It doesn't matter WHY I decided to call the Governor's office. Suffice it to say, I just did.
I have long been interested in politics and current events - and try to keep up to speed on what is going on, particularly during this state's rather short legislative session.
I frequently gripe to myself. I occasionally send an e-mail to my state representative or state senator about something. I always fill out the surveys they send out in the waning days of the year. I rarely say anything about it to anyone else, or join a "campaign" against or for something. As it turns out, while I'm passionately political, when it comes right down to it, my interpretation of things is just that - my interpretation.
However, finally, after 4+ years in The Frontier, something finally irritated me enough last week to sign a petition.
Around the same time, an article came out in the local news about how the governor proudly stated that he would not be swayed by e-mail or social media campaigns and would govern "in the best interest of the state."
I don't pretend to be smarter than the governor. I don't know him well enough to make that assertion. I don't pretend to know, on a grand scale, what IS best for the state. What I do know, however, is that I belong to both a state and a nation governed by a REPRESENTATIVE DEMOCRACY. That means I vote for you, you take the input of your constituency into consideration, and you vote for legislation. It does NOT mean that I vote for you and you plug your ears and close your eyes and sing "nah nah nah, I can't HEAR you!"
A representative democracy works fine as long as you don't have state legislatures who fail you and come up with bills that are about 180 degrees from the actual things needing work (because they score re-election points)- and also about 180 degrees from what you would do if anyone cared what your opinion is (trust me, they don't). Then, it doesn't feel so representative.
It feels EVEN LESS representative when an elected official essentially nullifies the valid, articulated positions of tens of thousands of people because he can't be bothered with opinions when he's trying to govern, "in the best interest of the state."
I was irritated. I don't have time to make calls to some legislative aide who answers a thousand phone calls a day. Still, I wanted to voice my opinion - be counted among the ranks. So, amidst the 4.5 hours I've already spent on the phone today in meetings, I called him.
Or, I called his office, rather. The Frontier may be in a rather unpopulated state, but there are still enough people that one does not actually speak with the governor unless one is a lobbyist with deep pockets. Neither of which describes me.
I'm not sure what I expected - I don't make a habit of calling the governor's office on a regular basis (as evidenced by the fact that I am not chained to a bed in a psychiatric facility) - but I certainly didn't expect the abrupt response to my inquiry. I got a few words out - and was told, "Thank you. I'll pass your concern along."
*Crickets*
No one asking for my name, precinct or anything. No one wanting any information to certify that I'm not some looney bin escapee or paranoid conspiracy theorist. Even if they wrote it on an air post-it and rolled their eyes, I would want someone to at least ASK the right questions.
But no - immediately after being assured the governor would take my opinion into consideration (as if!) I was disconnected. Really? So the governor doesn't want to hear about anything via e-mail or social media or web forms - or, apparently, any other way, since I'm pretty sure that camping out at his office would be met with even less enthusiasm than taking the time to phone his office.
I still believe in democracy. However, there may be another election in my future where only those who are not currently serving in an elected position get my vote.
I'm only one of 3 million people in this state. But I AM one. The least you can do is make me THINK you're reading that e-mail or petition or receiving a note that says "the crazy lady from The Frontier called - she'd like a word."
Showing posts with label The Frontier. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Frontier. Show all posts
Monday, March 12, 2012
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Breaking the Silence
I'm back. Again.
The holidays are over, there is hope winter might end before the next one begins (if only because the high has been above freezing lately - the mid-winter thaw always reminds me that while there is still winter left, it isn't forever), and every day a blog composes itself in my head that never makes it quite down on paper.
So for the 1/2 a reader that is even still interested: I am back. :) Tomorrow.
In the last two months we've had Pebbles' scary vaccine reaction, two bouts of bronchitis, asthma issues, the issuance of inhalers for 75% of our household (thank you very much, Frontier inversion), a flirtation with motion sickness resulting in a very stinky kiddo & carseat and an emergency side trip to my aunt's since we were an hour from home, a variety of colds, an ear infection, a funky viral rash and the return flareup of whatever digestive ailment has plagued me since my early teens. No one will ever believe me again that we rarely get sick. I maintain we've been passing the same virus back and forth and it just manifests different ways - made worse by the Frontier's toxic January air.
It has been exhausting. Naps have been disrupted. Nightime sleep has been upset. Work schedules have gotten creative. And the house looks like a bachelor pad.
This too, shall pass ... hopefully without anymore recycle germs.
The holidays are over, there is hope winter might end before the next one begins (if only because the high has been above freezing lately - the mid-winter thaw always reminds me that while there is still winter left, it isn't forever), and every day a blog composes itself in my head that never makes it quite down on paper.
So for the 1/2 a reader that is even still interested: I am back. :) Tomorrow.
In the last two months we've had Pebbles' scary vaccine reaction, two bouts of bronchitis, asthma issues, the issuance of inhalers for 75% of our household (thank you very much, Frontier inversion), a flirtation with motion sickness resulting in a very stinky kiddo & carseat and an emergency side trip to my aunt's since we were an hour from home, a variety of colds, an ear infection, a funky viral rash and the return flareup of whatever digestive ailment has plagued me since my early teens. No one will ever believe me again that we rarely get sick. I maintain we've been passing the same virus back and forth and it just manifests different ways - made worse by the Frontier's toxic January air.
It has been exhausting. Naps have been disrupted. Nightime sleep has been upset. Work schedules have gotten creative. And the house looks like a bachelor pad.
This too, shall pass ... hopefully without anymore recycle germs.
Friday, July 03, 2009
How Does Your Garden Grow?
Is it considered child labor if I turn the garden watering over to my toddler?
Because lately she's been asking to "Go 'side, Mama. Water plants." (Go outside mama, water plants). And hey, that sounds like motivation to work to me. Since motivation is a word in my vocabulary that has been swallowed up by pregnancy, I'd say "go for it" except the watering can is as big as she is.
I made a couple of mistakes in planting a garden this year:
1. I failed to realize we don't own a hose.
2. I failed to realize our outdoor water source is on the FRONT of the house. The garden is in the BACK of the house. It means I have to lug a watering can outside multiple times to water things.
3. I bought drought-resistant plants. Normally a fine thing in the high desert country of The Frontier. Except June has been anything but dry. I've lost a few plants to overwatering thanks to Mother Nature (though it has reduced the number of days I've had to lug the watering can out repeatedly.
4. I underestimated the ease of growing basil. So far I'm 0 for 2 on basil plants.
5. I have magic mint ... one day it looks fabulous. The next, well, it looks rather sickly. Even Woodstock noticed and called my dear plant "icky" on one of its less-than-healthy days.
6. Fourth of July tomatoes, even when planted at the appropraite time apparently don't ripen by the Fourth of July when the sun has only shown for one of the last five weeks. The plant has lots of tomatoes, but they are just as green as the regular tomatoes.
I think I'd best leave the gardening project to next summer, when I can actually see my feet, can kneel and/or bend over and when the weather is back to normal. In the meatime, I have six thriving (if not ripening) tomato plants. We may be eating fried green tomatoes and cilantro this summer, but we'll at least be eating something homegrown.
Because lately she's been asking to "Go 'side, Mama. Water plants." (Go outside mama, water plants). And hey, that sounds like motivation to work to me. Since motivation is a word in my vocabulary that has been swallowed up by pregnancy, I'd say "go for it" except the watering can is as big as she is.
I made a couple of mistakes in planting a garden this year:
1. I failed to realize we don't own a hose.
2. I failed to realize our outdoor water source is on the FRONT of the house. The garden is in the BACK of the house. It means I have to lug a watering can outside multiple times to water things.
3. I bought drought-resistant plants. Normally a fine thing in the high desert country of The Frontier. Except June has been anything but dry. I've lost a few plants to overwatering thanks to Mother Nature (though it has reduced the number of days I've had to lug the watering can out repeatedly.
4. I underestimated the ease of growing basil. So far I'm 0 for 2 on basil plants.
5. I have magic mint ... one day it looks fabulous. The next, well, it looks rather sickly. Even Woodstock noticed and called my dear plant "icky" on one of its less-than-healthy days.
6. Fourth of July tomatoes, even when planted at the appropraite time apparently don't ripen by the Fourth of July when the sun has only shown for one of the last five weeks. The plant has lots of tomatoes, but they are just as green as the regular tomatoes.
I think I'd best leave the gardening project to next summer, when I can actually see my feet, can kneel and/or bend over and when the weather is back to normal. In the meatime, I have six thriving (if not ripening) tomato plants. We may be eating fried green tomatoes and cilantro this summer, but we'll at least be eating something homegrown.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
But wait ... there is more!
UTA Fail.
Remember this post? A mere two days ago? Well, it gets better.
I'm working from home this week - which means a perfect time, given my flex schedule, to take Woodstock to see the new Madagascar exhibit at the zoo.
Since I'm also trying to reduce my car trips this month and Woodstock LOVES buses and trucks, I thought we'd make a field trip out of it and we could go via bus. After all, the bus stop is across the street from my house and there is one across the street from the zoo a mere 4.18 miles away.
So I log on to UTA's website to find out which bus(es) I need to take. Boy am I in for a shock. Anyone want to guess how long it would take me to get the 4.2 miles to the zoo from my house? Anyone?
Not sure how a 5.5-hour round-trip bus ride to/from the zoo leaves any time to actually SEE the zoo. My mind is so boggled I can barely fathom it.
I e-mailed UTA and begged them to PLEASE tell me the information was incorrect, because I'm having an awfully hard time seeing the logic in this one.
Remember this post? A mere two days ago? Well, it gets better.
I'm working from home this week - which means a perfect time, given my flex schedule, to take Woodstock to see the new Madagascar exhibit at the zoo.
Since I'm also trying to reduce my car trips this month and Woodstock LOVES buses and trucks, I thought we'd make a field trip out of it and we could go via bus. After all, the bus stop is across the street from my house and there is one across the street from the zoo a mere 4.18 miles away.
So I log on to UTA's website to find out which bus(es) I need to take. Boy am I in for a shock. Anyone want to guess how long it would take me to get the 4.2 miles to the zoo from my house? Anyone?
2 HOURS 49 MINUTES. FOUR Transfers. One including a bus ride 13 miles in the OPPOSITE DIRECTION (one way)to catch the bus that runs to the zoo. I could WALK there, pushing Woodstock in the stroller at an almost leisurely pace in under 1.5 hours for crying out loud!
Not sure how a 5.5-hour round-trip bus ride to/from the zoo leaves any time to actually SEE the zoo. My mind is so boggled I can barely fathom it.
I e-mailed UTA and begged them to PLEASE tell me the information was incorrect, because I'm having an awfully hard time seeing the logic in this one.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Silver Linings
My compression stockings may make me look like an even bigger fashion reject than I already am (particularly since maternity clothes seem to only come in garish colors and prints and are not particularly attractive) and they may make my core body temperature rise 10 degrees now that it's warm out, however ...
SILVER LINING: I almost never have to shave my legs. And apparently leg hair requires oxygen (or blood circulation) to grow, because it grows much more S-L-O-W-L-Y underneath these fabulous socks.The Frontier might not get 300 days of sunshine a year, have an ocean or Sea World nearby or boast fabulous seafood, sushi and baja-style Mexican food, however ...
SILVER LINING: Staying here means living in a state that isn't falling apart at the seams (yet), the cost of living is much less and there isn't a moving truck involved (yet).Woodstock is getting her two top canine teeth (apparently she is unable to cut just one tooth at a time), making her as moody as a 13-year-old girl, however ...
SILVER LINING: it also makes her extra snuggly and extra appreciative when mom feeds her popsicles (a special treat) and soft mushy stuff like cold yogurt and warm oatmeal.I love silver linings!
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Deja Vous
In the last 13 years, I've lived in 10 cities and 4 states. I've lost track of how many addresses that includes or how many moves. There was a period of my life where the longest I lived anywhere was 4 months. In those 13 years, the longest I've lived at a single address is the 3 years we spent in No. VA together(as opposed to the first time we lived in No. VA as single people).
We're nowhere close to breaking that record. And now, it seems we're stuck in "repeat" mode - only at the moment it feels like "repeat" is stuck on pause.
Two years ago, spring of 2007, Himself and I got a hair-brained (ahem, inspired) idea to move to The Frontier. Looking back, it was a good thing. For the first 15 months or so from that point, it most definitely was NOT. Good things take patience and faith.
We knew it (the pending move) was coming. Himself's job warned us from the beginning that we'd not likely stay in the area. However, a year ago, when working for The Factory, still in the throes of deep post-partum depression and living in The Hobbit Hole, I gleefully shouted, "ABSOLUTELY!" when Himself said, "Would we be willing to relocate." And then I promptly forgot about it.
I like the '70s palace. I like the neighborhood. I like my easy commute, the relatively low cost of living in The Frontier. I like the place I was at in my life, prior to all this hold-your-breath-and-wait mumbo jumbo. I like that I have a fenced back yard, a house that's just a little too big (and never feels too small), a spot to plant a garden. I like that I finally have food on hand, because I have lots of storage space. I like that I'm minutes from hiking and camping and the great (when warm) outdoors. I adore my sitter. I love The Frontier summers - which make up for the winters I could do without. I loved that we've planned a trip to Yellowstone in June, one to Capitol Reef in late April and are within driving distance of family. I like my midwife, the OBs in her office and my perinatologist. I even like teaching teenagers every-other-Sunday.
Could all of this be replicated somewhere else? Almost certainly - at least most of it. But after years and years of change (all fine and good in your 20s and single or childless), I'm tired. I'm tired of being a bit of a nomad.
Two years ago, I made the move to a new place when I was 28 weeks pregnant. While I was closer to family, I felt isolated in my pregnancy - small office, new city, the normal transitional quirks. Then I gave birth and spent 6 weeks underground in The Hobbit Hole, feeling absolutely alone. I went back to work, and that only made it worse - winter set in (the coldest/snowiest in years), The Factory became a prison and I stumbled along.
I'm TERRIFIED to repeat that. Add this time the potential that I'll be working from home full-time with a toddler and a 3rd-trimester pregnancy, which then turns into a toddler and an infant is huge. I'm terrified. Indeed, I've learned lessons - no basement dwellings. Must have lots of windows. Must have good neighbors and a good boss. But some things? I'm not so sure I can control, other than praying very, very hard.
And, to be honest, the thought of moving again mid-pregnancy or later, to a new place and starting over makes me want to curl up and throw a stubborn tantrum. I don't want to have to find my fourth Midwife/OB in two years. I don't want to have to start the whole "here is my medical history, here's the current plan of action w/ my injections, liver monitoring, etc..." again. I don't want to have to deal with the fact that no Midwife/OB treats the same way and I may end up being on someone's high-risk-therefore-you-get-no-say list, like so many with this clotting issue. I don't want to give birth in a strange city, where I sit alone for weeks or months with two small children because I don't know a soul and my family is too far away to come.
Maybe I am perpetually grumpy. Or just irritable because we can't make plans more than 2 weeks out - just in case we find out soon where we're going to end up. Thousands of pregnant woman move daily, they don't get a choice. I can - and will - suck it up and get on with life and make it a good experience.
But it doesn't mean I'm not going to mourn a little and wish I wasn't living a repeat of my life 2 years ago.
We're nowhere close to breaking that record. And now, it seems we're stuck in "repeat" mode - only at the moment it feels like "repeat" is stuck on pause.
Two years ago, spring of 2007, Himself and I got a hair-brained (ahem, inspired) idea to move to The Frontier. Looking back, it was a good thing. For the first 15 months or so from that point, it most definitely was NOT. Good things take patience and faith.
We knew it (the pending move) was coming. Himself's job warned us from the beginning that we'd not likely stay in the area. However, a year ago, when working for The Factory, still in the throes of deep post-partum depression and living in The Hobbit Hole, I gleefully shouted, "ABSOLUTELY!" when Himself said, "Would we be willing to relocate." And then I promptly forgot about it.
I like the '70s palace. I like the neighborhood. I like my easy commute, the relatively low cost of living in The Frontier. I like the place I was at in my life, prior to all this hold-your-breath-and-wait mumbo jumbo. I like that I have a fenced back yard, a house that's just a little too big (and never feels too small), a spot to plant a garden. I like that I finally have food on hand, because I have lots of storage space. I like that I'm minutes from hiking and camping and the great (when warm) outdoors. I adore my sitter. I love The Frontier summers - which make up for the winters I could do without. I loved that we've planned a trip to Yellowstone in June, one to Capitol Reef in late April and are within driving distance of family. I like my midwife, the OBs in her office and my perinatologist. I even like teaching teenagers every-other-Sunday.
Could all of this be replicated somewhere else? Almost certainly - at least most of it. But after years and years of change (all fine and good in your 20s and single or childless), I'm tired. I'm tired of being a bit of a nomad.
Two years ago, I made the move to a new place when I was 28 weeks pregnant. While I was closer to family, I felt isolated in my pregnancy - small office, new city, the normal transitional quirks. Then I gave birth and spent 6 weeks underground in The Hobbit Hole, feeling absolutely alone. I went back to work, and that only made it worse - winter set in (the coldest/snowiest in years), The Factory became a prison and I stumbled along.
I'm TERRIFIED to repeat that. Add this time the potential that I'll be working from home full-time with a toddler and a 3rd-trimester pregnancy, which then turns into a toddler and an infant is huge. I'm terrified. Indeed, I've learned lessons - no basement dwellings. Must have lots of windows. Must have good neighbors and a good boss. But some things? I'm not so sure I can control, other than praying very, very hard.
And, to be honest, the thought of moving again mid-pregnancy or later, to a new place and starting over makes me want to curl up and throw a stubborn tantrum. I don't want to have to find my fourth Midwife/OB in two years. I don't want to have to start the whole "here is my medical history, here's the current plan of action w/ my injections, liver monitoring, etc..." again. I don't want to have to deal with the fact that no Midwife/OB treats the same way and I may end up being on someone's high-risk-therefore-you-get-no-say list, like so many with this clotting issue. I don't want to give birth in a strange city, where I sit alone for weeks or months with two small children because I don't know a soul and my family is too far away to come.
Maybe I am perpetually grumpy. Or just irritable because we can't make plans more than 2 weeks out - just in case we find out soon where we're going to end up. Thousands of pregnant woman move daily, they don't get a choice. I can - and will - suck it up and get on with life and make it a good experience.
But it doesn't mean I'm not going to mourn a little and wish I wasn't living a repeat of my life 2 years ago.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Guru-izing the Groceries
Last night I went to a seminar held by The Frontier's famous Grocery Guru. Admittedly, I did it more for a reason to leave the insanity that has become my house (how a smallish toddler can wreak complete havoc on every room in under 24 hours is beyond me), but it was definitely interesting and engaging.
He has a system for utilizing two sets of Sunday circular coupons in the local daily papers (sidenote: anyone else wondering how long The Frontier can sustain two daily papers when cities like Denver are going to only one?) that combined with advanced planning, saves an average family of four 70% on their grocery bill.
I already shop only twice a month, plan my meals around sales, plan my meals for two weeks and only buy certain things (cereal, paper towels, toilet paper, shrimp, canned goods, etc.) on sale, so my grocery budget buys amazing things for not much money.
But I'm not a coupon shopper. Never have been. Typically can't remember where I left my car keys, let alone whatever coupons I might happen to get my paws on. I also have a firm aversion to looking through ads unless I'm in the market for something, because while I hate shopping, I always seem compelled to visit "the biggest sale of the century" and find something I really didn't need but absolutely must have. Which is why I only look through the grocery ads the day I plan my grocery list. On the off weeks, they head straight into the recycling bin, lest I be tempted by Jumbo Gulf Shrimp selling at $5/pound.
I challenged the guru's claim that this system works for everyone, regardless of how you eat. Because, let's face it, we don't exactly eat "normally." I'm extraordinarly particular (picky?) about brands, quality and value. I typically won't buy meat that hasn't been packaged in-store, I won't buy dairy with rBGH, and I buy soy sauce in half-gallon containers. The last two spices on my "must replenish" list were tumeric and garam masala. Not exactly the generic soup in a can and premade cookie dough he spoke of in the demo.
However, he said it could be done for organic eaters, make-it-from-scratchers, healthy eaters, junk-food eaters, etc. So, I'm giving it a try. I've been dying to take the newspaper again since we've been here, but in reality I only read it on Sundays. Fortunately, the twin dailies here offer online subscriptions (pdf of the paper edition) M-Sa and a hard copy (with the coupons) on Sundays.
I'm giving it a month. We'll see what happens. If I don't save more than the $12 newspaper subscription on my grocery bill, I'll cancel one of the papers (again - who needs two daily newspapers when the only difference is one doesn't run alcohol ads or ads for R-rated movies?) and go back to my old way.
In the meantime, I'm praying that Unilever runs coupons for Dove Body Wash, because I'm trying to stock up and it is the only body wash Woodstock and I can tolerate - at a whopping $6/bottle.
He has a system for utilizing two sets of Sunday circular coupons in the local daily papers (sidenote: anyone else wondering how long The Frontier can sustain two daily papers when cities like Denver are going to only one?) that combined with advanced planning, saves an average family of four 70% on their grocery bill.
I already shop only twice a month, plan my meals around sales, plan my meals for two weeks and only buy certain things (cereal, paper towels, toilet paper, shrimp, canned goods, etc.) on sale, so my grocery budget buys amazing things for not much money.
But I'm not a coupon shopper. Never have been. Typically can't remember where I left my car keys, let alone whatever coupons I might happen to get my paws on. I also have a firm aversion to looking through ads unless I'm in the market for something, because while I hate shopping, I always seem compelled to visit "the biggest sale of the century" and find something I really didn't need but absolutely must have. Which is why I only look through the grocery ads the day I plan my grocery list. On the off weeks, they head straight into the recycling bin, lest I be tempted by Jumbo Gulf Shrimp selling at $5/pound.
I challenged the guru's claim that this system works for everyone, regardless of how you eat. Because, let's face it, we don't exactly eat "normally." I'm extraordinarly particular (picky?) about brands, quality and value. I typically won't buy meat that hasn't been packaged in-store, I won't buy dairy with rBGH, and I buy soy sauce in half-gallon containers. The last two spices on my "must replenish" list were tumeric and garam masala. Not exactly the generic soup in a can and premade cookie dough he spoke of in the demo.
However, he said it could be done for organic eaters, make-it-from-scratchers, healthy eaters, junk-food eaters, etc. So, I'm giving it a try. I've been dying to take the newspaper again since we've been here, but in reality I only read it on Sundays. Fortunately, the twin dailies here offer online subscriptions (pdf of the paper edition) M-Sa and a hard copy (with the coupons) on Sundays.
I'm giving it a month. We'll see what happens. If I don't save more than the $12 newspaper subscription on my grocery bill, I'll cancel one of the papers (again - who needs two daily newspapers when the only difference is one doesn't run alcohol ads or ads for R-rated movies?) and go back to my old way.
In the meantime, I'm praying that Unilever runs coupons for Dove Body Wash, because I'm trying to stock up and it is the only body wash Woodstock and I can tolerate - at a whopping $6/bottle.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Thinking Out Loud, Part III
A Continuation of This
It snowed and snowed and snowed. The valley became thick with fog, heavy clouds, inversion and perma-snow. We went nearly three months before we saw our lawn - only to have the snow return. People said it was the worst winter in years - in nearly a decade. Funny thing, all of my winters in The Frontier (all 4 of them) have been "record-setting" winters in the snow/cold temps/storms categories. I must have some sort of mighty influence on Mother Nature. If so, I'm calling in a favor this year. I'll conserve water, let my lawn die, whatever if only we can have a mild winter.
I felt like a heathen praying desperately for sunshine and clean air last year when the rest of The Frontier, trained from childhood to pray for moisture in this high-altitude desert wilderness, prayed for snow. But pray I did. For sunshine and sanity, mostly.
The darkest day came in mid-January. The details are seared into my memory forever. Himself had just lost his job. Woodstock was sick with a bad winter cold. I felt as if I was weighted down by concrete. My boss at The Factory had a tyrranical fit over some perceived slight that would not have even been an issue had she not spent the entire prior week galavanting with stars and power brokers in the ridiculously over-the-top film festival up the canyon. I was driving in a blizzard to pick up Woodstock. I had nearly slid off the road trying to drive a stick-shift up a long, steep hill in stop-and-go traffic. My nerves were frayed, my hope was shattered, my soul was drowning.
I did something I have never done before, or since: I pulled over and called my mom. I started to cry when she answered the phone. I cried for nearly a full 5 minutes before I could compose myself enough to plead,
She and my sister came. Bless their bosses who didn't question when they called in over the weekend to say the storm (forecast well in advance) prevented their return for a couple of days. Bless them - who spent the weekend cleaning, organizing and working to make The Hobbit Hole a refuge instead of an anxiety-ridden lair.
I sobbed the day they left. I wanted to fling myself at the end of the snowy driveway and beg for them to take Woodstock and I to the sunny respite of their homes in the south. Every ounce of adult sensibility was called into play to keep me from getting into my own car and following them home.
The mailman came daily, but not a single piece of mail was opened in our home for three months. NOT ONE. I took it, in its piles and let it build up. I couldn't bear what its contents might hold. I couldn't even bear to get up in the mornings. The Frontier felt like the Arctic Wilderness - barren, unforgiving and isolated.
Work got worse. The Factory was a web of lies and deceit and broken promises. Any chance I had at getting anywhere was eliminated when I refused to call my contacts in an attempt to make them potential clients. There was no way I was going to put my reputation on the line for things I could not control. And still the answer was, "Not yet. Be patient. It's not time to leave."
Eventually, I started head-shrinking. Talking it out helped. Realizing that I was sick helped, but it wasn't something I could admit out loud. It would have been easier to declare I had cancer than to say my diagnosis out loud: Post-partum depression and severe anxiety disorder, on top of my typical seasonal affective disorder. My entire adult life had been dedicated to cultivating the impression of a put-together, strong, independent woman. Even under the weight of wanting to just disappear, I couldn't admit I needed help - from anyone. In my world, asking for help meant needing to reciprocate. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't repay. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't be weak. I had to keep it together - to earn a living for my family, to take care of my baby, to survive. Admitting I needed help went contrary to everything inside of me - wise or not.
I scratched out each day, waiting in an eternal state of suspension for spring - for the tulips, the daffodils, any sign that my winter prison would thaw and leave me better able to heal.
To be continued ...
It snowed and snowed and snowed. The valley became thick with fog, heavy clouds, inversion and perma-snow. We went nearly three months before we saw our lawn - only to have the snow return. People said it was the worst winter in years - in nearly a decade. Funny thing, all of my winters in The Frontier (all 4 of them) have been "record-setting" winters in the snow/cold temps/storms categories. I must have some sort of mighty influence on Mother Nature. If so, I'm calling in a favor this year. I'll conserve water, let my lawn die, whatever if only we can have a mild winter.
I felt like a heathen praying desperately for sunshine and clean air last year when the rest of The Frontier, trained from childhood to pray for moisture in this high-altitude desert wilderness, prayed for snow. But pray I did. For sunshine and sanity, mostly.
The darkest day came in mid-January. The details are seared into my memory forever. Himself had just lost his job. Woodstock was sick with a bad winter cold. I felt as if I was weighted down by concrete. My boss at The Factory had a tyrranical fit over some perceived slight that would not have even been an issue had she not spent the entire prior week galavanting with stars and power brokers in the ridiculously over-the-top film festival up the canyon. I was driving in a blizzard to pick up Woodstock. I had nearly slid off the road trying to drive a stick-shift up a long, steep hill in stop-and-go traffic. My nerves were frayed, my hope was shattered, my soul was drowning.
I did something I have never done before, or since: I pulled over and called my mom. I started to cry when she answered the phone. I cried for nearly a full 5 minutes before I could compose myself enough to plead,
"Please come."The Parents live 300 miles away - through three major mountain passes and some of the highest (ie snowiest) terrain in the state. My mom works full-time. The weekend forecast was for more storms.
She and my sister came. Bless their bosses who didn't question when they called in over the weekend to say the storm (forecast well in advance) prevented their return for a couple of days. Bless them - who spent the weekend cleaning, organizing and working to make The Hobbit Hole a refuge instead of an anxiety-ridden lair.
I sobbed the day they left. I wanted to fling myself at the end of the snowy driveway and beg for them to take Woodstock and I to the sunny respite of their homes in the south. Every ounce of adult sensibility was called into play to keep me from getting into my own car and following them home.
The mailman came daily, but not a single piece of mail was opened in our home for three months. NOT ONE. I took it, in its piles and let it build up. I couldn't bear what its contents might hold. I couldn't even bear to get up in the mornings. The Frontier felt like the Arctic Wilderness - barren, unforgiving and isolated.
Work got worse. The Factory was a web of lies and deceit and broken promises. Any chance I had at getting anywhere was eliminated when I refused to call my contacts in an attempt to make them potential clients. There was no way I was going to put my reputation on the line for things I could not control. And still the answer was, "Not yet. Be patient. It's not time to leave."
Eventually, I started head-shrinking. Talking it out helped. Realizing that I was sick helped, but it wasn't something I could admit out loud. It would have been easier to declare I had cancer than to say my diagnosis out loud: Post-partum depression and severe anxiety disorder, on top of my typical seasonal affective disorder. My entire adult life had been dedicated to cultivating the impression of a put-together, strong, independent woman. Even under the weight of wanting to just disappear, I couldn't admit I needed help - from anyone. In my world, asking for help meant needing to reciprocate. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't repay. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't be weak. I had to keep it together - to earn a living for my family, to take care of my baby, to survive. Admitting I needed help went contrary to everything inside of me - wise or not.
I scratched out each day, waiting in an eternal state of suspension for spring - for the tulips, the daffodils, any sign that my winter prison would thaw and leave me better able to heal.
To be continued ...
Thursday, October 16, 2008
On The Recent Snowstorm
It snowed this weekend. SNOWED! As in 3" of the white stuff all over the yard on Sunday morning. As in we had to turn on the heat because our house is leaky and poorly insulated. As in we had to dig out not just jackets but actual COATS.
As in ... winter is almost here.
*sigh*
I was complaining about the early arrival of Old Man Winter, until I realized that this is NORMAL - realizing that last year I was pretty much in the same state of mourning, as evidenced by this post, which still rings very, very true.
It's going to be a long time until spring comes again.
As in ... winter is almost here.
*sigh*
I was complaining about the early arrival of Old Man Winter, until I realized that this is NORMAL - realizing that last year I was pretty much in the same state of mourning, as evidenced by this post, which still rings very, very true.
It's going to be a long time until spring comes again.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
By a Jury of Your Peers
There were 30 of us who, with some trepedation, took our seats yesterday in the relatively new courthouse downtown.
I sat between the absolutely perfect stereotype of a thirtysomething gaming/design geek (I say this with authority and fondness - Himself has a collection of thirty- and fortysomething gaming/design geek friends) and the picture perfect young physician's wife. Hair perfect. Nails perfect. (I noticed her nails because mine looked like they had been attacked by a nail-biting monster, when in fact it was only the vegetable peeler.) Trendy clothes. Even trendier highlights. Book on child rearing.
We all sized up the three lawyers in perfectly tailored navy suits, white shirts and colorful ties and the "just graduated" newbie lawyer with two days worth of growth, a light gray off-the-rack suit and a muted blue tie. He looked like his student loans were probably higher than whatever he was making as the other lawyers' lackey. He still had the "crusading for a cause" light that burns in every new law graduate's eyes.
All of us dutifully answered the questions issued by the judge, reportedly to help weed out the crazies, the extremists and those with strong opinions on litigation and tort reform. Deep, probing questions like, "What is your favorite television show?"(The most popular response was CSI); "What books do you read?" (Most popular: A good book. Most interesting: Your honor, I don't like to read); "What are the ages of your children?" (Lengthiest response: 12, complete with a detailed explanation on how she acquired all 12 children as a result of being widowed and remarried - three times).
There were 30 people - 80% female, about 50% retired. Half married, half divorced/widowed/single. 95% lifelong residents of The Frontier. One PhD with a domestic partner, an Ivy League education and strong opinions regarding tort reform. One high-school dropout who had been homeless, ran marathons as a hobby and spent 20 minutes trying to understand the judge's explanation of "tort reform". One Pakistani cab driver. One lawyer. A handful who owned or worked for small businesses. A handful with college degrees. People in suits, jeans, flip flops (FLIP FLOPS? IN COURT?!) carrying briefcases, handbags, reading material and court validation letters.
There was a woman with bottle-red hair who spoke of how the television was her best friend. There was the daughter of a lawyer, who was called to elaborate on her experience in medical malpractice cases as a former paralegal. There were the stereotyes beside me - he was single, read sci-fi, worked as a designer, played video games in his spare time; she was married to a doctor, had three kids, played tennis and watched reality TV. There was the woman who had lost a son to a brain aneurism, the woman who hadn't been downtown in several years and the widow of a prominent area businessman.
For 4.5 hours we sat there, exchanging life stories as if we were a reunion of people who were catching up after several decades. I felt like someone in NPR's "Story Corps" project as the court painted 3.5-minute life sketches of all of us. When I left, too far down the list to make the panel of eight jurors needed to start the trial, I realized that judicial process just might work. The selected group truly seemed a fair representation of The Frontier's Pollock-like makeup - mostly monochromatic with a few colorful surprises swirled in.
I hope the verdict is newsworthy. I'm dying to know the finale.
I sat between the absolutely perfect stereotype of a thirtysomething gaming/design geek (I say this with authority and fondness - Himself has a collection of thirty- and fortysomething gaming/design geek friends) and the picture perfect young physician's wife. Hair perfect. Nails perfect. (I noticed her nails because mine looked like they had been attacked by a nail-biting monster, when in fact it was only the vegetable peeler.) Trendy clothes. Even trendier highlights. Book on child rearing.
We all sized up the three lawyers in perfectly tailored navy suits, white shirts and colorful ties and the "just graduated" newbie lawyer with two days worth of growth, a light gray off-the-rack suit and a muted blue tie. He looked like his student loans were probably higher than whatever he was making as the other lawyers' lackey. He still had the "crusading for a cause" light that burns in every new law graduate's eyes.
All of us dutifully answered the questions issued by the judge, reportedly to help weed out the crazies, the extremists and those with strong opinions on litigation and tort reform. Deep, probing questions like, "What is your favorite television show?"(The most popular response was CSI); "What books do you read?" (Most popular: A good book. Most interesting: Your honor, I don't like to read); "What are the ages of your children?" (Lengthiest response: 12, complete with a detailed explanation on how she acquired all 12 children as a result of being widowed and remarried - three times).
There were 30 people - 80% female, about 50% retired. Half married, half divorced/widowed/single. 95% lifelong residents of The Frontier. One PhD with a domestic partner, an Ivy League education and strong opinions regarding tort reform. One high-school dropout who had been homeless, ran marathons as a hobby and spent 20 minutes trying to understand the judge's explanation of "tort reform". One Pakistani cab driver. One lawyer. A handful who owned or worked for small businesses. A handful with college degrees. People in suits, jeans, flip flops (FLIP FLOPS? IN COURT?!) carrying briefcases, handbags, reading material and court validation letters.
There was a woman with bottle-red hair who spoke of how the television was her best friend. There was the daughter of a lawyer, who was called to elaborate on her experience in medical malpractice cases as a former paralegal. There were the stereotyes beside me - he was single, read sci-fi, worked as a designer, played video games in his spare time; she was married to a doctor, had three kids, played tennis and watched reality TV. There was the woman who had lost a son to a brain aneurism, the woman who hadn't been downtown in several years and the widow of a prominent area businessman.
For 4.5 hours we sat there, exchanging life stories as if we were a reunion of people who were catching up after several decades. I felt like someone in NPR's "Story Corps" project as the court painted 3.5-minute life sketches of all of us. When I left, too far down the list to make the panel of eight jurors needed to start the trial, I realized that judicial process just might work. The selected group truly seemed a fair representation of The Frontier's Pollock-like makeup - mostly monochromatic with a few colorful surprises swirled in.
I hope the verdict is newsworthy. I'm dying to know the finale.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Pausing.
It must have been the cooler air.
Or the drive through Parleys Canyon.
Or the Aspens mixed in with the rugged pines.
Or the postcard-perfect (if overpriced) Main Street.
Although it was probably the huge comfy bed and the jetted tub.
I went to Deer Valley for an overnight retreat and didn't want to come home.
Himself has been up there for several days for a work conference. A free hotel room is the perfect excuse for a 14-hour vacation. So yesterday after work, Woodstock and I went on a mini-road trip (30 miles, the perfect kind with an 11-month-old). I've been up there once or twice since moving back, but I forgot how absolutely visually stunning it is.
I'll admit, "Deer Valley" is usually a term that is apt to rile me up a bit. I'm usually one to gripe how people fly in with their ski gear and flashy snow pants, drive up to Deer Valley, throw money around, live like the world is their playground and then go back and rag on all the "goofy natives" that live in the rest of the state.
However, I've significantly underappreciated what is only minutes from my own backyard. If it didn't snow in the winter (or I was a die-hard skier, which is about as likely to happen as winning the lottery) and the housing was affordable (ha!), I'm not sure I would have left. The air was clean and warm, but not too warm. The lodge was lovely. The jetted tub ... oh the jetted tub!
It reminded me so much of our trip to the Sunday River Ski Resort in western Maine five springs ago. A bit like we were the only people on earth, for a moment. Lovely and quiet (off seasons are the best time to visit ski resorts, in my snow-hating opinion), nestled in the mountains, bringing back floods of wonderful memories.
I didn't have to think about the boxes to be unpacked or the kitchen floor that is in dire need of attention. Or the dishes I didn't get done before I left for work yesterday. Or the still-damp-even-though-the-landlord-took-the-fan-back drywall in my bedroom. Or work. Or anything, really. I just existed, and it was beautiful.
We dined on Cajun/Carribean food, wandered Main Street, watched some Olympics (during which the Men's 200-meter race had me yelling at the TV) and slept soundly in dark, quiet room.
As I carried Woodstock to the car this morning, I thought how much I love nothing better than slightly cool, silent mornings before the world begins to stir.
Forty minutes later, I had dropped Woodstock off at Miss Jan's and pulled into work, feeling more refreshed than I had in weeks.
It was the perfect mid-week pause.
Or the drive through Parleys Canyon.
Or the Aspens mixed in with the rugged pines.
Or the postcard-perfect (if overpriced) Main Street.
Although it was probably the huge comfy bed and the jetted tub.
I went to Deer Valley for an overnight retreat and didn't want to come home.
Himself has been up there for several days for a work conference. A free hotel room is the perfect excuse for a 14-hour vacation. So yesterday after work, Woodstock and I went on a mini-road trip (30 miles, the perfect kind with an 11-month-old). I've been up there once or twice since moving back, but I forgot how absolutely visually stunning it is.
I'll admit, "Deer Valley" is usually a term that is apt to rile me up a bit. I'm usually one to gripe how people fly in with their ski gear and flashy snow pants, drive up to Deer Valley, throw money around, live like the world is their playground and then go back and rag on all the "goofy natives" that live in the rest of the state.
However, I've significantly underappreciated what is only minutes from my own backyard. If it didn't snow in the winter (or I was a die-hard skier, which is about as likely to happen as winning the lottery) and the housing was affordable (ha!), I'm not sure I would have left. The air was clean and warm, but not too warm. The lodge was lovely. The jetted tub ... oh the jetted tub!
It reminded me so much of our trip to the Sunday River Ski Resort in western Maine five springs ago. A bit like we were the only people on earth, for a moment. Lovely and quiet (off seasons are the best time to visit ski resorts, in my snow-hating opinion), nestled in the mountains, bringing back floods of wonderful memories.
I didn't have to think about the boxes to be unpacked or the kitchen floor that is in dire need of attention. Or the dishes I didn't get done before I left for work yesterday. Or the still-damp-even-though-the-landlord-took-the-fan-back drywall in my bedroom. Or work. Or anything, really. I just existed, and it was beautiful.
We dined on Cajun/Carribean food, wandered Main Street, watched some Olympics (during which the Men's 200-meter race had me yelling at the TV) and slept soundly in dark, quiet room.
As I carried Woodstock to the car this morning, I thought how much I love nothing better than slightly cool, silent mornings before the world begins to stir.
Forty minutes later, I had dropped Woodstock off at Miss Jan's and pulled into work, feeling more refreshed than I had in weeks.
It was the perfect mid-week pause.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Operation Import Virginia
Last summer, I informed Heidi with excited glee that friends of ours from Virginia were also moving to Salt Lake City. Together we chatted - wouldn't it be great if we could just import our friends from Virginia - thereby eliminating the need to go great distances to visit them?
It appears we are on to something.
A couple of months ago, I came home and told Himself, "I have something to tell you that you'll never believe in a million years."
Without missing a beat, Himself said, "Oliver and Kristin are moving to Happy Valley."
Apparently, we agreed on that news being the most surprising thing we could think of. If you know them, you probably aren't surprised at that.
Last night, I got to again welcome Oliver and Kristin from Virginia. It was surreal. It was a whirlwind of young children and old adults who had last (and first) all been together nearly six years ago. It was a quick flashback to 14 months ago when I arrived, tired, sore, swollen and vowing to never drive more than an hour or two a day. It was a sense of delight that two of my favorite people were now less than an hour's drive away. It was a sense of the void they surely left in our beloved Chantilly congregation when they departed. It was a giddy sense of "Hoorah! More Virginia friends!"
Most importantly, it was an itch to play Killer Bunnies.
Apparently the barely-discussed, but often-pondered Operation Import Virginia is off to a grand start.
It appears we are on to something.
A couple of months ago, I came home and told Himself, "I have something to tell you that you'll never believe in a million years."
Without missing a beat, Himself said, "Oliver and Kristin are moving to Happy Valley."
Apparently, we agreed on that news being the most surprising thing we could think of. If you know them, you probably aren't surprised at that.
Last night, I got to again welcome Oliver and Kristin from Virginia. It was surreal. It was a whirlwind of young children and old adults who had last (and first) all been together nearly six years ago. It was a quick flashback to 14 months ago when I arrived, tired, sore, swollen and vowing to never drive more than an hour or two a day. It was a sense of delight that two of my favorite people were now less than an hour's drive away. It was a sense of the void they surely left in our beloved Chantilly congregation when they departed. It was a giddy sense of "Hoorah! More Virginia friends!"
Most importantly, it was an itch to play Killer Bunnies.
Apparently the barely-discussed, but often-pondered Operation Import Virginia is off to a grand start.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Adieu, Hobbit Hole
As of Wednesday, the Hobbit Hole will belong to someone else. I have the annoying bits of odds-and-ends to cart out (and about half of the kitchen), then a deep cleaning, and we'll close the door on our first year in The Frontier forever.
I'm surprisingly nostalgic about the Hobbit Hole - perhaps because it was Baby Girl's first home. Perhaps because of the lush backyard. Perhaps because I cannot yet locate the salt and pepper.
To listen to Himself, however, one would think the Hobbit Hole was a palace. Um, what?! Remember last year? When Himself spent days moaning about the low-ceilinged luxury digs (complete with 8-legged house guests) I conjured up for us while he was still in VA?
Fast-forward 12 months. Now he is moaning about the move to the house next door. Never mind the fact he forgot to tell work were moving on Saturday the 12th fate would have it, they scheduled him to work his once-a-month Saturday shift on ... you guessed it, Saturday the 12th. We are grateful for the mattress, box springs, bed frame and box of damp laundry (we had to move the dryer before the last batch of laundry was dry Saturday morning)he managed to move over.
Saturday morning brought a parade of comedic proportions. Enter Sara, with Baby Girl in the backpack on her back hauling boxes from one house to the other, Son lugging some odd-shaped box or another, and five neighbors - three of whom were under the age of 22 - all parading back and forth from The Hobbit Hole to the new house. The parade was so successful we wore a path in the patch of grass separating the two houses. Hopefully the new occupants of the Hobbit Hole are friendly, since we've already created a shortcut between the two houses.
Sunday morning brought more comedy as we discovered that the breakfast cereal was at the new place (it has yet to be christened with a name), but the milk, bowls and silverware were at the old place. All of Baby Girl's things were at the new place, but most of our clothes were still in the Hobbit Hole's closets. All personal hygiene products were at the new place, but my makeup was at the Hobbit Hole.
You get the idea. Today, it was slightly better. I only had to run over to the Hobbit Hole for the loaf of bread and the trashcans, as I was getting tired of the pile of Baby Girl's diapers in the corner of the dining room. The rule is now, if you return to the Hobbit Hole, for any reason, you MUST return with a laundry basket full of items.
At this rate, we might be out of the Hobbit Hole by sometime mid-winter.
I'm surprisingly nostalgic about the Hobbit Hole - perhaps because it was Baby Girl's first home. Perhaps because of the lush backyard. Perhaps because I cannot yet locate the salt and pepper.
To listen to Himself, however, one would think the Hobbit Hole was a palace. Um, what?! Remember last year? When Himself spent days moaning about the low-ceilinged luxury digs (complete with 8-legged house guests) I conjured up for us while he was still in VA?
Fast-forward 12 months. Now he is moaning about the move to the house next door. Never mind the fact he forgot to tell work were moving on Saturday the 12th fate would have it, they scheduled him to work his once-a-month Saturday shift on ... you guessed it, Saturday the 12th. We are grateful for the mattress, box springs, bed frame and box of damp laundry (we had to move the dryer before the last batch of laundry was dry Saturday morning)he managed to move over.
Saturday morning brought a parade of comedic proportions. Enter Sara, with Baby Girl in the backpack on her back hauling boxes from one house to the other, Son lugging some odd-shaped box or another, and five neighbors - three of whom were under the age of 22 - all parading back and forth from The Hobbit Hole to the new house. The parade was so successful we wore a path in the patch of grass separating the two houses. Hopefully the new occupants of the Hobbit Hole are friendly, since we've already created a shortcut between the two houses.
Sunday morning brought more comedy as we discovered that the breakfast cereal was at the new place (it has yet to be christened with a name), but the milk, bowls and silverware were at the old place. All of Baby Girl's things were at the new place, but most of our clothes were still in the Hobbit Hole's closets. All personal hygiene products were at the new place, but my makeup was at the Hobbit Hole.
You get the idea. Today, it was slightly better. I only had to run over to the Hobbit Hole for the loaf of bread and the trashcans, as I was getting tired of the pile of Baby Girl's diapers in the corner of the dining room. The rule is now, if you return to the Hobbit Hole, for any reason, you MUST return with a laundry basket full of items.
At this rate, we might be out of the Hobbit Hole by sometime mid-winter.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Something Wrong With This Picture
(if I had a picture, anyway).
Everyone said we were crazy.
Himself said I was crazy - and immediately backed out of any responsibility for the whole mess, even though, while it was my idea, it was his agreement that spurred me forward.
We tried to go camping.
Keep in mind, the family tent was a second home growing up, so camping in and of itself wasn't the issue.
The issue was two-fold ... camping and babies require a lot of stuff - even if for only one night and cars are not made for camping trips.
The plan was to drive from The Frontier to Bryce National Park, hike around, see the sights and camp at Pine Lake, just up the road (to avoid the nutty national park campers). The following day we'd drive to Zion National Park, hike some more and spend the remainder of the 4th hanging out with my parents.
Except, well, cars aren't made for camping trips.
Even when we left out the pack-n-play, the large tent and any non-essential items (like more than two pairs of shoes for me), our "large" compact car (not to be confused with the "small" compact car that replaced the hoopty) was loaded to the top, leaving no room for Himself, Son, myself, Baby Girl and Himself's best friend, who was visiting from Virginia.
After packing and unpacking the car, I did (under a great deal of histrionics and persuation) what any reasonably sane adult would have done weeks earlier ... I called my parents and asked if we could stay with them instead.
Camping in beds with showers and loads of food is always pleasant in the end.
I'm still determined we're going camping this summer - the one benefit to The Frontier is camping, and I haven't gone yet.
Everyone said we were crazy.
Himself said I was crazy - and immediately backed out of any responsibility for the whole mess, even though, while it was my idea, it was his agreement that spurred me forward.
We tried to go camping.
Keep in mind, the family tent was a second home growing up, so camping in and of itself wasn't the issue.
The issue was two-fold ... camping and babies require a lot of stuff - even if for only one night and cars are not made for camping trips.
The plan was to drive from The Frontier to Bryce National Park, hike around, see the sights and camp at Pine Lake, just up the road (to avoid the nutty national park campers). The following day we'd drive to Zion National Park, hike some more and spend the remainder of the 4th hanging out with my parents.
Except, well, cars aren't made for camping trips.
Even when we left out the pack-n-play, the large tent and any non-essential items (like more than two pairs of shoes for me), our "large" compact car (not to be confused with the "small" compact car that replaced the hoopty) was loaded to the top, leaving no room for Himself, Son, myself, Baby Girl and Himself's best friend, who was visiting from Virginia.
After packing and unpacking the car, I did (under a great deal of histrionics and persuation) what any reasonably sane adult would have done weeks earlier ... I called my parents and asked if we could stay with them instead.
Camping in beds with showers and loads of food is always pleasant in the end.
I'm still determined we're going camping this summer - the one benefit to The Frontier is camping, and I haven't gone yet.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Belonging
Baby Girl and I went on a walk today - that's twice this week I've managed to work out. And, while I think the excuse for moving Daylight Savings back into March is ludicrous, I'm singing the praises of the man who started it all.
Anyway, as we were walking (or, rather, I was walking, and she was sleeping in her Snugli), I found myself wandering (my mother would be horrified) into random neighborhoods. I paused at every single house for sale and wondered what they looked like inside. I watched children play in the streets, couples walking their dogs after works, teenagers out running. I walked and walked and walked (it was only upon returning home that I realized I had been walking for 90 minutes and it was nearly Baby Girl's bedtime - no wonder she was sleepy!).
As I walked, I thought about belonging.
After two years in our apartment in Northern Virginia - two years of railing against renting, I bought curtains for my living room windows. It made a huge difference. I felt settled. Nearly everyone I knew rented. It was too expensive to even consider any other option, so I hung my curtains and settled in. Long before that, however, I had settled in socially - making friends, investing in long-term relationships and feeling as if I belonged.
That is what is missing here. I realized tonight I am consciously holding myself aloof, because I know The Hobbit Hole is not a forever proposition - or even one beyond our year's lease. I know moving is right around the corner, again. I'm not naturally social - I have to force myself to be social - so combined with the hesitation to make any truly meaningful emotional investments, thereby subjecting myself to eternal guilt for not being a good enough friend to keep in touch, I haven't exactly made any friends.
In fact, I realized as I was walking, that the next time I move, I'm not bothering with unpacking any of the holiday items, camping items, most of our books, the special occasion kitchen items, anything home decor, etc. A boring, simple existence, to be sure - but the thought of packing again and moving makes me want to cry.
At the same time I was patting myself on the back for being so smart and efficient in planning our next move, my heart sank. It is exactly this same line of thinking (subconsciously of course) that has resulted in me living here for nearly 10 months and having nothing to show for it.
Not one new friend.
Not one new business networking contact.
Not one dinner party (to be fair, we have no dining room or dining room table).
In fact, only one couple over for dinner - or anything - ever.
Not a membership to anything (other than the library, without which I would either go broke from spending too much at a bookstore or go mad from not reading).
Not one favorite hangout or walking destination or place.
Not one radio station programmed into the car (due mostly to the fact that I listen to books on CD while I drive, and I've memorized the call sign of the local NPR station -the only radio to which I really listen).
Our lease is up in two months. Himself still doesn't have a job. I desperately need a new one. All of which must revolve around Miss Jan, Baby Girl's sitter, as I'm not willing to sacrifice her services even out of geographic inconvenience.
Other than the very obvious blessing of Baby Girl, I don't have much to show for the past year, and I know it's subconsciously on purpose, because it's not as hard to leave nothing as it is to leave something.
That and curtains made for 6' windows don't work very well in The Hobbit Hole.
Anyway, as we were walking (or, rather, I was walking, and she was sleeping in her Snugli), I found myself wandering (my mother would be horrified) into random neighborhoods. I paused at every single house for sale and wondered what they looked like inside. I watched children play in the streets, couples walking their dogs after works, teenagers out running. I walked and walked and walked (it was only upon returning home that I realized I had been walking for 90 minutes and it was nearly Baby Girl's bedtime - no wonder she was sleepy!).
As I walked, I thought about belonging.
After two years in our apartment in Northern Virginia - two years of railing against renting, I bought curtains for my living room windows. It made a huge difference. I felt settled. Nearly everyone I knew rented. It was too expensive to even consider any other option, so I hung my curtains and settled in. Long before that, however, I had settled in socially - making friends, investing in long-term relationships and feeling as if I belonged.
That is what is missing here. I realized tonight I am consciously holding myself aloof, because I know The Hobbit Hole is not a forever proposition - or even one beyond our year's lease. I know moving is right around the corner, again. I'm not naturally social - I have to force myself to be social - so combined with the hesitation to make any truly meaningful emotional investments, thereby subjecting myself to eternal guilt for not being a good enough friend to keep in touch, I haven't exactly made any friends.
In fact, I realized as I was walking, that the next time I move, I'm not bothering with unpacking any of the holiday items, camping items, most of our books, the special occasion kitchen items, anything home decor, etc. A boring, simple existence, to be sure - but the thought of packing again and moving makes me want to cry.
At the same time I was patting myself on the back for being so smart and efficient in planning our next move, my heart sank. It is exactly this same line of thinking (subconsciously of course) that has resulted in me living here for nearly 10 months and having nothing to show for it.
Not one new friend.
Not one new business networking contact.
Not one dinner party (to be fair, we have no dining room or dining room table).
In fact, only one couple over for dinner - or anything - ever.
Not a membership to anything (other than the library, without which I would either go broke from spending too much at a bookstore or go mad from not reading).
Not one favorite hangout or walking destination or place.
Not one radio station programmed into the car (due mostly to the fact that I listen to books on CD while I drive, and I've memorized the call sign of the local NPR station -the only radio to which I really listen).
Our lease is up in two months. Himself still doesn't have a job. I desperately need a new one. All of which must revolve around Miss Jan, Baby Girl's sitter, as I'm not willing to sacrifice her services even out of geographic inconvenience.
Other than the very obvious blessing of Baby Girl, I don't have much to show for the past year, and I know it's subconsciously on purpose, because it's not as hard to leave nothing as it is to leave something.
That and curtains made for 6' windows don't work very well in The Hobbit Hole.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
One Moment in Time
One year ago today, the bottom fell out of my world.
I had come back to the office after a meeting, when my boss asked me to go with her upstairs (at that point "upstairs" was the executive suites and HR) - never a good sign, especially when followed with, "You need to trust me that everything will be okay."
Five minutes later I was told that my job was ending in 5 hours.
I sat, numb, unable to speak for fear that emotion would swallow me whole and leave me in a melted puddle of black silk, hose and high heels. The first thing through my head was how it could be me facing this - me, the one who had finally found a company with whom I could see myself for years to come; me, the one who, at 12 1/2 weeks pregnant and the primary income in our house, was not in a position to suddenly be jobless; me, who had grown out of her position, but was still hesitant to leave the friends, the mentoring, the slim thread of a future. They offered me a week to decide if I wanted to take a counter-offer - a position I had no desire for, no future in, but meant stability in the short-term. Unable to fathom walking out the doors forever on five hours' notice, I numbly nodded my head.
Worst of all? An hour later I had to appear at an interview for Marketing Director of the Year, for which the same company that had just told me "sorry ... no job" had nominated me. I willed myself not to cry on the drive there, for I didn't have any extra mascara on me.
I spent the weekend angry, crying and bitter. I allowed myself 48 hours to feel any emotion I wanted - to rage against overpaid executives who thought my pathetically small salary outweighed my contributions to the company and would save a few bucks. I allowed myself to be scared, even though the voice of reason had whispered "it will be okay." I allowed myself to vent, to steam, to shout, to think horrible thoughts.
Monday morning came, my deadline to quit behaving badly. I put on an air of resolve and vowed to be strong and stalwart. I was the consummate professional - organizing, filing and preparing reports on the status of my projects; speaking highly of the company who had shattered my confidence and security; working hard at the new job, which provided little satisfaction and no challenge. Little did I know that two months later, I would be interviewing for positions and contemplating a move to The Frontier.
A year, numerous interviews, another layoff, three jobs, one move and a baby later, here I am.
I am not sure what to think.
I had come back to the office after a meeting, when my boss asked me to go with her upstairs (at that point "upstairs" was the executive suites and HR) - never a good sign, especially when followed with, "You need to trust me that everything will be okay."
Five minutes later I was told that my job was ending in 5 hours.
I sat, numb, unable to speak for fear that emotion would swallow me whole and leave me in a melted puddle of black silk, hose and high heels. The first thing through my head was how it could be me facing this - me, the one who had finally found a company with whom I could see myself for years to come; me, the one who, at 12 1/2 weeks pregnant and the primary income in our house, was not in a position to suddenly be jobless; me, who had grown out of her position, but was still hesitant to leave the friends, the mentoring, the slim thread of a future. They offered me a week to decide if I wanted to take a counter-offer - a position I had no desire for, no future in, but meant stability in the short-term. Unable to fathom walking out the doors forever on five hours' notice, I numbly nodded my head.
Worst of all? An hour later I had to appear at an interview for Marketing Director of the Year, for which the same company that had just told me "sorry ... no job" had nominated me. I willed myself not to cry on the drive there, for I didn't have any extra mascara on me.
I spent the weekend angry, crying and bitter. I allowed myself 48 hours to feel any emotion I wanted - to rage against overpaid executives who thought my pathetically small salary outweighed my contributions to the company and would save a few bucks. I allowed myself to be scared, even though the voice of reason had whispered "it will be okay." I allowed myself to vent, to steam, to shout, to think horrible thoughts.
Monday morning came, my deadline to quit behaving badly. I put on an air of resolve and vowed to be strong and stalwart. I was the consummate professional - organizing, filing and preparing reports on the status of my projects; speaking highly of the company who had shattered my confidence and security; working hard at the new job, which provided little satisfaction and no challenge. Little did I know that two months later, I would be interviewing for positions and contemplating a move to The Frontier.
A year, numerous interviews, another layoff, three jobs, one move and a baby later, here I am.
I am not sure what to think.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Fire & Ice (or Snow, rather)
It snowed yesterday.
I realize that it snows frequently in The Frontier, even more so than usual this year (Global Warming, what?!), but yesterday's snowstorm was significant because we had been without snow for a whole week.
Not only had we been without snow, but it had been in the 50s (of course I was in DC for most of it) for several days, meaning that the snow on our driveway had completely melted for the first time in two months. (There was still a good 4" on the front lawn). No longer. There is now a good 8-10" on our front lawn, and the driveway has two deep tire tracks, as no one got up early enough this morning to actually shovel anything.
Making matters more interesting, the snowstorm hit its hardest during rush hour, always a great way to spend the entirety of one's evening - watching the snow from inside one's toasty warm car, cross-eyed from focusing so intently on the rear lights of the car in front of you, creeping along the bench at -5 mph.
The only relief is that it isn't supposed to snow again (according to the only-sometimes-correct weatherman) for another week. Maybe. Toes and fingers crossed.
So yesterday ended bad; today started out bad. Car was buried. Driveway was buried. Driveway into the sitter's complex nearly bested my poor, non-snow worthy car.
It continued along that course.
Our building caught on fire. One of the suites in The Factory's building had some sort of fire (albeit small) that disrupted the entire building's productivity for 30 minutes while the fireman fixed the fire and another 30 minutes while they scurried around trying to figure out why the alarm was still going off.
An hour later, everyone settled into their comfortable (and only semi-productive at this point) routines, the power went off - on the entire block.
We work on laptops - battery power lasts for several hours - unfortunately, the server which we connect to (owned and operated by the company with whom we office share) does not. I, having possession of the evil Blackberry, was the only one with internet/e-mail access.
It was off for an hour.
Seriously. I haven't even waded through the 100 e-mails I received overnight. Am I going to accomplish anything?
I realize that it snows frequently in The Frontier, even more so than usual this year (Global Warming, what?!), but yesterday's snowstorm was significant because we had been without snow for a whole week.
Not only had we been without snow, but it had been in the 50s (of course I was in DC for most of it) for several days, meaning that the snow on our driveway had completely melted for the first time in two months. (There was still a good 4" on the front lawn). No longer. There is now a good 8-10" on our front lawn, and the driveway has two deep tire tracks, as no one got up early enough this morning to actually shovel anything.
Making matters more interesting, the snowstorm hit its hardest during rush hour, always a great way to spend the entirety of one's evening - watching the snow from inside one's toasty warm car, cross-eyed from focusing so intently on the rear lights of the car in front of you, creeping along the bench at -5 mph.
The only relief is that it isn't supposed to snow again (according to the only-sometimes-correct weatherman) for another week. Maybe. Toes and fingers crossed.
So yesterday ended bad; today started out bad. Car was buried. Driveway was buried. Driveway into the sitter's complex nearly bested my poor, non-snow worthy car.
It continued along that course.
Our building caught on fire. One of the suites in The Factory's building had some sort of fire (albeit small) that disrupted the entire building's productivity for 30 minutes while the fireman fixed the fire and another 30 minutes while they scurried around trying to figure out why the alarm was still going off.
An hour later, everyone settled into their comfortable (and only semi-productive at this point) routines, the power went off - on the entire block.
We work on laptops - battery power lasts for several hours - unfortunately, the server which we connect to (owned and operated by the company with whom we office share) does not. I, having possession of the evil Blackberry, was the only one with internet/e-mail access.
It was off for an hour.
Seriously. I haven't even waded through the 100 e-mails I received overnight. Am I going to accomplish anything?
Friday, February 01, 2008
Out to Get Me
Himself and I have a friend who is a serious collector of German WWII artifacts, including manuscripts, books and other paraphernalia of Hitler (truth be told, I think it's more for the shock factor than anything). Since he was career military, he always sent his wife to buy things like Mein Kampf and instructed her to use cash, so it couldn't be traced (paranoid, much?) and the government couldn't come after him.
I feel like I must have forgotten to use the same amount of paranoid caution in my life lately, as I am up to my eyeballs in government-generated hate mail.
A sampling of what has awaited me over the past few weeks:
* A letter from the state of Virginia indicating that indeed I owed them for an ENTIRE YEAR's worth of personal property tax on my car, even though I changed my address and let them know I had moved as of 5 June 2007 (necessitating that I pay 42.7% of the tax, not the entire tax, like they are claiming). We are now arguing over my figure vs. theirs, which says I must pay through when everything was converted to a Frontier address/registration.
* A letter from the state re: my application for Baby Girl's insurance, since mine is cost-prohibitive (to the tune of 25% of my take-home salary) and Himself isn't employed. The letter was to let me know I needed to contact them for an interview by January 29 in order to complete my application (which took me two hours to fill out).
* A second letter from the state (see above), letting me know that I had missed my interview period and would now need to submit a new application. Postmarked January 30. It arrived January 31. Imagine the confusion when I opened this one first.
* A memo from the Social Security Administration, regarding our re-application (for the SECOND TIME) for Baby Girl's social security card. It let us know that we had used up two requests already - and that there are only three allowed per year, ten per lifetime (including new card requests for marital name changes). In other words, in the first 20 weeks of her life, we've used up 20% of her social security card requests.
* A jury duty notification from the county courts.
I'm waiting for an audit notice from the IRS - it would be a fitting tribute to the rest of my 2008 hate mail collection.
I am trying to decide if I should feel popular, loved or loathed. What I do know is that I am irritated beyond belief.
I feel like I must have forgotten to use the same amount of paranoid caution in my life lately, as I am up to my eyeballs in government-generated hate mail.
A sampling of what has awaited me over the past few weeks:
* A letter from the state of Virginia indicating that indeed I owed them for an ENTIRE YEAR's worth of personal property tax on my car, even though I changed my address and let them know I had moved as of 5 June 2007 (necessitating that I pay 42.7% of the tax, not the entire tax, like they are claiming). We are now arguing over my figure vs. theirs, which says I must pay through when everything was converted to a Frontier address/registration.
Why they hate me: Himself moved out here a full six weeks later than I did, never let VA know he moved, and converted all of his vehicle info to a Frontier address/registration the same time I did - and they only charged him through June.
* A letter from the state re: my application for Baby Girl's insurance, since mine is cost-prohibitive (to the tune of 25% of my take-home salary) and Himself isn't employed. The letter was to let me know I needed to contact them for an interview by January 29 in order to complete my application (which took me two hours to fill out).
Why they hate me: The letter was postmarked January 28. It arrived January 31. There are several things wrong with this, including mailing it the day before one has to call (and they are "conveniently available between 8:30 a.m. and 4 p.m. M-F") and the fact that I LIVE in the state capital, meaning the letter took 3 days to rattle around the city mail system before it got to me.
* A second letter from the state (see above), letting me know that I had missed my interview period and would now need to submit a new application. Postmarked January 30. It arrived January 31. Imagine the confusion when I opened this one first.
Why they hate me: This letter conveniently only took overnight to travel the 5 or so miles from the state office to my home. In a quirk of new physics laws, bad news apparently travels faster than good or neutral news.
* A memo from the Social Security Administration, regarding our re-application (for the SECOND TIME) for Baby Girl's social security card. It let us know that we had used up two requests already - and that there are only three allowed per year, ten per lifetime (including new card requests for marital name changes). In other words, in the first 20 weeks of her life, we've used up 20% of her social security card requests.
Why they hate me: We haven't had to request new cards twice because I've been sloppy or irresponsible. We've had to request them because they have never arrived to begin with. Not only that, I am still trying to see if her social security number has been used anywhere fraudulently.
* A jury duty notification from the county courts.
Why they hate me: In 11 1/2 years of being a registered voter, I've received three jury duty summons - all in the last 9 months. One for federal court, two for county. The first arrived during a transitional job period where I wasn't sure where I'd be employed, I was also pregnant and puking and needed to eat every couple of hours. My OB wrote a true (but convincing) letter to excuse me. The second arrived mere days before I left VA and moved to The Frontier. The third arrived the week after Himself lost his job - I don't get paid if I'm out for jury duty, and I am the only income. The $50/day the county gives you for compensation isn't enough to pay the rent. The funny thing is, I'd actually LIKE to be on a jury - if they could call me at a point and time when I'm not in the middle of being pregnant, having an employment crisis or moving. Oh yeah, and I work primarily on a Mac - the website qualification application for jury service (or to request a waiver) only works in Explorer. Gaah!
I'm waiting for an audit notice from the IRS - it would be a fitting tribute to the rest of my 2008 hate mail collection.
I am trying to decide if I should feel popular, loved or loathed. What I do know is that I am irritated beyond belief.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
How Do I Hate Thee...
Winter, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways (in no particular order);
1. Snow. Pretty snow when it requires no driving (as it was on Saturday) is fine. But it must be gone from all streets, parking lots, sidewalks or any other hazardous place by Monday morning.
2. Melting & Re-freezing - see above (especially when one has to lug Baby Girl, a laptop bag, a lunch bag, a pumping bag - and this morning, a diaper bag - across said frozen water).
3. Inversion. A special winter evil in The Frontier.
4. Smog (worsened by inversion).
5. Hills - making 1 and 2 particularly nasty.
6. Dark mornings, dark commutes home.
7. Gray. When the valley fills with clouds, fog and even the mountains disappear - it's hard not to feel gray inside too.
8. Below freezing temperatures. I finally bought a good winter coat - just in time for my old coat from college to be located. Doesn't mean I like wearing either one of them.
9. Tourists. I liked tourists in DC (as long as they stayed off public transit and downtown streets during rush hour), but tourists in The Frontier are (generalizing, stereotyping - forgive me) generally hot shots who think they're coming to the world's most backward state to have a little fun, complain about the locals and then jet back to their fabulous McMansion.
10. Lake effect. Warm water + arctic air = LOTS of white stuff.
11. Bad weather forecasts. A chance of a "slight dusting" on Saturday morning turned into 10" along the east bench.
12. No snow days. At least before I could hope for a storm bad enough to close work. No more.
13. Dress shoes. I'm wearing my ugly (but oh-so-comfy) Aerosole loafers with the tassles and my clunky oxfords every day. They have rubber soles, slightly minimizing the fall factor. My cute shoes worked in VA because my car was garaged and snow was scarce.
14. Salt. Icky, saltiness covering everything.
15. Mountain passes. Bad storms render one virtually stuck in one place.
1. Snow. Pretty snow when it requires no driving (as it was on Saturday) is fine. But it must be gone from all streets, parking lots, sidewalks or any other hazardous place by Monday morning.
2. Melting & Re-freezing - see above (especially when one has to lug Baby Girl, a laptop bag, a lunch bag, a pumping bag - and this morning, a diaper bag - across said frozen water).
3. Inversion. A special winter evil in The Frontier.
4. Smog (worsened by inversion).
5. Hills - making 1 and 2 particularly nasty.
6. Dark mornings, dark commutes home.
7. Gray. When the valley fills with clouds, fog and even the mountains disappear - it's hard not to feel gray inside too.
8. Below freezing temperatures. I finally bought a good winter coat - just in time for my old coat from college to be located. Doesn't mean I like wearing either one of them.
9. Tourists. I liked tourists in DC (as long as they stayed off public transit and downtown streets during rush hour), but tourists in The Frontier are (generalizing, stereotyping - forgive me) generally hot shots who think they're coming to the world's most backward state to have a little fun, complain about the locals and then jet back to their fabulous McMansion.
10. Lake effect. Warm water + arctic air = LOTS of white stuff.
11. Bad weather forecasts. A chance of a "slight dusting" on Saturday morning turned into 10" along the east bench.
12. No snow days. At least before I could hope for a storm bad enough to close work. No more.
13. Dress shoes. I'm wearing my ugly (but oh-so-comfy) Aerosole loafers with the tassles and my clunky oxfords every day. They have rubber soles, slightly minimizing the fall factor. My cute shoes worked in VA because my car was garaged and snow was scarce.
14. Salt. Icky, saltiness covering everything.
15. Mountain passes. Bad storms render one virtually stuck in one place.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
A Tale of Two Snowstorms
The last time I had to deal with measurable snowfall was on Valentine's Day. At the time, I was a world away from where I am now - figuratively and geographically. Our parents had just received the card in the mail, informing them of their new grandchild-to-be. I hadn't yet been laid off. There was nothing to suspect the status quo would change.
I walked out to my car to discover the two feet of snow pushed up against it by the apartment complex's snow plow, valiantly spend the next hour trying to make a path out of the mound so I could go to work. I was freezing. I didn't have a shovel. I wasn't in the mood to deal with snow in the wilds of DC. So I gave up, made hot cocoa and told work I was going to work from home.
Yesterday, as I was heading downtown for a meeting, it started snowing. Big, white, soggy, wet flakes. By the time I left, it had already made a noticeable impact on the landscape - creating slushy roads and cautious, slow-moving traffic. I caught myself thinking, "If I was still in Virginia, my office would be closed and I wouldn't have to work."
I went to bed last night, lulled into slumber by the voice of the weather man talking about lake effect snow and an increased prediction of how much would stick. I woke up to a silent, winter wonderland of white. I bundled Baby Girl into her newly acquired Santa outfit (because it's very, very warm and ridiculously cute), grabbed my laptop bag, my pumping bag, the mini cooler for her milk, Baby Girl in her carseat and my water bottle (I later remembered I had left my lunch sitting on the kitchen counter - heaven only knows how I managed to forget one more thing ...). I schlepped it all upstairs, opened the door, and realized that, since we no longer live in an apartment complex, there is no one to shovel the walks for us. No matter. I trudged through the snow, buckled Baby Girl in, started the car to keep her warm and surveyed the landscape.
Determining that there was not enough snow to actually warrant shoveling, and risking a very icy return after the stuff had melted and refrozen, I cleaned off the car windows and began my journey. As I drove, I again drew a parallel to my last snowstorm. While the majority of the snow on my route had fallen in the middle of the night, the roads were nothing more than wet. Clearly they had been treated and plowed. I thought, "If I was in Virginia, the roads would be awful, the office would be on a delay and half the people would call in because they couldn't actually drive in the stuff."
But I wasn't, and The Frontier is quite adept at dealing with the snow. The drivers, while probably not any less goofy about driving in it, at least have generally lived here long enough not to panic at the first sight of a snowflake. The schools stay open, the businesses stay open, the world keeps on moving. Whiteouts, power failure, blizzards - nothing stops this place from trudging on. I think it's all those pioneer stock, who feel the need to push on through anything.
No more will I sit, with childlike energy, willing the weatherman to predict a snowstorm - because no more will the mere mention of a snowstorm mean partial days, working from home or complete closures.
Instead, Himself and I will rummage through the shed to find the salt and the snow shovel. Winter has arrived.
I walked out to my car to discover the two feet of snow pushed up against it by the apartment complex's snow plow, valiantly spend the next hour trying to make a path out of the mound so I could go to work. I was freezing. I didn't have a shovel. I wasn't in the mood to deal with snow in the wilds of DC. So I gave up, made hot cocoa and told work I was going to work from home.
Yesterday, as I was heading downtown for a meeting, it started snowing. Big, white, soggy, wet flakes. By the time I left, it had already made a noticeable impact on the landscape - creating slushy roads and cautious, slow-moving traffic. I caught myself thinking, "If I was still in Virginia, my office would be closed and I wouldn't have to work."
I went to bed last night, lulled into slumber by the voice of the weather man talking about lake effect snow and an increased prediction of how much would stick. I woke up to a silent, winter wonderland of white. I bundled Baby Girl into her newly acquired Santa outfit (because it's very, very warm and ridiculously cute), grabbed my laptop bag, my pumping bag, the mini cooler for her milk, Baby Girl in her carseat and my water bottle (I later remembered I had left my lunch sitting on the kitchen counter - heaven only knows how I managed to forget one more thing ...). I schlepped it all upstairs, opened the door, and realized that, since we no longer live in an apartment complex, there is no one to shovel the walks for us. No matter. I trudged through the snow, buckled Baby Girl in, started the car to keep her warm and surveyed the landscape.
Determining that there was not enough snow to actually warrant shoveling, and risking a very icy return after the stuff had melted and refrozen, I cleaned off the car windows and began my journey. As I drove, I again drew a parallel to my last snowstorm. While the majority of the snow on my route had fallen in the middle of the night, the roads were nothing more than wet. Clearly they had been treated and plowed. I thought, "If I was in Virginia, the roads would be awful, the office would be on a delay and half the people would call in because they couldn't actually drive in the stuff."
But I wasn't, and The Frontier is quite adept at dealing with the snow. The drivers, while probably not any less goofy about driving in it, at least have generally lived here long enough not to panic at the first sight of a snowflake. The schools stay open, the businesses stay open, the world keeps on moving. Whiteouts, power failure, blizzards - nothing stops this place from trudging on. I think it's all those pioneer stock, who feel the need to push on through anything.
No more will I sit, with childlike energy, willing the weatherman to predict a snowstorm - because no more will the mere mention of a snowstorm mean partial days, working from home or complete closures.
Instead, Himself and I will rummage through the shed to find the salt and the snow shovel. Winter has arrived.
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