It is inevitable that a moment, a day, a month, a year, will end. And, if it is remarkable enough, it is inevitable that someone will comment on it. For posterity, for analysis, for re-hashing the gruesome details for all the rubber neckers.
I listened to a lot of "best of" and "most important" lists today. It naturally put me in the frame of mine thinking about my own past year. Newsmakers indicated that everything indicates that 2008 is ending worse than it began. I thought about my year some more. It didn't take very many brain cells, or a news analyst, to conclude that, personally, 2008 only got progressively better during the latter half. We're definitely ending the year on a high(er) note around this household.
Then I realized, as I sat down to reflect on each month of 2008, I don't remember much of anything about the first half of the year. It is mostly marked by interactions with significant people in my life. At that point, I realized, 2008 was the year of People. People who surrounded me (and us), bouyed me up, made me better. People who laughed, cried and shared.
As I am set to ring in 2009, there are no regrets regarding 2008. I am simply happy it is over and that a new year is beginning. I am praying for less drama, more peace and the ability to savor every single moment with Himself and Woodstock.
2009 will be about simplicity and progress. And next year, I won't have to wonder what happened to the first six months of the year, buried beneath a thick blanket of mental fog.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Four Things
Four Things:
1) Four Places I go over and over:
Work, church, Harmon's and the library
2) Four people who email me regularly:
Twitter, Jane, my mom and a hiking club in SLC
3)Four of my favorite places to eat:
Tachibanas, Five Guys, Red Iguana and Kneaders (and I discovered this weekend that Nedra's Too has the BEST Navajo tacos outside a reservation).
4)Four places I would rather be right now:
Anywhere that doesn't have a foot of snow in the front yard.
5)Four people I tag:
Kari Ann, Fiona, Heidi, Megan
6) Four TV shows I watch:
General Conference, Olympics (obsessively), NCIS and college football
1) Four Places I go over and over:
Work, church, Harmon's and the library
2) Four people who email me regularly:
Twitter, Jane, my mom and a hiking club in SLC
3)Four of my favorite places to eat:
Tachibanas, Five Guys, Red Iguana and Kneaders (and I discovered this weekend that Nedra's Too has the BEST Navajo tacos outside a reservation).
4)Four places I would rather be right now:
Anywhere that doesn't have a foot of snow in the front yard.
5)Four people I tag:
Kari Ann, Fiona, Heidi, Megan
6) Four TV shows I watch:
General Conference, Olympics (obsessively), NCIS and college football
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
'Twas Two Days Before Christmas ...
'Twas two days before Christmas and the valley was covered in a thin sheet of ice and snow. My morning commute, against traffic, and therefore in generally-as-yet-unplowed territory, was trecherous. I crept up the block, then slogged up the hill. The far lane - the one leading to the Interstate that would lead to work - wasn't cleared at all. On a normal basis, I loathe driving in the snow - the constant state of panic about what my car - and the hundreds of cars around me - are going to do at any given second.
I know the "rules" about driving in snow, but it doesn't make it any better. With Woodstock in the car, everything gets ratcheted up times ten.
Tuesday, with blowing snow and ice-coated streets, wasn't any different, unless possibly, given the uncleared lane, it was worse. I made the hard right onto the on-ramp, in low gear, going 10 mph. Just enough to make the turn. Immediately, before the car had time to recover from the turn or figure out what was going on, I hit a solid sheet of ice. I quickly assessed the situation and decided at all costs, that I had to keep the car from sliding into the guard rail and potentially into traffic. I steered into the skid, did what I could ... and slid, nearly head-on, into a wall - 270 degrees from the direction in which I had been facing when I began.
CRUNCH. The fleeting feeling of helplessness and tension filled my body as the wall approached. I tried to keep one eye on the wall and one on the cars behind me - would they hit the same patch of ice? The one that slid a little, would it hit me broadside, as I was now perpendicular across the on-ramp? I counted my breaths to keep the rising agony at bay. Woodstock was on the side of the car that would be hit by any oncoming traffic, should they not be able to navigate their way around me.
I've never been in an accident while driving before, and I was in no mood to figure out what to do about it now. The first thing I had to do, damage to my front end be damned, was to get Woodstock out of harm's way. Except, that meant backing up, toward the downward slope and traffic and the guardrail, over the same sheet of ice that had put me in this predicament to begin with. I wanted to close my eyes as I put the car in reverse, but I figured that would only make matters worse. Truly making matters worse was the blind turn that cars entering the interstate had to make from the road to the on-ramp - and I was right in their path.
What felt like minutes, but was in fact only seconds, later, I was facing the right direction. I drove a little ways down the on-ramp until the shoulder widened to where I felt minimally safer pulling over and letting my breath out. At least Woodstock was out of the direct-impact zone. I dialed Himself.
Of course, he was concerned about our safety, but the next sentence was, "which car did you take?" I replied, "the Acura, of course." Of course, because I've only ever managed to damage the nicer of whatever two cars we've owned.
Still afraid to risk life, limb and tailbone (the shoulder was ice, however), to see the damage, I continued on my way, dropping Woodstock off, then making it (half-an-hour late) to the office. When I finally stepped out to examine the damage, I was perplexed.
While I was only going 10 mph when I went into the skid, I was a moving object that came to rest upon impact with a standing object, which would necessarily require that the object with the lesser mass (the car) would suffer impact damage. (I did learn something in physics, which I figured was pretty much impossible).
What I saw however, could not be. The license plate was crumpled almost beyond recognition. The license plate holder looked rather forlorn. The bumper had popped a couple of pins, and ... nothing else. To be certain, the front end was covered in snow, but even when I half-heartedly (not really wanting to see any damage) brushed it away, I could find no other evidence of having hit a concrete wall at a 75-degree angle.
Later, I took the car into the mechanic to get a good once-over - completely certain that there had to be more damage - the radiator, the air conditioning unit - something in the front that must have certainly cracked or jarred loose on impact.
The service tech came to find me.
"So you really hit a wall, huh?"
"Yes."
He went on to explain that the license plate holder was damaged beyond repair - though they had hammered my license plate back into something resembling, well, a license plate rather than a crumpled ball of foil. There were some bumper pins that needed replacing and ... that was it. $40 of parts, they were waiving the labor (since I also needed an oil change, new windshield wipers and surprise! the tires that we hoped would be okay for another month were not, actually, okay).
I nearly hugged the tech. $40? I hit a wall and the worst outcome was a $40 debit from my checking account? (In reality, it was over $400 - tires, oil change and wipers were not, unfortunately free - but weren't on the "accident" tab).
I prayed on the way back to the office. I celebrated the miracle of life, of morning prayers uttered to "keep us safe and bless us as we drive," of the man upstairs who knew that just once, I needed something to go my way.
The car parked in my driveway now, waiting for our trek to the southern desert to visit family, is testament that miracles still happen.
Merry Christmas.
I know the "rules" about driving in snow, but it doesn't make it any better. With Woodstock in the car, everything gets ratcheted up times ten.
Tuesday, with blowing snow and ice-coated streets, wasn't any different, unless possibly, given the uncleared lane, it was worse. I made the hard right onto the on-ramp, in low gear, going 10 mph. Just enough to make the turn. Immediately, before the car had time to recover from the turn or figure out what was going on, I hit a solid sheet of ice. I quickly assessed the situation and decided at all costs, that I had to keep the car from sliding into the guard rail and potentially into traffic. I steered into the skid, did what I could ... and slid, nearly head-on, into a wall - 270 degrees from the direction in which I had been facing when I began.
CRUNCH. The fleeting feeling of helplessness and tension filled my body as the wall approached. I tried to keep one eye on the wall and one on the cars behind me - would they hit the same patch of ice? The one that slid a little, would it hit me broadside, as I was now perpendicular across the on-ramp? I counted my breaths to keep the rising agony at bay. Woodstock was on the side of the car that would be hit by any oncoming traffic, should they not be able to navigate their way around me.
I've never been in an accident while driving before, and I was in no mood to figure out what to do about it now. The first thing I had to do, damage to my front end be damned, was to get Woodstock out of harm's way. Except, that meant backing up, toward the downward slope and traffic and the guardrail, over the same sheet of ice that had put me in this predicament to begin with. I wanted to close my eyes as I put the car in reverse, but I figured that would only make matters worse. Truly making matters worse was the blind turn that cars entering the interstate had to make from the road to the on-ramp - and I was right in their path.
What felt like minutes, but was in fact only seconds, later, I was facing the right direction. I drove a little ways down the on-ramp until the shoulder widened to where I felt minimally safer pulling over and letting my breath out. At least Woodstock was out of the direct-impact zone. I dialed Himself.
Of course, he was concerned about our safety, but the next sentence was, "which car did you take?" I replied, "the Acura, of course." Of course, because I've only ever managed to damage the nicer of whatever two cars we've owned.
Still afraid to risk life, limb and tailbone (the shoulder was ice, however), to see the damage, I continued on my way, dropping Woodstock off, then making it (half-an-hour late) to the office. When I finally stepped out to examine the damage, I was perplexed.
While I was only going 10 mph when I went into the skid, I was a moving object that came to rest upon impact with a standing object, which would necessarily require that the object with the lesser mass (the car) would suffer impact damage. (I did learn something in physics, which I figured was pretty much impossible).
What I saw however, could not be. The license plate was crumpled almost beyond recognition. The license plate holder looked rather forlorn. The bumper had popped a couple of pins, and ... nothing else. To be certain, the front end was covered in snow, but even when I half-heartedly (not really wanting to see any damage) brushed it away, I could find no other evidence of having hit a concrete wall at a 75-degree angle.
Later, I took the car into the mechanic to get a good once-over - completely certain that there had to be more damage - the radiator, the air conditioning unit - something in the front that must have certainly cracked or jarred loose on impact.
The service tech came to find me.
"So you really hit a wall, huh?"
"Yes."
He went on to explain that the license plate holder was damaged beyond repair - though they had hammered my license plate back into something resembling, well, a license plate rather than a crumpled ball of foil. There were some bumper pins that needed replacing and ... that was it. $40 of parts, they were waiving the labor (since I also needed an oil change, new windshield wipers and surprise! the tires that we hoped would be okay for another month were not, actually, okay).
I nearly hugged the tech. $40? I hit a wall and the worst outcome was a $40 debit from my checking account? (In reality, it was over $400 - tires, oil change and wipers were not, unfortunately free - but weren't on the "accident" tab).
I prayed on the way back to the office. I celebrated the miracle of life, of morning prayers uttered to "keep us safe and bless us as we drive," of the man upstairs who knew that just once, I needed something to go my way.
The car parked in my driveway now, waiting for our trek to the southern desert to visit family, is testament that miracles still happen.
Merry Christmas.
Monday, December 22, 2008
The Greatest Among Us
Last night, Woodstock had her theatrical debut ... as a sheep in my mom's family's annual Christmas celebration. She obligingly said "baa baa" when asked what sound a sheep made, shortly after the angel (standing on the coffee table) proclaimed the birth of Jesus to the shepherds (several, dressed in cast off bathrobes), at which point she lost interest in the whole production and spent the remainder of the production happily "chatting" on a cousin's cellphone while obsessing over a book of Christmas carols.
There were 16 kids - ranging in age from 15 months (Woodstock) to 19 years, although the 19-year-old declined to participate in the pilgrimage across the living room - from the front door (representing the Far East) to the mantel (representing the stable). It was a happy cacophany of holiday-related sounds, caloric monstrosities (my pasta salad would make a weak heart give up) and chaotic children, happily amped up on adrenaline, sugar and anticipation over the next snowfall. In Woodstock's case, she was amped up over the juice she normally doesn't get and the fact that she was surrounded by kids - instantly transporting her to her very happy place.
In the midst of all of this craziness, however, came a quiet, special moment that brought the prick of tears to the corners of my eyes. I was snapping pictures right and left, trying to capture kids who didn't sit still in costumes either too large or too small for their frames, when out of the corner of my lense I spotted Mary (a cousin of a cousin - about 9 or 10), sitting next to Woodstock, baby "Jesus" cradled between them.
"Mary" gently laid the doll in Woodstock's lap, leaning over to shelter the renegade sheep and the baby from the chaoas that swirled around them. Woodstock's eyes lit up. "Baby!" she exclaimed, scooping up the doll and smothering it with love. Then Mary gently scooped up baby Jesus, scooted over to my 2-year-old cousin and repeated the same thing. Over and over, Mary went to each of the smaller children, bringing the baby Jesus to them to hold and to love. She spoke not a word. Each time, she silently shared her "son" with each child, letting them shower the doll with love.
In that moment, I thought about how Christ comes in mysterious ways to touch people's lives - stopping to rest in the hearts of those who will allow Him entrance. He shuts out the chaos from around us, He whispers to our souls, lights the eyes of those who revere Him. He doesn't forget those that are easily overlooked or forgotten among the chaotic holiday revelry, instead, showering those who seek Him with love and comfort and peace.
Last night, He touched us all through the innocence of a little girl, clad as Mary, sharing her child, the Son of God, with the smallest among us. Their eyes lit up as they cradled the baby Jesus and enveloped Him in love - their pure innocence shining out from bright eyes. In that moment, it wasn't a doll - it was a symbol of reverence and little ones, like the shepherds and wisemen of old, paid homage with an awe reserved only for children.
Mery Christmas, to all, I thought. And to all, the remembrance of how the greatest among us sometimes barely reach our knees.
There were 16 kids - ranging in age from 15 months (Woodstock) to 19 years, although the 19-year-old declined to participate in the pilgrimage across the living room - from the front door (representing the Far East) to the mantel (representing the stable). It was a happy cacophany of holiday-related sounds, caloric monstrosities (my pasta salad would make a weak heart give up) and chaotic children, happily amped up on adrenaline, sugar and anticipation over the next snowfall. In Woodstock's case, she was amped up over the juice she normally doesn't get and the fact that she was surrounded by kids - instantly transporting her to her very happy place.
In the midst of all of this craziness, however, came a quiet, special moment that brought the prick of tears to the corners of my eyes. I was snapping pictures right and left, trying to capture kids who didn't sit still in costumes either too large or too small for their frames, when out of the corner of my lense I spotted Mary (a cousin of a cousin - about 9 or 10), sitting next to Woodstock, baby "Jesus" cradled between them.
"Mary" gently laid the doll in Woodstock's lap, leaning over to shelter the renegade sheep and the baby from the chaoas that swirled around them. Woodstock's eyes lit up. "Baby!" she exclaimed, scooping up the doll and smothering it with love. Then Mary gently scooped up baby Jesus, scooted over to my 2-year-old cousin and repeated the same thing. Over and over, Mary went to each of the smaller children, bringing the baby Jesus to them to hold and to love. She spoke not a word. Each time, she silently shared her "son" with each child, letting them shower the doll with love.
In that moment, I thought about how Christ comes in mysterious ways to touch people's lives - stopping to rest in the hearts of those who will allow Him entrance. He shuts out the chaos from around us, He whispers to our souls, lights the eyes of those who revere Him. He doesn't forget those that are easily overlooked or forgotten among the chaotic holiday revelry, instead, showering those who seek Him with love and comfort and peace.
Last night, He touched us all through the innocence of a little girl, clad as Mary, sharing her child, the Son of God, with the smallest among us. Their eyes lit up as they cradled the baby Jesus and enveloped Him in love - their pure innocence shining out from bright eyes. In that moment, it wasn't a doll - it was a symbol of reverence and little ones, like the shepherds and wisemen of old, paid homage with an awe reserved only for children.
Mery Christmas, to all, I thought. And to all, the remembrance of how the greatest among us sometimes barely reach our knees.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Key Lime Sugar Cookies
This recipe was published inThe Washington Post in December 2005 - the year I made HUNDREDS of cookies for my 14 colleagues. Boxes of homemade, custom-wrapped cookies - from angel prints to butterscotch bars to pecan bites - the cookies of childhood Christmases. This recipe caught my eye, and I made it as the "new" addition. I've made it every Christmas since. It's worth the little extra work, trust me.
These tart, crisp cookies are great topped with lime-colored decorating sugar and can be dressed up with optional icing.
Makes 50 to 60 cookies
Ingredients:
For the cookies
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon corn oil or other flavorless vegetable oil
1 tablespoon regular lime zest or Key lime , plus 1 teaspoon finely grated
6 tablespoons fresh or bottled Key lime juice
1 3/4 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
Pinch salt
2/3 cup sugar
7 tablespoons unsalted butter, slightly softened and cut into chunks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon lemon extract or 1 teaspoon lime flavoring oil, such as Boyajian
1 tablespoon water
3 tablespoons lime-color decorating (crystal) sugar
For the icing
1 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
2 1/2 to 3 tablespoons fresh or bottled Key lime juice
1 to 2 drop yellow food coloring (optional)
1 to 2 drop green food coloring (optional)
Directions:
For the cookies: In a small bowl, combine the oil and lime zest. Let stand, covered, for at least 30 minutes and up to several hours.
Meanwhile, in a small nonreactive saucepan over medium heat, heat the lime juice until reduced to 2 1/2 tablespoons. Let cool to room temperature.
In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Set aside.
Using a stand mixer on medium speed, beat together the oil-lime zest mixture and the sugar until well blended. Add the butter, beating until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Beat in the reduced lime juice, the vanilla extract and the lemon extract or lime flavoring oil until well blended and smooth. Reduce speed to low and gradually beat or stir in the flour mixture to form a smooth dough. If the dough seems soft, let stand for 5 minutes to firm up slightly. If it seems dry, stir in up to 1 tablespoon water.
Divide the dough in half. Roll out each portion between sheets of parchment paper or wax paper to a scant 1/4-inch thickness. Occasionally check the underside of the dough and smooth out any wrinkles. Stack the rolled portions (paper still attached) on a baking sheet. Refrigerate for about 30 minutes or freeze for about 15 minutes, or until cold.
Position a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease several baking sheets or coat lightly with nonstick spray oil.
Working with one portion of dough at a time and keeping the rest refrigerated, gently peel off the top sheet of paper, then pat loosely back into place so it will be easy to remove later. Invert the dough and peel off the second sheet. Using a 2 1/4-inch-round cutter, cut out the cookies, then cut each round in half with a sharp knife. If at any point the dough softens too much to handle easily, transfer the paper and cookies to a baking sheet and refrigerate or freeze until firm. Using a spatula, transfer the cookies to the baking sheets, spacing them about 1 inch apart. Re-roll any dough scraps and continue cutting out the cookies until all the dough is used. Generously sprinkle the cookie tops with the decorating sugar.
Bake one sheet at a time for 7 to 11 minutes, or until the cookies just begin to brown at the edges. If necessary, reverse the sheet from front to back halfway through baking to ensure even browning. Using a wide spatula, immediately transfer the cookies to a wire rack. Let cool completely. Top with icing, if desired.
For the icing (optional): In a small bowl, stir together the confectioners' sugar and 2 1/2 tablespoons lime juice until smooth. Add the yellow and green food coloring, if desired. If necessary, add more sugar or juice to yield a piping consistency (stiff enough to hold its shape but soft enough to pipe through a fine tip). Place the icing in a paper decorating cone or pastry bag fitted with a fine writing tip. Space the cookies slightly apart on a rack set over parchment paper or wax paper. To suggest lime slices, pipe a thin line around the perimeter of each cookie, then add "segments" by piping a dot in the center and 7 thin spokes radiating out from the dot to the perimeter. Let stand until the icing sets, at least 30 minutes.
Store cookies in airtight containers at room temperature for up to 2 weeks. May be frozen for up to 2 months.
Recipe Source:
Adapted from "The All-American Dessert Book," by Nancy Baggett (Houghton Mifflin, 2005).
These tart, crisp cookies are great topped with lime-colored decorating sugar and can be dressed up with optional icing.
Makes 50 to 60 cookies
Ingredients:
For the cookies
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon corn oil or other flavorless vegetable oil
1 tablespoon regular lime zest or Key lime , plus 1 teaspoon finely grated
6 tablespoons fresh or bottled Key lime juice
1 3/4 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
Pinch salt
2/3 cup sugar
7 tablespoons unsalted butter, slightly softened and cut into chunks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon lemon extract or 1 teaspoon lime flavoring oil, such as Boyajian
1 tablespoon water
3 tablespoons lime-color decorating (crystal) sugar
For the icing
1 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
2 1/2 to 3 tablespoons fresh or bottled Key lime juice
1 to 2 drop yellow food coloring (optional)
1 to 2 drop green food coloring (optional)
Directions:
For the cookies: In a small bowl, combine the oil and lime zest. Let stand, covered, for at least 30 minutes and up to several hours.
Meanwhile, in a small nonreactive saucepan over medium heat, heat the lime juice until reduced to 2 1/2 tablespoons. Let cool to room temperature.
In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Set aside.
Using a stand mixer on medium speed, beat together the oil-lime zest mixture and the sugar until well blended. Add the butter, beating until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Beat in the reduced lime juice, the vanilla extract and the lemon extract or lime flavoring oil until well blended and smooth. Reduce speed to low and gradually beat or stir in the flour mixture to form a smooth dough. If the dough seems soft, let stand for 5 minutes to firm up slightly. If it seems dry, stir in up to 1 tablespoon water.
Divide the dough in half. Roll out each portion between sheets of parchment paper or wax paper to a scant 1/4-inch thickness. Occasionally check the underside of the dough and smooth out any wrinkles. Stack the rolled portions (paper still attached) on a baking sheet. Refrigerate for about 30 minutes or freeze for about 15 minutes, or until cold.
Position a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease several baking sheets or coat lightly with nonstick spray oil.
Working with one portion of dough at a time and keeping the rest refrigerated, gently peel off the top sheet of paper, then pat loosely back into place so it will be easy to remove later. Invert the dough and peel off the second sheet. Using a 2 1/4-inch-round cutter, cut out the cookies, then cut each round in half with a sharp knife. If at any point the dough softens too much to handle easily, transfer the paper and cookies to a baking sheet and refrigerate or freeze until firm. Using a spatula, transfer the cookies to the baking sheets, spacing them about 1 inch apart. Re-roll any dough scraps and continue cutting out the cookies until all the dough is used. Generously sprinkle the cookie tops with the decorating sugar.
Bake one sheet at a time for 7 to 11 minutes, or until the cookies just begin to brown at the edges. If necessary, reverse the sheet from front to back halfway through baking to ensure even browning. Using a wide spatula, immediately transfer the cookies to a wire rack. Let cool completely. Top with icing, if desired.
For the icing (optional): In a small bowl, stir together the confectioners' sugar and 2 1/2 tablespoons lime juice until smooth. Add the yellow and green food coloring, if desired. If necessary, add more sugar or juice to yield a piping consistency (stiff enough to hold its shape but soft enough to pipe through a fine tip). Place the icing in a paper decorating cone or pastry bag fitted with a fine writing tip. Space the cookies slightly apart on a rack set over parchment paper or wax paper. To suggest lime slices, pipe a thin line around the perimeter of each cookie, then add "segments" by piping a dot in the center and 7 thin spokes radiating out from the dot to the perimeter. Let stand until the icing sets, at least 30 minutes.
Store cookies in airtight containers at room temperature for up to 2 weeks. May be frozen for up to 2 months.
Recipe Source:
Adapted from "The All-American Dessert Book," by Nancy Baggett (Houghton Mifflin, 2005).
Thursday, December 18, 2008
I AM NOT BUSY!
If one more person tells me they are not coming by this month (the monthly church visitors included), not calling me to make a meal for a neighbor or not inviting me to do something because "It's the holidays, and I know how stressed and busy you are...." I might just have to stop biting my tongue.
I am not stressed in the least about the holidays this year, and I am certainly not busy. On top of that, I'd like to make my own decisions - if I sign up to bring someone food, it's because I think I can handle it. If not, I will tell you. It's one of the best things I learned from my 9-month anxiety/depression saga after Woodstock's birth. I've stopped feeling guilty about some things. Right? Wrong? Doesn't matter - I haven't had a panic attack in months.
Do I get everything accomplished every day? No. Do I have laundry sorted in the basement but not washed? Laundry washed but not put away entirely? A bathroom that needs cleaning? Picking up after Woodstock to do? Of course. It doesn't mean I'm too busy. At the moment, what it means is that I've a)completely lost the desire to do it that day b) have chosen to spend time with people rather than things c)I didn't sleep well (that would have been yesterday's excuse) or d) have totally mis-prioritized, in which case it is my fault I'm insane, not yours.
Since I've opted to DRASTICALLY simplify my life this season, I'm not busy. Instead, I'm enjoying myself (as long as I don't look too closely at the clutter that needs sorting). Don't get me wrong - I like staying home in the evenings, snuggling with Woodstock and, occasionally, Himself (who doesn't like to snuggle so much). I am just irritated.
Now, if that person herself (or himself) is busy, fine. I can understand that. Been there. Done that. Trying to reform. But rather than using me as an excuse, just let me know what's going on. "I'm so busy/stressed/over committed this holiday, do you mind if I skip December?" I would likely say, "Nope. Anything I can do to help you out?" And for crying out loud, don't tell me you're doing something, but not going to invite me because "I know how busy you are." That just says "I'm doing X, but you're not invited, and I want you to know that." And that is just rude.
Don't tell me you're saving me from myself. Let me decide that all on my own.
And ... if you want to bake cookies on Saturday ... well, I'm baking and I'd rather not eat them all myself.
I am not stressed in the least about the holidays this year, and I am certainly not busy. On top of that, I'd like to make my own decisions - if I sign up to bring someone food, it's because I think I can handle it. If not, I will tell you. It's one of the best things I learned from my 9-month anxiety/depression saga after Woodstock's birth. I've stopped feeling guilty about some things. Right? Wrong? Doesn't matter - I haven't had a panic attack in months.
Do I get everything accomplished every day? No. Do I have laundry sorted in the basement but not washed? Laundry washed but not put away entirely? A bathroom that needs cleaning? Picking up after Woodstock to do? Of course. It doesn't mean I'm too busy. At the moment, what it means is that I've a)completely lost the desire to do it that day b) have chosen to spend time with people rather than things c)I didn't sleep well (that would have been yesterday's excuse) or d) have totally mis-prioritized, in which case it is my fault I'm insane, not yours.
Since I've opted to DRASTICALLY simplify my life this season, I'm not busy. Instead, I'm enjoying myself (as long as I don't look too closely at the clutter that needs sorting). Don't get me wrong - I like staying home in the evenings, snuggling with Woodstock and, occasionally, Himself (who doesn't like to snuggle so much). I am just irritated.
Now, if that person herself (or himself) is busy, fine. I can understand that. Been there. Done that. Trying to reform. But rather than using me as an excuse, just let me know what's going on. "I'm so busy/stressed/over committed this holiday, do you mind if I skip December?" I would likely say, "Nope. Anything I can do to help you out?" And for crying out loud, don't tell me you're doing something, but not going to invite me because "I know how busy you are." That just says "I'm doing X, but you're not invited, and I want you to know that." And that is just rude.
Don't tell me you're saving me from myself. Let me decide that all on my own.
And ... if you want to bake cookies on Saturday ... well, I'm baking and I'd rather not eat them all myself.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
$500 in Free Travel, Anyone?
Each Life That Touches Ours For Good
There are times when people make such an enormous impact in one's life and yet often go about their own lives none the wiser. One of these was a guy at college. I only remember his first name. I'm not sure I could pick him out of a lineup (I certainly wouldn't recognize him now). I don't know where he was from, what he majored in, how old he was. I only know that he brightened my day every Monday, Wednesday and Friday the first semester of freshman year.
Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday that semester, I walked from my off-campus apartment across the street to the religion building and turned right to head onto the main campus quad. Each time, as I got ready to round the religion building, he would be coming the other direction. Every single time he would say, "Hi Sara!"
It got to the point where I looked forward to our paths crossing every other day. The university had three times the number of people enrolled as my hometown had residents at the time. What made the difference wasn't the greeting - lots of people said hello. Even complete strangers. Rather, what made an impact so strong I still remember it, was that every time we crossed paths that semester, he greeted me by name and acted happy to see me. What surprised me, was that he had taken enough interest to learn my name - and to use it.
Those small encounters changed my entire outlook. It created a point in my day to which I looked forward. We never had a conversation. I don't know where his life took him. I would guess, he probably doesn't remember me. Certainly, he has no idea that his simple action made such a profound impact on me that it changed my life. A small change, to be sure, but big enough to realize that I, as a person, mattered in the great universe of strangers; big enough to realize the power of one's name.
From that semester on, I have striven to pay forward the little bit of sunshine a neighbor brought into my life that fall, by letting people know, in some small way, that they matter - and I notice.
Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday that semester, I walked from my off-campus apartment across the street to the religion building and turned right to head onto the main campus quad. Each time, as I got ready to round the religion building, he would be coming the other direction. Every single time he would say, "Hi Sara!"
It got to the point where I looked forward to our paths crossing every other day. The university had three times the number of people enrolled as my hometown had residents at the time. What made the difference wasn't the greeting - lots of people said hello. Even complete strangers. Rather, what made an impact so strong I still remember it, was that every time we crossed paths that semester, he greeted me by name and acted happy to see me. What surprised me, was that he had taken enough interest to learn my name - and to use it.
Those small encounters changed my entire outlook. It created a point in my day to which I looked forward. We never had a conversation. I don't know where his life took him. I would guess, he probably doesn't remember me. Certainly, he has no idea that his simple action made such a profound impact on me that it changed my life. A small change, to be sure, but big enough to realize that I, as a person, mattered in the great universe of strangers; big enough to realize the power of one's name.
From that semester on, I have striven to pay forward the little bit of sunshine a neighbor brought into my life that fall, by letting people know, in some small way, that they matter - and I notice.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Winter
I had one of those decreasingly rare mornings this morning where I was wide awake at oh-dark-hundred, and opted to use it to be productive.
I scrubbed the guest bathroom, I picked up all of Woodstock's toys upstairs. I did the dishes. I scrubbed the kitchen. I started a pot of beans and peppers and onions, which tonight will become homemade refried beans. I took out the trash, then lugged both the trashcan and the recycling can to the curb for Tuesday pick up.
Then, I scraped the ice off my driveway. It snowed heavily on Saturday and half melted on Sunday, leaving sheets of ice on the driveway that, if not removed by a shovel and then treated with the (envronmentally and cement friendly) ice melt, would last until spring.
I cajoled Himself into doing it yesterday morning, but rather than using the shovel to scrape off the ice, he poured half a bucket of (EXPENSIVE) ice melt on the driveway. Since it didn't actually warm up enough to melt anything yesterday, the ice still lingered this morning.
So, dressed in my polar fleece pants, my long underwear, boots, gloves and waterproof coat, I went out to engage in the only form of physical exercise I'll probably see this month.
I scraped and shoveled and cleaned the entire driveway down. The wet, bare cement glimmered under the red and green motion-sensor lights the neighbor installed. I mentally congratulated myself for starting my week out so well.
And the snow began to fall.
I didn't worry, I had just watched the weather - they promised a mere 1" would graze the valley - just enough to make traffic a bit of a mess. Apparently, either the weatherman predicting the storm didn't actually look outside or it was a cruel trick, because an hour later, when I went to leave the house, the freshy cleaned (and free of ice!) driveway was covered in 4" of snow (which has now become more than 6"), with big, fluffy flakes continuing to fall.
Whether it was because the forecast was off by several inches or because the plow drivers overslept, not a single road during the first 8 miles of my morning commute was either plowed or treated. It might be understandable (although irritating) if I lived on a small street. I do not. I live on a decent-sized secondary street, full of traffic during normal commuting hours. The remaining unplowed streets to work included a 7-lane major east-west thoroghfare and an interstate. Not exactly "little" roads.
No fewer than FOUR snow plows passed me on my way up the long hill at the end of the street leading to the interstate - plows UP. No fewer than three cars spun out in the middle of the unplowed road, necessitating that the cars behind them had to meander into oncoming traffic to get around them. Even the typically ridiculously over-confident 4-wheel drive drivers were creeping along at 15 mph.
There were several near misses as I inched up the hill and along the bench. In the backseat, Woodstock wailed for her "wawy" (water). Failing to produce requested beverage, she began crying for milk. Failing that, she started to sob great hysterical sobs, pleading for her "binty" (binky). In my haste to depart the house, I had forgotten the requisite sippy cup of water which is a routine part of our morning commute together. Woodstock wasn't terribly forgiving. Consequently, I was having a hard time concentrating on driving.
As the snow continued to fall, the roads got worse and the traffic grew more conjested, I tried to drown out the sobbing child in the backseat, focusing instead on the cars in front of me and the road below my tires.
We made it, turning a 9-mile drive into more than an hour's extravaganza of frayed nerves, wailing, slick spots, black ice, and slush up to the undercarriage.
I won't hate you if you pray for snow, but I can assure you, I won't be joining in. In fact, I will be pleading with the powers-that-be for a light winter that only happens on the weekends. Snow is fine if it doesn't require me leaving the house and driving in it - especially DURING the snowfall and especially during either end of my commute. Especially with Woodstock. And especially after I'd spent an hour clearing the driveway BEFORE the snow fell.
I'm just saying ... if you pray for snow, please don't share it.
I scrubbed the guest bathroom, I picked up all of Woodstock's toys upstairs. I did the dishes. I scrubbed the kitchen. I started a pot of beans and peppers and onions, which tonight will become homemade refried beans. I took out the trash, then lugged both the trashcan and the recycling can to the curb for Tuesday pick up.
Then, I scraped the ice off my driveway. It snowed heavily on Saturday and half melted on Sunday, leaving sheets of ice on the driveway that, if not removed by a shovel and then treated with the (envronmentally and cement friendly) ice melt, would last until spring.
I cajoled Himself into doing it yesterday morning, but rather than using the shovel to scrape off the ice, he poured half a bucket of (EXPENSIVE) ice melt on the driveway. Since it didn't actually warm up enough to melt anything yesterday, the ice still lingered this morning.
So, dressed in my polar fleece pants, my long underwear, boots, gloves and waterproof coat, I went out to engage in the only form of physical exercise I'll probably see this month.
I scraped and shoveled and cleaned the entire driveway down. The wet, bare cement glimmered under the red and green motion-sensor lights the neighbor installed. I mentally congratulated myself for starting my week out so well.
And the snow began to fall.
I didn't worry, I had just watched the weather - they promised a mere 1" would graze the valley - just enough to make traffic a bit of a mess. Apparently, either the weatherman predicting the storm didn't actually look outside or it was a cruel trick, because an hour later, when I went to leave the house, the freshy cleaned (and free of ice!) driveway was covered in 4" of snow (which has now become more than 6"), with big, fluffy flakes continuing to fall.
Whether it was because the forecast was off by several inches or because the plow drivers overslept, not a single road during the first 8 miles of my morning commute was either plowed or treated. It might be understandable (although irritating) if I lived on a small street. I do not. I live on a decent-sized secondary street, full of traffic during normal commuting hours. The remaining unplowed streets to work included a 7-lane major east-west thoroghfare and an interstate. Not exactly "little" roads.
No fewer than FOUR snow plows passed me on my way up the long hill at the end of the street leading to the interstate - plows UP. No fewer than three cars spun out in the middle of the unplowed road, necessitating that the cars behind them had to meander into oncoming traffic to get around them. Even the typically ridiculously over-confident 4-wheel drive drivers were creeping along at 15 mph.
There were several near misses as I inched up the hill and along the bench. In the backseat, Woodstock wailed for her "wawy" (water). Failing to produce requested beverage, she began crying for milk. Failing that, she started to sob great hysterical sobs, pleading for her "binty" (binky). In my haste to depart the house, I had forgotten the requisite sippy cup of water which is a routine part of our morning commute together. Woodstock wasn't terribly forgiving. Consequently, I was having a hard time concentrating on driving.
As the snow continued to fall, the roads got worse and the traffic grew more conjested, I tried to drown out the sobbing child in the backseat, focusing instead on the cars in front of me and the road below my tires.
We made it, turning a 9-mile drive into more than an hour's extravaganza of frayed nerves, wailing, slick spots, black ice, and slush up to the undercarriage.
I won't hate you if you pray for snow, but I can assure you, I won't be joining in. In fact, I will be pleading with the powers-that-be for a light winter that only happens on the weekends. Snow is fine if it doesn't require me leaving the house and driving in it - especially DURING the snowfall and especially during either end of my commute. Especially with Woodstock. And especially after I'd spent an hour clearing the driveway BEFORE the snow fell.
I'm just saying ... if you pray for snow, please don't share it.
Monday, December 15, 2008
A Novel Disaster
I was accosted in Costco on Friday by a husband-and-wife author team who were there promoting and signing their new book.
I doubt there is anyone on the planet who enjoys reading more than I do. I doubt there is anyone that gets as much pleasure out of buying a new book, during the too-often-times when heading to my local bookstore is cheaper than paying my library fines.
However, I don't like being pressured into buying anything. In fact, many times I don't take the samples because I don't want to feel obligated to purchase the item which I just sampled. Especially when I'm on a tight timetable and on a strict list (on which I MUST operate in Costco, for fear of going bankrupt). Except I was supposed to be meeting Himself in the book section at Costco and he was late. I didn't dare wander off, so I was virtually held hostage by a set of over-eager authors wielding Sharpies at a card table. And, well, it's fun to meet the authors of books - it gives you a little insight to what might be going on between the covers of the books they wrote.
They gave me the run-down about the book. They read me the reviews (odd, yes? If I'm buying a book, I can probably actually read the reviews myself) and talked about how it was their first work of fiction.
I gave in. The book was $9. The cover looked like something my mom might be interested in. I had it autographed for her and continued to sit in the book section, burying my nose in a coffee table book about something so benign I don't remember the subject matter.
Because I can't pass up the opportunity to read a new book, even if it is supposed to be a gift for my mother, I began reading it that night before bed.
It was TERRIBLE. Awful. Worse than anything I've read in a long, long time (possibly ever). Bad enough I'm not sure I can in good conscience give it to my mother. (Not to mention, the subject matter, a fictional story on dealing with in-law relationships, is not exactly something my mom is probably interested in - given that her in-laws are dead).
I'm not sure what to do. I can't re-sell it or donate it. I had it autographed for crying out loud. I can't keep it. It isn't autographed to me. Do I give it to my mother anyway and admit that I read it, it's terrible and I'm sorry for letting someone push me into making a purchasing decision that affected her? Even if it was only $9?
Is it bad to throw away a brand-new, perfectly good (as in "good shape" not as in "good good") book?
Yes, it really is bad enough that I am considering something that is tantamount to a cardinal sin in my home - throwing a brand-new something away.
At the moment, I've done nothing. The book is still residing on my night stand. The guilt is killing me.
I doubt there is anyone on the planet who enjoys reading more than I do. I doubt there is anyone that gets as much pleasure out of buying a new book, during the too-often-times when heading to my local bookstore is cheaper than paying my library fines.
However, I don't like being pressured into buying anything. In fact, many times I don't take the samples because I don't want to feel obligated to purchase the item which I just sampled. Especially when I'm on a tight timetable and on a strict list (on which I MUST operate in Costco, for fear of going bankrupt). Except I was supposed to be meeting Himself in the book section at Costco and he was late. I didn't dare wander off, so I was virtually held hostage by a set of over-eager authors wielding Sharpies at a card table. And, well, it's fun to meet the authors of books - it gives you a little insight to what might be going on between the covers of the books they wrote.
They gave me the run-down about the book. They read me the reviews (odd, yes? If I'm buying a book, I can probably actually read the reviews myself) and talked about how it was their first work of fiction.
I gave in. The book was $9. The cover looked like something my mom might be interested in. I had it autographed for her and continued to sit in the book section, burying my nose in a coffee table book about something so benign I don't remember the subject matter.
Because I can't pass up the opportunity to read a new book, even if it is supposed to be a gift for my mother, I began reading it that night before bed.
It was TERRIBLE. Awful. Worse than anything I've read in a long, long time (possibly ever). Bad enough I'm not sure I can in good conscience give it to my mother. (Not to mention, the subject matter, a fictional story on dealing with in-law relationships, is not exactly something my mom is probably interested in - given that her in-laws are dead).
I'm not sure what to do. I can't re-sell it or donate it. I had it autographed for crying out loud. I can't keep it. It isn't autographed to me. Do I give it to my mother anyway and admit that I read it, it's terrible and I'm sorry for letting someone push me into making a purchasing decision that affected her? Even if it was only $9?
Is it bad to throw away a brand-new, perfectly good (as in "good shape" not as in "good good") book?
Yes, it really is bad enough that I am considering something that is tantamount to a cardinal sin in my home - throwing a brand-new something away.
At the moment, I've done nothing. The book is still residing on my night stand. The guilt is killing me.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Forecast: Winter
One ergonomically correct snow shovel: $19.99
One extra-large container chemical-free, safe-for-pets-irrigation-ditches-and-small-children ice melter: $12.99
Two large containers of windshield wiper fluid - one for each car - to clean off all the sludge left over from the winter snow storms: $5.98
Realizing winter is here to stay: PAINFUL.
One extra-large container chemical-free, safe-for-pets-irrigation-ditches-and-small-children ice melter: $12.99
Two large containers of windshield wiper fluid - one for each car - to clean off all the sludge left over from the winter snow storms: $5.98
Realizing winter is here to stay: PAINFUL.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
One Dairy Cow, To Go Please
For the first 18 weeks I was pregnant, I ate virtually nothing that wasn't in the form of a grilled cheese sandwich or a fruit smoothie.
And I am not exaggerating. If it had cheese on it, or could be consumed with a straw, I could probably get it to go down and stay down, but otherwise all bets were off. As the pregnancy progressed, I realized my lactose intolerance had disappeared (unfortunately, it came back 6 weeks post partum), and I consumed dairy products like crazy - usually mixed with some vegetable fiber and sucked through a straw (for good measure).
As a result, I endured a lot of teasing about Woodstock entering this world with a taste for cheese and fruit only.
If I had only known...
Woodstock is (or was, until recently) actually a very good eater - and the more complex the flavor of the dish (ie enchiladas, curries, etc.), the more she seems to enjoy it. However, if anyone was to interview her at this point on her favorite foods, she would reply:
-Cheese - particularly medium or cheddar, but she (like her parents) isn't terribly picky when it comes to cheese kinds - as long as it looks like cheese. String cheese also works. Pasta is fine - if it has cheese on it. As is chili.
-Yogurt - in any shape, form, flavor or type
-Eggs - especially with cheese
-Peaches, apricots, nectarines and WHOLE apples (yes, whole - even with a grand total of 6 2/3 teeth in front).
Honestly, the egg thing does NOT come from me. Although, given the fact that Himself and Woodstock love eggs more than any other breakfast food, I've eaten more eggs in the past six months than I have in the remaining 29.5 years put together.
Still, Woodstock's obsession with dairy borders on, well, obsession. Each time we open the refrigerator, she will dance over, arms outstretched and chant, "yo yo yo" (yogurt) or "cheeeeeesseeee." A casual passer-by would wonder if she had been fed in the last month. I assure you, it's all a ruse.
And milk? She'd happily slurp her calories through anything containing a sillicone spout/straw, if we'd let her. Funny, that sounds a bit familiar.
Himself says it's all my fault. Next pregnancy I'll be sure to eat only veggies.
Still, I wonder if our backyard is zoned for cows?
And I am not exaggerating. If it had cheese on it, or could be consumed with a straw, I could probably get it to go down and stay down, but otherwise all bets were off. As the pregnancy progressed, I realized my lactose intolerance had disappeared (unfortunately, it came back 6 weeks post partum), and I consumed dairy products like crazy - usually mixed with some vegetable fiber and sucked through a straw (for good measure).
As a result, I endured a lot of teasing about Woodstock entering this world with a taste for cheese and fruit only.
If I had only known...
Woodstock is (or was, until recently) actually a very good eater - and the more complex the flavor of the dish (ie enchiladas, curries, etc.), the more she seems to enjoy it. However, if anyone was to interview her at this point on her favorite foods, she would reply:
-Cheese - particularly medium or cheddar, but she (like her parents) isn't terribly picky when it comes to cheese kinds - as long as it looks like cheese. String cheese also works. Pasta is fine - if it has cheese on it. As is chili.
-Yogurt - in any shape, form, flavor or type
-Eggs - especially with cheese
-Peaches, apricots, nectarines and WHOLE apples (yes, whole - even with a grand total of 6 2/3 teeth in front).
Honestly, the egg thing does NOT come from me. Although, given the fact that Himself and Woodstock love eggs more than any other breakfast food, I've eaten more eggs in the past six months than I have in the remaining 29.5 years put together.
Still, Woodstock's obsession with dairy borders on, well, obsession. Each time we open the refrigerator, she will dance over, arms outstretched and chant, "yo yo yo" (yogurt) or "cheeeeeesseeee." A casual passer-by would wonder if she had been fed in the last month. I assure you, it's all a ruse.
And milk? She'd happily slurp her calories through anything containing a sillicone spout/straw, if we'd let her. Funny, that sounds a bit familiar.
Himself says it's all my fault. Next pregnancy I'll be sure to eat only veggies.
Still, I wonder if our backyard is zoned for cows?
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
A Tale of Two Christmases
Two years ago, I was buried in gourmet gift baskets from clients, vendors and the like. We gorged ourselves on Mrs. Fields cookies, smoked salmon, artisan cheeses, pate, crackers, Godiva chocolates and the 50 other lesser items sent in the name of corporate holiday popularity contests.
We celebrated the holiday by cramming hundreds of employees - and their spouses or dates that you met once a year - into an anonymous hotel ballroom with anonymous hotel food, wilting under heat lamps well into the night. The significant others were bored by the end of the first drink. The departments stuck together - trading work stories and past holiday stories (remember the one when...?) and trying to feel festive.
My department got half our annual bonus at Christmastime - calculated based on a portion of our salary. Expected, as long as the company did well and I did my job. It was a nice chunk of money during the holidays. Two years ago, Himself and I used a portion of it to buy Christmas for each other for the first married Christmas we'd spent together sans family. Both of us went a little overboard - hard not to, when the festivities included just the two of us.
Fast forward two years.
This year, we're dining on snippets of goodies employees are making for their neighbors or friends - rather like the taste test panel major food manufacturers use (minus the scientific background). A small, but steady, stream of festive goodies - just enough to satisfy, but hardly enough to qualify for gluttony.
Last night, The Office took everyone (and their spouses) - a total of 8 people - to one of the nicest restaurants downtown for our Christmas celebration. We dined on lovely food, prepared fresh and served in a private room. Himself was the only spouse no one else had met - as The Office frequently has events or opportunities for our small "work family" to gather together. Talk was not of work, but of sports (particularly the upcoming Sugar Bowl), politics, business, economics and topics in which everyone could participate.
We left the dinner, each of us with a slim, beautifully wrapped package. Never one for patience, I opened mine as I waited for the left-turn arrow to get on the interstate. I pulled out a gift card. I opened the envelope in which it was enclosed and gasped.
On my way home, I couldn't stop comparing the two Christmases. One was at tail end of several years of lavish spending, corporate growth and a season of "keeping up with the Jonses." One came at the beginning of what appears to be one of the worst economic seasons in decades - a time of cutting back, appreciating what one has and daily bouts of bad news. Yet, last night - this whole season - has been far more enjoyable. Everything tastes better, feels better, seems more peaceful. Appreciation over expectation.
Two years ago, the bonus check I received was just that - a bonus. Yet, it was one I expected, planned for, mentally spent before it was even in my hand. It was a solid 4-figure check. Last night's gift card was nowhere near 4 figures. In fact, it was less than 10% of my bonus check 2 years ago. Yet it was staggering in its sum - because it was a gift. Unexpected. Certainly generous and deeply appreciated.
This year, corporate carousing and novel-length gift lists may be a thing of the past (if only temporarily), and I can't help but think it's a good thing. How much better it feels to savor life one unexpected bit at a time. How much sweeter the smaller amount when it is given with appreciation rather than expectation.
Sometimes, reminders come in the strangest ways.
We celebrated the holiday by cramming hundreds of employees - and their spouses or dates that you met once a year - into an anonymous hotel ballroom with anonymous hotel food, wilting under heat lamps well into the night. The significant others were bored by the end of the first drink. The departments stuck together - trading work stories and past holiday stories (remember the one when...?) and trying to feel festive.
My department got half our annual bonus at Christmastime - calculated based on a portion of our salary. Expected, as long as the company did well and I did my job. It was a nice chunk of money during the holidays. Two years ago, Himself and I used a portion of it to buy Christmas for each other for the first married Christmas we'd spent together sans family. Both of us went a little overboard - hard not to, when the festivities included just the two of us.
Fast forward two years.
This year, we're dining on snippets of goodies employees are making for their neighbors or friends - rather like the taste test panel major food manufacturers use (minus the scientific background). A small, but steady, stream of festive goodies - just enough to satisfy, but hardly enough to qualify for gluttony.
Last night, The Office took everyone (and their spouses) - a total of 8 people - to one of the nicest restaurants downtown for our Christmas celebration. We dined on lovely food, prepared fresh and served in a private room. Himself was the only spouse no one else had met - as The Office frequently has events or opportunities for our small "work family" to gather together. Talk was not of work, but of sports (particularly the upcoming Sugar Bowl), politics, business, economics and topics in which everyone could participate.
We left the dinner, each of us with a slim, beautifully wrapped package. Never one for patience, I opened mine as I waited for the left-turn arrow to get on the interstate. I pulled out a gift card. I opened the envelope in which it was enclosed and gasped.
On my way home, I couldn't stop comparing the two Christmases. One was at tail end of several years of lavish spending, corporate growth and a season of "keeping up with the Jonses." One came at the beginning of what appears to be one of the worst economic seasons in decades - a time of cutting back, appreciating what one has and daily bouts of bad news. Yet, last night - this whole season - has been far more enjoyable. Everything tastes better, feels better, seems more peaceful. Appreciation over expectation.
Two years ago, the bonus check I received was just that - a bonus. Yet, it was one I expected, planned for, mentally spent before it was even in my hand. It was a solid 4-figure check. Last night's gift card was nowhere near 4 figures. In fact, it was less than 10% of my bonus check 2 years ago. Yet it was staggering in its sum - because it was a gift. Unexpected. Certainly generous and deeply appreciated.
This year, corporate carousing and novel-length gift lists may be a thing of the past (if only temporarily), and I can't help but think it's a good thing. How much better it feels to savor life one unexpected bit at a time. How much sweeter the smaller amount when it is given with appreciation rather than expectation.
Sometimes, reminders come in the strangest ways.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
One of Those Things You Only Handle Because You're a Parent
I have a mental list of things that I'd rather not have to deal with as a mother.
Number One on that list would be having a toddler throw up in her carseat.
Yesterday, on our way downtown for Woodstock's well baby visit, between exclamations of "nowy!" (snowy), Woodstock lost her lunch. There was a series of odd little sounds and then the smell - oh the smell - of something rotten and horrid crept into the front seat. I looked back and was greeted with Number One on my "List of Ridiculous Things I Never Want to Face."
To make matters worse (or better, depending on how you look at it), Woodstock recovered immediately. Which meant she spent the remaining 5 minutes of our drive happily smearing the smelly, vile mess all over anything she could reach.
There follows a rather long story about perching her on a blanket on the trunk in the parking lot, stripping her down (to avoid taking the, er, "chunks" into the doctor's office with us) and wrapping her in a blanket - to which she replied "brrr. cold!" over and over and over. And sitting at the doctor's, and then the quick cleanup and the torturous drive home, the putrid smell wafting up my nostrils. The odd sensation of the heater on full blast with the windows rolled down to rid (unsuccessfully) the interior spaces of the pungent reminder of earlier drama.
We arrived home to discover I neither had any idea where the carseat manual was safely tucked (so safe I'll never find it) nor how to remove the carseat cover. Suddenly, I realized why the reviews for this particular carseat began "if you get this, hope you never have to remove the cover to wash it." Which was almost exactly what I was thinking, standing in ankle-deep snow in my driveway, trying not to gag.
It turns out the manual isn't published online either. Nor were there any poor souls who had blogged about the experience in enough detail to help me. It appeared to require a screwdriver and at least an engineering degree (of which neither Himself nor I possess - not that Himself was home - he was at work) to even start. Frustrated, I dialed the customer relations line, where a recorded voice pleasantly reminded me they did not open until 7 a.m. Eastern time - 10 hours away.
Eventually, I kicked the carseat out of frustration and left it lying in a dejected heap on the dining room floor. I went to bed (after bathing and feeding Woodstock and doing two batches of "sick" laundry). The alarm went off at 5 a.m., and I bounded out of bed to reach the manufacturer. While not exactly sympathetic, they did e-mail me the manual, which told me, after describing the 42-step process to remove the cover, to LINE DRY it. Bah!
I put the cover on the speed/heavily soiled cycle, then, crossing my fingers, tossed it into the dryer on the dewrinkle/low heat cycle. I would either save myself 24 hours or ruin it to the point I'd need a new carseat cover. Given the stakes, I took the gamble.
One would think the hard part was done, but that would only be if one was dealing with something other than sadistic manufacturers who never actually have to USE the items they are manufacturing. The seat cover came out fine - more praises to my washer and dryer. However, it took Himself and I a full 90 minutes to put the carseat back together - only to discover we'd reattached the base wrong and had to re-do the last three steps.
I don't know about anyone else, but there is NEVER a 90-minute cushion in my morning routine. 15 minutes before I was supposed to show up in the office, I sent a message that read, "Carseat disaster. Will be 30-40 minutes late." I received the reply, "I'm not even going to ask." That is one smart person - given the fact that Himself was ready to begin swearing like the sailor he once was.
Eventually, long after I was supposed to have been at work, Himself and I braved the ankle-deep snow again to reinstall the carseat. While it took less time than the first installation, it definitely wouldn't be classified as "easy."
And the car still smells.
Today has to get better. It just must. I'm not giving the universe any other option.
Number One on that list would be having a toddler throw up in her carseat.
Yesterday, on our way downtown for Woodstock's well baby visit, between exclamations of "nowy!" (snowy), Woodstock lost her lunch. There was a series of odd little sounds and then the smell - oh the smell - of something rotten and horrid crept into the front seat. I looked back and was greeted with Number One on my "List of Ridiculous Things I Never Want to Face."
To make matters worse (or better, depending on how you look at it), Woodstock recovered immediately. Which meant she spent the remaining 5 minutes of our drive happily smearing the smelly, vile mess all over anything she could reach.
There follows a rather long story about perching her on a blanket on the trunk in the parking lot, stripping her down (to avoid taking the, er, "chunks" into the doctor's office with us) and wrapping her in a blanket - to which she replied "brrr. cold!" over and over and over. And sitting at the doctor's, and then the quick cleanup and the torturous drive home, the putrid smell wafting up my nostrils. The odd sensation of the heater on full blast with the windows rolled down to rid (unsuccessfully) the interior spaces of the pungent reminder of earlier drama.
We arrived home to discover I neither had any idea where the carseat manual was safely tucked (so safe I'll never find it) nor how to remove the carseat cover. Suddenly, I realized why the reviews for this particular carseat began "if you get this, hope you never have to remove the cover to wash it." Which was almost exactly what I was thinking, standing in ankle-deep snow in my driveway, trying not to gag.
It turns out the manual isn't published online either. Nor were there any poor souls who had blogged about the experience in enough detail to help me. It appeared to require a screwdriver and at least an engineering degree (of which neither Himself nor I possess - not that Himself was home - he was at work) to even start. Frustrated, I dialed the customer relations line, where a recorded voice pleasantly reminded me they did not open until 7 a.m. Eastern time - 10 hours away.
Eventually, I kicked the carseat out of frustration and left it lying in a dejected heap on the dining room floor. I went to bed (after bathing and feeding Woodstock and doing two batches of "sick" laundry). The alarm went off at 5 a.m., and I bounded out of bed to reach the manufacturer. While not exactly sympathetic, they did e-mail me the manual, which told me, after describing the 42-step process to remove the cover, to LINE DRY it. Bah!
I put the cover on the speed/heavily soiled cycle, then, crossing my fingers, tossed it into the dryer on the dewrinkle/low heat cycle. I would either save myself 24 hours or ruin it to the point I'd need a new carseat cover. Given the stakes, I took the gamble.
One would think the hard part was done, but that would only be if one was dealing with something other than sadistic manufacturers who never actually have to USE the items they are manufacturing. The seat cover came out fine - more praises to my washer and dryer. However, it took Himself and I a full 90 minutes to put the carseat back together - only to discover we'd reattached the base wrong and had to re-do the last three steps.
I don't know about anyone else, but there is NEVER a 90-minute cushion in my morning routine. 15 minutes before I was supposed to show up in the office, I sent a message that read, "Carseat disaster. Will be 30-40 minutes late." I received the reply, "I'm not even going to ask." That is one smart person - given the fact that Himself was ready to begin swearing like the sailor he once was.
Eventually, long after I was supposed to have been at work, Himself and I braved the ankle-deep snow again to reinstall the carseat. While it took less time than the first installation, it definitely wouldn't be classified as "easy."
And the car still smells.
Today has to get better. It just must. I'm not giving the universe any other option.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Skipping Sunday?
Yesterday was "ONE OF THOSE DAYS" - one of those days in capital letters that ends in weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - and feeling guilty about it (especially the gnashing of teeth part) because it's Sunday. One of those days, which, lately, happens every single week.
A new form of mommy guilt? On average, I see Woodstock for three hours a day - an hour in the morning and two hours in the evening before I put her to bed. Sometimes I cheat and put her to bed late because I want to play with her or hold her or something equally as selfish, but then I feel guilty because I'm depriving her of sleep. Which makes the weekends vital. However, on Sundays, if you take out church (which is full of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - on both our parts - hardly quality time), I see her awake for .5 hours more than I do on a weekday (which is the getting ready/eating/going to bed portions). It leaves Saturday not only the only day to get things in order household-wise, but to the only day I have to spend any amount of time with as a mom. And peopple wonder why the house is never clean.
Humiliation (Real or Imagined). Yesterday started out fine - if you discount Woodstock's self-imposed hunger strike. Then we got to church. Woodstock's morning nap ran long, I underestimated the time I needed to get her diaper changed and out the door, and we arrived 5 minutes late - in the middle of the opening hymn. There were plenty of seats available - in the middle of the pews. I walked in with Woodstock, loaded down with diaper bag, scriptures, blanket and "Meow" - no one slid over. I was already making a huge scene - and I didn't want to climb over anyone, only to have to climb back over them when Woodstock needed to be removed from the premise. So, I walked out and we sat in the foyer. Normally, Woodstock is okay if we sit in the foyer - not as many distractions. Not yesterday. I refuse to let her run wild at church, so Himself and I took turns pacing with her. At one point, during the switch-off, she escaped, and, with a delightful gleam in her eye ran straight into the chapel. Humiliated, I followed her in, listening to the congregation trying to muffle a giggle as she yelled "nonono!"
At the end of Sunday School, Woodstock fell off the chair on which she was sitting (I had set her there to keep her from darting out, while we gathered her things). She screamed bloody murder. I felt terrible, even if she was likely more scared than hurt. I grabbed her to comfort her and then reached for my scriptures, only to have them fall - divesting every scrap of paper I've tucked in them for the last 15 years. The notes and handouts and tithe slips fluttered to the ground silently, like snowflakes. Himself was picking up the apple pieces Woodstock had chewed up and spit out all over. The class had emptied. The older men filed in for their class, held in the same room. Woodstock continued to howl and try to wriggle free while I was chasing papers with the other hand. The leader got up to start class - no one seemed to notice us. Himself and I kept diving for chewed-up apple and renegade papers. Flustered, I made it to the next class and found a seat by the door, humiliated.
Asking Why. I had been in class no more than 3 minutes when Woodstock, tired of being quiet and nearly ready for her afternoon nap, arched her back let out a howl and began yelling "nonono." I stood up, determined to make it through the third hour. I paced at the back. Woodstock continued to howl. I went into the hall, to minimize the disruption. By the end, I had locked myself in the mother's closet and I read her a story and held her and let her yelp and run around. Hardly the lesson I want to teach my child - yell and mom will let you go to a room and have your own way - but at the moment it was better than losing every last piece of patience and self-composure. I tried not to feel bad for finding more peace in that "closet" than I had the whole rest of the service.
After, I put Woodstock to bed. I retreated to the guest bath and I cried. Great huge wracking sobs. I wondered why it mattered that I go at all. I couldn't recite a single word I had heard spoken, hadn't felt any claming spirit and certainly no worshiping was accomplished. I dread Sundays - the one day that used to inspire peace and rest and satisfaction every week. At the moment, it is a trial more challenging than anything else. As the sobs got worse, so did my thoughts - Why was I sacrificing the precious little time I get with my daughter only for everyone to be aggravated, upset and frustrated the entire three hours. How was I the only one that seemingly couldn't manage? Other people have mutliple children at church and survive. How could I be so at the end of my rope with one? How could I counter Himself's argument that it is just better for everyone to leave all together when everyone is worn and frayed and hurting by the third hour? The angel on my shoulder said, "It's the principle. It's the habit. It's the lesson you're teaching." The devil-may-care side said, "It's killing you. It's doing no good. Himself is right. You need to think of your relationship with Woodstock and your sanity."
It's a good thing there are 6 more days until next Sunday for me to adjust my attitude and try again.
A new form of mommy guilt? On average, I see Woodstock for three hours a day - an hour in the morning and two hours in the evening before I put her to bed. Sometimes I cheat and put her to bed late because I want to play with her or hold her or something equally as selfish, but then I feel guilty because I'm depriving her of sleep. Which makes the weekends vital. However, on Sundays, if you take out church (which is full of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - on both our parts - hardly quality time), I see her awake for .5 hours more than I do on a weekday (which is the getting ready/eating/going to bed portions). It leaves Saturday not only the only day to get things in order household-wise, but to the only day I have to spend any amount of time with as a mom. And peopple wonder why the house is never clean.
Humiliation (Real or Imagined). Yesterday started out fine - if you discount Woodstock's self-imposed hunger strike. Then we got to church. Woodstock's morning nap ran long, I underestimated the time I needed to get her diaper changed and out the door, and we arrived 5 minutes late - in the middle of the opening hymn. There were plenty of seats available - in the middle of the pews. I walked in with Woodstock, loaded down with diaper bag, scriptures, blanket and "Meow" - no one slid over. I was already making a huge scene - and I didn't want to climb over anyone, only to have to climb back over them when Woodstock needed to be removed from the premise. So, I walked out and we sat in the foyer. Normally, Woodstock is okay if we sit in the foyer - not as many distractions. Not yesterday. I refuse to let her run wild at church, so Himself and I took turns pacing with her. At one point, during the switch-off, she escaped, and, with a delightful gleam in her eye ran straight into the chapel. Humiliated, I followed her in, listening to the congregation trying to muffle a giggle as she yelled "nonono!"
At the end of Sunday School, Woodstock fell off the chair on which she was sitting (I had set her there to keep her from darting out, while we gathered her things). She screamed bloody murder. I felt terrible, even if she was likely more scared than hurt. I grabbed her to comfort her and then reached for my scriptures, only to have them fall - divesting every scrap of paper I've tucked in them for the last 15 years. The notes and handouts and tithe slips fluttered to the ground silently, like snowflakes. Himself was picking up the apple pieces Woodstock had chewed up and spit out all over. The class had emptied. The older men filed in for their class, held in the same room. Woodstock continued to howl and try to wriggle free while I was chasing papers with the other hand. The leader got up to start class - no one seemed to notice us. Himself and I kept diving for chewed-up apple and renegade papers. Flustered, I made it to the next class and found a seat by the door, humiliated.
Asking Why. I had been in class no more than 3 minutes when Woodstock, tired of being quiet and nearly ready for her afternoon nap, arched her back let out a howl and began yelling "nonono." I stood up, determined to make it through the third hour. I paced at the back. Woodstock continued to howl. I went into the hall, to minimize the disruption. By the end, I had locked myself in the mother's closet and I read her a story and held her and let her yelp and run around. Hardly the lesson I want to teach my child - yell and mom will let you go to a room and have your own way - but at the moment it was better than losing every last piece of patience and self-composure. I tried not to feel bad for finding more peace in that "closet" than I had the whole rest of the service.
After, I put Woodstock to bed. I retreated to the guest bath and I cried. Great huge wracking sobs. I wondered why it mattered that I go at all. I couldn't recite a single word I had heard spoken, hadn't felt any claming spirit and certainly no worshiping was accomplished. I dread Sundays - the one day that used to inspire peace and rest and satisfaction every week. At the moment, it is a trial more challenging than anything else. As the sobs got worse, so did my thoughts - Why was I sacrificing the precious little time I get with my daughter only for everyone to be aggravated, upset and frustrated the entire three hours. How was I the only one that seemingly couldn't manage? Other people have mutliple children at church and survive. How could I be so at the end of my rope with one? How could I counter Himself's argument that it is just better for everyone to leave all together when everyone is worn and frayed and hurting by the third hour? The angel on my shoulder said, "It's the principle. It's the habit. It's the lesson you're teaching." The devil-may-care side said, "It's killing you. It's doing no good. Himself is right. You need to think of your relationship with Woodstock and your sanity."
It's a good thing there are 6 more days until next Sunday for me to adjust my attitude and try again.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Believing
For Kari, who tagged me.
6 Things I Believe
6 Things I Don't Believe>
6 Things I'm Not Sure About
6 Things I Believe
- I believe that spending time with Woodstock is more important than having a clean house, even if not cleaning it does drive me insane
- I believe that theory isn't as important as practice
- I believe winter is bad for my health
- I believe the Catholics were up to something when they came up with the Seven Deadly Sins, and we'd all lead better lives if we lived in moderation
- I believe step-parents get a bad rap
- I believe that NPR or a book on CD makes keeping house tolerable
6 Things I Don't Believe>
- I don't believe I will ever be able to get over my "work over play" guilty conscience and enjoy playing
- I don't believe that the kindgergarten one's child goes to will determine his or her future college entrance capability - but I still worry about Woodstock's education
- I don't believe the current financial crisis is a bad thing on a macro level
- I don't believe I will ever be able to handle my parents growing old
- I don't believe being a mother makes one woman more important than another
- I don't believe one must choose creationism or evolution - I believe in both
6 Things I'm Not Sure About
- I am not sure about who to believe in the HFCS and artificial coloring debates, but I strive to keep both from our diets
- I am not sure where we'll "settle down" - or how I feel about it possibly being The Frontier
- I am not sure when we will have another child - or even if it will be possible
- I am not sure I believe all of the Global Warming talk, but I am sure that we need to think about our impact on the environment more and innovate, reduce, reuse and recycle.
- I am not sure I will ever realize my grad school dream, and I'm not sure how I feel about that
- I am not sure I'll ever be "caught up" or organized
Pausing.
The strangest sense of peace has settled over me the past few days. Even as the world's instability rages on, even as The Frontier slips slowly into the long, gray days of winter, I am at peace.
For the record, I am not a peaceful person. I am a peacemaker - the very thought of conflict makes my stomach not and my bed look more inviting than ever - but I am not internally peaceful. If I smoked, I'd be one of those nervous chain-smokers depicted in iconic movies from the 1950s. I fidget. I worry. I obsess. I am slightly neurotic, Type A and an adrenaline junkie. I like to solve problems, and I hate to be told I can't do something.
Somehow, right now, that's not me (well, except for the fidgeting part). This morning, there was a story of a mother, so desperate for money, she watered down her infant's formula and nearly killed him - not knowing the danger extra water poses to an infant. I wept, grateful that our myriad of job issues in the last 18 months have never left us so destitute as to have to worry about how to feed Woodstock, let alone ourselves. I was grateful for my work history, my education - that gives me a better chance, even in a bad economy, of being able to support my family when necessary.
On the way to the office today, I listened to Woodstock chatter in her car seat - waving "hi" to passing cars, talking to her "ayato" (alligator) - just rambling in that cute, broken baby English way of hers. I thought how grateful I was for health insurance - something I had never been without until this year. I thought how grateful I was for Woodstock's pediatrician, who made me promise that if I brought Woodstock in for all her well baby visits (not bringing her had never crossed my mind), even while uninsured, that she would only charge me the $25 I had been paying for co-pays. She wrote off the rest of the visit. I thought how grateful I am for two cars that are in good condition - and that the $300 I have to put into one this month is for tires and not for a "patch job" that, along with prayers, would be the only thing keeping it running.
And, for the first time, I thought about how grateful I am to be in The Frontier - away from the near-toxic gluttony that surrounded me daily - in both my work and personal life.
I'm certain I know from where this sense of serenity is originating, but it is puzzling that I have allowed it to linger so long. Last December was a cold, bleak month where the holidays held no magic, no allure, no respite. This year, I've happily set out to do holiday baking, the tree is up, and I'm gleefuly preparing for a holiday filled with love and family.
And for that, I am most thankful.
For the record, I am not a peaceful person. I am a peacemaker - the very thought of conflict makes my stomach not and my bed look more inviting than ever - but I am not internally peaceful. If I smoked, I'd be one of those nervous chain-smokers depicted in iconic movies from the 1950s. I fidget. I worry. I obsess. I am slightly neurotic, Type A and an adrenaline junkie. I like to solve problems, and I hate to be told I can't do something.
Somehow, right now, that's not me (well, except for the fidgeting part). This morning, there was a story of a mother, so desperate for money, she watered down her infant's formula and nearly killed him - not knowing the danger extra water poses to an infant. I wept, grateful that our myriad of job issues in the last 18 months have never left us so destitute as to have to worry about how to feed Woodstock, let alone ourselves. I was grateful for my work history, my education - that gives me a better chance, even in a bad economy, of being able to support my family when necessary.
On the way to the office today, I listened to Woodstock chatter in her car seat - waving "hi" to passing cars, talking to her "ayato" (alligator) - just rambling in that cute, broken baby English way of hers. I thought how grateful I was for health insurance - something I had never been without until this year. I thought how grateful I was for Woodstock's pediatrician, who made me promise that if I brought Woodstock in for all her well baby visits (not bringing her had never crossed my mind), even while uninsured, that she would only charge me the $25 I had been paying for co-pays. She wrote off the rest of the visit. I thought how grateful I am for two cars that are in good condition - and that the $300 I have to put into one this month is for tires and not for a "patch job" that, along with prayers, would be the only thing keeping it running.
And, for the first time, I thought about how grateful I am to be in The Frontier - away from the near-toxic gluttony that surrounded me daily - in both my work and personal life.
I'm certain I know from where this sense of serenity is originating, but it is puzzling that I have allowed it to linger so long. Last December was a cold, bleak month where the holidays held no magic, no allure, no respite. This year, I've happily set out to do holiday baking, the tree is up, and I'm gleefuly preparing for a holiday filled with love and family.
And for that, I am most thankful.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Did you Know?
My first stint in Washington, D.C. was as an educational tour guide. We were supposed to learn names, dates and facts about hundreds of circles, buildings, streets, statues and gravestones. As my fellow tour guides soon learned, however, I had a knack for remembering the oddities while forgetting the dates and other generally important information.
I soon dubbed "The Queen of Useless Information." For instance, I could tell you how tall the Washington Monument was (it was 555 5 1/8" tall at the time, but it reportedly sinks at a rate of 1/8" per year), but neither the year it was started (1848) or dedicated (1885).
It is a trait I've nurtured since childhood - serving me well on occasion, if only to lighten the mood. Now, even as an adult with a real job, a child and responsibilities, it seems to be one of my greatest talents - remembering random pieces of information - and yet barely able to recall the important stuff.
For instance, did you know:
Of course not.
This Thanksgiving season, I am sending the FDA huge amounts of gratitude for requiring the bold, plain English identification of allergens and potential allergen contamination.
I am also sending my mother huge amounts of gratitude for passing on her neurotic label-reading habits, well-honed by my even more neurotic self for years prior to Woodstock's arrival.
I have a lot to be thankful for this year - including the fact that we were able to discover the severity of Woodstock's allergy in a confined, medical setting.
Giving up my morning on-the-way-to-work peanut butter toast is a small price to pay.
I soon dubbed "The Queen of Useless Information." For instance, I could tell you how tall the Washington Monument was (it was 555 5 1/8" tall at the time, but it reportedly sinks at a rate of 1/8" per year), but neither the year it was started (1848) or dedicated (1885).
It is a trait I've nurtured since childhood - serving me well on occasion, if only to lighten the mood. Now, even as an adult with a real job, a child and responsibilities, it seems to be one of my greatest talents - remembering random pieces of information - and yet barely able to recall the important stuff.
For instance, did you know:
- 20% of Americans have allergies to something?
- If both parents have allergies, their child has a 75% chance of having allergies
- Approximately 2% of the population in general has a peanut allergy
- Peanut allergies are the most common cause of death due to foods
- 1/3 of people with peanut allergies have tree nut allergies
- There is only ONE board-certified pediatric allergist in the entire state covered by our insurance - and she happens to be 2.5 miles from our house.
- I still remember all the words to the "bringing home a baby bumblebee" song - which Woodstock learned during our 3-hour doctor visit Wednesday.
Of course not.
This Thanksgiving season, I am sending the FDA huge amounts of gratitude for requiring the bold, plain English identification of allergens and potential allergen contamination.
I am also sending my mother huge amounts of gratitude for passing on her neurotic label-reading habits, well-honed by my even more neurotic self for years prior to Woodstock's arrival.
I have a lot to be thankful for this year - including the fact that we were able to discover the severity of Woodstock's allergy in a confined, medical setting.
Giving up my morning on-the-way-to-work peanut butter toast is a small price to pay.
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