I choose to live in The Frontier.
I choose this holiday season to exchange true sentiments versus more commercialized "stuff" - to spend this season of global economic hardship preparing my family rather than pandering to my whimsies and wants.
I choose to be picky about what I feed Woodstock.
I choose how many times a week I wash my hair.
I choose to eat (relatively) healthy, to extend my life.
I choose to worship each Sunday - and I choose the church in which to do that.
I choose to walk to the store if I need just one thing and it's daylight.
I choose to what I'm going to read.
I choose the kind of breakfast I want.
I choose when to visit my family.
I choose what to make for dinner each night.
I choose to go without a coat, except on the coldest of days.
I choose to dress Woodstock in new clothes, hand-me-downs and thrift store bargains with the same degree of glee.
I choose to do laundry only once a week.
I choose to sleep in once in awhile.
I choose hundreds, thousands of things every day.
And because I HAVE A CHOICE in how I live my life, I really do live a life of luxury.
Happy Thanksgiving. May 2008 cause each of us to pause and reflect on how much we DO have.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sleeping Beauty
For the last year (more or less), Woodstock has been a fabulous sleeper. (The first 8 weeks of her life would not qualify for "fabulous sleeperhood" - she was difficult to get to sleep and didn't stay asleep long - but I suppose that is normal).
She is also generally easy to get to bed - a bit too attached to her "been-tee" (binkie), but since she only gets it at church and naptime/bedtime, I'm willing to look the other way for the moment.
Over the past several weeks, however, she has been waking up and shrieking at the top of her lungs. Nightmare-inducing shrieks. Shrieks that make one's heart stop beating as it rouses one from a dead sleep over the baby monitor (her room is too far away to hear her otherwise). Especially when one accidentally leaves the monitor's volume up too high.
For the record, I am not a nice person to rouse from a deep sleep. It happens so rarely (the deep sleep, not the rousing), that I am guilty of being slightly grumpy if roused before I feel is absolutely necessary. Fortunately, the walk to Woodstock's room is long and usually filled with obstacles she has scattered throughout the hall, so I have plenty of time to stub my toe and "adjust my attitude" prior to poking my head in to see what on earth is warranting such shrieking.
A couple of weeks ago, I was EXHAUSTED when this happened. More exhausted than usual. I had stayed up way too late watching election coverage that shouldn't have kept me up late. It was hardly a nail-biter and the whole thing kicked off two hours earlier than I'm used to, having relocated to a new time zone. It was all said and done before my regular bedtime. Nevertheless, I stayed up to0 late.
As a result, the first time the shrieking began, I broke my own iron-clad parenting rule. I picked Woodstock up, cuddled her to my chest, went back to bed, waited for her to fall asleep and then deposited her back into her bed. The second time, I picked Woodstock up, cuddled her to my chest, went back to bed, rearranged the pillows and bedding, plopped her in the middle, turned over and went to sleep. Every once in awhile I'd wake up and right her so her head was at the top and her feet were no longer in my back. I was too tired to care what awful habits I might be instilling by fetching her and letting her sleep with us.
Most of the time, she shrieks for awhile then falls asleep, sometimes mumbling the guilt-inducing phrase, "nononono," like she's softly scolding herself for waking the entire household.
Several nights later, however, all I could think was "I've created a monster!" The shrieking began, right on cue, at 4 a.m. Himself rolled over and mumbled "She must have thrown her binky overboard," as he went back to sleep. Indeed she had. I handed her her binky and tried to creep out.
Woodstock would have nothing of it. The shrieking got louder. I picked her up, cuddled her to my chest, rocked her until she was almost asleep and then deposited her back into bed. I had taken 2 steps when the shrieking began anew.
"Oh no," I muttered. "You are not coming to bed with me." Too tired to do much of anything, I sat on the floor and reached my arm through the crib slats to stroke Woodstock's foot. Then I started to sing "I am a Child of God" - the song that will almost instantly calm her. (I'm sure Himself enjoyed the raspy, half-dazed serenade over the baby monitor). She sat there, defiant, daring me to either stop singing or stop stroking her foot or both.
I started falling asleep, my arm caught to my elbow in Woodstock's crib, the song verses all mixed up. I stopped singing and stroked her foot. 15 minutes into the ordeal Woodstock keeled over with a thud - she had fallen asleep sitting up. I was so relieved I didn't even bother to move "Meow" her stuffed leopard, out from under her. I crawled to the door and padded back to bed.
Last night, the same thing happened. I sat on her floor in the dark, stroking her head through the slats in the crib. She stared at me, as if to say, "it doesn't matter what you do, I am not going back to sleep." I sang jumbled, raspy verses again, picturing Himself with his head shoved under his pillow, willing her to fall asleep quickly so I'd stop the serenade.
After tossing and turning and making a complete 360-degree rotation in her crib, Woodstock finally settled down on her stomach, her face turned toward the wall. Her breathing evened. I brought my singing down to a whisper and stroked her hair lightly. Suddenly, her arm thrust out - she stretched as far as it would go, grasped "Meow" and pulled him up next to her, her face buried in his fur as she made a kissing noise in the vicinity of his nose. She flopped her arm over him, turned her head toward me, closed her eyes and sighed a little.
It's hard to remember why my sleep is so necessary when Sleeping Beauty finally throws herself toward dreamland without prelude - slipping abruptly and blissfully into the warm, dark silence, wrapped in love by her faithful furry feline. It's hard not to just stay and watch.
She is also generally easy to get to bed - a bit too attached to her "been-tee" (binkie), but since she only gets it at church and naptime/bedtime, I'm willing to look the other way for the moment.
Over the past several weeks, however, she has been waking up and shrieking at the top of her lungs. Nightmare-inducing shrieks. Shrieks that make one's heart stop beating as it rouses one from a dead sleep over the baby monitor (her room is too far away to hear her otherwise). Especially when one accidentally leaves the monitor's volume up too high.
For the record, I am not a nice person to rouse from a deep sleep. It happens so rarely (the deep sleep, not the rousing), that I am guilty of being slightly grumpy if roused before I feel is absolutely necessary. Fortunately, the walk to Woodstock's room is long and usually filled with obstacles she has scattered throughout the hall, so I have plenty of time to stub my toe and "adjust my attitude" prior to poking my head in to see what on earth is warranting such shrieking.
A couple of weeks ago, I was EXHAUSTED when this happened. More exhausted than usual. I had stayed up way too late watching election coverage that shouldn't have kept me up late. It was hardly a nail-biter and the whole thing kicked off two hours earlier than I'm used to, having relocated to a new time zone. It was all said and done before my regular bedtime. Nevertheless, I stayed up to0 late.
As a result, the first time the shrieking began, I broke my own iron-clad parenting rule. I picked Woodstock up, cuddled her to my chest, went back to bed, waited for her to fall asleep and then deposited her back into her bed. The second time, I picked Woodstock up, cuddled her to my chest, went back to bed, rearranged the pillows and bedding, plopped her in the middle, turned over and went to sleep. Every once in awhile I'd wake up and right her so her head was at the top and her feet were no longer in my back. I was too tired to care what awful habits I might be instilling by fetching her and letting her sleep with us.
Most of the time, she shrieks for awhile then falls asleep, sometimes mumbling the guilt-inducing phrase, "nononono," like she's softly scolding herself for waking the entire household.
Several nights later, however, all I could think was "I've created a monster!" The shrieking began, right on cue, at 4 a.m. Himself rolled over and mumbled "She must have thrown her binky overboard," as he went back to sleep. Indeed she had. I handed her her binky and tried to creep out.
Woodstock would have nothing of it. The shrieking got louder. I picked her up, cuddled her to my chest, rocked her until she was almost asleep and then deposited her back into bed. I had taken 2 steps when the shrieking began anew.
"Oh no," I muttered. "You are not coming to bed with me." Too tired to do much of anything, I sat on the floor and reached my arm through the crib slats to stroke Woodstock's foot. Then I started to sing "I am a Child of God" - the song that will almost instantly calm her. (I'm sure Himself enjoyed the raspy, half-dazed serenade over the baby monitor). She sat there, defiant, daring me to either stop singing or stop stroking her foot or both.
I started falling asleep, my arm caught to my elbow in Woodstock's crib, the song verses all mixed up. I stopped singing and stroked her foot. 15 minutes into the ordeal Woodstock keeled over with a thud - she had fallen asleep sitting up. I was so relieved I didn't even bother to move "Meow" her stuffed leopard, out from under her. I crawled to the door and padded back to bed.
Last night, the same thing happened. I sat on her floor in the dark, stroking her head through the slats in the crib. She stared at me, as if to say, "it doesn't matter what you do, I am not going back to sleep." I sang jumbled, raspy verses again, picturing Himself with his head shoved under his pillow, willing her to fall asleep quickly so I'd stop the serenade.
After tossing and turning and making a complete 360-degree rotation in her crib, Woodstock finally settled down on her stomach, her face turned toward the wall. Her breathing evened. I brought my singing down to a whisper and stroked her hair lightly. Suddenly, her arm thrust out - she stretched as far as it would go, grasped "Meow" and pulled him up next to her, her face buried in his fur as she made a kissing noise in the vicinity of his nose. She flopped her arm over him, turned her head toward me, closed her eyes and sighed a little.
It's hard to remember why my sleep is so necessary when Sleeping Beauty finally throws herself toward dreamland without prelude - slipping abruptly and blissfully into the warm, dark silence, wrapped in love by her faithful furry feline. It's hard not to just stay and watch.
The One Where I Confess ...
I'm starting to feel like something is wrong with me as a member of the literate female society.
First, it was Jane Austen. I've tried half a dozen times to read Jane Austen and while I love the strong-willed heroines of her novels, I really, really, really don't like reading them. I've seen the movies (other than the epic length A&E P&P - too long for something I didn't even enjoy the short version of). I didn't like them either.
It's not that it is 19th Century lit - my two favorite books of all time are Les Miserables and Huck Finn and both were written in the 1800s. It's not that it is chick lit (classic or otherwise) - there are a few Sophie Kinsella novels I will admit have given me guilty pleasure once in awhile. It's not that it's classic literature - again, look at my two favorite books (and the fact that I actually like Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Dante, etc.). I'm not sure what it is. Even though I plan on trying again someday, I just cannot seem to make myself like Jane Austen. (Much like the fact that while I keep trying Ahi Tuna steak - I cannot make myself like it. I love the concept of it, it's just the eating part that gets in the way.)
With all that, I was already feeling a bit outcast from the "literate females of the world unite!" clique, but lately, I'm feeling even more outside the bounds of literate femininity.
I don't plan on seeing Twilight. Or, even finishing the series. Unless things change drastically and soon.
I did eagerly read the first book - and it was good in a 'nothing else to read, breezy, easy, done in a few hours' kind of way. I was mildly annoyed that it didn't wrap things up, but not enough to stand in line for Book 2 (No, I can't remember the title. Yes, it does in fact make me lazy). In fact, I never got around to reading the rest of the series.
When my mom called a few weeks ago asking me if I'd like to listen to Book 2 on CD, I said, "Sure, why not?" After all, I listen to books on CD while cleaning and heaven knows my house needs cleaning. I even caught myself thinking this would at least potentially redeem me in the world of chick lit (not that I am confusing Stephanie Meyer's writing skills with Jane Austen's - even I recognize that would be a cardinal sin). I could at least hold a conversation with a girl/woman between 12 and 40 who had read it. Feel like a part of society. (Besides, everyone else is doing it!)
Except, I don't actually like Book 2. In fact, it is grating on my nerves so much that I can barely tolerate it. The whining. The self-entitlement. The sheer oddness of the whole thing. Not to mention the plot. Maybe it's the mother in me - the wanting to reach out and shake Bella and say, "Good grief. The world doesn't revolve around you!"
Like my aversion to Austen, I can't exactly explain why I don't like series. To be certain, many times I just need a book to entertain me. It doesn't have to be realistic. It can be rather far-fetched. This is, after all, coming from someone who unabashedly loves the Mrs. Pollifax series and has read every single one - more than once. Those are certainly far-fetched and terribly unrealistic. Yet, at least the characters are entertaining. Mrs. Pollifax is, in fact, quite charming. It's just not very entertaining to be cringing and rolling one's eyes through an entire book like I am through this one.
I'm not sure if I am more disatissfied with the book or with the fact that I feel like something must be wrong with me as a woman who likes to read. If I can't identify with Elizabeth or Emma (or even Mr. Darcy, as unlikely as that would be) on one end or Bella and Edward and Jacob on another end ... what does that say?
How can I not like Jane Austen novels (on one, classic end of the spectrum) OR Twilight (on the other, modern chick lit end of the spectrum)?
One or the other, fine, a woman is entitled her selectiveness and tastes. But both?
Clearly something must be wrong with me.
First, it was Jane Austen. I've tried half a dozen times to read Jane Austen and while I love the strong-willed heroines of her novels, I really, really, really don't like reading them. I've seen the movies (other than the epic length A&E P&P - too long for something I didn't even enjoy the short version of). I didn't like them either.
It's not that it is 19th Century lit - my two favorite books of all time are Les Miserables and Huck Finn and both were written in the 1800s. It's not that it is chick lit (classic or otherwise) - there are a few Sophie Kinsella novels I will admit have given me guilty pleasure once in awhile. It's not that it's classic literature - again, look at my two favorite books (and the fact that I actually like Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Dante, etc.). I'm not sure what it is. Even though I plan on trying again someday, I just cannot seem to make myself like Jane Austen. (Much like the fact that while I keep trying Ahi Tuna steak - I cannot make myself like it. I love the concept of it, it's just the eating part that gets in the way.)
With all that, I was already feeling a bit outcast from the "literate females of the world unite!" clique, but lately, I'm feeling even more outside the bounds of literate femininity.
I don't plan on seeing Twilight. Or, even finishing the series. Unless things change drastically and soon.
I did eagerly read the first book - and it was good in a 'nothing else to read, breezy, easy, done in a few hours' kind of way. I was mildly annoyed that it didn't wrap things up, but not enough to stand in line for Book 2 (No, I can't remember the title. Yes, it does in fact make me lazy). In fact, I never got around to reading the rest of the series.
When my mom called a few weeks ago asking me if I'd like to listen to Book 2 on CD, I said, "Sure, why not?" After all, I listen to books on CD while cleaning and heaven knows my house needs cleaning. I even caught myself thinking this would at least potentially redeem me in the world of chick lit (not that I am confusing Stephanie Meyer's writing skills with Jane Austen's - even I recognize that would be a cardinal sin). I could at least hold a conversation with a girl/woman between 12 and 40 who had read it. Feel like a part of society. (Besides, everyone else is doing it!)
Except, I don't actually like Book 2. In fact, it is grating on my nerves so much that I can barely tolerate it. The whining. The self-entitlement. The sheer oddness of the whole thing. Not to mention the plot. Maybe it's the mother in me - the wanting to reach out and shake Bella and say, "Good grief. The world doesn't revolve around you!"
Like my aversion to Austen, I can't exactly explain why I don't like series. To be certain, many times I just need a book to entertain me. It doesn't have to be realistic. It can be rather far-fetched. This is, after all, coming from someone who unabashedly loves the Mrs. Pollifax series and has read every single one - more than once. Those are certainly far-fetched and terribly unrealistic. Yet, at least the characters are entertaining. Mrs. Pollifax is, in fact, quite charming. It's just not very entertaining to be cringing and rolling one's eyes through an entire book like I am through this one.
I'm not sure if I am more disatissfied with the book or with the fact that I feel like something must be wrong with me as a woman who likes to read. If I can't identify with Elizabeth or Emma (or even Mr. Darcy, as unlikely as that would be) on one end or Bella and Edward and Jacob on another end ... what does that say?
How can I not like Jane Austen novels (on one, classic end of the spectrum) OR Twilight (on the other, modern chick lit end of the spectrum)?
One or the other, fine, a woman is entitled her selectiveness and tastes. But both?
Clearly something must be wrong with me.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Happy Thanksgiving, Charlie Brown
Five years ago, I cooked an entire Thanksgiving dinner, by myself, for the very first time.
It was utter nonsense. The kitchen in the poorly named Malibu Palms Complex* had enough counter space for a small dish drainer and a dorm-sized microwave (no dishwasher, which meant the dish drainer was a necessity). It had a 3/4-sized oven with one rack, which meant only one pot, pan, or cookie sheet could fit in it at once. The refrigerator door only opened 3/4 of the way, as it hit the stove and could go no further. There was garage shelving in the kitchen, to make up for the lack of cabinet/counter space.
It meant baking the pies, one at a time, the night before, then getting up at 5 a.m. to put the turkey in and start the rolls, which would go in when the turkey came out. It meant that rolling pie dough out on the dining room table, cooking the stuffing in a crock pot on the floor (no counter space, and there was a bird in the oven) and eliminating any offers of help because with pies and rolls on the table, the in-progress or finished sides on one of the shelves of the industrial shelving unit, the cutting board on top of the microwave - where the potatoes, sweet potatoes and fruits and veggies were chopped, the bird in the oven, four pots on the stove, and the stuffing on the floor, there was no room for another human being - helpful or otherwise.
Ironically, it was also the year I decided to make homemade cranberry sauce. As if homemade stuffing, rolls and pies weren't already enough to earn me the title role of Queen of Holiday Insanity.
The five of us (Himself, myself, two stray Navy friends of Himself's and a random girl on holiday from Dover AFB) sat down to eat dinner at the 4-person dining room table in the middle of the living room, because the kitchen (the table's normal place of occupancy) was too small to actually USE the table for anything but a one-person countertop. This meant displacing the pies, rolls, etc. and putting them on top of the stove. Serving dinner was like going to a progressive dinner - each item was dished up from some random location - right down to the stuffing still being on the floor.
Dinner took 15 hours to prepare and 15 minutes to eat. The clean up (due to lack of space, lack of ability to open the fridge all the way, lack of a dishwasher and lack of space enough to cajole anyone else into helping) took another 4 hours. I went to bed exhausted, only to have to rise the next morning and head to work.
I vowed, "Never Again!"
Except, well, I did it again. Twice more. And I liked it. The kitchen in NoVa was larger, much nicer, had tons of counter and cabinet space, opened to the living room (all the better to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade), and I gave up on homemade stuffing, cranberry sauce and having guests. (As it turns out, Himself hates stuffing, Grover only eats the boxed kind and Jane doesn't like onions - why kill myself for something only I liked?).
Two years ago we went to the World's Smallest Townhouse for Thanksgiving - I only had to bring the pies (Pumpkin Mousse and Coconut Cream). Last year, we had The Great Pie Gathering at my Uncle's, and I only had to bring the pies (Key Lime, Coconut Cream) and homemade macaroni and cheese.
As it turns out, Great Malibu Palms Holiday Insanity of 2003 aside, I prefer staying home for Thanksgiving. However, it appears to be the eighth deadly sin to stay home for a holiday now that we're within hundreds of miles (versus thousands of miles) from family. Which means we will be trekking to the Great Frozen North on Thursday with pies (Pumpkin, Key Lime and Coconut Cream - see a pattern?), all of Woodstock's baby gear, festive attitudes and enough clothing for a 2-3 day stay.
Next year, we're having a roast chicken (Himself actually doesn't like turkey), roast sweet potatoes and pies (we don't need anything but the basic favorites), watching the parade, sleeping in, watching football, playing board games and eating leftovers for four days - the only leftovers I truly like. Not necessarily in that order.
God bless the pilgrims for enduring the North Atlantic seas in the fall, learning to harvest a crop and inspiring a president to make their celebratory meal a national holiday more than two centuries later.
*1. Palm trees aren't indigenous to Virginia's tidewater region - or to Virginia at all, as a matter of fact. 2. It was as close to a ghetto complex as you could get without actually living IN the ghetto, right down to having to call the cops on the neighbors. 3. Malibu is in California, not in Virginia.
It was utter nonsense. The kitchen in the poorly named Malibu Palms Complex* had enough counter space for a small dish drainer and a dorm-sized microwave (no dishwasher, which meant the dish drainer was a necessity). It had a 3/4-sized oven with one rack, which meant only one pot, pan, or cookie sheet could fit in it at once. The refrigerator door only opened 3/4 of the way, as it hit the stove and could go no further. There was garage shelving in the kitchen, to make up for the lack of cabinet/counter space.
It meant baking the pies, one at a time, the night before, then getting up at 5 a.m. to put the turkey in and start the rolls, which would go in when the turkey came out. It meant that rolling pie dough out on the dining room table, cooking the stuffing in a crock pot on the floor (no counter space, and there was a bird in the oven) and eliminating any offers of help because with pies and rolls on the table, the in-progress or finished sides on one of the shelves of the industrial shelving unit, the cutting board on top of the microwave - where the potatoes, sweet potatoes and fruits and veggies were chopped, the bird in the oven, four pots on the stove, and the stuffing on the floor, there was no room for another human being - helpful or otherwise.
Ironically, it was also the year I decided to make homemade cranberry sauce. As if homemade stuffing, rolls and pies weren't already enough to earn me the title role of Queen of Holiday Insanity.
The five of us (Himself, myself, two stray Navy friends of Himself's and a random girl on holiday from Dover AFB) sat down to eat dinner at the 4-person dining room table in the middle of the living room, because the kitchen (the table's normal place of occupancy) was too small to actually USE the table for anything but a one-person countertop. This meant displacing the pies, rolls, etc. and putting them on top of the stove. Serving dinner was like going to a progressive dinner - each item was dished up from some random location - right down to the stuffing still being on the floor.
Dinner took 15 hours to prepare and 15 minutes to eat. The clean up (due to lack of space, lack of ability to open the fridge all the way, lack of a dishwasher and lack of space enough to cajole anyone else into helping) took another 4 hours. I went to bed exhausted, only to have to rise the next morning and head to work.
I vowed, "Never Again!"
Except, well, I did it again. Twice more. And I liked it. The kitchen in NoVa was larger, much nicer, had tons of counter and cabinet space, opened to the living room (all the better to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade), and I gave up on homemade stuffing, cranberry sauce and having guests. (As it turns out, Himself hates stuffing, Grover only eats the boxed kind and Jane doesn't like onions - why kill myself for something only I liked?).
Two years ago we went to the World's Smallest Townhouse for Thanksgiving - I only had to bring the pies (Pumpkin Mousse and Coconut Cream). Last year, we had The Great Pie Gathering at my Uncle's, and I only had to bring the pies (Key Lime, Coconut Cream) and homemade macaroni and cheese.
As it turns out, Great Malibu Palms Holiday Insanity of 2003 aside, I prefer staying home for Thanksgiving. However, it appears to be the eighth deadly sin to stay home for a holiday now that we're within hundreds of miles (versus thousands of miles) from family. Which means we will be trekking to the Great Frozen North on Thursday with pies (Pumpkin, Key Lime and Coconut Cream - see a pattern?), all of Woodstock's baby gear, festive attitudes and enough clothing for a 2-3 day stay.
Next year, we're having a roast chicken (Himself actually doesn't like turkey), roast sweet potatoes and pies (we don't need anything but the basic favorites), watching the parade, sleeping in, watching football, playing board games and eating leftovers for four days - the only leftovers I truly like. Not necessarily in that order.
God bless the pilgrims for enduring the North Atlantic seas in the fall, learning to harvest a crop and inspiring a president to make their celebratory meal a national holiday more than two centuries later.
*1. Palm trees aren't indigenous to Virginia's tidewater region - or to Virginia at all, as a matter of fact. 2. It was as close to a ghetto complex as you could get without actually living IN the ghetto, right down to having to call the cops on the neighbors. 3. Malibu is in California, not in Virginia.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Note to Self
Do not wear red the day before rivalry day.
Even if the red long-sleeved shirt is the only weather-appropriate shirt left in the closet.
Even if your high school colors were red (and black) and they are playing the state championship game for the first time in eons in the stadium just up the way.
Even if you think no one will notice.
As it turns out, EVERYONE will notice. Every single meeting today had people in their "spirit" wear. One woman wore red mardi gras beads.
Even if the U is going to win the game, it's not very nice of me to wear red to sway the evenly divided office (two red, two blue) to the "other side" and leave the lone blue employe all by himself in the fun and games.
It happens to be very hard to be taken seriously as a serious fan of "the other team" when you are wearing their rival's colors.
Next year, I must remember I'm in Ute country now ...
**Sidenote: productivity today? OUT THE WINDOW. You would think it was the day before a holiday instead of the day before the season's biggest college football game.
Even if the red long-sleeved shirt is the only weather-appropriate shirt left in the closet.
Even if your high school colors were red (and black) and they are playing the state championship game for the first time in eons in the stadium just up the way.
Even if you think no one will notice.
As it turns out, EVERYONE will notice. Every single meeting today had people in their "spirit" wear. One woman wore red mardi gras beads.
Even if the U is going to win the game, it's not very nice of me to wear red to sway the evenly divided office (two red, two blue) to the "other side" and leave the lone blue employe all by himself in the fun and games.
It happens to be very hard to be taken seriously as a serious fan of "the other team" when you are wearing their rival's colors.
Next year, I must remember I'm in Ute country now ...
**Sidenote: productivity today? OUT THE WINDOW. You would think it was the day before a holiday instead of the day before the season's biggest college football game.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Partying Like It's 1999
Okay, you thought that Pop Culture commentary only appeared on Bonnie's blog, but once in a great awhile, I snap out of my pop-culture-dummy fog and actually know about something before reading it on her blog or hearing it about it in staff meeting from someone whose oldest child is only six years my junior.
On Monday, MTV's one-time hit show, TRL was on the air for a celebrity reunion finale after a 10-year run. It's funny that the article caught my attention. I haven't purposely watched MTV since Real World Seattle aired 10ish years ago. However, I was a TRL junkie by default during the show's early days when Britney was still an "innocent" teen pop star, Justin Timberlake was better known as part of a boy band, Eminem was still married to Kim the first time, Beyonce was a child of destiny and no one dreamed of being an American idol.
My junkie-as-an-innocent-bystander status was short-lived, but nonetheless very impactful. During the late summer of 1999, my 18-year-old freshman roommate from Arizona* would come home from class every day and turn the TV to Carson Daly and thousands of screaming fans in Midtown.
In fact, it was so critical to her educational and moral development that she (or rather daddy dearest) paid the entire cable bill, just so she could have MTV. Come to think of it, I'm not sure how we even got it. I didn't think the school in Happy Valley let their approved housing have MTV, but we did (shhh - don't tell - we probably committed other horrible atrocities as well!).
I remember sitting on the couch working on my physics homework (it had to be physics - I had physics homework every day for the eight straight weeks of summer term) with "Baby One More Time" in the background and her drooling over Eminem. Every. Single. Day. I have her to thank for the fact that I actually know who Carson Daly is, though I would be hard-pressed to pick him out of a lineup. (Only slightly related sidenote: I also read a story of a woman unable to identify anyone's voice - even her own daughter's - except for Sean Connery's. Long live the sexy Scottish burr!)
TRL was a storied part of that almost-final semester of college. It unwittingly played a small role in my education that summer. In fact, other than the tornado that hit The Frontier and the sudden death of JFK Jr., watching my roommate watch TRL would have a fighting chance as my most significant memory of that moment in lfie.**
Farewell, TRL. Thanks for the memories.
*Said roommate drove me up the wall. However, I now realize it could not have been much fun living with a grad student and a college senior who both had "get me out of here now" attitudes that were probably not well disguised.
**I was stuck in a weird East Coast v. Happy Valley time warp for those eight weeks. I don't remember much of anything, which is probably why what I DO remember is so ridiculously insignificant.
On Monday, MTV's one-time hit show, TRL was on the air for a celebrity reunion finale after a 10-year run. It's funny that the article caught my attention. I haven't purposely watched MTV since Real World Seattle aired 10ish years ago. However, I was a TRL junkie by default during the show's early days when Britney was still an "innocent" teen pop star, Justin Timberlake was better known as part of a boy band, Eminem was still married to Kim the first time, Beyonce was a child of destiny and no one dreamed of being an American idol.
My junkie-as-an-innocent-bystander status was short-lived, but nonetheless very impactful. During the late summer of 1999, my 18-year-old freshman roommate from Arizona* would come home from class every day and turn the TV to Carson Daly and thousands of screaming fans in Midtown.
In fact, it was so critical to her educational and moral development that she (or rather daddy dearest) paid the entire cable bill, just so she could have MTV. Come to think of it, I'm not sure how we even got it. I didn't think the school in Happy Valley let their approved housing have MTV, but we did (shhh - don't tell - we probably committed other horrible atrocities as well!).
I remember sitting on the couch working on my physics homework (it had to be physics - I had physics homework every day for the eight straight weeks of summer term) with "Baby One More Time" in the background and her drooling over Eminem. Every. Single. Day. I have her to thank for the fact that I actually know who Carson Daly is, though I would be hard-pressed to pick him out of a lineup. (Only slightly related sidenote: I also read a story of a woman unable to identify anyone's voice - even her own daughter's - except for Sean Connery's. Long live the sexy Scottish burr!)
TRL was a storied part of that almost-final semester of college. It unwittingly played a small role in my education that summer. In fact, other than the tornado that hit The Frontier and the sudden death of JFK Jr., watching my roommate watch TRL would have a fighting chance as my most significant memory of that moment in lfie.**
Farewell, TRL. Thanks for the memories.
*Said roommate drove me up the wall. However, I now realize it could not have been much fun living with a grad student and a college senior who both had "get me out of here now" attitudes that were probably not well disguised.
**I was stuck in a weird East Coast v. Happy Valley time warp for those eight weeks. I don't remember much of anything, which is probably why what I DO remember is so ridiculously insignificant.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Life as Numbers
I want to know when I got so old.
I'm not saying that I AM old, necessarily, just that I FEEL old. Like the world has been placating me for years, making me think nothing has changed, and BAM! suddenly I wake up and realize that the illusory netting has been yanked away only to reveal significant gaps between what was and what is.
Just as in the story of the frogs slowly boiled to death as the heat was turned up a notch at a time, so as not to alarm them (how's that for a gruesome image of the day?), time seems to lull one into a false sense of "everything is staying the same" as the subtleties of change are hidden to stop the inevitable freaking out and moaning about lost youth, opportunities and the hideous outfit that you swore would never go out of style.
Browsing through some old high school photos of friends today, I had one of those moments of sudden realization: things have changed A LOT. I don't remember everyone looking quite that funny. And we definitely didn't look quite that young. We were OLD. 16 at least. Nearly adults. Old enough to know that our parents knew nothing and that we would conquer the world.
Except, it was all an illusion. Now that I am actually growing old (or at the very least speeding into middle age - after all, the life expectancy when I was born was 77.3 - which means sometime the last week of April 2016 I will be exactly "middle aged"), I realize my parents knew almost everything, the world is only conquered in the minds of youth and poofy hair bows were NOT the be all and end all of style.
The kids I babysat as infants and toddlers are in college. Some are married. Some have kids. I reminisced yesterday about the birthday of a friend I met a decade ago - how we, 10 years ago, hit up TGI Fridays for a girls' night out and a round of frozen drinks. The fact that it has been 10 years and a dozen hairstyles ago made me ponder if I was any better off now than I was then. My greatest fear in life is looking back and realizing I was running in place. And then I think about the numbers ... I haven't even stood still long enough for my bookcase to gather dust.
Since the high school photos, I have lived at 16 separate addresses (if you don't count my stint as a semi-permanent basement dweller at Heidi's or the two summers I spent with my parents) in 11 cities and 3 states. I've lived with at least 50 people - not including Woodstock, Grover, Heidi's clan or any relatives. I have lived with people from at least 20 different states (Utah and Wisconsin being the two states from which the most roommates hailed ... ironically, I've never actually been to Wisconsin).
In that time, I have traveled to 20 additional states, held 16 different job titles at 9 companies (including 4 job titles at 3 companies since I moved to The Frontier), supervised just shy of two dozen people, reported to nearly that many different people and broke a personal record interviewing 40 times in a single calendar year on three different job occasions. I have earned a college degree, been promoted and promoted, volunteered, held countless church positions, made friends, dated, become engaged, been married and given birth.
It's a lot to cram in less than 1.5 decades. In fact, it averages out to a new job title and address every 9 months over the last 12 years and a new company every 15 months. It's no wonder people can only track me down via Facebook! The whole thing becomes rather alarming when I realize I've worked for two different companies at more than 3 years each and had a 3-year stint at one address and a 2-year stint at another address. (The statistics looked much better prior to our migration west).
It makes me feel old, as it is likely with all that change that I've become chronically exhausted. Add in Himself's stats and the whole thing threatens to bring my life expectancy down several decades.
Looking at it that way, the change has been rapid and a little jerky - creating a metaphor between my life and the pinball machine that used to inhabit the infamous "214" where Himself once took up residence. And yet, while the environmental changes have been stacatto, the internal ones have been subtle. It seems like mere moments until closer examination reveals enough subtle change to feel like centuries.
Cell phones were only used in dire emergencies, if at all. They were luxuries few people had. I was the first incoming freshman class in The Great Frozen North to have an e-mail account - a laughable, plain text, FTP-access-only, no attachments, graphics, sounds or hyperlinks e-mail account. Debit cards were a new thing, $100,000 could buy a very nice home in a lot of places and the 90s became the decade of the super model, grunge, platform shoe revival, and the anti-80s.
It's no wonder change has to be subtle. Otherwise, the sheer volume of the sights, sounds and experiences would threaten to overwhelm one's fragile persona. Either that, or one would simply feel like 12+ hours of sleep was mandatory.
That's another thing ... I don't remember needing this much sleep before I started growing old.
I'm not saying that I AM old, necessarily, just that I FEEL old. Like the world has been placating me for years, making me think nothing has changed, and BAM! suddenly I wake up and realize that the illusory netting has been yanked away only to reveal significant gaps between what was and what is.
Just as in the story of the frogs slowly boiled to death as the heat was turned up a notch at a time, so as not to alarm them (how's that for a gruesome image of the day?), time seems to lull one into a false sense of "everything is staying the same" as the subtleties of change are hidden to stop the inevitable freaking out and moaning about lost youth, opportunities and the hideous outfit that you swore would never go out of style.
Browsing through some old high school photos of friends today, I had one of those moments of sudden realization: things have changed A LOT. I don't remember everyone looking quite that funny. And we definitely didn't look quite that young. We were OLD. 16 at least. Nearly adults. Old enough to know that our parents knew nothing and that we would conquer the world.
Except, it was all an illusion. Now that I am actually growing old (or at the very least speeding into middle age - after all, the life expectancy when I was born was 77.3 - which means sometime the last week of April 2016 I will be exactly "middle aged"), I realize my parents knew almost everything, the world is only conquered in the minds of youth and poofy hair bows were NOT the be all and end all of style.
The kids I babysat as infants and toddlers are in college. Some are married. Some have kids. I reminisced yesterday about the birthday of a friend I met a decade ago - how we, 10 years ago, hit up TGI Fridays for a girls' night out and a round of frozen drinks. The fact that it has been 10 years and a dozen hairstyles ago made me ponder if I was any better off now than I was then. My greatest fear in life is looking back and realizing I was running in place. And then I think about the numbers ... I haven't even stood still long enough for my bookcase to gather dust.
Since the high school photos, I have lived at 16 separate addresses (if you don't count my stint as a semi-permanent basement dweller at Heidi's or the two summers I spent with my parents) in 11 cities and 3 states. I've lived with at least 50 people - not including Woodstock, Grover, Heidi's clan or any relatives. I have lived with people from at least 20 different states (Utah and Wisconsin being the two states from which the most roommates hailed ... ironically, I've never actually been to Wisconsin).
In that time, I have traveled to 20 additional states, held 16 different job titles at 9 companies (including 4 job titles at 3 companies since I moved to The Frontier), supervised just shy of two dozen people, reported to nearly that many different people and broke a personal record interviewing 40 times in a single calendar year on three different job occasions. I have earned a college degree, been promoted and promoted, volunteered, held countless church positions, made friends, dated, become engaged, been married and given birth.
It's a lot to cram in less than 1.5 decades. In fact, it averages out to a new job title and address every 9 months over the last 12 years and a new company every 15 months. It's no wonder people can only track me down via Facebook! The whole thing becomes rather alarming when I realize I've worked for two different companies at more than 3 years each and had a 3-year stint at one address and a 2-year stint at another address. (The statistics looked much better prior to our migration west).
It makes me feel old, as it is likely with all that change that I've become chronically exhausted. Add in Himself's stats and the whole thing threatens to bring my life expectancy down several decades.
Looking at it that way, the change has been rapid and a little jerky - creating a metaphor between my life and the pinball machine that used to inhabit the infamous "214" where Himself once took up residence. And yet, while the environmental changes have been stacatto, the internal ones have been subtle. It seems like mere moments until closer examination reveals enough subtle change to feel like centuries.
Cell phones were only used in dire emergencies, if at all. They were luxuries few people had. I was the first incoming freshman class in The Great Frozen North to have an e-mail account - a laughable, plain text, FTP-access-only, no attachments, graphics, sounds or hyperlinks e-mail account. Debit cards were a new thing, $100,000 could buy a very nice home in a lot of places and the 90s became the decade of the super model, grunge, platform shoe revival, and the anti-80s.
It's no wonder change has to be subtle. Otherwise, the sheer volume of the sights, sounds and experiences would threaten to overwhelm one's fragile persona. Either that, or one would simply feel like 12+ hours of sleep was mandatory.
That's another thing ... I don't remember needing this much sleep before I started growing old.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Running from Kites
I sat in Wolfgang Puck's express yesterday, in Terminal B in the Cincinnati Airport, absently dining on four cheese ravioli in a spicy tomato sauce, lost among the streets of Kabul and the loss of innocence of a fictional character named Amir, the trade paperback held open by the heavy rim of the white stoneware plate.
My four-hour layover came and went, my nose buried in The Kite Runner just outside gate B15 - tasting the shwarmas and curries, the naan and the kebabs of the novel instead of the cinnamon cookie the airline had handed out earlier. My flight came and went - only a dim cacophony in the background of the story's narrative - a betrayal, a lie, a fugitive escape to Pakistan, a new life in the United States.
I arrived home just as the sun turned to gold and the horizon began to darken, after a four-day sojourn in Florida, exhausted. Physical exhaustion was the result of the frequent emptying of my stomach contents, the stubborn, lingering abdominal discomfort, the long flights, time change, early mornings, late nights and the 11-hour work days between. Mental exhaustion from repeating the same 30-second "cocktail" spiel over and over as each person inquired as to who we were and what we were doing - to the point of monotony. The questions and answers blurred and soon I found myself unable to deviate from the unofficial script I had created in my head. Emotional exhaustion from reading an emotionally painful, historically significant, terrifying book. Or two, actually, the first half of the trip was spent reading about presidential assassinations. Emotionally draining in its own right, for vastly different reasons, adding to the emotional void of longing to hold Woodstock and kiss her good night.
I came home, spent - burdened by the need for healing, food prepared by someone other than a restaurant, restorative rest and solace. Woodstock was just waking up when I arrived home - her wide, toothy grin and outstretched arms greeted me. I held her close, examined her startling, obvious weight loss from the illness we both now shared and breathed in the scent of her fine-as-cornsilk hair and her porcelain skin.
We snuggled, played with her new puzzle and shared lots of "loves" - always ending with her sighing contentedly, patting me on the back and burying her little head in my shoulder - burrowing herself into my arms. We retired to bed, she and Himself sleeping peacefully in the cool darkness. Me, tossing in a fitful frenzy - at first too hot, then too cold, too uncomfortable, too many sounds ... and then, the dreams of bearded men (a little-disclosed, terrifying phobia that has stalked me from before the days of my first coherent memories), the sound of gunfire and children's cries, the pain of betrayal, the fear of solitude, the whirling colors of bazaars and ancient cities, the scent of coriander and cardamom and tumeric filling my nose, the narrator's voice in my head, continuing the novel I had used to pass the time in a bizarre choose-your-own-answer fashion, enveloping me in the plot.
Dawn came too soon, my body not yet used to the time change, my mind full of terrors and tiny pieces of reality strung in with liberal doses of foreign fiction like garish blinking Christmas lights on a child's tree. My half-dazed self unable to sort out the two time zones, three states, four cities of reality and the far away place of the novel; the small doses of bland food from the vibrant, richly fragrant food of fiction; the smell and feel of Woodstock's cornsilk hair with the rough, raven beards of my nightmares.
I pondered the viability of calling in sick. It could be physical illness - certainly worshiping the stainless bowl in the lavatory onboard the 767 four days prior should have been enough reason. Or mental illness - my inability, in my complete exhaustion, to sort fact from fiction, the clear mental strain of not being able to string two logical thoughts together. Possibly the longing to bury Woodstock in my arms, feeling the grateful warmth of her spreading all the way to my toes which hadn't felt warm all day.
Instead, I shuffled through the motions - barely registering menial tasks. Had I brushed my teeth? What do I normally feed Woodstock at breakfast? Where was the list of items for the sitter? I arrived at work, tired, sullen, late. Twin task lists, one for work, one for home, stared up at me - daring me to be productive enough to finish them.
Yawning, I struggle to focus. Not on Woodstock. Not on the story still lingering in my head - filling the crevices of any functioning portion of gray matter. Not on the grocery shopping that needs doing or my stomach - still sore and broiling with anger over breakfast. Focus. I work to focus on documents, lists, tasks, crossing one off in a brave attempt to slip back into mundane reality.
All in a silent, just-warm-enough office that begs me just to close my eyes for a few minutes' slumber. Just for a moment I want to stop running from kites, being sick, having a to do list and slip into a blissful state of just being.
My four-hour layover came and went, my nose buried in The Kite Runner just outside gate B15 - tasting the shwarmas and curries, the naan and the kebabs of the novel instead of the cinnamon cookie the airline had handed out earlier. My flight came and went - only a dim cacophony in the background of the story's narrative - a betrayal, a lie, a fugitive escape to Pakistan, a new life in the United States.
I arrived home just as the sun turned to gold and the horizon began to darken, after a four-day sojourn in Florida, exhausted. Physical exhaustion was the result of the frequent emptying of my stomach contents, the stubborn, lingering abdominal discomfort, the long flights, time change, early mornings, late nights and the 11-hour work days between. Mental exhaustion from repeating the same 30-second "cocktail" spiel over and over as each person inquired as to who we were and what we were doing - to the point of monotony. The questions and answers blurred and soon I found myself unable to deviate from the unofficial script I had created in my head. Emotional exhaustion from reading an emotionally painful, historically significant, terrifying book. Or two, actually, the first half of the trip was spent reading about presidential assassinations. Emotionally draining in its own right, for vastly different reasons, adding to the emotional void of longing to hold Woodstock and kiss her good night.
I came home, spent - burdened by the need for healing, food prepared by someone other than a restaurant, restorative rest and solace. Woodstock was just waking up when I arrived home - her wide, toothy grin and outstretched arms greeted me. I held her close, examined her startling, obvious weight loss from the illness we both now shared and breathed in the scent of her fine-as-cornsilk hair and her porcelain skin.
We snuggled, played with her new puzzle and shared lots of "loves" - always ending with her sighing contentedly, patting me on the back and burying her little head in my shoulder - burrowing herself into my arms. We retired to bed, she and Himself sleeping peacefully in the cool darkness. Me, tossing in a fitful frenzy - at first too hot, then too cold, too uncomfortable, too many sounds ... and then, the dreams of bearded men (a little-disclosed, terrifying phobia that has stalked me from before the days of my first coherent memories), the sound of gunfire and children's cries, the pain of betrayal, the fear of solitude, the whirling colors of bazaars and ancient cities, the scent of coriander and cardamom and tumeric filling my nose, the narrator's voice in my head, continuing the novel I had used to pass the time in a bizarre choose-your-own-answer fashion, enveloping me in the plot.
Dawn came too soon, my body not yet used to the time change, my mind full of terrors and tiny pieces of reality strung in with liberal doses of foreign fiction like garish blinking Christmas lights on a child's tree. My half-dazed self unable to sort out the two time zones, three states, four cities of reality and the far away place of the novel; the small doses of bland food from the vibrant, richly fragrant food of fiction; the smell and feel of Woodstock's cornsilk hair with the rough, raven beards of my nightmares.
I pondered the viability of calling in sick. It could be physical illness - certainly worshiping the stainless bowl in the lavatory onboard the 767 four days prior should have been enough reason. Or mental illness - my inability, in my complete exhaustion, to sort fact from fiction, the clear mental strain of not being able to string two logical thoughts together. Possibly the longing to bury Woodstock in my arms, feeling the grateful warmth of her spreading all the way to my toes which hadn't felt warm all day.
Instead, I shuffled through the motions - barely registering menial tasks. Had I brushed my teeth? What do I normally feed Woodstock at breakfast? Where was the list of items for the sitter? I arrived at work, tired, sullen, late. Twin task lists, one for work, one for home, stared up at me - daring me to be productive enough to finish them.
Yawning, I struggle to focus. Not on Woodstock. Not on the story still lingering in my head - filling the crevices of any functioning portion of gray matter. Not on the grocery shopping that needs doing or my stomach - still sore and broiling with anger over breakfast. Focus. I work to focus on documents, lists, tasks, crossing one off in a brave attempt to slip back into mundane reality.
All in a silent, just-warm-enough office that begs me just to close my eyes for a few minutes' slumber. Just for a moment I want to stop running from kites, being sick, having a to do list and slip into a blissful state of just being.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The Sick Child Academy
Woodstock and I have been able to spend lots of time together lately, due to her ongoing need to empty her stomach at frequent intervals and eat at even fewer intervals.
Consequently, she has picked up some new bits of knowledge along the way. In the School of The Sick Child, we have learned:
At least we're learning as we're scrubbing, sanitizing, starving and cuddling.
Consequently, she has picked up some new bits of knowledge along the way. In the School of The Sick Child, we have learned:
- The words and actions to "Itsy Bitsy Spider". Of course, Woodstock's version is still a bit rusty and goes a bit like this: "bippy bippy bippy Da (down) uppie!" She can do all the actions (I've seen it), though she prefers to just do the spider motion. She'll come up and start doing the spider motion and saying "bitty bippy". Yesterday we sang the song 15 times. Today, we're already up to 4.
- New words: Uck (yuck), Ju (Juice) and All Ga (all gone)
- Exercising old words and signs incessantly: Num num num (hungry), foo (food), ma (more - along with a vigarous Woodstockized sign for "more"), chee (cheese) and the sign for milk. Repeated 7,429 times. Unfortunately, while Woodstock is slowly starving to death, she doesn't actually want to eat anything. She just wanders around forlornly looking half-starved and begging for food, only to refuse to eat it.
- New animal sounds: Yesterday, while "reading" her animal book, she began saying "hee hee hee" and pointing to the orangutan. I've been trying to teach her a sound for "monkey" - and well, to a 14-month-old, an orangutan is close enough.
- Target practice. Last night, Woodstock snuggled up to me, buried her face in my chest and puked. She aimed it just right to get a little on the outside of my clothing and the rest of it INSIDE my clothing and down my chest - managing to leave a trail to my waistline. Himself thought this was wonderful, since she's been practicing her targets on him.
At least we're learning as we're scrubbing, sanitizing, starving and cuddling.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
A Solemn Obligation
"They fought together as brothers-in-arms. They died together and now they sleep side by side. To them we have a solemn obligation." -Admiral Chester Nimitz
It is perfectly silent right now.
I am working form home. Woodstock is fast asleep. There is no traffic on the road in front of the house (sound proof, our windows are not). The wind isn't blowing. It's not raining. The sun is out. My living room carpet is cleaner than it was this morning (carpet spot cleaning - one of those joys you never realized adults got to experience over and over and over). The house is bright and full of sun.
And, there is a flag in my front yard.
Seven years ago yesterday, I stood on Pier 5 at the Norfolk Naval Base with Grover, then only 5, and waited. "God Bless the U.S.A." and "I'm Already There" - two anthems that had defined the deployment of the USS Enterprise, blared over the loudspeakers. Thousands of people huddled together in the unusually cold November air as the breeze blew off the Chesapeake Bay, up the mouth of the James River and across the pier. We barely noticed.
We put our hands up to shade our eyes from the early morning sun - searching to watch the Enterprise make its first debut on the horizon. We first caught sight of the Navy's largest, and fastest, carrier - returning from a scheduled deployment that had ended in unscheduled combat following the terror of 9/11 - a little after 7 a.m. It would take nearly four hours to reach the pier - it's rails manned by sailors dressed in their dress blues.
I cannot begin to describe the adrenaline, the tears, the joy, the pride, the anticipation that filled that pier that day. I absolutely will never be able to put into words the chills that ran down my spine and the tears that coursed down my face as the first sailors set foot on Pier 5. Following ship tradition, they were the "new daddies" - those whose wives had born children while they were out to sea. Gathered in a tent, the sailors met their newborn children for the very first time.
It was a day that I will remember forever. Next to Woodstock's birth, it was one of the most amazing days of my life - not everyone gets to stand on a pier and welcome a shipful of sailors home from combat.
Nearly three years later, my parents and sister stood in the quiet stillness of the California desert. They held signs, wore matching t-shirts and cheered as a bus rumbled down a long dusty road. My brother, a combat Marine veteran, was returning home from Iraq. He had witnessed all the horrors of war and was changed, physically and mentally and spirtually. Relief flooded the family members meeting their Marines in the lonely midnight desert. With that relief came a long moment of silence - a pause to remember the arms that would go empty that night for those Marines who gave the ultimate sacrifice. Twice my parents stood in the California desert to welcome my brother home. Twice he left to battle in the desert - the cradle of civilization - to answer his country's call. Twice he risked everything, beat the odds, returned to fill the arms of those left behind.
Two different experiences. Two different homecomings. Dozens of friends. Hundreds of acquaintances. A nearly four-year sojourn in a beachside community of military bases, squadrons, fleets, companies - family.
A day that means much to me as family, friends and dear strangers are honored for their service, sacrifice and devotion.
Happy Veteran's Day.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Ode to General Electric
It's funny that Friday's post was this, because this weekend I would have had the kind of gratitude journal entry that would seem odd to anyone else.
I am grateful that I own a washer and dryer.
Not only that, but I am particularly grateful that it is a front-loading, king-sized capacity washer and dryer with a sanitize cycle.
Woodstock hasn't kept anything but water down all weekend. As a result, I have done four batches of heavily soiled laundry. This was, of course, on top of the six batches of laundry that already needed doing (it was the weekend to wash sheets and towels, and the weekend I re-washed all warm-weather clothes before putting them in storage).
I didn't even complain that the sanitize cycle takes nearly two hours and all the hot water in the house, because I was so grateful that it was a good enough washer to get all the "soiled bits" off the clothing/bedding/odds and ends in one cycle.
I was grateful for the king-sized capacity because it meant that I could wash the sheets and blankets (and clothing) each time Woodstock soiled them, all in one batch (The couch is "draped" with linens because while the washer does have a large capacity, it is not large enough to wash the couch).
I was grateful for the front-loading style, because it meant I could wash her high chair cover, the straps and the stuffed animals that also fell victim to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even those that say "hand wash only." As if I would have the stomach capacity to handwash something with little bits stuck to it.
All that makes me grateful for the job I had in Virginia that allowed me to purchase said GE washer (and dryer - I love my dryer too) at contractor's pricing, which meant I could justify said king-sized, front-loading and sanitize features.
Unfortunately, while the washing machine worked near miracles, it could not ensure more than a couple of hours of sleep for Himself or I or a baby that got better.
We may end up having to test the washer's ability to wash car seat covers today, as Woodstock has to go see the doctor when they open.
(Side note: Himself's "gratitude list" would include the fact that we have a clean shower - since Woodstock seemed to have a knack for getting sick on him. She knows her mother has a terribly weak stomach and gave her some pity, I suppose).
I am grateful that I own a washer and dryer.
Not only that, but I am particularly grateful that it is a front-loading, king-sized capacity washer and dryer with a sanitize cycle.
Woodstock hasn't kept anything but water down all weekend. As a result, I have done four batches of heavily soiled laundry. This was, of course, on top of the six batches of laundry that already needed doing (it was the weekend to wash sheets and towels, and the weekend I re-washed all warm-weather clothes before putting them in storage).
I didn't even complain that the sanitize cycle takes nearly two hours and all the hot water in the house, because I was so grateful that it was a good enough washer to get all the "soiled bits" off the clothing/bedding/odds and ends in one cycle.
I was grateful for the king-sized capacity because it meant that I could wash the sheets and blankets (and clothing) each time Woodstock soiled them, all in one batch (The couch is "draped" with linens because while the washer does have a large capacity, it is not large enough to wash the couch).
I was grateful for the front-loading style, because it meant I could wash her high chair cover, the straps and the stuffed animals that also fell victim to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even those that say "hand wash only." As if I would have the stomach capacity to handwash something with little bits stuck to it.
All that makes me grateful for the job I had in Virginia that allowed me to purchase said GE washer (and dryer - I love my dryer too) at contractor's pricing, which meant I could justify said king-sized, front-loading and sanitize features.
Unfortunately, while the washing machine worked near miracles, it could not ensure more than a couple of hours of sleep for Himself or I or a baby that got better.
We may end up having to test the washer's ability to wash car seat covers today, as Woodstock has to go see the doctor when they open.
(Side note: Himself's "gratitude list" would include the fact that we have a clean shower - since Woodstock seemed to have a knack for getting sick on him. She knows her mother has a terribly weak stomach and gave her some pity, I suppose).
Friday, November 07, 2008
Giving Thanks
The first semester I spent at a new college was tough. It was a new town, I was a senior. I knew no one. I had just left two of my best adult experiences behind and felt lost.
One of the bright spots was my religion class - taught by a professor I had had at my original university. A man whom I deeply respected and remains to this day one of the most phenomenal professors I had.
Toward the beginning of the class, we studied a passage of scripture about gratitude. Dr. Whitmore encouraged us to keep "gratitude journals" through the semester - where every day we would write down three things for which we were grateful. There were no rules about how simple or complex they could be. Just that there HAD to be three and there could be no "even thoughs" or "buts" attached. They had to be genuine.
I took the challenge with resolution. Looking bad, I realize just how lost and misfit I felt. There are some days where my gratitude list was a challenge and merely stated, "I am thankful for the sun outside." It actually helped, because it forced positive thinking - and, on the worst days, forced me to look for things about which I was thankful so I could have an honest list.
November always makes me think "Thanksgiving," which makes me think of food and being grateful (not necessarily in that order). I got up this morning and started thinking about the little things that I would list in my gratitude journal today, if I had one.
1. It was above freezing this morning and it is "partly sunny." If the word "sunny" appears in a forecast AT ALL between November and April in The Frontier, I greet it with glee.
2. Woodstock. I could write a book. I'll refrain. Even on the worst days there are 14 different things I could list about Woodstock that would make me smile.
3. I am employed. Not only that, but because I worked very hard during the beginning of my career I am in a position where I have a job that is largely self-managed, one that allows me to work from home as often as necessary, is flexible and pays well.
4. I don't live in an apartment and I don't own a house. For some inexplicable reason, both of those make me deliriously happy. Not that I never want to own a house - quite the contrary - but right now, it's one less thing to worry about.
5. I am putting Dave Ramsey's plan in action. We have more savings, less debt and more spending money - which seems like it should be an oxymoron, but it isn't. Next year we will have a lot less debt and that will be even better. There is a plan. In the nation's worst economy in 50+ years, I actually feel peace.
6. I made a real-life friend who went through the same darkness I did last witner - in nearly the same way. Her baby is three months older and she is a stay-at-home-mom, but our stories are eerily similar. For the first time, I've been able to actually talk, out loud, about the whole thing from a big picture standpoint and not feel like I'm some hideously disfigured creature inside.
I haven't done much about a Gratitude Journal since that semester in college, but this month, I wonder if it is a tool that will help me focus on the immediate, here-and-now blessings that grace everyday life.
This Thanksgiving, I'm giving thanks for second chances, for little girls and for new beginnings. And, for (hopefully) good food.
One of the bright spots was my religion class - taught by a professor I had had at my original university. A man whom I deeply respected and remains to this day one of the most phenomenal professors I had.
Toward the beginning of the class, we studied a passage of scripture about gratitude. Dr. Whitmore encouraged us to keep "gratitude journals" through the semester - where every day we would write down three things for which we were grateful. There were no rules about how simple or complex they could be. Just that there HAD to be three and there could be no "even thoughs" or "buts" attached. They had to be genuine.
I took the challenge with resolution. Looking bad, I realize just how lost and misfit I felt. There are some days where my gratitude list was a challenge and merely stated, "I am thankful for the sun outside." It actually helped, because it forced positive thinking - and, on the worst days, forced me to look for things about which I was thankful so I could have an honest list.
November always makes me think "Thanksgiving," which makes me think of food and being grateful (not necessarily in that order). I got up this morning and started thinking about the little things that I would list in my gratitude journal today, if I had one.
1. It was above freezing this morning and it is "partly sunny." If the word "sunny" appears in a forecast AT ALL between November and April in The Frontier, I greet it with glee.
2. Woodstock. I could write a book. I'll refrain. Even on the worst days there are 14 different things I could list about Woodstock that would make me smile.
3. I am employed. Not only that, but because I worked very hard during the beginning of my career I am in a position where I have a job that is largely self-managed, one that allows me to work from home as often as necessary, is flexible and pays well.
4. I don't live in an apartment and I don't own a house. For some inexplicable reason, both of those make me deliriously happy. Not that I never want to own a house - quite the contrary - but right now, it's one less thing to worry about.
5. I am putting Dave Ramsey's plan in action. We have more savings, less debt and more spending money - which seems like it should be an oxymoron, but it isn't. Next year we will have a lot less debt and that will be even better. There is a plan. In the nation's worst economy in 50+ years, I actually feel peace.
6. I made a real-life friend who went through the same darkness I did last witner - in nearly the same way. Her baby is three months older and she is a stay-at-home-mom, but our stories are eerily similar. For the first time, I've been able to actually talk, out loud, about the whole thing from a big picture standpoint and not feel like I'm some hideously disfigured creature inside.
I haven't done much about a Gratitude Journal since that semester in college, but this month, I wonder if it is a tool that will help me focus on the immediate, here-and-now blessings that grace everyday life.
This Thanksgiving, I'm giving thanks for second chances, for little girls and for new beginnings. And, for (hopefully) good food.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Cookies
Woodstock woke up this morning, yelled "Uppie" from her crib and, upon being asked if she would like some milk (my standard morning question), she replied:
"COOKIES?!" This was followed by her version of the ASL sign for "More" and significant bouncing anticipation.(Translation: "I want." Lately she wanders around the house signing "more" - her way of asking for something, anything, in sight).
That is not part of the usual morning script.
Just in case you're thinking of asking - the only "cookies" she's ever had in any sort of quantity are graham crackers that she gets at Miss Jan's. She does get Kashi 7-grain crackers as a snack fairly often and she frequently mixes up the words "crackers" and "cookies" when the items in question aren't present.
But still ... cookies? For breakfast?
As she was having her morning milk, she would stop sucking, look up at me with huge blue eyes full of hope, sign "more" and ask, "Cookies?"
She did not have cookies (or crackers) for breakfast, though she asked again when she saw the cracker box on the counter and again when she got into the car. Rather, she had a sensible bowl of cinnamon oatmeal with apple slices.
It was, however, the first thing she asked Miss Jan for today. The minute Miss Jan opened the door, Woodstock opened her arms, leaned over to Miss Jan, signed "more" and said, "Cookies?"
Poor kid. Such a rough life. Already she has the meanest mom on the block.
"COOKIES?!" This was followed by her version of the ASL sign for "More" and significant bouncing anticipation.(Translation: "I want." Lately she wanders around the house signing "more" - her way of asking for something, anything, in sight).
That is not part of the usual morning script.
Just in case you're thinking of asking - the only "cookies" she's ever had in any sort of quantity are graham crackers that she gets at Miss Jan's. She does get Kashi 7-grain crackers as a snack fairly often and she frequently mixes up the words "crackers" and "cookies" when the items in question aren't present.
But still ... cookies? For breakfast?
As she was having her morning milk, she would stop sucking, look up at me with huge blue eyes full of hope, sign "more" and ask, "Cookies?"
She did not have cookies (or crackers) for breakfast, though she asked again when she saw the cracker box on the counter and again when she got into the car. Rather, she had a sensible bowl of cinnamon oatmeal with apple slices.
It was, however, the first thing she asked Miss Jan for today. The minute Miss Jan opened the door, Woodstock opened her arms, leaned over to Miss Jan, signed "more" and said, "Cookies?"
Poor kid. Such a rough life. Already she has the meanest mom on the block.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Somewhere in the Middle
Somehow, I managed to forget that the election wouldn't be over on November 4 after all. In fact, all the post-election jabber - after 22 months of pre-election jabber -is just driving me further to the brink of insanity.
What is paining me more, however, is the devisive finger pointing that is still continuing. I woke up this morning and felt rather positive about things because I felt that, whatever anyone's political persuasion, the new president-elect just might be charismatic enough to at least get people to take action and try and sort out the historical mess he is inheriting. At the very least, what's done is done, we will roll up our sleeves and join together to make headway among failing finances, global instability and corruptive power.
But reality isn't in 30-second sound bites on the morning news. Reality is people misunderstanding. People calling names. People failing to respectfully agree to disagree. People breaking the basic rules of civility - sometimes politics and religion cannot be discussed - and that isn't a bad thing. Sometimes it is okay to not understand, not persuade, not see eye-to-eye. Sometimes it is okay to step back and say, "we see differently, but that doesn't make either of us a bad person - let's do lunch and change the subject."
Sometimes - one just has to sit silent, pray for understanding and strength and not answer. And sometimes one has to turn, brush away the tears and walk away.
My heart hurts this morning as I know several people, friends, on different sides hurling generalizations, accusations and hurtful things. Both sides making bold, sweeping generalized proclamations. Each is wounded. Each is pacing in the corner, like an injured bear - lashing out at any perceived attack. Some are likely guilty of taking a soundbite and passing it on - without really forming his/her own opinion.
I'm not proposing sitting down and singing Kumbaya with our fingers stuck in our ears and ignoring the issues, but I am pleading for civility. There has to be a better way.
I want to cry. Instead, I am sharing my own statement:
Maybe this post, by a blogger I do not know, and have never met, says it even better.
You don't have to agree with me to be my friend. You just have to play nice.
What is paining me more, however, is the devisive finger pointing that is still continuing. I woke up this morning and felt rather positive about things because I felt that, whatever anyone's political persuasion, the new president-elect just might be charismatic enough to at least get people to take action and try and sort out the historical mess he is inheriting. At the very least, what's done is done, we will roll up our sleeves and join together to make headway among failing finances, global instability and corruptive power.
But reality isn't in 30-second sound bites on the morning news. Reality is people misunderstanding. People calling names. People failing to respectfully agree to disagree. People breaking the basic rules of civility - sometimes politics and religion cannot be discussed - and that isn't a bad thing. Sometimes it is okay to not understand, not persuade, not see eye-to-eye. Sometimes it is okay to step back and say, "we see differently, but that doesn't make either of us a bad person - let's do lunch and change the subject."
Sometimes - one just has to sit silent, pray for understanding and strength and not answer. And sometimes one has to turn, brush away the tears and walk away.
My heart hurts this morning as I know several people, friends, on different sides hurling generalizations, accusations and hurtful things. Both sides making bold, sweeping generalized proclamations. Each is wounded. Each is pacing in the corner, like an injured bear - lashing out at any perceived attack. Some are likely guilty of taking a soundbite and passing it on - without really forming his/her own opinion.
I'm not proposing sitting down and singing Kumbaya with our fingers stuck in our ears and ignoring the issues, but I am pleading for civility. There has to be a better way.
I want to cry. Instead, I am sharing my own statement:
"If I disagree with you, it doesn't mean I don't like you, don't respect you, don't understand why you might believe differently. It doesn't mean I think you are bad or that I am 100%right and you are wrong. It just means that my own life's path has led me to believe something different. While everything in life gives me perspective, depth and consideration, no one forms my opinions for me. They are mine, and mine alone."
Maybe this post, by a blogger I do not know, and have never met, says it even better.
You don't have to agree with me to be my friend. You just have to play nice.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
A Job I Do Not Want
I'm as apt to criticize the President of the United States as anyone. Though I'd rather moan about the status the House of Reps or the Senate.
However, I realized today, after reading the headline story in The Wall Street Journal ("New Economic Ills Will Force Winner's Hand" - seen here), I realized I should probably keep my mouth shut.
In high school and college, economics bored me to tears. Now, nearly a decade after entering corporate America, I find it fascinating. I love figuring out how futures, markets, hedge funds, short sells, naked short sells, etc. work. I like macro economic theory. I particularly find the nuances of real estate finance on both the corporate/bank and consumer side fascinating. Not surprising to anyone who has known me for more than 30 seconds, I have opinions on everything.
It doesn't mean I would want to (or necessarily know how to) deal with the huge drop in auto sales and factory output, the credit freeze, the bailout or ridiculous executives at the helm of the likes of AIG (since forcing them to relocate to Siberia in the dead of night is more than slightly illegal and reeks of Stalinism). On top of that there is the big "What to Do" about Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Kenya, North Korea, Russia, Georgia (the country, not the state), Venezuela, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan and several handfuls of other countries bordering on the brink of insanity, instability, and odd behaviors. Not to mention the collapse of economies from Western Europe to the Far East. What to do? Who knows, exactly?
It is a job I do not want. I voted today and did a little happy dance that A) I got to vote for someone ELSE to worry about it and B) there are NO MORE ELECTION COMMERCIALS. After 22 months of campaign nonsense, I'm not sure which felt better.
All in all, voting today gave me warm fuzzies. A short line, a nice chat with the neighbors and a lovely walk to my polling place just as the sun was rising (and the rain was falling).
Tomorrow, one of the candidates will wake up, turn to his spouse and say, "Honey, what on earth were we thinking!?"
Because sometimes reality isn't nearly as cool as the anticipation.
However, I realized today, after reading the headline story in The Wall Street Journal ("New Economic Ills Will Force Winner's Hand" - seen here), I realized I should probably keep my mouth shut.
In high school and college, economics bored me to tears. Now, nearly a decade after entering corporate America, I find it fascinating. I love figuring out how futures, markets, hedge funds, short sells, naked short sells, etc. work. I like macro economic theory. I particularly find the nuances of real estate finance on both the corporate/bank and consumer side fascinating. Not surprising to anyone who has known me for more than 30 seconds, I have opinions on everything.
It doesn't mean I would want to (or necessarily know how to) deal with the huge drop in auto sales and factory output, the credit freeze, the bailout or ridiculous executives at the helm of the likes of AIG (since forcing them to relocate to Siberia in the dead of night is more than slightly illegal and reeks of Stalinism). On top of that there is the big "What to Do" about Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Kenya, North Korea, Russia, Georgia (the country, not the state), Venezuela, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan and several handfuls of other countries bordering on the brink of insanity, instability, and odd behaviors. Not to mention the collapse of economies from Western Europe to the Far East. What to do? Who knows, exactly?
It is a job I do not want. I voted today and did a little happy dance that A) I got to vote for someone ELSE to worry about it and B) there are NO MORE ELECTION COMMERCIALS. After 22 months of campaign nonsense, I'm not sure which felt better.
All in all, voting today gave me warm fuzzies. A short line, a nice chat with the neighbors and a lovely walk to my polling place just as the sun was rising (and the rain was falling).
Tomorrow, one of the candidates will wake up, turn to his spouse and say, "Honey, what on earth were we thinking!?"
Because sometimes reality isn't nearly as cool as the anticipation.
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