I typically don't mind March all that month - Daylight savings time resumes (which I love, after the first week of prying my eyelids open at an hour the week before would seem unearthly). The snow continues to fall, but it typically melts quickly - and to be honest, I prefer the sogginess of March to the bitter chill of January. The tulips start sprouting and the whole world waits on the bring of spring. And it means NCAA basketball playoffs - which means spending 3 weeks hoping Duke gets knocked off in the first couple of rounds.
Speaking of spring, Woodstock overheard that last Sunday was the first day of Spring. She was overjoyed - I had told her the flip flops and her new spring Dora pjs could not come out until Spring. She raced in to tell me. Of course, that morning we had woken up to snow. I made her look out the window. "See that?" I asked. "That is snow." Woodstock looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. "That," I said, "means that someone forgot to inform Mother Nature that the calendar says it is spring. Until Mother Nature knows it is spring, no flip flops and no Dora spring pjs." Woodstock sighed and remarked, "then why did they say it was spring already?"
Good observation.
This year? The Irish can keep their month o' luck (disclaimer - I'm 1/8 Irish). It has been one of those months where Murphy and his Law keep things hopping.
Let's put it this way: On March 1, we had used $0 of our $1,000 family medical deductible. As of March 25, we have now used (ie paid for) the entire thing. Plus another $500+ in co-insurance.
Pebbles was diagnosed with chronic fluid on her ears after 2 months of back-to-back ear infections (following a 3-month stint in 2010 with back-to-back ear infections) and needed tubes yesterday. It was a blessedly simple, fast ordeal - unlike anything that involves me and anesthesia.
I needed two very expensive tests that failed to result in any diagnosis for my 3 months of stomach pain other than "functional dyspepsia" which is a fancy word for saying upset stomach. Which is another way of saying, "Sure your stomach hurts, but short of throwing every drug on the market at you, we can't help." And no, it isn't ulcers, celiac, pancreatitis, fatty liver flare up, etc. And I don't have a gallbladder or an appendix, so those are out too. It's also not stomach, pancreatic or liver cancer - all of which weighed heavily for awhile.
The washing machine needed a new part, with labor that cost as much as the part. The car needs (still needs, reference the money shelled out for the deductible above) new tires. The Corporation made huge profits, touted them on the quarterly call, then dished out a pittance in compensation for 2011 because while I'm doing two people's jobs I wasn't eligible for a formal bonus since I hadn't been employed a full year.
The list goes on, but I don't want to list it anymore than anyone wants to read it. Suffice it to say - I'm ready to be in a new month.
The good thing is that we're all healthy - or mostly. On paper I am healthy. In reality, I don't feel healthy, but I'm tired of shelling out a ton of money for nothing. We have a home and food and vehicles that run. We have jobs and medical insurance and a washing machine. We have family and friends and have a better standard of living than 90% of the global population. We have faith and hope and a knowledge that it really only does get better.
I can't complain. I can, however, celebrate that April is right around the corner.
Showing posts with label Random Thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Random Thoughts. Show all posts
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Friday, July 09, 2010
Explanations and Potty Chairs in the Desert.
Every day I think about blogging. I think of funny, sad or introspective things to say (at least I think they are funny, sad or introspective, which is all that matters I suppose), but I'm on a self-imposed exile from personal computer use for awhile. Mostly because I like going without it. After 3 years of constant attachment to a laptop, up-to-the-minute content, responsibility over messaging and conversations and brands and so forth ... I'm tired.
And so, because my work system is like Fort Knox (I deal with revenue and client data), and I no longer have to dabble in social media and such for work, I just quit, cold-turkey, and feel ... well, I miss my friends, but I feel a bit liberated when I think about it being one less thing on my to do list.
The problem is, I like blogging. I just am not ready to return from exile yet.
At the same time, I just have to share a Woodstock story.
The girls and I went to visit The Parents for the holiday weekend. This is the second road trip we've taken since Woodstock began potty training 3 1/2 months ago. On the way down, I put a pull-up on her. But I didn't bring enough to have her wear one on the way up (she only wears them now in situations where I think it may be an absolute disaster were she to have an accident). I was a bit nervous, but she's been pretty good about telling me she needs to go - and we do travel with the potty chair in the trunk of the car on road trips.
In the dead center of Nowhere (I'm not kidding - NOWHERE. Right in the middle.), Woodstock says, "I hafta go potty." So, I take the next ranch exit, pull off to the side of the on ramp, get the potty chair out, set it in the bushes on the side of the road and put Woodstock on it. I stand in front of her to shield her from the 1 car that probably passes that on ramp in a 24-hour period. And wait.
And wait. And wait. And wait.
Then Woodstock says, "Der's poop in der, but it isn't coming out." I remind her that she has eaten almost nothing for three days and that fruit and veggies will help it come out. And then wonder how long this is going to take.
Minutes later, she leaps up and exclaims, "I did it! I pooped all by myself!" (Um yes, not sure how one would do it with help, but ... to her credit, it is the first time she has ever poop in something other than the regular toilet and it has to be a bit disconcerting to try and do one's business on the side of the road on a potty chair).
I tell her how happy I am and then she grows serious and says, "I need a magazine. Dis is going to be awhile." (I often use the phrase "this is going to be awhile" - so I'm pretty sure it was just parroting it back to me, but it was still funny - until I thought about standing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere for the rest of the day).
30 minutes later, Woodstock was the happiest kid on the planet. She had accomplished her task. I was highly relieved it had been done in the potty chair (even if I did have to clean it to put it back in the car - GROSS) rather than her car seat and Pebbles was glad to be doing something other than sitting in her seat waiting for the two of us to get on with our lives.
As we climbed back into the car, Woodstock says to herself, "You did a good job Woodstock. Now, let's see ... what should my special potty treat be?"
I expected something huge - something spectacular (the last time she pooped, she got her hails painted). Instead, she remarked, "Mama, can I have a Smartie as my special treat?"
Um yes, I think we can handle that.
And so, because my work system is like Fort Knox (I deal with revenue and client data), and I no longer have to dabble in social media and such for work, I just quit, cold-turkey, and feel ... well, I miss my friends, but I feel a bit liberated when I think about it being one less thing on my to do list.
The problem is, I like blogging. I just am not ready to return from exile yet.
At the same time, I just have to share a Woodstock story.
The girls and I went to visit The Parents for the holiday weekend. This is the second road trip we've taken since Woodstock began potty training 3 1/2 months ago. On the way down, I put a pull-up on her. But I didn't bring enough to have her wear one on the way up (she only wears them now in situations where I think it may be an absolute disaster were she to have an accident). I was a bit nervous, but she's been pretty good about telling me she needs to go - and we do travel with the potty chair in the trunk of the car on road trips.
In the dead center of Nowhere (I'm not kidding - NOWHERE. Right in the middle.), Woodstock says, "I hafta go potty." So, I take the next ranch exit, pull off to the side of the on ramp, get the potty chair out, set it in the bushes on the side of the road and put Woodstock on it. I stand in front of her to shield her from the 1 car that probably passes that on ramp in a 24-hour period. And wait.
And wait. And wait. And wait.
Then Woodstock says, "Der's poop in der, but it isn't coming out." I remind her that she has eaten almost nothing for three days and that fruit and veggies will help it come out. And then wonder how long this is going to take.
Minutes later, she leaps up and exclaims, "I did it! I pooped all by myself!" (Um yes, not sure how one would do it with help, but ... to her credit, it is the first time she has ever poop in something other than the regular toilet and it has to be a bit disconcerting to try and do one's business on the side of the road on a potty chair).
I tell her how happy I am and then she grows serious and says, "I need a magazine. Dis is going to be awhile." (I often use the phrase "this is going to be awhile" - so I'm pretty sure it was just parroting it back to me, but it was still funny - until I thought about standing on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere for the rest of the day).
30 minutes later, Woodstock was the happiest kid on the planet. She had accomplished her task. I was highly relieved it had been done in the potty chair (even if I did have to clean it to put it back in the car - GROSS) rather than her car seat and Pebbles was glad to be doing something other than sitting in her seat waiting for the two of us to get on with our lives.
As we climbed back into the car, Woodstock says to herself, "You did a good job Woodstock. Now, let's see ... what should my special potty treat be?"
I expected something huge - something spectacular (the last time she pooped, she got her hails painted). Instead, she remarked, "Mama, can I have a Smartie as my special treat?"
Um yes, I think we can handle that.
Monday, May 18, 2009
I am Woman ...
I consider myself a feminist, in some sense. Not in the radical-going-to-burn-my-bra-maneater sense, in the "just because I'm a woman does not mean I'm incompetent, should be given less respect or fewer opportunities" respect. I view women and men as equals in the sense that both contribute enormously to society. Women aren't better than men. Men aren't better than women. We contribute equally to the good (and bad, sigh) of society - but in different ways. We are not the same, but that doesn't mean the same opportunities shouldn't be afforded us.
Yet, I think feminists did themselves (and the world) no favors when they failed to think their demands all the way through 40 years ago. They demanded they should be able to receive an education at the best schools, get jobs and wear pants. All wonderful things - things that have blessed my life enormously (especially the pants - especially in The Frontier in the winter). And society said, "okay." (after much persuasion, but that's beside the point).
So now, 40 years and several generations later, women get to go to virtually any college of their choice, have jobs and wear pants. Yet somehow, they forgot to negotiate, and are still responsible (in the vast majority of cases)in the eyes of society, culture, and, often, their homes - for nearly all of the domestic responsibilities and childcare on top of the expectations that they maximize their earning potential. In the demand to be liberated from society's view that women were inferior, they forgot to say, "wait a minute, no one can do everything all at once." Instead, women leapt to their feet, rushed out to try on their new rights, got caught up in all of the "things" their new found status afforded them and became caught in a cycle that leaves a generation of women more depressed, less healthy, more unhappy and less fulfilled than ever before. Radical feminists would blame men for "failure to see the obvious," but truthfully, the blame lies with us as much as anyone. No one told me I had to be superwoman - I just assumed it, and accepted the mantle without question.
This all came to mind this weekend while reading a pregnancy/childbirth book. A paragraph in it struck me. To paraphrase, it said that women's bodies were designed to bear children, however, they were not designed to bear children and function at the same level as they did prior to pregnancy. It went on to talk about the fact that now that more and more women are working full-time and living away from extended family, that they are expected to (and expect themselves to) not show a moment of weakness. They are expected to keep the same level of productivity at home and in the workplace, accomplish the same things - and to feel great while doing it.
It really struck me - on a day when I was feeling absolutely overwhelmed with the enormity of life. The entire chapter talked about women not stopping to care for themselves - ignoring their bodies - in pregnancy because they have been conditioned for years to not show signs of weakness. It saddened me to realize that society does indeed see pregnancy as a weakness - an ailment of sorts. It is something to be looked at as a temporary disability, a mere inconvenience, that will soon clear up allowing everything to go back to "normal."
Except, it doesn't. Pregnancy forever changes not only a woman's body (there are several body parts that will never quite look/function the same again), but a woman's heart, her mind, her ambition - her soul. It leaves an indelible brand that forever alters her very being. There is no going back to "normal" - nor a desire to do so - rather there is an adjustment to a new status quo.
I told Himself several weeks ago, "I firmly believe in woman's role in creation and childbearing (and rearing), but I also firmly believe that my body (or mind) was not meant to bear children while balancing the entire known universe on her laptop." Pregnancy is an breathtaking (sometimes literally!) experience that even at its worst points of discomfort (or sheer agony), is a celebration of a loving Creator - of life - of miraculous biology that leaves one in continual awe that her body is accomplishing such an amazing feat.
And yet, after a long day at the office, facing even longer hours at a second job as "Domestic Goddess and Wife", it's hard to remember the sheer miracle of life growing inside of one's body. It's hard not to curl up with a dozen pillows in the fetal position and will this to be over already so one can get on with life.
It is a sad state when the creation of a new life means so little as to be written off as an "inconvenience" that one should just "buck up" and "soldier through," without thought as to the cost. I'm not asking for bon bons and daytime soaps - I'm asking for a little slower pace, an afternoon nap and an understanding that creating a new little person is the equivalent of a third full-time job - one that comes with a single chance to get it right and has the potential to affect generations to come.
We might have won the battle, but I feel as if women are losing the war.
Yet, I think feminists did themselves (and the world) no favors when they failed to think their demands all the way through 40 years ago. They demanded they should be able to receive an education at the best schools, get jobs and wear pants. All wonderful things - things that have blessed my life enormously (especially the pants - especially in The Frontier in the winter). And society said, "okay." (after much persuasion, but that's beside the point).
So now, 40 years and several generations later, women get to go to virtually any college of their choice, have jobs and wear pants. Yet somehow, they forgot to negotiate, and are still responsible (in the vast majority of cases)in the eyes of society, culture, and, often, their homes - for nearly all of the domestic responsibilities and childcare on top of the expectations that they maximize their earning potential. In the demand to be liberated from society's view that women were inferior, they forgot to say, "wait a minute, no one can do everything all at once." Instead, women leapt to their feet, rushed out to try on their new rights, got caught up in all of the "things" their new found status afforded them and became caught in a cycle that leaves a generation of women more depressed, less healthy, more unhappy and less fulfilled than ever before. Radical feminists would blame men for "failure to see the obvious," but truthfully, the blame lies with us as much as anyone. No one told me I had to be superwoman - I just assumed it, and accepted the mantle without question.
This all came to mind this weekend while reading a pregnancy/childbirth book. A paragraph in it struck me. To paraphrase, it said that women's bodies were designed to bear children, however, they were not designed to bear children and function at the same level as they did prior to pregnancy. It went on to talk about the fact that now that more and more women are working full-time and living away from extended family, that they are expected to (and expect themselves to) not show a moment of weakness. They are expected to keep the same level of productivity at home and in the workplace, accomplish the same things - and to feel great while doing it.
It really struck me - on a day when I was feeling absolutely overwhelmed with the enormity of life. The entire chapter talked about women not stopping to care for themselves - ignoring their bodies - in pregnancy because they have been conditioned for years to not show signs of weakness. It saddened me to realize that society does indeed see pregnancy as a weakness - an ailment of sorts. It is something to be looked at as a temporary disability, a mere inconvenience, that will soon clear up allowing everything to go back to "normal."
Except, it doesn't. Pregnancy forever changes not only a woman's body (there are several body parts that will never quite look/function the same again), but a woman's heart, her mind, her ambition - her soul. It leaves an indelible brand that forever alters her very being. There is no going back to "normal" - nor a desire to do so - rather there is an adjustment to a new status quo.
I told Himself several weeks ago, "I firmly believe in woman's role in creation and childbearing (and rearing), but I also firmly believe that my body (or mind) was not meant to bear children while balancing the entire known universe on her laptop." Pregnancy is an breathtaking (sometimes literally!) experience that even at its worst points of discomfort (or sheer agony), is a celebration of a loving Creator - of life - of miraculous biology that leaves one in continual awe that her body is accomplishing such an amazing feat.
And yet, after a long day at the office, facing even longer hours at a second job as "Domestic Goddess and Wife", it's hard to remember the sheer miracle of life growing inside of one's body. It's hard not to curl up with a dozen pillows in the fetal position and will this to be over already so one can get on with life.
It is a sad state when the creation of a new life means so little as to be written off as an "inconvenience" that one should just "buck up" and "soldier through," without thought as to the cost. I'm not asking for bon bons and daytime soaps - I'm asking for a little slower pace, an afternoon nap and an understanding that creating a new little person is the equivalent of a third full-time job - one that comes with a single chance to get it right and has the potential to affect generations to come.
We might have won the battle, but I feel as if women are losing the war.
Monday, April 20, 2009
What have you been up to?
Alas, the Tax Man story is going to have to wait another day.
As of late, I've felt like a rotten friend. I've neglected good friends, right and left, in a quasi-attempt to save my own sanity. It didn't help that in Sunday School with my parents on Sunday we talked about being more giving of our time and talents. Then I just felt even more rotten.
An old friend asked today, "what have you been up to lately?" My answer was, "Oh, you know, more of the same..." it's fundamentally true, the fact that my "more of the same" is not everyone else's version of "more of the same" cannot be helped.
Himself travels to Expensive Beach Community this week to make a final decision on his promotion/transfer offer, at which point we will know if we will be:
Meanwhile, back at the ranch (er '70s Palace), I have been cleaning, sorting, organizing and buying Rubbermaid containers at an alarming pace in anticipation of our third move in 2 years. This, of course, is with a wonderful "helper" always in tow, who finds piles and open containers abhorant and must find reasons to scatter their contents over two levels and 5-7 rooms as quickly as possible. Always with a gorgeous smile and delightful chatter so as to forget the truly exhausting work of following behind her.
Add to that a rather complicated, potentially serious tax issue that took me several weeks to figure out, document and file; general job insanity for both Himself and I; major financial setbacks in the land of Sara's medical bills - those of the thousands of dollars variety; and, of course, the still-continuing morning sickness and chronic cramping and fatique in the land of pregnancy (Second trimester, what? Oh yeah, I'm one of those people for which the second trimester means absolutely nothing).
Woodstock and I fled The Frontier this weekend in complete defiance of adult responsibility in order to do absolutely nothing at The Parentals. It was lovely. However, it served to make me feel like an even worse friend/neighbor/church member. I often wonder if truly charitable people just forgo their own constant balancing act, let things crash down and have enough faith they'll be taken care of if they focus on others. It flies in the face of my pratical nature, but maybe it would absolve me of some of the guilt.
Really though? I just want to know if we're moving and when. This weekly holding pattern is going to drive me (and everyone around me) insane.
And that, my friends, is what I've been up to - see? Same old, same old.
As of late, I've felt like a rotten friend. I've neglected good friends, right and left, in a quasi-attempt to save my own sanity. It didn't help that in Sunday School with my parents on Sunday we talked about being more giving of our time and talents. Then I just felt even more rotten.
An old friend asked today, "what have you been up to lately?" My answer was, "Oh, you know, more of the same..." it's fundamentally true, the fact that my "more of the same" is not everyone else's version of "more of the same" cannot be helped.
Himself travels to Expensive Beach Community this week to make a final decision on his promotion/transfer offer, at which point we will know if we will be:
- Definitely moving (98% probability)
- Moving in May (75% probability)
- Moving in June (25% probability)
Meanwhile, back at the ranch (er '70s Palace), I have been cleaning, sorting, organizing and buying Rubbermaid containers at an alarming pace in anticipation of our third move in 2 years. This, of course, is with a wonderful "helper" always in tow, who finds piles and open containers abhorant and must find reasons to scatter their contents over two levels and 5-7 rooms as quickly as possible. Always with a gorgeous smile and delightful chatter so as to forget the truly exhausting work of following behind her.
Add to that a rather complicated, potentially serious tax issue that took me several weeks to figure out, document and file; general job insanity for both Himself and I; major financial setbacks in the land of Sara's medical bills - those of the thousands of dollars variety; and, of course, the still-continuing morning sickness and chronic cramping and fatique in the land of pregnancy (Second trimester, what? Oh yeah, I'm one of those people for which the second trimester means absolutely nothing).
Woodstock and I fled The Frontier this weekend in complete defiance of adult responsibility in order to do absolutely nothing at The Parentals. It was lovely. However, it served to make me feel like an even worse friend/neighbor/church member. I often wonder if truly charitable people just forgo their own constant balancing act, let things crash down and have enough faith they'll be taken care of if they focus on others. It flies in the face of my pratical nature, but maybe it would absolve me of some of the guilt.
Really though? I just want to know if we're moving and when. This weekly holding pattern is going to drive me (and everyone around me) insane.
And that, my friends, is what I've been up to - see? Same old, same old.
Friday, March 27, 2009
On Mind Reading
I love my mother. You should know that. As in really love her, love spending time with her, and often tell people I had about as close to a Norman Rockwell childhood as is possible when you're talking about six flawed humans living in one house.
That said, I grew up with the expectation that I should just "know" what needs to be done. It was always followed by, "what happens when you're in the workforce and you expect to be told every little thing to do?" There were, very often, days when mom would sigh in exasperation and say, "I wish someone could just look around and see what needs to be done."
Problem is? Her definition of "needs" to be done and mine (and my siblings', and sometimes my father's) were totally different. I didn't think the baseboards needed cleaning (as it turns out, they do, at least once in awhile - I discovered that after neglecting mine for a very long time in protest as an adult). I didn't know why it was a problem that every spot on the counters be cleaned off and de-cluttered. (I do now, but as a kid? Eh, not so much - and Himself still wonders why I go into orbit if there are things on the 2' of counter space my kitchen actually has). Sometimes, stuff did need to be done, I just didn't understand why I had to do it without someone asking me.
A couple of years ago, I spent my commute listening to a marriage enhancement session on CD during my commute. One of the things the speaker pointed out was, "Don't just assume someone has the same priorities or needs as you do, and don't assume they can read your mind."
It struck me, because I'd always functioned under the guise of "well, if he/she/them really cared, they'd see that this NEEDS to be done or I WANT this" or whatever. I began to realize I was expecting a lot of the universe to have its needs/priorities/wants perfectly in synch with mine. It's when I really began to discover that it really, truly DID NOT bother Himself to have dishes in the sink - and he really would get to it. I also began to realize that he really, truly did not know that it (for no apparent reason) would spark an anxiety attack and ruin my entire day if there were dishes/clutter in the kitchen. (Other places? Not so much, just the kitchen).
The key, the speaker said, was to vocalize things and the reasons why - and then to listen when your partner/family did the same. I've had a fair amount of success with it. What has been more successful, however, is understanding why some things were important to ME. Sometimes it's just my neurosis - and I really just need to deal with it. Sometimes it's really important, and I need to vocalize it. It has helped me stop repeating the same thing that drove me insane as a kid - assuming someone would feel the same way about something that I did.
I'm not a big fan of people who say "he/she/they should just know." No, they shouldn't. At least in the context of how you think/need/want/prioritize. They should know if you've had a conversation about it - in specifics. But one should not have to guess that you're really hoping (s)he does the dishes because you don't feel like it.
Maybe it makes me lazy. Or maybe I "just don't get it." But I really don't.
If you need/want something from me, ask. I might act put-together, but I'm generally clueless.
Wrong? Right? Completely off my rocker?
That said, I grew up with the expectation that I should just "know" what needs to be done. It was always followed by, "what happens when you're in the workforce and you expect to be told every little thing to do?" There were, very often, days when mom would sigh in exasperation and say, "I wish someone could just look around and see what needs to be done."
Problem is? Her definition of "needs" to be done and mine (and my siblings', and sometimes my father's) were totally different. I didn't think the baseboards needed cleaning (as it turns out, they do, at least once in awhile - I discovered that after neglecting mine for a very long time in protest as an adult). I didn't know why it was a problem that every spot on the counters be cleaned off and de-cluttered. (I do now, but as a kid? Eh, not so much - and Himself still wonders why I go into orbit if there are things on the 2' of counter space my kitchen actually has). Sometimes, stuff did need to be done, I just didn't understand why I had to do it without someone asking me.
A couple of years ago, I spent my commute listening to a marriage enhancement session on CD during my commute. One of the things the speaker pointed out was, "Don't just assume someone has the same priorities or needs as you do, and don't assume they can read your mind."
It struck me, because I'd always functioned under the guise of "well, if he/she/them really cared, they'd see that this NEEDS to be done or I WANT this" or whatever. I began to realize I was expecting a lot of the universe to have its needs/priorities/wants perfectly in synch with mine. It's when I really began to discover that it really, truly DID NOT bother Himself to have dishes in the sink - and he really would get to it. I also began to realize that he really, truly did not know that it (for no apparent reason) would spark an anxiety attack and ruin my entire day if there were dishes/clutter in the kitchen. (Other places? Not so much, just the kitchen).
The key, the speaker said, was to vocalize things and the reasons why - and then to listen when your partner/family did the same. I've had a fair amount of success with it. What has been more successful, however, is understanding why some things were important to ME. Sometimes it's just my neurosis - and I really just need to deal with it. Sometimes it's really important, and I need to vocalize it. It has helped me stop repeating the same thing that drove me insane as a kid - assuming someone would feel the same way about something that I did.
I'm not a big fan of people who say "he/she/they should just know." No, they shouldn't. At least in the context of how you think/need/want/prioritize. They should know if you've had a conversation about it - in specifics. But one should not have to guess that you're really hoping (s)he does the dishes because you don't feel like it.
Maybe it makes me lazy. Or maybe I "just don't get it." But I really don't.
If you need/want something from me, ask. I might act put-together, but I'm generally clueless.
Wrong? Right? Completely off my rocker?
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Stumped
I am now the lone Sunday School educator of 15+ 14- and 15-year-olds. This should be an adventure. After nearly a year of every-other-week responsibility, I'm now on the every week schedule. And there is no relief in sight for them. Poor kids are stuck with someone who likes teaching but is incubating a kiddo that is going to rival Einstein in smartness, given the number of brain cells it feels he/she is leaching from her brain.
I do love it though - it is my favorite church calling EVER. And that is saying a lot, because I've generally won the lottery when it comes to church callings over the last several years.
What I don't like, is being stumped. Not just because I don't know the answer, but because it is a question I have had as well - one that has niggled at the back corners of my brain every time I've heard the story of the organization of the Church (this week's lesson subject).
One of the girls - smart, sophisticated, talented - passionate about pursuing a career on Broadway - raised her hand when we were talking about the first members and asked, "Why weren't there any women?"
I stopped. Thought. Stopped. Looked at her, the bishop (pastor's) daughter, and wondered what on earth I could say to answer her that wouldn't get me strung up my my toenails. I settled with, "I really don't know. And I've wondered the exact same thing."
This bunch might look like the typical average group of American teens - defiant, wickedly talkative and mired in pop culture so deep they all come sporting their "individuality" that looks remarkably just like the "individuality" of everyone else their age, but underneath lies a brilliance that scares me a bit.
It wasn't just the "stump the teacher question" - asked because she genuinely wanted to know (so do I, I just don't think the answer is out there), but the initial question I asked at the lesson's beginning - where do you want to be in ten years? The answers astounded me. More than that, their plans for getting there astounded me.
I hope I don't have to teach the same group when they are my age. I'll have to submit my resignation, as their 30-year-old version of "stump the teacher" questions, still just as valid and complicated, will not only be ones I don't know the answers to, but will be questions I hadn't even considered.
It was one of those days where I certainly learned more than they did.
I do love it though - it is my favorite church calling EVER. And that is saying a lot, because I've generally won the lottery when it comes to church callings over the last several years.
What I don't like, is being stumped. Not just because I don't know the answer, but because it is a question I have had as well - one that has niggled at the back corners of my brain every time I've heard the story of the organization of the Church (this week's lesson subject).
One of the girls - smart, sophisticated, talented - passionate about pursuing a career on Broadway - raised her hand when we were talking about the first members and asked, "Why weren't there any women?"
I stopped. Thought. Stopped. Looked at her, the bishop (pastor's) daughter, and wondered what on earth I could say to answer her that wouldn't get me strung up my my toenails. I settled with, "I really don't know. And I've wondered the exact same thing."
This bunch might look like the typical average group of American teens - defiant, wickedly talkative and mired in pop culture so deep they all come sporting their "individuality" that looks remarkably just like the "individuality" of everyone else their age, but underneath lies a brilliance that scares me a bit.
It wasn't just the "stump the teacher question" - asked because she genuinely wanted to know (so do I, I just don't think the answer is out there), but the initial question I asked at the lesson's beginning - where do you want to be in ten years? The answers astounded me. More than that, their plans for getting there astounded me.
I hope I don't have to teach the same group when they are my age. I'll have to submit my resignation, as their 30-year-old version of "stump the teacher" questions, still just as valid and complicated, will not only be ones I don't know the answers to, but will be questions I hadn't even considered.
It was one of those days where I certainly learned more than they did.
Friday, February 20, 2009
It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like ...
SPRINGTIME.
Okay, I realize it could, in theory, snow here until well into May. But I do believe our weeks of massive, three-day-long snowstorms are winding down. Something in the way the sun is tilted, and the way it lingers in the southern sky a bit longer these days. (Sidenote: three cheers to the congressman who decided to move Daylight Savings up to March - is it totally ridiculous? Absolutely. Do I love him for it? Anyone who gives me light is beloved in my camp.)
This morning, Woodstock woke up to the twitter of birds. As a matter of fact, she woke up yelling, "Birdies! Tweet tweet. Tweet tweet." Then wanted to go upstairs rightthisverysecond to investigate as to whether or not the birds could be seen. It's been months since the birds visited us before noon. We lie in the shadows of The Frontier's largest mountain range, and the sun doesn't reach us for awhile in the deepest freeze of winter.
Today, I'm working from home for a few hours - we had to leave the office as the server needed rebooting. No one has to tell me twice to leave early on a brilliantly sunny Friday afternoon. No one actually has to tell me to keep working either - Woodstock is napping and it's still too cold to actually enjoy the aforementioned sunshine.
Last February at this time, I was knitted deep in the throes of a bitterly cold, emotionally dark winter. And I was dreaming of lucious shrimp paneer - one of my all-time favorite comfort foods. Well, that and paneer masala at Bombay House. (If Jane is reading this, this would be the first recipe I want from your Indian excursion - in addition to a good dal). This February has flown by ... a rash of doctor's visits to confirm I wasn't dying (ha - I just might if my breakfast doesn't stay down), visits from my mom and sister, a speaking gig at a really cool event last night, in-law visits this weekend (*crickets*), and then ... end of the month.
And March means, at least according to the calendar/sun schedule - spring.
It's so exciting, Woodstock and I might just celebrate with steamed asparagus tonight. After all, it's my favorite spring veggie.
Okay, I realize it could, in theory, snow here until well into May. But I do believe our weeks of massive, three-day-long snowstorms are winding down. Something in the way the sun is tilted, and the way it lingers in the southern sky a bit longer these days. (Sidenote: three cheers to the congressman who decided to move Daylight Savings up to March - is it totally ridiculous? Absolutely. Do I love him for it? Anyone who gives me light is beloved in my camp.)
This morning, Woodstock woke up to the twitter of birds. As a matter of fact, she woke up yelling, "Birdies! Tweet tweet. Tweet tweet." Then wanted to go upstairs rightthisverysecond to investigate as to whether or not the birds could be seen. It's been months since the birds visited us before noon. We lie in the shadows of The Frontier's largest mountain range, and the sun doesn't reach us for awhile in the deepest freeze of winter.
Today, I'm working from home for a few hours - we had to leave the office as the server needed rebooting. No one has to tell me twice to leave early on a brilliantly sunny Friday afternoon. No one actually has to tell me to keep working either - Woodstock is napping and it's still too cold to actually enjoy the aforementioned sunshine.
Last February at this time, I was knitted deep in the throes of a bitterly cold, emotionally dark winter. And I was dreaming of lucious shrimp paneer - one of my all-time favorite comfort foods. Well, that and paneer masala at Bombay House. (If Jane is reading this, this would be the first recipe I want from your Indian excursion - in addition to a good dal). This February has flown by ... a rash of doctor's visits to confirm I wasn't dying (ha - I just might if my breakfast doesn't stay down), visits from my mom and sister, a speaking gig at a really cool event last night, in-law visits this weekend (*crickets*), and then ... end of the month.
And March means, at least according to the calendar/sun schedule - spring.
It's so exciting, Woodstock and I might just celebrate with steamed asparagus tonight. After all, it's my favorite spring veggie.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Too Many Dead Brain Cells
Two words: Wicked. Insomnia.
Combined with a couple of medical issues and ... whoo boy, am I grumpy and flaky and in posession of far too many dead brain cells.
For instance ...
Yesterday I spent the better part of my day proclaiming Five Guys as one of the premier burger places via Twitter. Somehow, a group of us decided to have a Tweetup at FiveGuys next week - a bunch of social media geeks who know each other only by Twitter handles and virtual interaction via a social media networking organization.
It was a slow day and ... lately burgers (shocking) have sounded wonderful.
Except, it spilled over into today (ever tried to arrange a meeting with six people via Twitter? You run out of characters before you finish doing the @replies), and today is most definitely not slow, except in the processing facilities inside my foggy head.
In the midst of burger-and-work madness, I've already blown of a meeting today (fortunately rescued by the skin of my teeth when the visitor popped his head in my office on his way to the meeting and said, "I'm excited for today's meeting." Um, yes, me too...WHAT MEETING?!)
As I've mentioned before, this is the year of more doctor's visits than I can possibly keep track of, which is why I should not have been at all perplexed when a representative from the hospital system called me to register for my "upcoming procedure."
Um, what?!
Of course, HIPPA laws being what they are, the hospital couldn't tell me exactly what procedure I've been scheduled for - or when - so I had to play elimination. Probably not something I scheduled. That eliminates Friday's appointment. Probably not something my doctor scheduled. That eliminates a couple of other appointments. Hmmm...but there is the doctor's appointment tomorrow - the one where I don't actually have a physical address for the office and where I'm not sure if I need to do anything in advance.
I pick that one. The hospital lady says "Ding! Ding! Ding!" (in so many words) and then it's time to play "Which Procedure Might the Doctor Have Scheduled for You at the Hospital?" Except, well, truly I have no idea. So I hang up and call the doctor's office, telling them that I have two very dumb questions.
1. "Can you give me your address - I have an appointment and have zero idea where to go." She laughs and tells me it's in the biggest hospital in the valley - you know the one you can see from the Interstate miles away? Oh. That would be what IMC Suite 101 stands for as well as explain the vague response I got when I asked my doctor what the street address was - the hospital takes up four city blocks.
2. "The hospital wants to know what procedure I'm having tomorrow - at this point, I think I'm rather curious as well." The receptionist laughed. "They've jumped the gun. We just have you down as a "possible" - not going to send you unless we determine you need it." Comforting. It wasn't something I forgot.
Of course, she couldn't promise the visit wouldn't involve needles (I still have a 4" bruise from my last encounter with a lab TWO WEEKS ago, compliments of the anti-clotting meds. And my tummy looks like a dartboard in a poorly lit bar (where no one hits the same place twice).
On top of that, I have a major proposal due today - one for a major brand-name publishing house and a major musician. One that is coming at an agonizingly slow pace. It seems I've forgotten how to segment strategies, tactics and technical schemas with all the dead/leaky brain cells lately.
And it seems I've forgotten how to sleep. I am tired, so very, very tired.
But I'm having Five Guys next week - and a very long doctor's visit tomorrow. It's the variety that keeps one's life spicy ... isn't it? See. I have accomplished something. Just not anything that counts at the moment.
Any good remedies for reincarnating dead brain cells?
Combined with a couple of medical issues and ... whoo boy, am I grumpy and flaky and in posession of far too many dead brain cells.
For instance ...
Yesterday I spent the better part of my day proclaiming Five Guys as one of the premier burger places via Twitter. Somehow, a group of us decided to have a Tweetup at FiveGuys next week - a bunch of social media geeks who know each other only by Twitter handles and virtual interaction via a social media networking organization.
It was a slow day and ... lately burgers (shocking) have sounded wonderful.
Except, it spilled over into today (ever tried to arrange a meeting with six people via Twitter? You run out of characters before you finish doing the @replies), and today is most definitely not slow, except in the processing facilities inside my foggy head.
In the midst of burger-and-work madness, I've already blown of a meeting today (fortunately rescued by the skin of my teeth when the visitor popped his head in my office on his way to the meeting and said, "I'm excited for today's meeting." Um, yes, me too...WHAT MEETING?!)
As I've mentioned before, this is the year of more doctor's visits than I can possibly keep track of, which is why I should not have been at all perplexed when a representative from the hospital system called me to register for my "upcoming procedure."
Um, what?!
Of course, HIPPA laws being what they are, the hospital couldn't tell me exactly what procedure I've been scheduled for - or when - so I had to play elimination. Probably not something I scheduled. That eliminates Friday's appointment. Probably not something my doctor scheduled. That eliminates a couple of other appointments. Hmmm...but there is the doctor's appointment tomorrow - the one where I don't actually have a physical address for the office and where I'm not sure if I need to do anything in advance.
I pick that one. The hospital lady says "Ding! Ding! Ding!" (in so many words) and then it's time to play "Which Procedure Might the Doctor Have Scheduled for You at the Hospital?" Except, well, truly I have no idea. So I hang up and call the doctor's office, telling them that I have two very dumb questions.
1. "Can you give me your address - I have an appointment and have zero idea where to go." She laughs and tells me it's in the biggest hospital in the valley - you know the one you can see from the Interstate miles away? Oh. That would be what IMC Suite 101 stands for as well as explain the vague response I got when I asked my doctor what the street address was - the hospital takes up four city blocks.
2. "The hospital wants to know what procedure I'm having tomorrow - at this point, I think I'm rather curious as well." The receptionist laughed. "They've jumped the gun. We just have you down as a "possible" - not going to send you unless we determine you need it." Comforting. It wasn't something I forgot.
Of course, she couldn't promise the visit wouldn't involve needles (I still have a 4" bruise from my last encounter with a lab TWO WEEKS ago, compliments of the anti-clotting meds. And my tummy looks like a dartboard in a poorly lit bar (where no one hits the same place twice).
On top of that, I have a major proposal due today - one for a major brand-name publishing house and a major musician. One that is coming at an agonizingly slow pace. It seems I've forgotten how to segment strategies, tactics and technical schemas with all the dead/leaky brain cells lately.
And it seems I've forgotten how to sleep. I am tired, so very, very tired.
But I'm having Five Guys next week - and a very long doctor's visit tomorrow. It's the variety that keeps one's life spicy ... isn't it? See. I have accomplished something. Just not anything that counts at the moment.
Any good remedies for reincarnating dead brain cells?
Friday, January 30, 2009
On Martinis & Manicures
Fertility is a sticky subject - it often goes up there with religion, politics and other things one doesn't discuss "in polite company," but it's been an issue with which I've become well acquainted - through my own journey and that of friends - over the last 15 years.
So it was with interest that I read this Newsweek article this week, about the American Fertility Association holding "Manicures and Martinis" at a chic nail salon in Manhattan. If you discount the oddity of having alcoholic drinks at a fertility info session, it sounds intriguing.
But I was more intrigued to learn about the target audience - women in their mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Of course, given the "martini" portion of the event, they couldn't very well target it to younger, college-aged women, but I couldn't help but think it should be something expanded to a younger crowd.
I had the rare luck of having a mom who thought understanding one's body was the key to living a long, healthy life - so she drug me to the gynecologist at age 15, when I was clearly having issues that didn't seem to be quite right. It was then that I was initially diagnosed with PCOS. It was then that I knew there was likely a chance of having a significant chance of fertility issues when it came time to having children. It was in the early days of PCOS as a named endocrine disorder and a lot of research and attention have been devoted to it since, but I dealt with it in my own way - I decided I simply wasn't having children. If I didn't want them, I couldn't be disappointed if they never came.
Clearly my thought process evolved over the years. And while I opted not to try having a baby until my later 20s, I did it with the knowledge that it may increase my chances of not conceiving. But fertility wasn't much on my mind - it was the pile of other related issues that come with having PCOS - and I was continually glad that I hadn't had to spend my 20s (or 30s) wondering what was wrong with me.
Back to the article. My opinion is based solely on my experience and the experience of friends, but I think the AFA should expand their campaign and target younger women as well.
I think too little attention is paid to educating young women - those in their late teens and early twenties - about their bodies - fertility included. It is just assumed that once they become "involved" (I don't need crazy people finding my blog) or married that they'll see a doctor and figure things out. Until then ... well, what's the need? I can't imagine how isolated I would have felt discovering my issues on my own and not knowing how or with whom to converse - like the failure of my endocrine system was to be some sort of scarlet A on my head, indicating that my womanhood was all messed up. In reality, it's just biology - but biology of the part wherein a woman's emotions (and often, identity) can be deeply rooted.
I love to see an extension of the campaign by the AFA about understanding how your body works - and what kinds of things are signs that things are not quite "normal" - targeted at college-aged-women. Include information about fertility, but also about how the body works and the power that understanding your body gives you as a woman. I could tell you some pretty shocking stories of things that happen when that kind of information isn't freely shared.
I consider myself fortunate. My mom paved the way for me to have a lifetime of knowledge at a young age, I was blessed with an inherent love of biology and all things physiological, and I was blessed with a child. Yes, my endocrine system is a mess. Yes, I hate some of the resulting issues - but I know what they are and what risk factors they bring. What I deeply wish, however, is that it hadn't been a taboo topic for my grandmothers' generations. Family lore indicates there were 'issues' - quite possibly genetic - but no one knows, because those sorts of things weren't discussed.
Regardless of the little tweaks I think the campaign needs, I'm glad to see it become an open subject of conversation. I plan on doing my own sort of "Your body - here's the deal" with Woodstock down the road. Sans the martinis, of course.
So it was with interest that I read this Newsweek article this week, about the American Fertility Association holding "Manicures and Martinis" at a chic nail salon in Manhattan. If you discount the oddity of having alcoholic drinks at a fertility info session, it sounds intriguing.
But I was more intrigued to learn about the target audience - women in their mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Of course, given the "martini" portion of the event, they couldn't very well target it to younger, college-aged women, but I couldn't help but think it should be something expanded to a younger crowd.
I had the rare luck of having a mom who thought understanding one's body was the key to living a long, healthy life - so she drug me to the gynecologist at age 15, when I was clearly having issues that didn't seem to be quite right. It was then that I was initially diagnosed with PCOS. It was then that I knew there was likely a chance of having a significant chance of fertility issues when it came time to having children. It was in the early days of PCOS as a named endocrine disorder and a lot of research and attention have been devoted to it since, but I dealt with it in my own way - I decided I simply wasn't having children. If I didn't want them, I couldn't be disappointed if they never came.
Clearly my thought process evolved over the years. And while I opted not to try having a baby until my later 20s, I did it with the knowledge that it may increase my chances of not conceiving. But fertility wasn't much on my mind - it was the pile of other related issues that come with having PCOS - and I was continually glad that I hadn't had to spend my 20s (or 30s) wondering what was wrong with me.
Back to the article. My opinion is based solely on my experience and the experience of friends, but I think the AFA should expand their campaign and target younger women as well.
I think too little attention is paid to educating young women - those in their late teens and early twenties - about their bodies - fertility included. It is just assumed that once they become "involved" (I don't need crazy people finding my blog) or married that they'll see a doctor and figure things out. Until then ... well, what's the need? I can't imagine how isolated I would have felt discovering my issues on my own and not knowing how or with whom to converse - like the failure of my endocrine system was to be some sort of scarlet A on my head, indicating that my womanhood was all messed up. In reality, it's just biology - but biology of the part wherein a woman's emotions (and often, identity) can be deeply rooted.
I love to see an extension of the campaign by the AFA about understanding how your body works - and what kinds of things are signs that things are not quite "normal" - targeted at college-aged-women. Include information about fertility, but also about how the body works and the power that understanding your body gives you as a woman. I could tell you some pretty shocking stories of things that happen when that kind of information isn't freely shared.
I consider myself fortunate. My mom paved the way for me to have a lifetime of knowledge at a young age, I was blessed with an inherent love of biology and all things physiological, and I was blessed with a child. Yes, my endocrine system is a mess. Yes, I hate some of the resulting issues - but I know what they are and what risk factors they bring. What I deeply wish, however, is that it hadn't been a taboo topic for my grandmothers' generations. Family lore indicates there were 'issues' - quite possibly genetic - but no one knows, because those sorts of things weren't discussed.
Regardless of the little tweaks I think the campaign needs, I'm glad to see it become an open subject of conversation. I plan on doing my own sort of "Your body - here's the deal" with Woodstock down the road. Sans the martinis, of course.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Random Thoughts from the Sofa
There is 8" of new snow on the ground outside the window in front of me and a frigid draft wafting in from the window to my side. I remain perched (or draped) on the couch, for Day 4 of my "stabilizing sojourn." I am finally starting to feel the affects of the anti-clotting meds - my body must be re-absorbing some of the clots, as the pain is now only significant if I sit (at all) or stand for a long period of time.
My stomach bears a tiny (or not so tiny - my first attempts at playing nurse weren't as successful in the bruise-reducing department) souvenier of each injection - eight thus far (though it feels like it has been double that many).
I am back to work - in my pajamas, wrapped in a lambswool blanket and fuzzy socks. There are half a dozen urgent projects, but any creativity or know-how has leaked out of my brain over the last few days. Sitting in church for 5 minutes yesterday (I lasted an hour - but only because it's rude to leave in the middle of the service) was enough to convince me that sitting at my desk for 8 hours today would be a nightmare gone bad. The subsequent snowstorm only reinforced that. Right now there are three things that could happen on the "terrible" scale - a) a car accident b) a fall down the stairs (thank heaven I got that out of the way two months ago) and c) something I'd rather not mention at the moment, because I'm thinking positive thoughts. Reducing the clotting factor helps the clots, but doesn't exactly help in case one is involved in any kind of bodily trauma.
Regardless, driving in newly fallen snow after a 2 1/2 week snow hiatus is just tempting fate, and I've already rolled those dice once in the last week.
So here I am, trying to manage a multi-sheet spreadsheet, write promotional copy and manage the world's slowest Internet project from my perch on the couch. Himself is home today - ostensibly he's watching Woodstock, but she has thus preferred her nearly-nonmobile audience of One on the living room couch, just adding to my inability to string two coherent thoughts together.
It's funny how quickly one's perspective changes when semi-confined. Suddenly, the veggies in commercially prepared pasta sauce count as real veggies. Woodstock having two food groups in a meal means it's well-balanced. Eating half a sandwich counts as a meal. And progress is measured in pain decibles rather than things accomplished.
It's 9:07 on Monday morning, and I'm already ready for the weekend.
My stomach bears a tiny (or not so tiny - my first attempts at playing nurse weren't as successful in the bruise-reducing department) souvenier of each injection - eight thus far (though it feels like it has been double that many).
I am back to work - in my pajamas, wrapped in a lambswool blanket and fuzzy socks. There are half a dozen urgent projects, but any creativity or know-how has leaked out of my brain over the last few days. Sitting in church for 5 minutes yesterday (I lasted an hour - but only because it's rude to leave in the middle of the service) was enough to convince me that sitting at my desk for 8 hours today would be a nightmare gone bad. The subsequent snowstorm only reinforced that. Right now there are three things that could happen on the "terrible" scale - a) a car accident b) a fall down the stairs (thank heaven I got that out of the way two months ago) and c) something I'd rather not mention at the moment, because I'm thinking positive thoughts. Reducing the clotting factor helps the clots, but doesn't exactly help in case one is involved in any kind of bodily trauma.
Regardless, driving in newly fallen snow after a 2 1/2 week snow hiatus is just tempting fate, and I've already rolled those dice once in the last week.
So here I am, trying to manage a multi-sheet spreadsheet, write promotional copy and manage the world's slowest Internet project from my perch on the couch. Himself is home today - ostensibly he's watching Woodstock, but she has thus preferred her nearly-nonmobile audience of One on the living room couch, just adding to my inability to string two coherent thoughts together.
It's funny how quickly one's perspective changes when semi-confined. Suddenly, the veggies in commercially prepared pasta sauce count as real veggies. Woodstock having two food groups in a meal means it's well-balanced. Eating half a sandwich counts as a meal. And progress is measured in pain decibles rather than things accomplished.
It's 9:07 on Monday morning, and I'm already ready for the weekend.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Bring on the Medical Maladies
I think there is a sign on my forehead:
"PUT MONEY INTO HSA THIS YEAR. LOOKING FOR REASONS TO GO TO THE DOCTOR."
It's becoming ridiculous.
Since we rang in 2009, Himself (who has only been to the doctor 7 times in the 10 years I've known him - 4 of which have been since our move to The Frontier) and I (who went to the doctor all of twice last year) have been to the doctor FOUR TIMES (total, not each, but the new year is only 3 weeks old) this yeatr.
And I have to go again this week.
What's worse - they're not even for the same thing. It's ridiculous.
I'm beginning to think I cursed myself when I decided to try and divert, er I mean, withhold on a pre-tax basis, money into a Health Savings Account.
At this rate, even with the tax savings, we're going to bankrupt the medical budget sometime around St. Patrick's Day.
"PUT MONEY INTO HSA THIS YEAR. LOOKING FOR REASONS TO GO TO THE DOCTOR."
It's becoming ridiculous.
Since we rang in 2009, Himself (who has only been to the doctor 7 times in the 10 years I've known him - 4 of which have been since our move to The Frontier) and I (who went to the doctor all of twice last year) have been to the doctor FOUR TIMES (total, not each, but the new year is only 3 weeks old) this yeatr.
And I have to go again this week.
What's worse - they're not even for the same thing. It's ridiculous.
I'm beginning to think I cursed myself when I decided to try and divert, er I mean, withhold on a pre-tax basis, money into a Health Savings Account.
At this rate, even with the tax savings, we're going to bankrupt the medical budget sometime around St. Patrick's Day.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
I Have a Secret ...
...I'm wearing mid-calf, white fuzzy socks with lanolin and aloe underneath my dress boots today. My feet are warm for the first time in days.
And all day I get to feel like I'm breaking some sort of rule, because I'm wearing my microfleece slipper socks with a skirt.
It's the little things, when Inversion hits The Frontier, that keep me going.
And all day I get to feel like I'm breaking some sort of rule, because I'm wearing my microfleece slipper socks with a skirt.
It's the little things, when Inversion hits The Frontier, that keep me going.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
It's the Little Things ...
I had to go to court yesterday with Erin. It was a particularly horrible experience, but before we got to that part it was like watching an episode of Judge Judy. I learned a lot.
1. Don't park in a handicapped space. It doesn't matter if there is nowhere else to park. It's still illegal and the judge is not going to make the towing company give you back your money. Bonus points if you plead with the judge after he's made a ruling that you just want your money back because it was "just temporary."
2. Don't shack up with someone who will run up a huge credit card bill taking you on cruises and vacations and paying for your dental work, then wants you to pay half. Bonus points if, in a moment of obvious rage, he sends a text that says, "Get out of my life. I don't want anything from you." (or something to that effect) Which gives you grounds to stop paying. Jury is still out on who pays for what. Moral is - probably a good idea to not run up a huge credit card tab with a live-in lover.
3. If you buy a car, you should probably pay for said car with a check that doesn't bounce. If it does bounce, you should probably pay with a certified check, not another personal one. If they serve you with a suit, you should take the option of pre-payment rather than wasting extra money and 34 seconds of everyone else's time saying you agree to pay in court.
4. Don't do business with Apollo Granite.
5. Make sure your filing is legible so you don't get a lecture about it from the judge, who has to continue the case because he can't read why you're even there.
6. If you are being sued in small-claims court by someone and you are in the wrong, just don't show up. It makes life easier for everyone, and Erin and I would have had a much better day (particularly Erin) yesterday had this happened.
Bonus (this one was learned today):
7. The speed limit is 35 on State Street. Thanks to the uniformed man with the flashing lights for pointing that out. Extra thanks for the yellow carbon-copy souvenir of my ignorance.
1. Don't park in a handicapped space. It doesn't matter if there is nowhere else to park. It's still illegal and the judge is not going to make the towing company give you back your money. Bonus points if you plead with the judge after he's made a ruling that you just want your money back because it was "just temporary."
2. Don't shack up with someone who will run up a huge credit card bill taking you on cruises and vacations and paying for your dental work, then wants you to pay half. Bonus points if, in a moment of obvious rage, he sends a text that says, "Get out of my life. I don't want anything from you." (or something to that effect) Which gives you grounds to stop paying. Jury is still out on who pays for what. Moral is - probably a good idea to not run up a huge credit card tab with a live-in lover.
3. If you buy a car, you should probably pay for said car with a check that doesn't bounce. If it does bounce, you should probably pay with a certified check, not another personal one. If they serve you with a suit, you should take the option of pre-payment rather than wasting extra money and 34 seconds of everyone else's time saying you agree to pay in court.
4. Don't do business with Apollo Granite.
5. Make sure your filing is legible so you don't get a lecture about it from the judge, who has to continue the case because he can't read why you're even there.
6. If you are being sued in small-claims court by someone and you are in the wrong, just don't show up. It makes life easier for everyone, and Erin and I would have had a much better day (particularly Erin) yesterday had this happened.
Bonus (this one was learned today):
7. The speed limit is 35 on State Street. Thanks to the uniformed man with the flashing lights for pointing that out. Extra thanks for the yellow carbon-copy souvenir of my ignorance.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
You Know Those Moments When ...
...You think, "Oh dear," and you realize you suddenly have a long list of things to do that you weren't planning on?
That would be today.
Of course, I'm dealing with the whole thing in a very adult way. I am sitting in front of the laptop in my bathrobe, half frozen, drowning life in a glass (or three) of cranberry juice (praise Ocean Spray who went back to using sugar instead of HFCS!) and refusing to think about anything on the newly rearranged "to do" list and ignoring everything on the old "to do" list - including shoveling the driveway. I just did it yesterday (shoveling 2" of ice is much more difficult than shoveling the 4" of snow that now blankets the driveway, but really - does the universe hate me so much as to ensure that Himself has to work a 12-hour day EVERY SINGLE TIME it snows?!)
I've started a batch of laundry. That should count for something.
Other than that, today might be a good day to bury my head in the sand, forget reality and snuggle with Woodstock. Except my formerly snuggle-loving child now only wishes to snuggle at 1 a.m.
So much for productivity.
And on that note, Woodstock is hollering "all done! yight, yight yight!" (light) from her crib, which probably means I should at least thing about rescuing her and forraging for something to eat.
That would be today.
Of course, I'm dealing with the whole thing in a very adult way. I am sitting in front of the laptop in my bathrobe, half frozen, drowning life in a glass (or three) of cranberry juice (praise Ocean Spray who went back to using sugar instead of HFCS!) and refusing to think about anything on the newly rearranged "to do" list and ignoring everything on the old "to do" list - including shoveling the driveway. I just did it yesterday (shoveling 2" of ice is much more difficult than shoveling the 4" of snow that now blankets the driveway, but really - does the universe hate me so much as to ensure that Himself has to work a 12-hour day EVERY SINGLE TIME it snows?!)
I've started a batch of laundry. That should count for something.
Other than that, today might be a good day to bury my head in the sand, forget reality and snuggle with Woodstock. Except my formerly snuggle-loving child now only wishes to snuggle at 1 a.m.
So much for productivity.
And on that note, Woodstock is hollering "all done! yight, yight yight!" (light) from her crib, which probably means I should at least thing about rescuing her and forraging for something to eat.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
365 Days
365 Days (or 366, if you are being technical, since this is leap year) ago, Himself ordered pizza for dinner and I went into labor (no, there is no corrolation).
We lived in the Hobbit Hole. I was liking my job at The Factory and we were both elated over Himself's job at the university. The house was clean and I had been cooking up a storm.
How much has changed in a year ...
We lived in the Hobbit Hole. I was liking my job at The Factory and we were both elated over Himself's job at the university. The house was clean and I had been cooking up a storm.
How much has changed in a year ...
Friday, August 08, 2008
Not Funny. Not Funny At All.
Updates to this.
I've since had a drip of pink nail polish end up on the cuff of the dry-clean-only beige linen pants I have on, then the hem up and fell out of said pants. This is probably not the time to think about how much money I paid for them.
I did not bring an extra outfit. There is no way I have enough time to go home and change. Pictures are at 6. It is 4:30. I still have to get Woodstock and fight the interchange's Friday night traffic.
Himself called. Does he really have to wear those shoes? Can Woodstock wear something else he thinks is cuter? What have I planned for dinner? No, he hasn't packed or checked himself or Grover in for their flights - they'll do it later (as in seconds before we have to race to the airport at dire risk of them missing their flights). Yes, he picked up the new dining room table - did I realize how SMALL it is? No, he hasn't put it together - can't I do it this weekend when I'm off, I'm better with tools anyway.
And oh yes, I just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I'm definitely ensuring that I'm on my knees (to hide the hem and the pink spot) with Woodstock covering my middle.
Maybe I should just have the kids' photos taken.
Or go with the whole "we don't wear clothes" theory I pondered before.
Wish us well.
I've since had a drip of pink nail polish end up on the cuff of the dry-clean-only beige linen pants I have on, then the hem up and fell out of said pants. This is probably not the time to think about how much money I paid for them.
I did not bring an extra outfit. There is no way I have enough time to go home and change. Pictures are at 6. It is 4:30. I still have to get Woodstock and fight the interchange's Friday night traffic.
Himself called. Does he really have to wear those shoes? Can Woodstock wear something else he thinks is cuter? What have I planned for dinner? No, he hasn't packed or checked himself or Grover in for their flights - they'll do it later (as in seconds before we have to race to the airport at dire risk of them missing their flights). Yes, he picked up the new dining room table - did I realize how SMALL it is? No, he hasn't put it together - can't I do it this weekend when I'm off, I'm better with tools anyway.
And oh yes, I just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I'm definitely ensuring that I'm on my knees (to hide the hem and the pink spot) with Woodstock covering my middle.
Maybe I should just have the kids' photos taken.
Or go with the whole "we don't wear clothes" theory I pondered before.
Wish us well.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
S-P-A-C-E
Seven years ago, I moved into a 900 sf one-bedroom apartment. It was perfect for a single, living-alone person. When Himself moved in, it was still okay. It had a dining room and a cute balcony and was 1/2 mile from work.>
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The next apartment was a 1,200 sf three-bedroom, 1.5-bathroom apartment. We actually lived there for free because two of Himself's Navy buddies wanted a) to collect BAH (housing allowance) and b) a place to keep their stuff while they were out to sea. Since one cannot collect housing allowance without having a house, even though they paid $400/month to rent, they ended up with an extra $300/month in their pockets. Thank you, Uncle Sam.
Anyway, said apartment, even though it was on very grand-sounding "Malibu Palms Dr." was the closet thing to a ghetto I hope I ever live in. Seriously. It had NO good things about it. The worst things were a bathroom with no outlets and 18" of counter space in the kitchen.
Then there came The Palace, a brand-new, 1,000 sf, 2-bed, 2-bath heaven of two-tone walls, crown molding, 6' windows, 9' ceilings, a soaking tub, the greatest apartment kitchen ever, fitness center, pool ... I loved it. It drove me crazy the living space was all one room, but after the ghetto, not such a bad deal. Of course, it was more than twice what we'd paid for any other dwelling ever. But it wasn't quite in Outer Darkness, the commute wasn't horrible, and I did get a discount.You can imagine, then, the Hobbit Hole's glory - 7' ceilings (5'10" where there was a bulkhead involved), no linen closet and oh, in a basement. But it had some redeeming qualities - a great storage room, a decent (if eccentric) kitchen and a great backyard.
Yet for all of these places, there have been two things I've always longed for - enough space to not have to look at the Christmas decor year-round and space for guests.
My anxiety goes into overdrive when we have overnight guests - because everywhere we've ever lived since my apartment 7 years ago has a single living space - and "open" floor plan, where everyone in the house must pileontopofeachotherlikethis. Everyone is in the way. The TV blares, people in another corner talk over it. Any kids involved go nuts.
Not very condusive to someone who needs a 4' radius of personal space at any given time.
But THIS move, a 1,500 sf 2-level duplex has space. A single-car garage (which I will never park in for fear of not being able to get OUT of the car), a basement storage room. Decent closets. A family room. A dining room. A SEPARATE living room. A backyard. A guest bedroom/bath.
Himself would tell you that the cabinets are suspect (read: Brady Bunch-era) and the windows are cheap (same deal). There is no pantry. But I am in awe as I unpack. There are spaces to store things logically. Skis, Christmas, outgrown baby gear in one place. Board games (all 30+ of them) in another. Food storage in another.
And separate gathering spaces - for kids, adults, whoever. Just in time for gas to be at record highs and too expensive for anyone to come visit.
Figures.
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