A clean house.
2. More time with Woodstock
3. A workout routine (ha!)
4. Sleep. No more insomnia.
5. A bigger kitchen
6. A perfect BYU football season
7. A secure job
8. Himself getting a great position post-training
8 TV Shows I Like to Watch:
1. NCIS
2. Friends
3. House Hunters
4. Law & Order SVU
5. Food Network (yes, it's a channel, not a show, I realize that)
6. Will & Grace
7. Frasier
8. The first two seasons of Gray's Anatomy (when it had excellent writing and wasn't a prime-time soap).
8 Things That Happened Yesterday:
1. Himself and I went to our finance class
2. Finalized TV spot schedule for post-gala TV spots
3. Washed dishes
4. Kissed Woodstock a thousand times
5. Hugged himself
6. Made macaroni and cheese
7. Promoted gala
8. Distributed media alerts
Clearly, my life is horribly dull.
8 Favorite Places to Eat:
1. Bilbo Baggins
2. Tachibanas
3. Pho 2000
4. Kneaders
5. Eastern Market
6. Taste of Saigon
7. Sushi & West
8. Captain George's
8 Things I'm Looking Forward To:
1. Spring
2. Christmas
3. Going to bed
4. Tomorrow's gala - to see everything come together
5. Watching Woodstock grow up
6. Seeing family
7. Receiving my raise
8. Being debt free!
8. Things on My Wish List:
1. A clean house.
2. More time with Woodstock
3. A workout routine (ha!)
4. Sleep. No more insomnia.
5. A bigger kitchen
6. A perfect BYU football season
7. A secure job
8. Himself getting a great position post-training
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
There But For the Grace of God Go I
There are some days when I truly believe it is only by the Grace of God that I am still functioning. The last 18 months have been a cacophony of static, a rollercoaster ride worthy of inclusion at Cedar Point and a sensory overload that threatens to drive even the sanest person into an asylum.
Last night was a particularly challenging night. I got home late. Woodstock was *thisclose* to starving to death upon arrival. Dinner (5-spice rolls) stuck to the steamer so I ended up pan-frying bits of rolls instead of actual rolls. The kitchen proves time and time again to be too small - not enough workspace - and after 4 years of great kitchen space (even the Hobbit Hole had more counters), my patience with inadequate kitchens is shot. I was trying to listen to the debate and actually make a (ha!) educated decision. I have something funky going on with my eye - it's red (but not pink eye) and sore and I've had the same massive headache for three days. My hip and bruised rear from Saturday's tumble down the stairs were giving me fits. Himself, as he does every Tuesday night, was working late.
Once dinner was over, all the rice was scrubbed out of Woodstock's hair and she was snoozing peacefully in bed, I tackled the budget for the seventh time in as many days. It doesn't matter that I have managed multi-million dollar budgets before - having to reconcile to the last penny - I cannot seem to manage my own. We're working on the Dave Ramsey 'Financial Peace' plan - which is great but might just kill one of us before the end of the course.
Himself came home to find jazz music blaring loudly (I forgot to turn off the radio after the debates and had totally tuned it out while giving the Evil Eye to my spreadsheet), me almost in tears, a pile of papers and calculations and bills and a spreadsheet with too many colums to count - covering the dining room table like the first snow of the season. My head hurt. My eye hurt. My hip hurt. My pride hurt. I wanted to know how Himself's check is always big enough and mine never is - even though our incomes are reversed.
More than anything, I justed wanted the blasted cleaning fairy to come and make the kitchen sparkle and Dave Ramsey himself (in all his wisdom) to figure out my budget mess and how come it just wouldn't balance (I should run for federal office - they can't balance budgets either - at least I wouldn't feel guilty). I wanted to curl up in a ball (on my unbruised right side) and cry myself to sleep.
Eventually, I got to bed - the dishes half done and the budget done enough to get us through one more day. Before I drifted off, I knelt in prayer and asked in total selfishness, "just give me the strength to get up tomorrow and do this again - and the funds with which to do it."
This morning, I got a reimbursement check from the county clinic that treated Woodstock's pneumonia in the middle of nowhere. I got notice that my raise is going through and will be included on next week's check. Two other reimbursement checks came in. My review was stellar - and I was reassured that we "aren't going anywhere." (The Office is a nonprofit funded by investments - you can imagine my relief at those words).
My hip hasn't hurt all day, my latest online project is successful and I'm going to Florida in November (it's for work, but it doesn't snow there - happy days!).
That which doesn't kill me, makes me a better person when the sun is shining.
Last night was a particularly challenging night. I got home late. Woodstock was *thisclose* to starving to death upon arrival. Dinner (5-spice rolls) stuck to the steamer so I ended up pan-frying bits of rolls instead of actual rolls. The kitchen proves time and time again to be too small - not enough workspace - and after 4 years of great kitchen space (even the Hobbit Hole had more counters), my patience with inadequate kitchens is shot. I was trying to listen to the debate and actually make a (ha!) educated decision. I have something funky going on with my eye - it's red (but not pink eye) and sore and I've had the same massive headache for three days. My hip and bruised rear from Saturday's tumble down the stairs were giving me fits. Himself, as he does every Tuesday night, was working late.
Once dinner was over, all the rice was scrubbed out of Woodstock's hair and she was snoozing peacefully in bed, I tackled the budget for the seventh time in as many days. It doesn't matter that I have managed multi-million dollar budgets before - having to reconcile to the last penny - I cannot seem to manage my own. We're working on the Dave Ramsey 'Financial Peace' plan - which is great but might just kill one of us before the end of the course.
Himself came home to find jazz music blaring loudly (I forgot to turn off the radio after the debates and had totally tuned it out while giving the Evil Eye to my spreadsheet), me almost in tears, a pile of papers and calculations and bills and a spreadsheet with too many colums to count - covering the dining room table like the first snow of the season. My head hurt. My eye hurt. My hip hurt. My pride hurt. I wanted to know how Himself's check is always big enough and mine never is - even though our incomes are reversed.
More than anything, I justed wanted the blasted cleaning fairy to come and make the kitchen sparkle and Dave Ramsey himself (in all his wisdom) to figure out my budget mess and how come it just wouldn't balance (I should run for federal office - they can't balance budgets either - at least I wouldn't feel guilty). I wanted to curl up in a ball (on my unbruised right side) and cry myself to sleep.
Eventually, I got to bed - the dishes half done and the budget done enough to get us through one more day. Before I drifted off, I knelt in prayer and asked in total selfishness, "just give me the strength to get up tomorrow and do this again - and the funds with which to do it."
This morning, I got a reimbursement check from the county clinic that treated Woodstock's pneumonia in the middle of nowhere. I got notice that my raise is going through and will be included on next week's check. Two other reimbursement checks came in. My review was stellar - and I was reassured that we "aren't going anywhere." (The Office is a nonprofit funded by investments - you can imagine my relief at those words).
My hip hasn't hurt all day, my latest online project is successful and I'm going to Florida in November (it's for work, but it doesn't snow there - happy days!).
That which doesn't kill me, makes me a better person when the sun is shining.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Some of You Might Want to Know This.
Written by Erin, in response to The Great Job Disaster of '08. Pass it on.
--
While the country turns it's attention to the Wall St bailout, it is time for Utah to turn it's attention to the laws that allow these things to happen. With many of Utah's start-up businesses and new companies financed, not by profits, but instead by venture capitalists and loans from outside interests, many companies are suddenly facing going under. Many of these employers will choose to use the Utah code to their advantage and just walk away, never paying their employees. With our current code, employees may never see a dime.
This isn't just about Wall St or bad investments. This is about a bad law that protects employers, while doing nothing to protect employees. Say an employer decides it is in his or her best interest to walk away from the business and go find other employment, leaving the employees without a paycheck or employment. Utah actually protects the employer from having to pay the employee!
According to Utah Admin Code R610-3 Filing, Investigating, and Resolution of Wage Claims, employers who fail to pay their employees are first sent a letter, and then sent another letter, and another, and another. Eventually, after 90 days, (assuming the Wage and Labor Commission moves quickly and efficiently), the claim gets moved to the Attorney General's Office, where, you guessed it, another letter is sent. Eventually, when these busy agencies have time, the case is moved to an arbitration and mediation court. It then takes about 5-8 months to get an appointment with that court. And if and when that magic day ever arrives, it will be determined that yes or no the employer owes the employee. If it is determined that in fact they do owe them wages, a lien is placed against the employer's assets.
How long does it take for that lien to produce anything for the long-suffering employee?
Yes, you read that right. An employee may have to wait EIGHT YEARS to get their wages! There is no “golden parachute” to help these employees who are suddenly both without a job and screwed out of their wages.
When we go to work we put our trust in our employers that they will provide for us in exchange for the labors we perform. We put our livelihood in their hands and rely on the fact that as long as we do our best, we will be paid, and in turn be able to provide for our families.
But Utah employers who get tired of running a business, or lose financing, or simply decide that there is more money to be made elsewhere can walk away from the business and the employees that depend on them, with little consequences.
This is not moral and this is not right! Employers should face criminal charges for running faulty businesses and failing to pay their employees. Men and women CEO's who chose to leave their businesses for higher paying salaries with other organization with no thoughts or cares to the employees they screw over in their wake should face public punishments, and not just inconvenient fines.
Utah, take a look closer at home and ask yourself if you will be protected if your employer goes under or walks away from the business. Will you be paid? Will you be prepared to wait eight years before seeing those wages? Will you be able to survive on unemployment at a fraction of your past earnings?
Don't just sit and watch Wall Street. Take action here at home. Let's change these laws that protect employers and not the employees. Let's make it criminal to not pay employees! Ask the state legislature candidates what they plan to do to protect employees. Challenge the law. Stand up and make it clear that we will not allow employees to be taken advantage of!
--
While the country turns it's attention to the Wall St bailout, it is time for Utah to turn it's attention to the laws that allow these things to happen. With many of Utah's start-up businesses and new companies financed, not by profits, but instead by venture capitalists and loans from outside interests, many companies are suddenly facing going under. Many of these employers will choose to use the Utah code to their advantage and just walk away, never paying their employees. With our current code, employees may never see a dime.
This isn't just about Wall St or bad investments. This is about a bad law that protects employers, while doing nothing to protect employees. Say an employer decides it is in his or her best interest to walk away from the business and go find other employment, leaving the employees without a paycheck or employment. Utah actually protects the employer from having to pay the employee!
According to Utah Admin Code R610-3 Filing, Investigating, and Resolution of Wage Claims, employers who fail to pay their employees are first sent a letter, and then sent another letter, and another, and another. Eventually, after 90 days, (assuming the Wage and Labor Commission moves quickly and efficiently), the claim gets moved to the Attorney General's Office, where, you guessed it, another letter is sent. Eventually, when these busy agencies have time, the case is moved to an arbitration and mediation court. It then takes about 5-8 months to get an appointment with that court. And if and when that magic day ever arrives, it will be determined that yes or no the employer owes the employee. If it is determined that in fact they do owe them wages, a lien is placed against the employer's assets.
How long does it take for that lien to produce anything for the long-suffering employee?
Utah Admin Code R610-3-14-2. The docketing of an Order shall constitute a lien against the real property of the defendant situated in the county for a period of eight years.
Yes, you read that right. An employee may have to wait EIGHT YEARS to get their wages! There is no “golden parachute” to help these employees who are suddenly both without a job and screwed out of their wages.
When we go to work we put our trust in our employers that they will provide for us in exchange for the labors we perform. We put our livelihood in their hands and rely on the fact that as long as we do our best, we will be paid, and in turn be able to provide for our families.
But Utah employers who get tired of running a business, or lose financing, or simply decide that there is more money to be made elsewhere can walk away from the business and the employees that depend on them, with little consequences.
This is not moral and this is not right! Employers should face criminal charges for running faulty businesses and failing to pay their employees. Men and women CEO's who chose to leave their businesses for higher paying salaries with other organization with no thoughts or cares to the employees they screw over in their wake should face public punishments, and not just inconvenient fines.
Utah, take a look closer at home and ask yourself if you will be protected if your employer goes under or walks away from the business. Will you be paid? Will you be prepared to wait eight years before seeing those wages? Will you be able to survive on unemployment at a fraction of your past earnings?
Don't just sit and watch Wall Street. Take action here at home. Let's change these laws that protect employers and not the employees. Let's make it criminal to not pay employees! Ask the state legislature candidates what they plan to do to protect employees. Challenge the law. Stand up and make it clear that we will not allow employees to be taken advantage of!
Monday, October 06, 2008
Perfection.
Typically, there is some amount of dread regarding General Conference weekends. While I love the instruction from the leadership of the church and I love having a more relaxed Sunday, it is a huge challenge for me to give up my one productive day -Saturday.
But this year, I gave myself a free pass. I did the dishes, straightened up the upstairs and ... let everything else slide.
I scrapbooked while watching conference on Saturday - 4 lovely hours while Woodstock was sleeping. I got to be uplifted and make some progress on Woodstock's baby book. I scrapbooked again Sunday morning for a couple of hours. I joined Heidi for dinner and a fabulous movie Saturday night.
On Sunday, I spent the two-hour break between sessions making potato curry to eat with friends who joined us for the afternoon session. We played one of my favorite games, which hasn't been played since we lived with Jane, as it takes 3 people to play.
Later, we bundled up Woodstock in her pink monkey pjs and went for a walk through the neighborhood, just the three of us. It smelled and felt like fall. We giggled as Woodstock pointed out all of her exciting discoveries (birds, cars, anything that moved, essentially). We delighted as Woodstock chattered and giggled and pointed at the cat that always comes out to greet her and I on our walks. We pointed out houses, yards, architectural details that we loved and speculated on the market price of those homes up for sale.
We came home, gave Woodstock her "boppie" (a term she picked up at Miss Jan's), made hot cocoa with whipped cream and snuggled on the couch to watch a couple of episodes of BBC's Planet Earth on Himself's ridiculous new TV.
It was perfection. All weekend. All of it. It felt like a Rockwell painting for all of its sublime delight. Conference should happen every weekend. Then again, we wouldn't have any clean laundry if it did.
But this year, I gave myself a free pass. I did the dishes, straightened up the upstairs and ... let everything else slide.
I scrapbooked while watching conference on Saturday - 4 lovely hours while Woodstock was sleeping. I got to be uplifted and make some progress on Woodstock's baby book. I scrapbooked again Sunday morning for a couple of hours. I joined Heidi for dinner and a fabulous movie Saturday night.
On Sunday, I spent the two-hour break between sessions making potato curry to eat with friends who joined us for the afternoon session. We played one of my favorite games, which hasn't been played since we lived with Jane, as it takes 3 people to play.
Later, we bundled up Woodstock in her pink monkey pjs and went for a walk through the neighborhood, just the three of us. It smelled and felt like fall. We giggled as Woodstock pointed out all of her exciting discoveries (birds, cars, anything that moved, essentially). We delighted as Woodstock chattered and giggled and pointed at the cat that always comes out to greet her and I on our walks. We pointed out houses, yards, architectural details that we loved and speculated on the market price of those homes up for sale.
We came home, gave Woodstock her "boppie" (a term she picked up at Miss Jan's), made hot cocoa with whipped cream and snuggled on the couch to watch a couple of episodes of BBC's Planet Earth on Himself's ridiculous new TV.
It was perfection. All weekend. All of it. It felt like a Rockwell painting for all of its sublime delight. Conference should happen every weekend. Then again, we wouldn't have any clean laundry if it did.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
On Falling Down the Stairs
pho·bi·a /ˈfoÊŠbiÉ™/
–noun a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it.
I have an irrational fear of falling. Off cliffs, off curbs and especially down the stairs. I have spent years in the corporate world going UP the stairs and DOWN in the elevator if I had to go down more than one flight - only to be subjected to raised eyebrows, snickers and exclamations of "Seriously?!"
Yes. Seriously. My phobia of falling down the stairs is so bad that if there is an elevator, I'd rather take the elevator - and I HATE ELEVATORS.
Now that we have stairs in The New (to us) House, I have to go up and down them several times a day. There is not a single time that I go down the stairs without picturing myself falling and ending up in a tangled heap at the bottom. It is so bad (and our house stairs are so narrow) that I won't wear shoes down the stairs, so there is often a random assortment of shoes, flip flops and slippers at the top of the stairs. (Clearly I am not afraid of breaking my neck before I even get to the stairs.)
It is even worse when I am carrying Woodstock down the stairs. I envision both of us at the bottom in a complex tangle of elbows, knees and necks bent at the wrong angles. With me on top, of course. Phobias are all about the worst possible scenario.
Either it is a self-fulfilling prophesy or I have good reason to be afraid, because this morning, while Himself was bathing Woodstock, I fell down the last half of the staircase.
I landed flat on my back at the bottom with a "WHOOMPH!" Himself asked what had happened, but I had no wind left in me. He couldn't actually see what happened or make sure my neck wasn't broken, as Woodstock was still in the tub. And, in the triage of broken neck v. drowning baby (or, more likely, one who will try to climb out of the tub), the broken neck came in second.
My left rear side hurts like ___________ (enter your own 4-letter word here). My back hurts. My pride hurts.
Worst of all, the little voice in my head is yelling, "TOLD YOU SO! You should not go down the stairs."
Friday, October 03, 2008
NEWS FLASH: Woodstock
"COME HERE," Himself yelled up the stairs tonight. "HURRY!"
I don't like to be yelled at, I was in the middle of tending to a risotto and baked chicken and a balsamic glaze (could I pick any more things that had to be cooking at the same time "just so"?!).
But, since the birth of Woodstock, the word "HURRY!" combined with a yell, means the world is about to end - either in mass destruction of her creation or with her as its victim.
I tore down the stairs - risotto spoon in one hand, balsamic glaze whisk in the other.
"Woodstock is walking!" Himself exclaimed.
I sat down on the stores and cheered Woodstock on, risotto and glaze momentarily forgotten.
She walked 5 steps - and apparently loved the lavish praise (why are we praising her, I'm thinking now - this just means trouble!), because she kept doing it all evening.
And, wouldn't you know it, the momentary lapse in kitchen attention still resulted in my first successful risotto and a lovely balsamic glaze for the chicken.
I don't like to be yelled at, I was in the middle of tending to a risotto and baked chicken and a balsamic glaze (could I pick any more things that had to be cooking at the same time "just so"?!).
But, since the birth of Woodstock, the word "HURRY!" combined with a yell, means the world is about to end - either in mass destruction of her creation or with her as its victim.
I tore down the stairs - risotto spoon in one hand, balsamic glaze whisk in the other.
"Woodstock is walking!" Himself exclaimed.
I sat down on the stores and cheered Woodstock on, risotto and glaze momentarily forgotten.
She walked 5 steps - and apparently loved the lavish praise (why are we praising her, I'm thinking now - this just means trouble!), because she kept doing it all evening.
And, wouldn't you know it, the momentary lapse in kitchen attention still resulted in my first successful risotto and a lovely balsamic glaze for the chicken.
Venus Just Asked Me ...
This could not have come to my attention at a more opportune moment. I've been spending the last couple of weeks focusing on making me a better person - and while the results are negligible, I'm more encouraged every week.
This week, my goal is to put up my daily accomplishment goal on the door where I can see it. I think this poem just may go below it. Given the perspective of God and divinity that I believe, it is absolutely perfect.
Venus Just Asked Me
by Hafez, translated by Daniel Ladinsky
Perhaps
For just one minute out of the day.
It may be of value to torture yourself
With thoughts like,
"I should be doing
A hell of a lot more with my life than I am --
Cause I'm so damn talented."
But remember,
For just one minute out of the day.
With all the rest of your time,
It would be best
To try
Looking upon your self more as God does.
For He knows
Your true royal nature.
God is never confused
And can see Only Himself in you.
My dear,
Venus just leaned down and asked me
To tell you a secret, to confess
She's just a mirror who has been stealing
Your light and music for centuries.
She knows as does Hafez,
You are the sole heir to
The King.
This week, my goal is to put up my daily accomplishment goal on the door where I can see it. I think this poem just may go below it. Given the perspective of God and divinity that I believe, it is absolutely perfect.
Venus Just Asked Me
by Hafez, translated by Daniel Ladinsky
Perhaps
For just one minute out of the day.
It may be of value to torture yourself
With thoughts like,
"I should be doing
A hell of a lot more with my life than I am --
Cause I'm so damn talented."
But remember,
For just one minute out of the day.
With all the rest of your time,
It would be best
To try
Looking upon your self more as God does.
For He knows
Your true royal nature.
God is never confused
And can see Only Himself in you.
My dear,
Venus just leaned down and asked me
To tell you a secret, to confess
She's just a mirror who has been stealing
Your light and music for centuries.
She knows as does Hafez,
You are the sole heir to
The King.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
The Plan
I'm beginning to wonder if there is any kind of order or plan to the chaos that is life right now. I can't help but feel a little like a hamster in an exercise wheel. Things keep happening, but the scenery is staying the same.
My brother, E2, called yesterday. He has a fabulous new (to him) house and a fabulous new job, a fabulous new girlfriend and a horse trailer that has a queen-sized bed in it (for the human, not the horse). He said, "You know, if you ever wanted, I could get you a job here back in real estate."
Sign me up and call the movers.
Except, well, that was The Other Life. Where I calculated the best opportunities and went where they were - a plan created around progress and a selfish pursuit of knowledge and challenge. Who needs anything else, really, when you're the only one around whom the plan needs to revolve? And, The Frontier isn't so bad as long as I'm not looking to do much of anything with my career.
Never mind that, cancel the movers.
I'm not a very patient person (shocking!). I'm neurotic. A reforming control freak. High-strung. An insomniac. An adrenaline junkie. Which makes the wheel spin faster and therefore takes awhile to realize,
I like to know where I'm going, what time it is and approximately when I'll end up there. Whether it is a road trip or life, I have this primal need to have a map and a clock on hand at all times. I hate to not know where I am or what time it is. I would make Frank Gilbreth proud, in that most journeys from Here to There (literal and virtual) must be primarily about efficiency.
And a hamster wheel model is only efficient if you're trying to lose weight.
Then there is the whole issue of over-planning. I would plan to the last detail, years out, leaving no room for surprises, tragedies, unforseen events or the big stick that God likes to stick in the hamster wheel once in awhile to remind me who is really in charge. Come to think about it, I might be very close to one of those points too.
It's not about a career or a house or trying to figure out how to survive the looming financial crisis. It's about living. I know, life is not figuring out how to dodge the storms so much as it is learning to dance in the rain. But the thunder and lightening get more and more ominous and the dancing s getting a little freaky, and I just want to know where the exit is. I grew up in a desert, you learn to stay out of storms and come out and dance in the puddles. When does that part come in?
In last week's finance class we learned that over a 10-year-period everyone goes through a major financial setback. I had to sit on my hand to keep from raising it and asking what one does when setbacks are so common that regular life is what happens once over a 10-year-period.
I'm exhuasted. I'm sick of the scenery from this wheel-o-fun. I have motion sickness. I want off this ride - even just for a moment - to regain my equilibrium, take a deep breath and get my bearings.
And maybe, just maybe, put together a little plan. Not too detailed. Not too crazy. Just something to let me know that I'm not going to be running like a hamster until I'm dead.
My brother, E2, called yesterday. He has a fabulous new (to him) house and a fabulous new job, a fabulous new girlfriend and a horse trailer that has a queen-sized bed in it (for the human, not the horse). He said, "You know, if you ever wanted, I could get you a job here back in real estate."
Sign me up and call the movers.
Except, well, that was The Other Life. Where I calculated the best opportunities and went where they were - a plan created around progress and a selfish pursuit of knowledge and challenge. Who needs anything else, really, when you're the only one around whom the plan needs to revolve? And, The Frontier isn't so bad as long as I'm not looking to do much of anything with my career.
Never mind that, cancel the movers.
I'm not a very patient person (shocking!). I'm neurotic. A reforming control freak. High-strung. An insomniac. An adrenaline junkie. Which makes the wheel spin faster and therefore takes awhile to realize,
"Hey! I'm not actually going anywhere fast!"Right now, I'm at one of those points. Which drives a impatient, neurotic, exhausted, strung-out-on-adrenaline planner like me nearly insane (taking everyone with me along for the ride).
I like to know where I'm going, what time it is and approximately when I'll end up there. Whether it is a road trip or life, I have this primal need to have a map and a clock on hand at all times. I hate to not know where I am or what time it is. I would make Frank Gilbreth proud, in that most journeys from Here to There (literal and virtual) must be primarily about efficiency.
And a hamster wheel model is only efficient if you're trying to lose weight.
Then there is the whole issue of over-planning. I would plan to the last detail, years out, leaving no room for surprises, tragedies, unforseen events or the big stick that God likes to stick in the hamster wheel once in awhile to remind me who is really in charge. Come to think about it, I might be very close to one of those points too.
It's not about a career or a house or trying to figure out how to survive the looming financial crisis. It's about living. I know, life is not figuring out how to dodge the storms so much as it is learning to dance in the rain. But the thunder and lightening get more and more ominous and the dancing s getting a little freaky, and I just want to know where the exit is. I grew up in a desert, you learn to stay out of storms and come out and dance in the puddles. When does that part come in?
In last week's finance class we learned that over a 10-year-period everyone goes through a major financial setback. I had to sit on my hand to keep from raising it and asking what one does when setbacks are so common that regular life is what happens once over a 10-year-period.
I'm exhuasted. I'm sick of the scenery from this wheel-o-fun. I have motion sickness. I want off this ride - even just for a moment - to regain my equilibrium, take a deep breath and get my bearings.
And maybe, just maybe, put together a little plan. Not too detailed. Not too crazy. Just something to let me know that I'm not going to be running like a hamster until I'm dead.
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