It is inevitable that a moment, a day, a month, a year, will end. And, if it is remarkable enough, it is inevitable that someone will comment on it. For posterity, for analysis, for re-hashing the gruesome details for all the rubber neckers.
I listened to a lot of "best of" and "most important" lists today. It naturally put me in the frame of mine thinking about my own past year. Newsmakers indicated that everything indicates that 2008 is ending worse than it began. I thought about my year some more. It didn't take very many brain cells, or a news analyst, to conclude that, personally, 2008 only got progressively better during the latter half. We're definitely ending the year on a high(er) note around this household.
Then I realized, as I sat down to reflect on each month of 2008, I don't remember much of anything about the first half of the year. It is mostly marked by interactions with significant people in my life. At that point, I realized, 2008 was the year of People. People who surrounded me (and us), bouyed me up, made me better. People who laughed, cried and shared.
As I am set to ring in 2009, there are no regrets regarding 2008. I am simply happy it is over and that a new year is beginning. I am praying for less drama, more peace and the ability to savor every single moment with Himself and Woodstock.
2009 will be about simplicity and progress. And next year, I won't have to wonder what happened to the first six months of the year, buried beneath a thick blanket of mental fog.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Four Things
Four Things:
1) Four Places I go over and over:
Work, church, Harmon's and the library
2) Four people who email me regularly:
Twitter, Jane, my mom and a hiking club in SLC
3)Four of my favorite places to eat:
Tachibanas, Five Guys, Red Iguana and Kneaders (and I discovered this weekend that Nedra's Too has the BEST Navajo tacos outside a reservation).
4)Four places I would rather be right now:
Anywhere that doesn't have a foot of snow in the front yard.
5)Four people I tag:
Kari Ann, Fiona, Heidi, Megan
6) Four TV shows I watch:
General Conference, Olympics (obsessively), NCIS and college football
1) Four Places I go over and over:
Work, church, Harmon's and the library
2) Four people who email me regularly:
Twitter, Jane, my mom and a hiking club in SLC
3)Four of my favorite places to eat:
Tachibanas, Five Guys, Red Iguana and Kneaders (and I discovered this weekend that Nedra's Too has the BEST Navajo tacos outside a reservation).
4)Four places I would rather be right now:
Anywhere that doesn't have a foot of snow in the front yard.
5)Four people I tag:
Kari Ann, Fiona, Heidi, Megan
6) Four TV shows I watch:
General Conference, Olympics (obsessively), NCIS and college football
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
'Twas Two Days Before Christmas ...
'Twas two days before Christmas and the valley was covered in a thin sheet of ice and snow. My morning commute, against traffic, and therefore in generally-as-yet-unplowed territory, was trecherous. I crept up the block, then slogged up the hill. The far lane - the one leading to the Interstate that would lead to work - wasn't cleared at all. On a normal basis, I loathe driving in the snow - the constant state of panic about what my car - and the hundreds of cars around me - are going to do at any given second.
I know the "rules" about driving in snow, but it doesn't make it any better. With Woodstock in the car, everything gets ratcheted up times ten.
Tuesday, with blowing snow and ice-coated streets, wasn't any different, unless possibly, given the uncleared lane, it was worse. I made the hard right onto the on-ramp, in low gear, going 10 mph. Just enough to make the turn. Immediately, before the car had time to recover from the turn or figure out what was going on, I hit a solid sheet of ice. I quickly assessed the situation and decided at all costs, that I had to keep the car from sliding into the guard rail and potentially into traffic. I steered into the skid, did what I could ... and slid, nearly head-on, into a wall - 270 degrees from the direction in which I had been facing when I began.
CRUNCH. The fleeting feeling of helplessness and tension filled my body as the wall approached. I tried to keep one eye on the wall and one on the cars behind me - would they hit the same patch of ice? The one that slid a little, would it hit me broadside, as I was now perpendicular across the on-ramp? I counted my breaths to keep the rising agony at bay. Woodstock was on the side of the car that would be hit by any oncoming traffic, should they not be able to navigate their way around me.
I've never been in an accident while driving before, and I was in no mood to figure out what to do about it now. The first thing I had to do, damage to my front end be damned, was to get Woodstock out of harm's way. Except, that meant backing up, toward the downward slope and traffic and the guardrail, over the same sheet of ice that had put me in this predicament to begin with. I wanted to close my eyes as I put the car in reverse, but I figured that would only make matters worse. Truly making matters worse was the blind turn that cars entering the interstate had to make from the road to the on-ramp - and I was right in their path.
What felt like minutes, but was in fact only seconds, later, I was facing the right direction. I drove a little ways down the on-ramp until the shoulder widened to where I felt minimally safer pulling over and letting my breath out. At least Woodstock was out of the direct-impact zone. I dialed Himself.
Of course, he was concerned about our safety, but the next sentence was, "which car did you take?" I replied, "the Acura, of course." Of course, because I've only ever managed to damage the nicer of whatever two cars we've owned.
Still afraid to risk life, limb and tailbone (the shoulder was ice, however), to see the damage, I continued on my way, dropping Woodstock off, then making it (half-an-hour late) to the office. When I finally stepped out to examine the damage, I was perplexed.
While I was only going 10 mph when I went into the skid, I was a moving object that came to rest upon impact with a standing object, which would necessarily require that the object with the lesser mass (the car) would suffer impact damage. (I did learn something in physics, which I figured was pretty much impossible).
What I saw however, could not be. The license plate was crumpled almost beyond recognition. The license plate holder looked rather forlorn. The bumper had popped a couple of pins, and ... nothing else. To be certain, the front end was covered in snow, but even when I half-heartedly (not really wanting to see any damage) brushed it away, I could find no other evidence of having hit a concrete wall at a 75-degree angle.
Later, I took the car into the mechanic to get a good once-over - completely certain that there had to be more damage - the radiator, the air conditioning unit - something in the front that must have certainly cracked or jarred loose on impact.
The service tech came to find me.
"So you really hit a wall, huh?"
"Yes."
He went on to explain that the license plate holder was damaged beyond repair - though they had hammered my license plate back into something resembling, well, a license plate rather than a crumpled ball of foil. There were some bumper pins that needed replacing and ... that was it. $40 of parts, they were waiving the labor (since I also needed an oil change, new windshield wipers and surprise! the tires that we hoped would be okay for another month were not, actually, okay).
I nearly hugged the tech. $40? I hit a wall and the worst outcome was a $40 debit from my checking account? (In reality, it was over $400 - tires, oil change and wipers were not, unfortunately free - but weren't on the "accident" tab).
I prayed on the way back to the office. I celebrated the miracle of life, of morning prayers uttered to "keep us safe and bless us as we drive," of the man upstairs who knew that just once, I needed something to go my way.
The car parked in my driveway now, waiting for our trek to the southern desert to visit family, is testament that miracles still happen.
Merry Christmas.
I know the "rules" about driving in snow, but it doesn't make it any better. With Woodstock in the car, everything gets ratcheted up times ten.
Tuesday, with blowing snow and ice-coated streets, wasn't any different, unless possibly, given the uncleared lane, it was worse. I made the hard right onto the on-ramp, in low gear, going 10 mph. Just enough to make the turn. Immediately, before the car had time to recover from the turn or figure out what was going on, I hit a solid sheet of ice. I quickly assessed the situation and decided at all costs, that I had to keep the car from sliding into the guard rail and potentially into traffic. I steered into the skid, did what I could ... and slid, nearly head-on, into a wall - 270 degrees from the direction in which I had been facing when I began.
CRUNCH. The fleeting feeling of helplessness and tension filled my body as the wall approached. I tried to keep one eye on the wall and one on the cars behind me - would they hit the same patch of ice? The one that slid a little, would it hit me broadside, as I was now perpendicular across the on-ramp? I counted my breaths to keep the rising agony at bay. Woodstock was on the side of the car that would be hit by any oncoming traffic, should they not be able to navigate their way around me.
I've never been in an accident while driving before, and I was in no mood to figure out what to do about it now. The first thing I had to do, damage to my front end be damned, was to get Woodstock out of harm's way. Except, that meant backing up, toward the downward slope and traffic and the guardrail, over the same sheet of ice that had put me in this predicament to begin with. I wanted to close my eyes as I put the car in reverse, but I figured that would only make matters worse. Truly making matters worse was the blind turn that cars entering the interstate had to make from the road to the on-ramp - and I was right in their path.
What felt like minutes, but was in fact only seconds, later, I was facing the right direction. I drove a little ways down the on-ramp until the shoulder widened to where I felt minimally safer pulling over and letting my breath out. At least Woodstock was out of the direct-impact zone. I dialed Himself.
Of course, he was concerned about our safety, but the next sentence was, "which car did you take?" I replied, "the Acura, of course." Of course, because I've only ever managed to damage the nicer of whatever two cars we've owned.
Still afraid to risk life, limb and tailbone (the shoulder was ice, however), to see the damage, I continued on my way, dropping Woodstock off, then making it (half-an-hour late) to the office. When I finally stepped out to examine the damage, I was perplexed.
While I was only going 10 mph when I went into the skid, I was a moving object that came to rest upon impact with a standing object, which would necessarily require that the object with the lesser mass (the car) would suffer impact damage. (I did learn something in physics, which I figured was pretty much impossible).
What I saw however, could not be. The license plate was crumpled almost beyond recognition. The license plate holder looked rather forlorn. The bumper had popped a couple of pins, and ... nothing else. To be certain, the front end was covered in snow, but even when I half-heartedly (not really wanting to see any damage) brushed it away, I could find no other evidence of having hit a concrete wall at a 75-degree angle.
Later, I took the car into the mechanic to get a good once-over - completely certain that there had to be more damage - the radiator, the air conditioning unit - something in the front that must have certainly cracked or jarred loose on impact.
The service tech came to find me.
"So you really hit a wall, huh?"
"Yes."
He went on to explain that the license plate holder was damaged beyond repair - though they had hammered my license plate back into something resembling, well, a license plate rather than a crumpled ball of foil. There were some bumper pins that needed replacing and ... that was it. $40 of parts, they were waiving the labor (since I also needed an oil change, new windshield wipers and surprise! the tires that we hoped would be okay for another month were not, actually, okay).
I nearly hugged the tech. $40? I hit a wall and the worst outcome was a $40 debit from my checking account? (In reality, it was over $400 - tires, oil change and wipers were not, unfortunately free - but weren't on the "accident" tab).
I prayed on the way back to the office. I celebrated the miracle of life, of morning prayers uttered to "keep us safe and bless us as we drive," of the man upstairs who knew that just once, I needed something to go my way.
The car parked in my driveway now, waiting for our trek to the southern desert to visit family, is testament that miracles still happen.
Merry Christmas.
Monday, December 22, 2008
The Greatest Among Us
Last night, Woodstock had her theatrical debut ... as a sheep in my mom's family's annual Christmas celebration. She obligingly said "baa baa" when asked what sound a sheep made, shortly after the angel (standing on the coffee table) proclaimed the birth of Jesus to the shepherds (several, dressed in cast off bathrobes), at which point she lost interest in the whole production and spent the remainder of the production happily "chatting" on a cousin's cellphone while obsessing over a book of Christmas carols.
There were 16 kids - ranging in age from 15 months (Woodstock) to 19 years, although the 19-year-old declined to participate in the pilgrimage across the living room - from the front door (representing the Far East) to the mantel (representing the stable). It was a happy cacophany of holiday-related sounds, caloric monstrosities (my pasta salad would make a weak heart give up) and chaotic children, happily amped up on adrenaline, sugar and anticipation over the next snowfall. In Woodstock's case, she was amped up over the juice she normally doesn't get and the fact that she was surrounded by kids - instantly transporting her to her very happy place.
In the midst of all of this craziness, however, came a quiet, special moment that brought the prick of tears to the corners of my eyes. I was snapping pictures right and left, trying to capture kids who didn't sit still in costumes either too large or too small for their frames, when out of the corner of my lense I spotted Mary (a cousin of a cousin - about 9 or 10), sitting next to Woodstock, baby "Jesus" cradled between them.
"Mary" gently laid the doll in Woodstock's lap, leaning over to shelter the renegade sheep and the baby from the chaoas that swirled around them. Woodstock's eyes lit up. "Baby!" she exclaimed, scooping up the doll and smothering it with love. Then Mary gently scooped up baby Jesus, scooted over to my 2-year-old cousin and repeated the same thing. Over and over, Mary went to each of the smaller children, bringing the baby Jesus to them to hold and to love. She spoke not a word. Each time, she silently shared her "son" with each child, letting them shower the doll with love.
In that moment, I thought about how Christ comes in mysterious ways to touch people's lives - stopping to rest in the hearts of those who will allow Him entrance. He shuts out the chaos from around us, He whispers to our souls, lights the eyes of those who revere Him. He doesn't forget those that are easily overlooked or forgotten among the chaotic holiday revelry, instead, showering those who seek Him with love and comfort and peace.
Last night, He touched us all through the innocence of a little girl, clad as Mary, sharing her child, the Son of God, with the smallest among us. Their eyes lit up as they cradled the baby Jesus and enveloped Him in love - their pure innocence shining out from bright eyes. In that moment, it wasn't a doll - it was a symbol of reverence and little ones, like the shepherds and wisemen of old, paid homage with an awe reserved only for children.
Mery Christmas, to all, I thought. And to all, the remembrance of how the greatest among us sometimes barely reach our knees.
There were 16 kids - ranging in age from 15 months (Woodstock) to 19 years, although the 19-year-old declined to participate in the pilgrimage across the living room - from the front door (representing the Far East) to the mantel (representing the stable). It was a happy cacophany of holiday-related sounds, caloric monstrosities (my pasta salad would make a weak heart give up) and chaotic children, happily amped up on adrenaline, sugar and anticipation over the next snowfall. In Woodstock's case, she was amped up over the juice she normally doesn't get and the fact that she was surrounded by kids - instantly transporting her to her very happy place.
In the midst of all of this craziness, however, came a quiet, special moment that brought the prick of tears to the corners of my eyes. I was snapping pictures right and left, trying to capture kids who didn't sit still in costumes either too large or too small for their frames, when out of the corner of my lense I spotted Mary (a cousin of a cousin - about 9 or 10), sitting next to Woodstock, baby "Jesus" cradled between them.
"Mary" gently laid the doll in Woodstock's lap, leaning over to shelter the renegade sheep and the baby from the chaoas that swirled around them. Woodstock's eyes lit up. "Baby!" she exclaimed, scooping up the doll and smothering it with love. Then Mary gently scooped up baby Jesus, scooted over to my 2-year-old cousin and repeated the same thing. Over and over, Mary went to each of the smaller children, bringing the baby Jesus to them to hold and to love. She spoke not a word. Each time, she silently shared her "son" with each child, letting them shower the doll with love.
In that moment, I thought about how Christ comes in mysterious ways to touch people's lives - stopping to rest in the hearts of those who will allow Him entrance. He shuts out the chaos from around us, He whispers to our souls, lights the eyes of those who revere Him. He doesn't forget those that are easily overlooked or forgotten among the chaotic holiday revelry, instead, showering those who seek Him with love and comfort and peace.
Last night, He touched us all through the innocence of a little girl, clad as Mary, sharing her child, the Son of God, with the smallest among us. Their eyes lit up as they cradled the baby Jesus and enveloped Him in love - their pure innocence shining out from bright eyes. In that moment, it wasn't a doll - it was a symbol of reverence and little ones, like the shepherds and wisemen of old, paid homage with an awe reserved only for children.
Mery Christmas, to all, I thought. And to all, the remembrance of how the greatest among us sometimes barely reach our knees.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Key Lime Sugar Cookies
This recipe was published inThe Washington Post in December 2005 - the year I made HUNDREDS of cookies for my 14 colleagues. Boxes of homemade, custom-wrapped cookies - from angel prints to butterscotch bars to pecan bites - the cookies of childhood Christmases. This recipe caught my eye, and I made it as the "new" addition. I've made it every Christmas since. It's worth the little extra work, trust me.
These tart, crisp cookies are great topped with lime-colored decorating sugar and can be dressed up with optional icing.
Makes 50 to 60 cookies
Ingredients:
For the cookies
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon corn oil or other flavorless vegetable oil
1 tablespoon regular lime zest or Key lime , plus 1 teaspoon finely grated
6 tablespoons fresh or bottled Key lime juice
1 3/4 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
Pinch salt
2/3 cup sugar
7 tablespoons unsalted butter, slightly softened and cut into chunks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon lemon extract or 1 teaspoon lime flavoring oil, such as Boyajian
1 tablespoon water
3 tablespoons lime-color decorating (crystal) sugar
For the icing
1 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
2 1/2 to 3 tablespoons fresh or bottled Key lime juice
1 to 2 drop yellow food coloring (optional)
1 to 2 drop green food coloring (optional)
Directions:
For the cookies: In a small bowl, combine the oil and lime zest. Let stand, covered, for at least 30 minutes and up to several hours.
Meanwhile, in a small nonreactive saucepan over medium heat, heat the lime juice until reduced to 2 1/2 tablespoons. Let cool to room temperature.
In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Set aside.
Using a stand mixer on medium speed, beat together the oil-lime zest mixture and the sugar until well blended. Add the butter, beating until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Beat in the reduced lime juice, the vanilla extract and the lemon extract or lime flavoring oil until well blended and smooth. Reduce speed to low and gradually beat or stir in the flour mixture to form a smooth dough. If the dough seems soft, let stand for 5 minutes to firm up slightly. If it seems dry, stir in up to 1 tablespoon water.
Divide the dough in half. Roll out each portion between sheets of parchment paper or wax paper to a scant 1/4-inch thickness. Occasionally check the underside of the dough and smooth out any wrinkles. Stack the rolled portions (paper still attached) on a baking sheet. Refrigerate for about 30 minutes or freeze for about 15 minutes, or until cold.
Position a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease several baking sheets or coat lightly with nonstick spray oil.
Working with one portion of dough at a time and keeping the rest refrigerated, gently peel off the top sheet of paper, then pat loosely back into place so it will be easy to remove later. Invert the dough and peel off the second sheet. Using a 2 1/4-inch-round cutter, cut out the cookies, then cut each round in half with a sharp knife. If at any point the dough softens too much to handle easily, transfer the paper and cookies to a baking sheet and refrigerate or freeze until firm. Using a spatula, transfer the cookies to the baking sheets, spacing them about 1 inch apart. Re-roll any dough scraps and continue cutting out the cookies until all the dough is used. Generously sprinkle the cookie tops with the decorating sugar.
Bake one sheet at a time for 7 to 11 minutes, or until the cookies just begin to brown at the edges. If necessary, reverse the sheet from front to back halfway through baking to ensure even browning. Using a wide spatula, immediately transfer the cookies to a wire rack. Let cool completely. Top with icing, if desired.
For the icing (optional): In a small bowl, stir together the confectioners' sugar and 2 1/2 tablespoons lime juice until smooth. Add the yellow and green food coloring, if desired. If necessary, add more sugar or juice to yield a piping consistency (stiff enough to hold its shape but soft enough to pipe through a fine tip). Place the icing in a paper decorating cone or pastry bag fitted with a fine writing tip. Space the cookies slightly apart on a rack set over parchment paper or wax paper. To suggest lime slices, pipe a thin line around the perimeter of each cookie, then add "segments" by piping a dot in the center and 7 thin spokes radiating out from the dot to the perimeter. Let stand until the icing sets, at least 30 minutes.
Store cookies in airtight containers at room temperature for up to 2 weeks. May be frozen for up to 2 months.
Recipe Source:
Adapted from "The All-American Dessert Book," by Nancy Baggett (Houghton Mifflin, 2005).
These tart, crisp cookies are great topped with lime-colored decorating sugar and can be dressed up with optional icing.
Makes 50 to 60 cookies
Ingredients:
For the cookies
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon corn oil or other flavorless vegetable oil
1 tablespoon regular lime zest or Key lime , plus 1 teaspoon finely grated
6 tablespoons fresh or bottled Key lime juice
1 3/4 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
Pinch salt
2/3 cup sugar
7 tablespoons unsalted butter, slightly softened and cut into chunks
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon lemon extract or 1 teaspoon lime flavoring oil, such as Boyajian
1 tablespoon water
3 tablespoons lime-color decorating (crystal) sugar
For the icing
1 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
2 1/2 to 3 tablespoons fresh or bottled Key lime juice
1 to 2 drop yellow food coloring (optional)
1 to 2 drop green food coloring (optional)
Directions:
For the cookies: In a small bowl, combine the oil and lime zest. Let stand, covered, for at least 30 minutes and up to several hours.
Meanwhile, in a small nonreactive saucepan over medium heat, heat the lime juice until reduced to 2 1/2 tablespoons. Let cool to room temperature.
In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Set aside.
Using a stand mixer on medium speed, beat together the oil-lime zest mixture and the sugar until well blended. Add the butter, beating until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Beat in the reduced lime juice, the vanilla extract and the lemon extract or lime flavoring oil until well blended and smooth. Reduce speed to low and gradually beat or stir in the flour mixture to form a smooth dough. If the dough seems soft, let stand for 5 minutes to firm up slightly. If it seems dry, stir in up to 1 tablespoon water.
Divide the dough in half. Roll out each portion between sheets of parchment paper or wax paper to a scant 1/4-inch thickness. Occasionally check the underside of the dough and smooth out any wrinkles. Stack the rolled portions (paper still attached) on a baking sheet. Refrigerate for about 30 minutes or freeze for about 15 minutes, or until cold.
Position a rack in the middle of the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Grease several baking sheets or coat lightly with nonstick spray oil.
Working with one portion of dough at a time and keeping the rest refrigerated, gently peel off the top sheet of paper, then pat loosely back into place so it will be easy to remove later. Invert the dough and peel off the second sheet. Using a 2 1/4-inch-round cutter, cut out the cookies, then cut each round in half with a sharp knife. If at any point the dough softens too much to handle easily, transfer the paper and cookies to a baking sheet and refrigerate or freeze until firm. Using a spatula, transfer the cookies to the baking sheets, spacing them about 1 inch apart. Re-roll any dough scraps and continue cutting out the cookies until all the dough is used. Generously sprinkle the cookie tops with the decorating sugar.
Bake one sheet at a time for 7 to 11 minutes, or until the cookies just begin to brown at the edges. If necessary, reverse the sheet from front to back halfway through baking to ensure even browning. Using a wide spatula, immediately transfer the cookies to a wire rack. Let cool completely. Top with icing, if desired.
For the icing (optional): In a small bowl, stir together the confectioners' sugar and 2 1/2 tablespoons lime juice until smooth. Add the yellow and green food coloring, if desired. If necessary, add more sugar or juice to yield a piping consistency (stiff enough to hold its shape but soft enough to pipe through a fine tip). Place the icing in a paper decorating cone or pastry bag fitted with a fine writing tip. Space the cookies slightly apart on a rack set over parchment paper or wax paper. To suggest lime slices, pipe a thin line around the perimeter of each cookie, then add "segments" by piping a dot in the center and 7 thin spokes radiating out from the dot to the perimeter. Let stand until the icing sets, at least 30 minutes.
Store cookies in airtight containers at room temperature for up to 2 weeks. May be frozen for up to 2 months.
Recipe Source:
Adapted from "The All-American Dessert Book," by Nancy Baggett (Houghton Mifflin, 2005).
Thursday, December 18, 2008
I AM NOT BUSY!
If one more person tells me they are not coming by this month (the monthly church visitors included), not calling me to make a meal for a neighbor or not inviting me to do something because "It's the holidays, and I know how stressed and busy you are...." I might just have to stop biting my tongue.
I am not stressed in the least about the holidays this year, and I am certainly not busy. On top of that, I'd like to make my own decisions - if I sign up to bring someone food, it's because I think I can handle it. If not, I will tell you. It's one of the best things I learned from my 9-month anxiety/depression saga after Woodstock's birth. I've stopped feeling guilty about some things. Right? Wrong? Doesn't matter - I haven't had a panic attack in months.
Do I get everything accomplished every day? No. Do I have laundry sorted in the basement but not washed? Laundry washed but not put away entirely? A bathroom that needs cleaning? Picking up after Woodstock to do? Of course. It doesn't mean I'm too busy. At the moment, what it means is that I've a)completely lost the desire to do it that day b) have chosen to spend time with people rather than things c)I didn't sleep well (that would have been yesterday's excuse) or d) have totally mis-prioritized, in which case it is my fault I'm insane, not yours.
Since I've opted to DRASTICALLY simplify my life this season, I'm not busy. Instead, I'm enjoying myself (as long as I don't look too closely at the clutter that needs sorting). Don't get me wrong - I like staying home in the evenings, snuggling with Woodstock and, occasionally, Himself (who doesn't like to snuggle so much). I am just irritated.
Now, if that person herself (or himself) is busy, fine. I can understand that. Been there. Done that. Trying to reform. But rather than using me as an excuse, just let me know what's going on. "I'm so busy/stressed/over committed this holiday, do you mind if I skip December?" I would likely say, "Nope. Anything I can do to help you out?" And for crying out loud, don't tell me you're doing something, but not going to invite me because "I know how busy you are." That just says "I'm doing X, but you're not invited, and I want you to know that." And that is just rude.
Don't tell me you're saving me from myself. Let me decide that all on my own.
And ... if you want to bake cookies on Saturday ... well, I'm baking and I'd rather not eat them all myself.
I am not stressed in the least about the holidays this year, and I am certainly not busy. On top of that, I'd like to make my own decisions - if I sign up to bring someone food, it's because I think I can handle it. If not, I will tell you. It's one of the best things I learned from my 9-month anxiety/depression saga after Woodstock's birth. I've stopped feeling guilty about some things. Right? Wrong? Doesn't matter - I haven't had a panic attack in months.
Do I get everything accomplished every day? No. Do I have laundry sorted in the basement but not washed? Laundry washed but not put away entirely? A bathroom that needs cleaning? Picking up after Woodstock to do? Of course. It doesn't mean I'm too busy. At the moment, what it means is that I've a)completely lost the desire to do it that day b) have chosen to spend time with people rather than things c)I didn't sleep well (that would have been yesterday's excuse) or d) have totally mis-prioritized, in which case it is my fault I'm insane, not yours.
Since I've opted to DRASTICALLY simplify my life this season, I'm not busy. Instead, I'm enjoying myself (as long as I don't look too closely at the clutter that needs sorting). Don't get me wrong - I like staying home in the evenings, snuggling with Woodstock and, occasionally, Himself (who doesn't like to snuggle so much). I am just irritated.
Now, if that person herself (or himself) is busy, fine. I can understand that. Been there. Done that. Trying to reform. But rather than using me as an excuse, just let me know what's going on. "I'm so busy/stressed/over committed this holiday, do you mind if I skip December?" I would likely say, "Nope. Anything I can do to help you out?" And for crying out loud, don't tell me you're doing something, but not going to invite me because "I know how busy you are." That just says "I'm doing X, but you're not invited, and I want you to know that." And that is just rude.
Don't tell me you're saving me from myself. Let me decide that all on my own.
And ... if you want to bake cookies on Saturday ... well, I'm baking and I'd rather not eat them all myself.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
$500 in Free Travel, Anyone?
Each Life That Touches Ours For Good
There are times when people make such an enormous impact in one's life and yet often go about their own lives none the wiser. One of these was a guy at college. I only remember his first name. I'm not sure I could pick him out of a lineup (I certainly wouldn't recognize him now). I don't know where he was from, what he majored in, how old he was. I only know that he brightened my day every Monday, Wednesday and Friday the first semester of freshman year.
Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday that semester, I walked from my off-campus apartment across the street to the religion building and turned right to head onto the main campus quad. Each time, as I got ready to round the religion building, he would be coming the other direction. Every single time he would say, "Hi Sara!"
It got to the point where I looked forward to our paths crossing every other day. The university had three times the number of people enrolled as my hometown had residents at the time. What made the difference wasn't the greeting - lots of people said hello. Even complete strangers. Rather, what made an impact so strong I still remember it, was that every time we crossed paths that semester, he greeted me by name and acted happy to see me. What surprised me, was that he had taken enough interest to learn my name - and to use it.
Those small encounters changed my entire outlook. It created a point in my day to which I looked forward. We never had a conversation. I don't know where his life took him. I would guess, he probably doesn't remember me. Certainly, he has no idea that his simple action made such a profound impact on me that it changed my life. A small change, to be sure, but big enough to realize that I, as a person, mattered in the great universe of strangers; big enough to realize the power of one's name.
From that semester on, I have striven to pay forward the little bit of sunshine a neighbor brought into my life that fall, by letting people know, in some small way, that they matter - and I notice.
Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday that semester, I walked from my off-campus apartment across the street to the religion building and turned right to head onto the main campus quad. Each time, as I got ready to round the religion building, he would be coming the other direction. Every single time he would say, "Hi Sara!"
It got to the point where I looked forward to our paths crossing every other day. The university had three times the number of people enrolled as my hometown had residents at the time. What made the difference wasn't the greeting - lots of people said hello. Even complete strangers. Rather, what made an impact so strong I still remember it, was that every time we crossed paths that semester, he greeted me by name and acted happy to see me. What surprised me, was that he had taken enough interest to learn my name - and to use it.
Those small encounters changed my entire outlook. It created a point in my day to which I looked forward. We never had a conversation. I don't know where his life took him. I would guess, he probably doesn't remember me. Certainly, he has no idea that his simple action made such a profound impact on me that it changed my life. A small change, to be sure, but big enough to realize that I, as a person, mattered in the great universe of strangers; big enough to realize the power of one's name.
From that semester on, I have striven to pay forward the little bit of sunshine a neighbor brought into my life that fall, by letting people know, in some small way, that they matter - and I notice.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Winter
I had one of those decreasingly rare mornings this morning where I was wide awake at oh-dark-hundred, and opted to use it to be productive.
I scrubbed the guest bathroom, I picked up all of Woodstock's toys upstairs. I did the dishes. I scrubbed the kitchen. I started a pot of beans and peppers and onions, which tonight will become homemade refried beans. I took out the trash, then lugged both the trashcan and the recycling can to the curb for Tuesday pick up.
Then, I scraped the ice off my driveway. It snowed heavily on Saturday and half melted on Sunday, leaving sheets of ice on the driveway that, if not removed by a shovel and then treated with the (envronmentally and cement friendly) ice melt, would last until spring.
I cajoled Himself into doing it yesterday morning, but rather than using the shovel to scrape off the ice, he poured half a bucket of (EXPENSIVE) ice melt on the driveway. Since it didn't actually warm up enough to melt anything yesterday, the ice still lingered this morning.
So, dressed in my polar fleece pants, my long underwear, boots, gloves and waterproof coat, I went out to engage in the only form of physical exercise I'll probably see this month.
I scraped and shoveled and cleaned the entire driveway down. The wet, bare cement glimmered under the red and green motion-sensor lights the neighbor installed. I mentally congratulated myself for starting my week out so well.
And the snow began to fall.
I didn't worry, I had just watched the weather - they promised a mere 1" would graze the valley - just enough to make traffic a bit of a mess. Apparently, either the weatherman predicting the storm didn't actually look outside or it was a cruel trick, because an hour later, when I went to leave the house, the freshy cleaned (and free of ice!) driveway was covered in 4" of snow (which has now become more than 6"), with big, fluffy flakes continuing to fall.
Whether it was because the forecast was off by several inches or because the plow drivers overslept, not a single road during the first 8 miles of my morning commute was either plowed or treated. It might be understandable (although irritating) if I lived on a small street. I do not. I live on a decent-sized secondary street, full of traffic during normal commuting hours. The remaining unplowed streets to work included a 7-lane major east-west thoroghfare and an interstate. Not exactly "little" roads.
No fewer than FOUR snow plows passed me on my way up the long hill at the end of the street leading to the interstate - plows UP. No fewer than three cars spun out in the middle of the unplowed road, necessitating that the cars behind them had to meander into oncoming traffic to get around them. Even the typically ridiculously over-confident 4-wheel drive drivers were creeping along at 15 mph.
There were several near misses as I inched up the hill and along the bench. In the backseat, Woodstock wailed for her "wawy" (water). Failing to produce requested beverage, she began crying for milk. Failing that, she started to sob great hysterical sobs, pleading for her "binty" (binky). In my haste to depart the house, I had forgotten the requisite sippy cup of water which is a routine part of our morning commute together. Woodstock wasn't terribly forgiving. Consequently, I was having a hard time concentrating on driving.
As the snow continued to fall, the roads got worse and the traffic grew more conjested, I tried to drown out the sobbing child in the backseat, focusing instead on the cars in front of me and the road below my tires.
We made it, turning a 9-mile drive into more than an hour's extravaganza of frayed nerves, wailing, slick spots, black ice, and slush up to the undercarriage.
I won't hate you if you pray for snow, but I can assure you, I won't be joining in. In fact, I will be pleading with the powers-that-be for a light winter that only happens on the weekends. Snow is fine if it doesn't require me leaving the house and driving in it - especially DURING the snowfall and especially during either end of my commute. Especially with Woodstock. And especially after I'd spent an hour clearing the driveway BEFORE the snow fell.
I'm just saying ... if you pray for snow, please don't share it.
I scrubbed the guest bathroom, I picked up all of Woodstock's toys upstairs. I did the dishes. I scrubbed the kitchen. I started a pot of beans and peppers and onions, which tonight will become homemade refried beans. I took out the trash, then lugged both the trashcan and the recycling can to the curb for Tuesday pick up.
Then, I scraped the ice off my driveway. It snowed heavily on Saturday and half melted on Sunday, leaving sheets of ice on the driveway that, if not removed by a shovel and then treated with the (envronmentally and cement friendly) ice melt, would last until spring.
I cajoled Himself into doing it yesterday morning, but rather than using the shovel to scrape off the ice, he poured half a bucket of (EXPENSIVE) ice melt on the driveway. Since it didn't actually warm up enough to melt anything yesterday, the ice still lingered this morning.
So, dressed in my polar fleece pants, my long underwear, boots, gloves and waterproof coat, I went out to engage in the only form of physical exercise I'll probably see this month.
I scraped and shoveled and cleaned the entire driveway down. The wet, bare cement glimmered under the red and green motion-sensor lights the neighbor installed. I mentally congratulated myself for starting my week out so well.
And the snow began to fall.
I didn't worry, I had just watched the weather - they promised a mere 1" would graze the valley - just enough to make traffic a bit of a mess. Apparently, either the weatherman predicting the storm didn't actually look outside or it was a cruel trick, because an hour later, when I went to leave the house, the freshy cleaned (and free of ice!) driveway was covered in 4" of snow (which has now become more than 6"), with big, fluffy flakes continuing to fall.
Whether it was because the forecast was off by several inches or because the plow drivers overslept, not a single road during the first 8 miles of my morning commute was either plowed or treated. It might be understandable (although irritating) if I lived on a small street. I do not. I live on a decent-sized secondary street, full of traffic during normal commuting hours. The remaining unplowed streets to work included a 7-lane major east-west thoroghfare and an interstate. Not exactly "little" roads.
No fewer than FOUR snow plows passed me on my way up the long hill at the end of the street leading to the interstate - plows UP. No fewer than three cars spun out in the middle of the unplowed road, necessitating that the cars behind them had to meander into oncoming traffic to get around them. Even the typically ridiculously over-confident 4-wheel drive drivers were creeping along at 15 mph.
There were several near misses as I inched up the hill and along the bench. In the backseat, Woodstock wailed for her "wawy" (water). Failing to produce requested beverage, she began crying for milk. Failing that, she started to sob great hysterical sobs, pleading for her "binty" (binky). In my haste to depart the house, I had forgotten the requisite sippy cup of water which is a routine part of our morning commute together. Woodstock wasn't terribly forgiving. Consequently, I was having a hard time concentrating on driving.
As the snow continued to fall, the roads got worse and the traffic grew more conjested, I tried to drown out the sobbing child in the backseat, focusing instead on the cars in front of me and the road below my tires.
We made it, turning a 9-mile drive into more than an hour's extravaganza of frayed nerves, wailing, slick spots, black ice, and slush up to the undercarriage.
I won't hate you if you pray for snow, but I can assure you, I won't be joining in. In fact, I will be pleading with the powers-that-be for a light winter that only happens on the weekends. Snow is fine if it doesn't require me leaving the house and driving in it - especially DURING the snowfall and especially during either end of my commute. Especially with Woodstock. And especially after I'd spent an hour clearing the driveway BEFORE the snow fell.
I'm just saying ... if you pray for snow, please don't share it.
Monday, December 15, 2008
A Novel Disaster
I was accosted in Costco on Friday by a husband-and-wife author team who were there promoting and signing their new book.
I doubt there is anyone on the planet who enjoys reading more than I do. I doubt there is anyone that gets as much pleasure out of buying a new book, during the too-often-times when heading to my local bookstore is cheaper than paying my library fines.
However, I don't like being pressured into buying anything. In fact, many times I don't take the samples because I don't want to feel obligated to purchase the item which I just sampled. Especially when I'm on a tight timetable and on a strict list (on which I MUST operate in Costco, for fear of going bankrupt). Except I was supposed to be meeting Himself in the book section at Costco and he was late. I didn't dare wander off, so I was virtually held hostage by a set of over-eager authors wielding Sharpies at a card table. And, well, it's fun to meet the authors of books - it gives you a little insight to what might be going on between the covers of the books they wrote.
They gave me the run-down about the book. They read me the reviews (odd, yes? If I'm buying a book, I can probably actually read the reviews myself) and talked about how it was their first work of fiction.
I gave in. The book was $9. The cover looked like something my mom might be interested in. I had it autographed for her and continued to sit in the book section, burying my nose in a coffee table book about something so benign I don't remember the subject matter.
Because I can't pass up the opportunity to read a new book, even if it is supposed to be a gift for my mother, I began reading it that night before bed.
It was TERRIBLE. Awful. Worse than anything I've read in a long, long time (possibly ever). Bad enough I'm not sure I can in good conscience give it to my mother. (Not to mention, the subject matter, a fictional story on dealing with in-law relationships, is not exactly something my mom is probably interested in - given that her in-laws are dead).
I'm not sure what to do. I can't re-sell it or donate it. I had it autographed for crying out loud. I can't keep it. It isn't autographed to me. Do I give it to my mother anyway and admit that I read it, it's terrible and I'm sorry for letting someone push me into making a purchasing decision that affected her? Even if it was only $9?
Is it bad to throw away a brand-new, perfectly good (as in "good shape" not as in "good good") book?
Yes, it really is bad enough that I am considering something that is tantamount to a cardinal sin in my home - throwing a brand-new something away.
At the moment, I've done nothing. The book is still residing on my night stand. The guilt is killing me.
I doubt there is anyone on the planet who enjoys reading more than I do. I doubt there is anyone that gets as much pleasure out of buying a new book, during the too-often-times when heading to my local bookstore is cheaper than paying my library fines.
However, I don't like being pressured into buying anything. In fact, many times I don't take the samples because I don't want to feel obligated to purchase the item which I just sampled. Especially when I'm on a tight timetable and on a strict list (on which I MUST operate in Costco, for fear of going bankrupt). Except I was supposed to be meeting Himself in the book section at Costco and he was late. I didn't dare wander off, so I was virtually held hostage by a set of over-eager authors wielding Sharpies at a card table. And, well, it's fun to meet the authors of books - it gives you a little insight to what might be going on between the covers of the books they wrote.
They gave me the run-down about the book. They read me the reviews (odd, yes? If I'm buying a book, I can probably actually read the reviews myself) and talked about how it was their first work of fiction.
I gave in. The book was $9. The cover looked like something my mom might be interested in. I had it autographed for her and continued to sit in the book section, burying my nose in a coffee table book about something so benign I don't remember the subject matter.
Because I can't pass up the opportunity to read a new book, even if it is supposed to be a gift for my mother, I began reading it that night before bed.
It was TERRIBLE. Awful. Worse than anything I've read in a long, long time (possibly ever). Bad enough I'm not sure I can in good conscience give it to my mother. (Not to mention, the subject matter, a fictional story on dealing with in-law relationships, is not exactly something my mom is probably interested in - given that her in-laws are dead).
I'm not sure what to do. I can't re-sell it or donate it. I had it autographed for crying out loud. I can't keep it. It isn't autographed to me. Do I give it to my mother anyway and admit that I read it, it's terrible and I'm sorry for letting someone push me into making a purchasing decision that affected her? Even if it was only $9?
Is it bad to throw away a brand-new, perfectly good (as in "good shape" not as in "good good") book?
Yes, it really is bad enough that I am considering something that is tantamount to a cardinal sin in my home - throwing a brand-new something away.
At the moment, I've done nothing. The book is still residing on my night stand. The guilt is killing me.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Forecast: Winter
One ergonomically correct snow shovel: $19.99
One extra-large container chemical-free, safe-for-pets-irrigation-ditches-and-small-children ice melter: $12.99
Two large containers of windshield wiper fluid - one for each car - to clean off all the sludge left over from the winter snow storms: $5.98
Realizing winter is here to stay: PAINFUL.
One extra-large container chemical-free, safe-for-pets-irrigation-ditches-and-small-children ice melter: $12.99
Two large containers of windshield wiper fluid - one for each car - to clean off all the sludge left over from the winter snow storms: $5.98
Realizing winter is here to stay: PAINFUL.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
One Dairy Cow, To Go Please
For the first 18 weeks I was pregnant, I ate virtually nothing that wasn't in the form of a grilled cheese sandwich or a fruit smoothie.
And I am not exaggerating. If it had cheese on it, or could be consumed with a straw, I could probably get it to go down and stay down, but otherwise all bets were off. As the pregnancy progressed, I realized my lactose intolerance had disappeared (unfortunately, it came back 6 weeks post partum), and I consumed dairy products like crazy - usually mixed with some vegetable fiber and sucked through a straw (for good measure).
As a result, I endured a lot of teasing about Woodstock entering this world with a taste for cheese and fruit only.
If I had only known...
Woodstock is (or was, until recently) actually a very good eater - and the more complex the flavor of the dish (ie enchiladas, curries, etc.), the more she seems to enjoy it. However, if anyone was to interview her at this point on her favorite foods, she would reply:
-Cheese - particularly medium or cheddar, but she (like her parents) isn't terribly picky when it comes to cheese kinds - as long as it looks like cheese. String cheese also works. Pasta is fine - if it has cheese on it. As is chili.
-Yogurt - in any shape, form, flavor or type
-Eggs - especially with cheese
-Peaches, apricots, nectarines and WHOLE apples (yes, whole - even with a grand total of 6 2/3 teeth in front).
Honestly, the egg thing does NOT come from me. Although, given the fact that Himself and Woodstock love eggs more than any other breakfast food, I've eaten more eggs in the past six months than I have in the remaining 29.5 years put together.
Still, Woodstock's obsession with dairy borders on, well, obsession. Each time we open the refrigerator, she will dance over, arms outstretched and chant, "yo yo yo" (yogurt) or "cheeeeeesseeee." A casual passer-by would wonder if she had been fed in the last month. I assure you, it's all a ruse.
And milk? She'd happily slurp her calories through anything containing a sillicone spout/straw, if we'd let her. Funny, that sounds a bit familiar.
Himself says it's all my fault. Next pregnancy I'll be sure to eat only veggies.
Still, I wonder if our backyard is zoned for cows?
And I am not exaggerating. If it had cheese on it, or could be consumed with a straw, I could probably get it to go down and stay down, but otherwise all bets were off. As the pregnancy progressed, I realized my lactose intolerance had disappeared (unfortunately, it came back 6 weeks post partum), and I consumed dairy products like crazy - usually mixed with some vegetable fiber and sucked through a straw (for good measure).
As a result, I endured a lot of teasing about Woodstock entering this world with a taste for cheese and fruit only.
If I had only known...
Woodstock is (or was, until recently) actually a very good eater - and the more complex the flavor of the dish (ie enchiladas, curries, etc.), the more she seems to enjoy it. However, if anyone was to interview her at this point on her favorite foods, she would reply:
-Cheese - particularly medium or cheddar, but she (like her parents) isn't terribly picky when it comes to cheese kinds - as long as it looks like cheese. String cheese also works. Pasta is fine - if it has cheese on it. As is chili.
-Yogurt - in any shape, form, flavor or type
-Eggs - especially with cheese
-Peaches, apricots, nectarines and WHOLE apples (yes, whole - even with a grand total of 6 2/3 teeth in front).
Honestly, the egg thing does NOT come from me. Although, given the fact that Himself and Woodstock love eggs more than any other breakfast food, I've eaten more eggs in the past six months than I have in the remaining 29.5 years put together.
Still, Woodstock's obsession with dairy borders on, well, obsession. Each time we open the refrigerator, she will dance over, arms outstretched and chant, "yo yo yo" (yogurt) or "cheeeeeesseeee." A casual passer-by would wonder if she had been fed in the last month. I assure you, it's all a ruse.
And milk? She'd happily slurp her calories through anything containing a sillicone spout/straw, if we'd let her. Funny, that sounds a bit familiar.
Himself says it's all my fault. Next pregnancy I'll be sure to eat only veggies.
Still, I wonder if our backyard is zoned for cows?
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
A Tale of Two Christmases
Two years ago, I was buried in gourmet gift baskets from clients, vendors and the like. We gorged ourselves on Mrs. Fields cookies, smoked salmon, artisan cheeses, pate, crackers, Godiva chocolates and the 50 other lesser items sent in the name of corporate holiday popularity contests.
We celebrated the holiday by cramming hundreds of employees - and their spouses or dates that you met once a year - into an anonymous hotel ballroom with anonymous hotel food, wilting under heat lamps well into the night. The significant others were bored by the end of the first drink. The departments stuck together - trading work stories and past holiday stories (remember the one when...?) and trying to feel festive.
My department got half our annual bonus at Christmastime - calculated based on a portion of our salary. Expected, as long as the company did well and I did my job. It was a nice chunk of money during the holidays. Two years ago, Himself and I used a portion of it to buy Christmas for each other for the first married Christmas we'd spent together sans family. Both of us went a little overboard - hard not to, when the festivities included just the two of us.
Fast forward two years.
This year, we're dining on snippets of goodies employees are making for their neighbors or friends - rather like the taste test panel major food manufacturers use (minus the scientific background). A small, but steady, stream of festive goodies - just enough to satisfy, but hardly enough to qualify for gluttony.
Last night, The Office took everyone (and their spouses) - a total of 8 people - to one of the nicest restaurants downtown for our Christmas celebration. We dined on lovely food, prepared fresh and served in a private room. Himself was the only spouse no one else had met - as The Office frequently has events or opportunities for our small "work family" to gather together. Talk was not of work, but of sports (particularly the upcoming Sugar Bowl), politics, business, economics and topics in which everyone could participate.
We left the dinner, each of us with a slim, beautifully wrapped package. Never one for patience, I opened mine as I waited for the left-turn arrow to get on the interstate. I pulled out a gift card. I opened the envelope in which it was enclosed and gasped.
On my way home, I couldn't stop comparing the two Christmases. One was at tail end of several years of lavish spending, corporate growth and a season of "keeping up with the Jonses." One came at the beginning of what appears to be one of the worst economic seasons in decades - a time of cutting back, appreciating what one has and daily bouts of bad news. Yet, last night - this whole season - has been far more enjoyable. Everything tastes better, feels better, seems more peaceful. Appreciation over expectation.
Two years ago, the bonus check I received was just that - a bonus. Yet, it was one I expected, planned for, mentally spent before it was even in my hand. It was a solid 4-figure check. Last night's gift card was nowhere near 4 figures. In fact, it was less than 10% of my bonus check 2 years ago. Yet it was staggering in its sum - because it was a gift. Unexpected. Certainly generous and deeply appreciated.
This year, corporate carousing and novel-length gift lists may be a thing of the past (if only temporarily), and I can't help but think it's a good thing. How much better it feels to savor life one unexpected bit at a time. How much sweeter the smaller amount when it is given with appreciation rather than expectation.
Sometimes, reminders come in the strangest ways.
We celebrated the holiday by cramming hundreds of employees - and their spouses or dates that you met once a year - into an anonymous hotel ballroom with anonymous hotel food, wilting under heat lamps well into the night. The significant others were bored by the end of the first drink. The departments stuck together - trading work stories and past holiday stories (remember the one when...?) and trying to feel festive.
My department got half our annual bonus at Christmastime - calculated based on a portion of our salary. Expected, as long as the company did well and I did my job. It was a nice chunk of money during the holidays. Two years ago, Himself and I used a portion of it to buy Christmas for each other for the first married Christmas we'd spent together sans family. Both of us went a little overboard - hard not to, when the festivities included just the two of us.
Fast forward two years.
This year, we're dining on snippets of goodies employees are making for their neighbors or friends - rather like the taste test panel major food manufacturers use (minus the scientific background). A small, but steady, stream of festive goodies - just enough to satisfy, but hardly enough to qualify for gluttony.
Last night, The Office took everyone (and their spouses) - a total of 8 people - to one of the nicest restaurants downtown for our Christmas celebration. We dined on lovely food, prepared fresh and served in a private room. Himself was the only spouse no one else had met - as The Office frequently has events or opportunities for our small "work family" to gather together. Talk was not of work, but of sports (particularly the upcoming Sugar Bowl), politics, business, economics and topics in which everyone could participate.
We left the dinner, each of us with a slim, beautifully wrapped package. Never one for patience, I opened mine as I waited for the left-turn arrow to get on the interstate. I pulled out a gift card. I opened the envelope in which it was enclosed and gasped.
On my way home, I couldn't stop comparing the two Christmases. One was at tail end of several years of lavish spending, corporate growth and a season of "keeping up with the Jonses." One came at the beginning of what appears to be one of the worst economic seasons in decades - a time of cutting back, appreciating what one has and daily bouts of bad news. Yet, last night - this whole season - has been far more enjoyable. Everything tastes better, feels better, seems more peaceful. Appreciation over expectation.
Two years ago, the bonus check I received was just that - a bonus. Yet, it was one I expected, planned for, mentally spent before it was even in my hand. It was a solid 4-figure check. Last night's gift card was nowhere near 4 figures. In fact, it was less than 10% of my bonus check 2 years ago. Yet it was staggering in its sum - because it was a gift. Unexpected. Certainly generous and deeply appreciated.
This year, corporate carousing and novel-length gift lists may be a thing of the past (if only temporarily), and I can't help but think it's a good thing. How much better it feels to savor life one unexpected bit at a time. How much sweeter the smaller amount when it is given with appreciation rather than expectation.
Sometimes, reminders come in the strangest ways.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
One of Those Things You Only Handle Because You're a Parent
I have a mental list of things that I'd rather not have to deal with as a mother.
Number One on that list would be having a toddler throw up in her carseat.
Yesterday, on our way downtown for Woodstock's well baby visit, between exclamations of "nowy!" (snowy), Woodstock lost her lunch. There was a series of odd little sounds and then the smell - oh the smell - of something rotten and horrid crept into the front seat. I looked back and was greeted with Number One on my "List of Ridiculous Things I Never Want to Face."
To make matters worse (or better, depending on how you look at it), Woodstock recovered immediately. Which meant she spent the remaining 5 minutes of our drive happily smearing the smelly, vile mess all over anything she could reach.
There follows a rather long story about perching her on a blanket on the trunk in the parking lot, stripping her down (to avoid taking the, er, "chunks" into the doctor's office with us) and wrapping her in a blanket - to which she replied "brrr. cold!" over and over and over. And sitting at the doctor's, and then the quick cleanup and the torturous drive home, the putrid smell wafting up my nostrils. The odd sensation of the heater on full blast with the windows rolled down to rid (unsuccessfully) the interior spaces of the pungent reminder of earlier drama.
We arrived home to discover I neither had any idea where the carseat manual was safely tucked (so safe I'll never find it) nor how to remove the carseat cover. Suddenly, I realized why the reviews for this particular carseat began "if you get this, hope you never have to remove the cover to wash it." Which was almost exactly what I was thinking, standing in ankle-deep snow in my driveway, trying not to gag.
It turns out the manual isn't published online either. Nor were there any poor souls who had blogged about the experience in enough detail to help me. It appeared to require a screwdriver and at least an engineering degree (of which neither Himself nor I possess - not that Himself was home - he was at work) to even start. Frustrated, I dialed the customer relations line, where a recorded voice pleasantly reminded me they did not open until 7 a.m. Eastern time - 10 hours away.
Eventually, I kicked the carseat out of frustration and left it lying in a dejected heap on the dining room floor. I went to bed (after bathing and feeding Woodstock and doing two batches of "sick" laundry). The alarm went off at 5 a.m., and I bounded out of bed to reach the manufacturer. While not exactly sympathetic, they did e-mail me the manual, which told me, after describing the 42-step process to remove the cover, to LINE DRY it. Bah!
I put the cover on the speed/heavily soiled cycle, then, crossing my fingers, tossed it into the dryer on the dewrinkle/low heat cycle. I would either save myself 24 hours or ruin it to the point I'd need a new carseat cover. Given the stakes, I took the gamble.
One would think the hard part was done, but that would only be if one was dealing with something other than sadistic manufacturers who never actually have to USE the items they are manufacturing. The seat cover came out fine - more praises to my washer and dryer. However, it took Himself and I a full 90 minutes to put the carseat back together - only to discover we'd reattached the base wrong and had to re-do the last three steps.
I don't know about anyone else, but there is NEVER a 90-minute cushion in my morning routine. 15 minutes before I was supposed to show up in the office, I sent a message that read, "Carseat disaster. Will be 30-40 minutes late." I received the reply, "I'm not even going to ask." That is one smart person - given the fact that Himself was ready to begin swearing like the sailor he once was.
Eventually, long after I was supposed to have been at work, Himself and I braved the ankle-deep snow again to reinstall the carseat. While it took less time than the first installation, it definitely wouldn't be classified as "easy."
And the car still smells.
Today has to get better. It just must. I'm not giving the universe any other option.
Number One on that list would be having a toddler throw up in her carseat.
Yesterday, on our way downtown for Woodstock's well baby visit, between exclamations of "nowy!" (snowy), Woodstock lost her lunch. There was a series of odd little sounds and then the smell - oh the smell - of something rotten and horrid crept into the front seat. I looked back and was greeted with Number One on my "List of Ridiculous Things I Never Want to Face."
To make matters worse (or better, depending on how you look at it), Woodstock recovered immediately. Which meant she spent the remaining 5 minutes of our drive happily smearing the smelly, vile mess all over anything she could reach.
There follows a rather long story about perching her on a blanket on the trunk in the parking lot, stripping her down (to avoid taking the, er, "chunks" into the doctor's office with us) and wrapping her in a blanket - to which she replied "brrr. cold!" over and over and over. And sitting at the doctor's, and then the quick cleanup and the torturous drive home, the putrid smell wafting up my nostrils. The odd sensation of the heater on full blast with the windows rolled down to rid (unsuccessfully) the interior spaces of the pungent reminder of earlier drama.
We arrived home to discover I neither had any idea where the carseat manual was safely tucked (so safe I'll never find it) nor how to remove the carseat cover. Suddenly, I realized why the reviews for this particular carseat began "if you get this, hope you never have to remove the cover to wash it." Which was almost exactly what I was thinking, standing in ankle-deep snow in my driveway, trying not to gag.
It turns out the manual isn't published online either. Nor were there any poor souls who had blogged about the experience in enough detail to help me. It appeared to require a screwdriver and at least an engineering degree (of which neither Himself nor I possess - not that Himself was home - he was at work) to even start. Frustrated, I dialed the customer relations line, where a recorded voice pleasantly reminded me they did not open until 7 a.m. Eastern time - 10 hours away.
Eventually, I kicked the carseat out of frustration and left it lying in a dejected heap on the dining room floor. I went to bed (after bathing and feeding Woodstock and doing two batches of "sick" laundry). The alarm went off at 5 a.m., and I bounded out of bed to reach the manufacturer. While not exactly sympathetic, they did e-mail me the manual, which told me, after describing the 42-step process to remove the cover, to LINE DRY it. Bah!
I put the cover on the speed/heavily soiled cycle, then, crossing my fingers, tossed it into the dryer on the dewrinkle/low heat cycle. I would either save myself 24 hours or ruin it to the point I'd need a new carseat cover. Given the stakes, I took the gamble.
One would think the hard part was done, but that would only be if one was dealing with something other than sadistic manufacturers who never actually have to USE the items they are manufacturing. The seat cover came out fine - more praises to my washer and dryer. However, it took Himself and I a full 90 minutes to put the carseat back together - only to discover we'd reattached the base wrong and had to re-do the last three steps.
I don't know about anyone else, but there is NEVER a 90-minute cushion in my morning routine. 15 minutes before I was supposed to show up in the office, I sent a message that read, "Carseat disaster. Will be 30-40 minutes late." I received the reply, "I'm not even going to ask." That is one smart person - given the fact that Himself was ready to begin swearing like the sailor he once was.
Eventually, long after I was supposed to have been at work, Himself and I braved the ankle-deep snow again to reinstall the carseat. While it took less time than the first installation, it definitely wouldn't be classified as "easy."
And the car still smells.
Today has to get better. It just must. I'm not giving the universe any other option.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Skipping Sunday?
Yesterday was "ONE OF THOSE DAYS" - one of those days in capital letters that ends in weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - and feeling guilty about it (especially the gnashing of teeth part) because it's Sunday. One of those days, which, lately, happens every single week.
A new form of mommy guilt? On average, I see Woodstock for three hours a day - an hour in the morning and two hours in the evening before I put her to bed. Sometimes I cheat and put her to bed late because I want to play with her or hold her or something equally as selfish, but then I feel guilty because I'm depriving her of sleep. Which makes the weekends vital. However, on Sundays, if you take out church (which is full of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - on both our parts - hardly quality time), I see her awake for .5 hours more than I do on a weekday (which is the getting ready/eating/going to bed portions). It leaves Saturday not only the only day to get things in order household-wise, but to the only day I have to spend any amount of time with as a mom. And peopple wonder why the house is never clean.
Humiliation (Real or Imagined). Yesterday started out fine - if you discount Woodstock's self-imposed hunger strike. Then we got to church. Woodstock's morning nap ran long, I underestimated the time I needed to get her diaper changed and out the door, and we arrived 5 minutes late - in the middle of the opening hymn. There were plenty of seats available - in the middle of the pews. I walked in with Woodstock, loaded down with diaper bag, scriptures, blanket and "Meow" - no one slid over. I was already making a huge scene - and I didn't want to climb over anyone, only to have to climb back over them when Woodstock needed to be removed from the premise. So, I walked out and we sat in the foyer. Normally, Woodstock is okay if we sit in the foyer - not as many distractions. Not yesterday. I refuse to let her run wild at church, so Himself and I took turns pacing with her. At one point, during the switch-off, she escaped, and, with a delightful gleam in her eye ran straight into the chapel. Humiliated, I followed her in, listening to the congregation trying to muffle a giggle as she yelled "nonono!"
At the end of Sunday School, Woodstock fell off the chair on which she was sitting (I had set her there to keep her from darting out, while we gathered her things). She screamed bloody murder. I felt terrible, even if she was likely more scared than hurt. I grabbed her to comfort her and then reached for my scriptures, only to have them fall - divesting every scrap of paper I've tucked in them for the last 15 years. The notes and handouts and tithe slips fluttered to the ground silently, like snowflakes. Himself was picking up the apple pieces Woodstock had chewed up and spit out all over. The class had emptied. The older men filed in for their class, held in the same room. Woodstock continued to howl and try to wriggle free while I was chasing papers with the other hand. The leader got up to start class - no one seemed to notice us. Himself and I kept diving for chewed-up apple and renegade papers. Flustered, I made it to the next class and found a seat by the door, humiliated.
Asking Why. I had been in class no more than 3 minutes when Woodstock, tired of being quiet and nearly ready for her afternoon nap, arched her back let out a howl and began yelling "nonono." I stood up, determined to make it through the third hour. I paced at the back. Woodstock continued to howl. I went into the hall, to minimize the disruption. By the end, I had locked myself in the mother's closet and I read her a story and held her and let her yelp and run around. Hardly the lesson I want to teach my child - yell and mom will let you go to a room and have your own way - but at the moment it was better than losing every last piece of patience and self-composure. I tried not to feel bad for finding more peace in that "closet" than I had the whole rest of the service.
After, I put Woodstock to bed. I retreated to the guest bath and I cried. Great huge wracking sobs. I wondered why it mattered that I go at all. I couldn't recite a single word I had heard spoken, hadn't felt any claming spirit and certainly no worshiping was accomplished. I dread Sundays - the one day that used to inspire peace and rest and satisfaction every week. At the moment, it is a trial more challenging than anything else. As the sobs got worse, so did my thoughts - Why was I sacrificing the precious little time I get with my daughter only for everyone to be aggravated, upset and frustrated the entire three hours. How was I the only one that seemingly couldn't manage? Other people have mutliple children at church and survive. How could I be so at the end of my rope with one? How could I counter Himself's argument that it is just better for everyone to leave all together when everyone is worn and frayed and hurting by the third hour? The angel on my shoulder said, "It's the principle. It's the habit. It's the lesson you're teaching." The devil-may-care side said, "It's killing you. It's doing no good. Himself is right. You need to think of your relationship with Woodstock and your sanity."
It's a good thing there are 6 more days until next Sunday for me to adjust my attitude and try again.
A new form of mommy guilt? On average, I see Woodstock for three hours a day - an hour in the morning and two hours in the evening before I put her to bed. Sometimes I cheat and put her to bed late because I want to play with her or hold her or something equally as selfish, but then I feel guilty because I'm depriving her of sleep. Which makes the weekends vital. However, on Sundays, if you take out church (which is full of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - on both our parts - hardly quality time), I see her awake for .5 hours more than I do on a weekday (which is the getting ready/eating/going to bed portions). It leaves Saturday not only the only day to get things in order household-wise, but to the only day I have to spend any amount of time with as a mom. And peopple wonder why the house is never clean.
Humiliation (Real or Imagined). Yesterday started out fine - if you discount Woodstock's self-imposed hunger strike. Then we got to church. Woodstock's morning nap ran long, I underestimated the time I needed to get her diaper changed and out the door, and we arrived 5 minutes late - in the middle of the opening hymn. There were plenty of seats available - in the middle of the pews. I walked in with Woodstock, loaded down with diaper bag, scriptures, blanket and "Meow" - no one slid over. I was already making a huge scene - and I didn't want to climb over anyone, only to have to climb back over them when Woodstock needed to be removed from the premise. So, I walked out and we sat in the foyer. Normally, Woodstock is okay if we sit in the foyer - not as many distractions. Not yesterday. I refuse to let her run wild at church, so Himself and I took turns pacing with her. At one point, during the switch-off, she escaped, and, with a delightful gleam in her eye ran straight into the chapel. Humiliated, I followed her in, listening to the congregation trying to muffle a giggle as she yelled "nonono!"
At the end of Sunday School, Woodstock fell off the chair on which she was sitting (I had set her there to keep her from darting out, while we gathered her things). She screamed bloody murder. I felt terrible, even if she was likely more scared than hurt. I grabbed her to comfort her and then reached for my scriptures, only to have them fall - divesting every scrap of paper I've tucked in them for the last 15 years. The notes and handouts and tithe slips fluttered to the ground silently, like snowflakes. Himself was picking up the apple pieces Woodstock had chewed up and spit out all over. The class had emptied. The older men filed in for their class, held in the same room. Woodstock continued to howl and try to wriggle free while I was chasing papers with the other hand. The leader got up to start class - no one seemed to notice us. Himself and I kept diving for chewed-up apple and renegade papers. Flustered, I made it to the next class and found a seat by the door, humiliated.
Asking Why. I had been in class no more than 3 minutes when Woodstock, tired of being quiet and nearly ready for her afternoon nap, arched her back let out a howl and began yelling "nonono." I stood up, determined to make it through the third hour. I paced at the back. Woodstock continued to howl. I went into the hall, to minimize the disruption. By the end, I had locked myself in the mother's closet and I read her a story and held her and let her yelp and run around. Hardly the lesson I want to teach my child - yell and mom will let you go to a room and have your own way - but at the moment it was better than losing every last piece of patience and self-composure. I tried not to feel bad for finding more peace in that "closet" than I had the whole rest of the service.
After, I put Woodstock to bed. I retreated to the guest bath and I cried. Great huge wracking sobs. I wondered why it mattered that I go at all. I couldn't recite a single word I had heard spoken, hadn't felt any claming spirit and certainly no worshiping was accomplished. I dread Sundays - the one day that used to inspire peace and rest and satisfaction every week. At the moment, it is a trial more challenging than anything else. As the sobs got worse, so did my thoughts - Why was I sacrificing the precious little time I get with my daughter only for everyone to be aggravated, upset and frustrated the entire three hours. How was I the only one that seemingly couldn't manage? Other people have mutliple children at church and survive. How could I be so at the end of my rope with one? How could I counter Himself's argument that it is just better for everyone to leave all together when everyone is worn and frayed and hurting by the third hour? The angel on my shoulder said, "It's the principle. It's the habit. It's the lesson you're teaching." The devil-may-care side said, "It's killing you. It's doing no good. Himself is right. You need to think of your relationship with Woodstock and your sanity."
It's a good thing there are 6 more days until next Sunday for me to adjust my attitude and try again.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Believing
For Kari, who tagged me.
6 Things I Believe
6 Things I Don't Believe>
6 Things I'm Not Sure About
6 Things I Believe
- I believe that spending time with Woodstock is more important than having a clean house, even if not cleaning it does drive me insane
- I believe that theory isn't as important as practice
- I believe winter is bad for my health
- I believe the Catholics were up to something when they came up with the Seven Deadly Sins, and we'd all lead better lives if we lived in moderation
- I believe step-parents get a bad rap
- I believe that NPR or a book on CD makes keeping house tolerable
6 Things I Don't Believe>
- I don't believe I will ever be able to get over my "work over play" guilty conscience and enjoy playing
- I don't believe that the kindgergarten one's child goes to will determine his or her future college entrance capability - but I still worry about Woodstock's education
- I don't believe the current financial crisis is a bad thing on a macro level
- I don't believe I will ever be able to handle my parents growing old
- I don't believe being a mother makes one woman more important than another
- I don't believe one must choose creationism or evolution - I believe in both
6 Things I'm Not Sure About
- I am not sure about who to believe in the HFCS and artificial coloring debates, but I strive to keep both from our diets
- I am not sure where we'll "settle down" - or how I feel about it possibly being The Frontier
- I am not sure when we will have another child - or even if it will be possible
- I am not sure I believe all of the Global Warming talk, but I am sure that we need to think about our impact on the environment more and innovate, reduce, reuse and recycle.
- I am not sure I will ever realize my grad school dream, and I'm not sure how I feel about that
- I am not sure I'll ever be "caught up" or organized
Pausing.
The strangest sense of peace has settled over me the past few days. Even as the world's instability rages on, even as The Frontier slips slowly into the long, gray days of winter, I am at peace.
For the record, I am not a peaceful person. I am a peacemaker - the very thought of conflict makes my stomach not and my bed look more inviting than ever - but I am not internally peaceful. If I smoked, I'd be one of those nervous chain-smokers depicted in iconic movies from the 1950s. I fidget. I worry. I obsess. I am slightly neurotic, Type A and an adrenaline junkie. I like to solve problems, and I hate to be told I can't do something.
Somehow, right now, that's not me (well, except for the fidgeting part). This morning, there was a story of a mother, so desperate for money, she watered down her infant's formula and nearly killed him - not knowing the danger extra water poses to an infant. I wept, grateful that our myriad of job issues in the last 18 months have never left us so destitute as to have to worry about how to feed Woodstock, let alone ourselves. I was grateful for my work history, my education - that gives me a better chance, even in a bad economy, of being able to support my family when necessary.
On the way to the office today, I listened to Woodstock chatter in her car seat - waving "hi" to passing cars, talking to her "ayato" (alligator) - just rambling in that cute, broken baby English way of hers. I thought how grateful I was for health insurance - something I had never been without until this year. I thought how grateful I was for Woodstock's pediatrician, who made me promise that if I brought Woodstock in for all her well baby visits (not bringing her had never crossed my mind), even while uninsured, that she would only charge me the $25 I had been paying for co-pays. She wrote off the rest of the visit. I thought how grateful I am for two cars that are in good condition - and that the $300 I have to put into one this month is for tires and not for a "patch job" that, along with prayers, would be the only thing keeping it running.
And, for the first time, I thought about how grateful I am to be in The Frontier - away from the near-toxic gluttony that surrounded me daily - in both my work and personal life.
I'm certain I know from where this sense of serenity is originating, but it is puzzling that I have allowed it to linger so long. Last December was a cold, bleak month where the holidays held no magic, no allure, no respite. This year, I've happily set out to do holiday baking, the tree is up, and I'm gleefuly preparing for a holiday filled with love and family.
And for that, I am most thankful.
For the record, I am not a peaceful person. I am a peacemaker - the very thought of conflict makes my stomach not and my bed look more inviting than ever - but I am not internally peaceful. If I smoked, I'd be one of those nervous chain-smokers depicted in iconic movies from the 1950s. I fidget. I worry. I obsess. I am slightly neurotic, Type A and an adrenaline junkie. I like to solve problems, and I hate to be told I can't do something.
Somehow, right now, that's not me (well, except for the fidgeting part). This morning, there was a story of a mother, so desperate for money, she watered down her infant's formula and nearly killed him - not knowing the danger extra water poses to an infant. I wept, grateful that our myriad of job issues in the last 18 months have never left us so destitute as to have to worry about how to feed Woodstock, let alone ourselves. I was grateful for my work history, my education - that gives me a better chance, even in a bad economy, of being able to support my family when necessary.
On the way to the office today, I listened to Woodstock chatter in her car seat - waving "hi" to passing cars, talking to her "ayato" (alligator) - just rambling in that cute, broken baby English way of hers. I thought how grateful I was for health insurance - something I had never been without until this year. I thought how grateful I was for Woodstock's pediatrician, who made me promise that if I brought Woodstock in for all her well baby visits (not bringing her had never crossed my mind), even while uninsured, that she would only charge me the $25 I had been paying for co-pays. She wrote off the rest of the visit. I thought how grateful I am for two cars that are in good condition - and that the $300 I have to put into one this month is for tires and not for a "patch job" that, along with prayers, would be the only thing keeping it running.
And, for the first time, I thought about how grateful I am to be in The Frontier - away from the near-toxic gluttony that surrounded me daily - in both my work and personal life.
I'm certain I know from where this sense of serenity is originating, but it is puzzling that I have allowed it to linger so long. Last December was a cold, bleak month where the holidays held no magic, no allure, no respite. This year, I've happily set out to do holiday baking, the tree is up, and I'm gleefuly preparing for a holiday filled with love and family.
And for that, I am most thankful.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Did you Know?
My first stint in Washington, D.C. was as an educational tour guide. We were supposed to learn names, dates and facts about hundreds of circles, buildings, streets, statues and gravestones. As my fellow tour guides soon learned, however, I had a knack for remembering the oddities while forgetting the dates and other generally important information.
I soon dubbed "The Queen of Useless Information." For instance, I could tell you how tall the Washington Monument was (it was 555 5 1/8" tall at the time, but it reportedly sinks at a rate of 1/8" per year), but neither the year it was started (1848) or dedicated (1885).
It is a trait I've nurtured since childhood - serving me well on occasion, if only to lighten the mood. Now, even as an adult with a real job, a child and responsibilities, it seems to be one of my greatest talents - remembering random pieces of information - and yet barely able to recall the important stuff.
For instance, did you know:
Of course not.
This Thanksgiving season, I am sending the FDA huge amounts of gratitude for requiring the bold, plain English identification of allergens and potential allergen contamination.
I am also sending my mother huge amounts of gratitude for passing on her neurotic label-reading habits, well-honed by my even more neurotic self for years prior to Woodstock's arrival.
I have a lot to be thankful for this year - including the fact that we were able to discover the severity of Woodstock's allergy in a confined, medical setting.
Giving up my morning on-the-way-to-work peanut butter toast is a small price to pay.
I soon dubbed "The Queen of Useless Information." For instance, I could tell you how tall the Washington Monument was (it was 555 5 1/8" tall at the time, but it reportedly sinks at a rate of 1/8" per year), but neither the year it was started (1848) or dedicated (1885).
It is a trait I've nurtured since childhood - serving me well on occasion, if only to lighten the mood. Now, even as an adult with a real job, a child and responsibilities, it seems to be one of my greatest talents - remembering random pieces of information - and yet barely able to recall the important stuff.
For instance, did you know:
- 20% of Americans have allergies to something?
- If both parents have allergies, their child has a 75% chance of having allergies
- Approximately 2% of the population in general has a peanut allergy
- Peanut allergies are the most common cause of death due to foods
- 1/3 of people with peanut allergies have tree nut allergies
- There is only ONE board-certified pediatric allergist in the entire state covered by our insurance - and she happens to be 2.5 miles from our house.
- I still remember all the words to the "bringing home a baby bumblebee" song - which Woodstock learned during our 3-hour doctor visit Wednesday.
Of course not.
This Thanksgiving season, I am sending the FDA huge amounts of gratitude for requiring the bold, plain English identification of allergens and potential allergen contamination.
I am also sending my mother huge amounts of gratitude for passing on her neurotic label-reading habits, well-honed by my even more neurotic self for years prior to Woodstock's arrival.
I have a lot to be thankful for this year - including the fact that we were able to discover the severity of Woodstock's allergy in a confined, medical setting.
Giving up my morning on-the-way-to-work peanut butter toast is a small price to pay.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
I Have a Choice
I choose to live in The Frontier.
I choose this holiday season to exchange true sentiments versus more commercialized "stuff" - to spend this season of global economic hardship preparing my family rather than pandering to my whimsies and wants.
I choose to be picky about what I feed Woodstock.
I choose how many times a week I wash my hair.
I choose to eat (relatively) healthy, to extend my life.
I choose to worship each Sunday - and I choose the church in which to do that.
I choose to walk to the store if I need just one thing and it's daylight.
I choose to what I'm going to read.
I choose the kind of breakfast I want.
I choose when to visit my family.
I choose what to make for dinner each night.
I choose to go without a coat, except on the coldest of days.
I choose to dress Woodstock in new clothes, hand-me-downs and thrift store bargains with the same degree of glee.
I choose to do laundry only once a week.
I choose to sleep in once in awhile.
I choose hundreds, thousands of things every day.
And because I HAVE A CHOICE in how I live my life, I really do live a life of luxury.
Happy Thanksgiving. May 2008 cause each of us to pause and reflect on how much we DO have.
I choose this holiday season to exchange true sentiments versus more commercialized "stuff" - to spend this season of global economic hardship preparing my family rather than pandering to my whimsies and wants.
I choose to be picky about what I feed Woodstock.
I choose how many times a week I wash my hair.
I choose to eat (relatively) healthy, to extend my life.
I choose to worship each Sunday - and I choose the church in which to do that.
I choose to walk to the store if I need just one thing and it's daylight.
I choose to what I'm going to read.
I choose the kind of breakfast I want.
I choose when to visit my family.
I choose what to make for dinner each night.
I choose to go without a coat, except on the coldest of days.
I choose to dress Woodstock in new clothes, hand-me-downs and thrift store bargains with the same degree of glee.
I choose to do laundry only once a week.
I choose to sleep in once in awhile.
I choose hundreds, thousands of things every day.
And because I HAVE A CHOICE in how I live my life, I really do live a life of luxury.
Happy Thanksgiving. May 2008 cause each of us to pause and reflect on how much we DO have.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sleeping Beauty
For the last year (more or less), Woodstock has been a fabulous sleeper. (The first 8 weeks of her life would not qualify for "fabulous sleeperhood" - she was difficult to get to sleep and didn't stay asleep long - but I suppose that is normal).
She is also generally easy to get to bed - a bit too attached to her "been-tee" (binkie), but since she only gets it at church and naptime/bedtime, I'm willing to look the other way for the moment.
Over the past several weeks, however, she has been waking up and shrieking at the top of her lungs. Nightmare-inducing shrieks. Shrieks that make one's heart stop beating as it rouses one from a dead sleep over the baby monitor (her room is too far away to hear her otherwise). Especially when one accidentally leaves the monitor's volume up too high.
For the record, I am not a nice person to rouse from a deep sleep. It happens so rarely (the deep sleep, not the rousing), that I am guilty of being slightly grumpy if roused before I feel is absolutely necessary. Fortunately, the walk to Woodstock's room is long and usually filled with obstacles she has scattered throughout the hall, so I have plenty of time to stub my toe and "adjust my attitude" prior to poking my head in to see what on earth is warranting such shrieking.
A couple of weeks ago, I was EXHAUSTED when this happened. More exhausted than usual. I had stayed up way too late watching election coverage that shouldn't have kept me up late. It was hardly a nail-biter and the whole thing kicked off two hours earlier than I'm used to, having relocated to a new time zone. It was all said and done before my regular bedtime. Nevertheless, I stayed up to0 late.
As a result, the first time the shrieking began, I broke my own iron-clad parenting rule. I picked Woodstock up, cuddled her to my chest, went back to bed, waited for her to fall asleep and then deposited her back into her bed. The second time, I picked Woodstock up, cuddled her to my chest, went back to bed, rearranged the pillows and bedding, plopped her in the middle, turned over and went to sleep. Every once in awhile I'd wake up and right her so her head was at the top and her feet were no longer in my back. I was too tired to care what awful habits I might be instilling by fetching her and letting her sleep with us.
Most of the time, she shrieks for awhile then falls asleep, sometimes mumbling the guilt-inducing phrase, "nononono," like she's softly scolding herself for waking the entire household.
Several nights later, however, all I could think was "I've created a monster!" The shrieking began, right on cue, at 4 a.m. Himself rolled over and mumbled "She must have thrown her binky overboard," as he went back to sleep. Indeed she had. I handed her her binky and tried to creep out.
Woodstock would have nothing of it. The shrieking got louder. I picked her up, cuddled her to my chest, rocked her until she was almost asleep and then deposited her back into bed. I had taken 2 steps when the shrieking began anew.
"Oh no," I muttered. "You are not coming to bed with me." Too tired to do much of anything, I sat on the floor and reached my arm through the crib slats to stroke Woodstock's foot. Then I started to sing "I am a Child of God" - the song that will almost instantly calm her. (I'm sure Himself enjoyed the raspy, half-dazed serenade over the baby monitor). She sat there, defiant, daring me to either stop singing or stop stroking her foot or both.
I started falling asleep, my arm caught to my elbow in Woodstock's crib, the song verses all mixed up. I stopped singing and stroked her foot. 15 minutes into the ordeal Woodstock keeled over with a thud - she had fallen asleep sitting up. I was so relieved I didn't even bother to move "Meow" her stuffed leopard, out from under her. I crawled to the door and padded back to bed.
Last night, the same thing happened. I sat on her floor in the dark, stroking her head through the slats in the crib. She stared at me, as if to say, "it doesn't matter what you do, I am not going back to sleep." I sang jumbled, raspy verses again, picturing Himself with his head shoved under his pillow, willing her to fall asleep quickly so I'd stop the serenade.
After tossing and turning and making a complete 360-degree rotation in her crib, Woodstock finally settled down on her stomach, her face turned toward the wall. Her breathing evened. I brought my singing down to a whisper and stroked her hair lightly. Suddenly, her arm thrust out - she stretched as far as it would go, grasped "Meow" and pulled him up next to her, her face buried in his fur as she made a kissing noise in the vicinity of his nose. She flopped her arm over him, turned her head toward me, closed her eyes and sighed a little.
It's hard to remember why my sleep is so necessary when Sleeping Beauty finally throws herself toward dreamland without prelude - slipping abruptly and blissfully into the warm, dark silence, wrapped in love by her faithful furry feline. It's hard not to just stay and watch.
She is also generally easy to get to bed - a bit too attached to her "been-tee" (binkie), but since she only gets it at church and naptime/bedtime, I'm willing to look the other way for the moment.
Over the past several weeks, however, she has been waking up and shrieking at the top of her lungs. Nightmare-inducing shrieks. Shrieks that make one's heart stop beating as it rouses one from a dead sleep over the baby monitor (her room is too far away to hear her otherwise). Especially when one accidentally leaves the monitor's volume up too high.
For the record, I am not a nice person to rouse from a deep sleep. It happens so rarely (the deep sleep, not the rousing), that I am guilty of being slightly grumpy if roused before I feel is absolutely necessary. Fortunately, the walk to Woodstock's room is long and usually filled with obstacles she has scattered throughout the hall, so I have plenty of time to stub my toe and "adjust my attitude" prior to poking my head in to see what on earth is warranting such shrieking.
A couple of weeks ago, I was EXHAUSTED when this happened. More exhausted than usual. I had stayed up way too late watching election coverage that shouldn't have kept me up late. It was hardly a nail-biter and the whole thing kicked off two hours earlier than I'm used to, having relocated to a new time zone. It was all said and done before my regular bedtime. Nevertheless, I stayed up to0 late.
As a result, the first time the shrieking began, I broke my own iron-clad parenting rule. I picked Woodstock up, cuddled her to my chest, went back to bed, waited for her to fall asleep and then deposited her back into her bed. The second time, I picked Woodstock up, cuddled her to my chest, went back to bed, rearranged the pillows and bedding, plopped her in the middle, turned over and went to sleep. Every once in awhile I'd wake up and right her so her head was at the top and her feet were no longer in my back. I was too tired to care what awful habits I might be instilling by fetching her and letting her sleep with us.
Most of the time, she shrieks for awhile then falls asleep, sometimes mumbling the guilt-inducing phrase, "nononono," like she's softly scolding herself for waking the entire household.
Several nights later, however, all I could think was "I've created a monster!" The shrieking began, right on cue, at 4 a.m. Himself rolled over and mumbled "She must have thrown her binky overboard," as he went back to sleep. Indeed she had. I handed her her binky and tried to creep out.
Woodstock would have nothing of it. The shrieking got louder. I picked her up, cuddled her to my chest, rocked her until she was almost asleep and then deposited her back into bed. I had taken 2 steps when the shrieking began anew.
"Oh no," I muttered. "You are not coming to bed with me." Too tired to do much of anything, I sat on the floor and reached my arm through the crib slats to stroke Woodstock's foot. Then I started to sing "I am a Child of God" - the song that will almost instantly calm her. (I'm sure Himself enjoyed the raspy, half-dazed serenade over the baby monitor). She sat there, defiant, daring me to either stop singing or stop stroking her foot or both.
I started falling asleep, my arm caught to my elbow in Woodstock's crib, the song verses all mixed up. I stopped singing and stroked her foot. 15 minutes into the ordeal Woodstock keeled over with a thud - she had fallen asleep sitting up. I was so relieved I didn't even bother to move "Meow" her stuffed leopard, out from under her. I crawled to the door and padded back to bed.
Last night, the same thing happened. I sat on her floor in the dark, stroking her head through the slats in the crib. She stared at me, as if to say, "it doesn't matter what you do, I am not going back to sleep." I sang jumbled, raspy verses again, picturing Himself with his head shoved under his pillow, willing her to fall asleep quickly so I'd stop the serenade.
After tossing and turning and making a complete 360-degree rotation in her crib, Woodstock finally settled down on her stomach, her face turned toward the wall. Her breathing evened. I brought my singing down to a whisper and stroked her hair lightly. Suddenly, her arm thrust out - she stretched as far as it would go, grasped "Meow" and pulled him up next to her, her face buried in his fur as she made a kissing noise in the vicinity of his nose. She flopped her arm over him, turned her head toward me, closed her eyes and sighed a little.
It's hard to remember why my sleep is so necessary when Sleeping Beauty finally throws herself toward dreamland without prelude - slipping abruptly and blissfully into the warm, dark silence, wrapped in love by her faithful furry feline. It's hard not to just stay and watch.
The One Where I Confess ...
I'm starting to feel like something is wrong with me as a member of the literate female society.
First, it was Jane Austen. I've tried half a dozen times to read Jane Austen and while I love the strong-willed heroines of her novels, I really, really, really don't like reading them. I've seen the movies (other than the epic length A&E P&P - too long for something I didn't even enjoy the short version of). I didn't like them either.
It's not that it is 19th Century lit - my two favorite books of all time are Les Miserables and Huck Finn and both were written in the 1800s. It's not that it is chick lit (classic or otherwise) - there are a few Sophie Kinsella novels I will admit have given me guilty pleasure once in awhile. It's not that it's classic literature - again, look at my two favorite books (and the fact that I actually like Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Dante, etc.). I'm not sure what it is. Even though I plan on trying again someday, I just cannot seem to make myself like Jane Austen. (Much like the fact that while I keep trying Ahi Tuna steak - I cannot make myself like it. I love the concept of it, it's just the eating part that gets in the way.)
With all that, I was already feeling a bit outcast from the "literate females of the world unite!" clique, but lately, I'm feeling even more outside the bounds of literate femininity.
I don't plan on seeing Twilight. Or, even finishing the series. Unless things change drastically and soon.
I did eagerly read the first book - and it was good in a 'nothing else to read, breezy, easy, done in a few hours' kind of way. I was mildly annoyed that it didn't wrap things up, but not enough to stand in line for Book 2 (No, I can't remember the title. Yes, it does in fact make me lazy). In fact, I never got around to reading the rest of the series.
When my mom called a few weeks ago asking me if I'd like to listen to Book 2 on CD, I said, "Sure, why not?" After all, I listen to books on CD while cleaning and heaven knows my house needs cleaning. I even caught myself thinking this would at least potentially redeem me in the world of chick lit (not that I am confusing Stephanie Meyer's writing skills with Jane Austen's - even I recognize that would be a cardinal sin). I could at least hold a conversation with a girl/woman between 12 and 40 who had read it. Feel like a part of society. (Besides, everyone else is doing it!)
Except, I don't actually like Book 2. In fact, it is grating on my nerves so much that I can barely tolerate it. The whining. The self-entitlement. The sheer oddness of the whole thing. Not to mention the plot. Maybe it's the mother in me - the wanting to reach out and shake Bella and say, "Good grief. The world doesn't revolve around you!"
Like my aversion to Austen, I can't exactly explain why I don't like series. To be certain, many times I just need a book to entertain me. It doesn't have to be realistic. It can be rather far-fetched. This is, after all, coming from someone who unabashedly loves the Mrs. Pollifax series and has read every single one - more than once. Those are certainly far-fetched and terribly unrealistic. Yet, at least the characters are entertaining. Mrs. Pollifax is, in fact, quite charming. It's just not very entertaining to be cringing and rolling one's eyes through an entire book like I am through this one.
I'm not sure if I am more disatissfied with the book or with the fact that I feel like something must be wrong with me as a woman who likes to read. If I can't identify with Elizabeth or Emma (or even Mr. Darcy, as unlikely as that would be) on one end or Bella and Edward and Jacob on another end ... what does that say?
How can I not like Jane Austen novels (on one, classic end of the spectrum) OR Twilight (on the other, modern chick lit end of the spectrum)?
One or the other, fine, a woman is entitled her selectiveness and tastes. But both?
Clearly something must be wrong with me.
First, it was Jane Austen. I've tried half a dozen times to read Jane Austen and while I love the strong-willed heroines of her novels, I really, really, really don't like reading them. I've seen the movies (other than the epic length A&E P&P - too long for something I didn't even enjoy the short version of). I didn't like them either.
It's not that it is 19th Century lit - my two favorite books of all time are Les Miserables and Huck Finn and both were written in the 1800s. It's not that it is chick lit (classic or otherwise) - there are a few Sophie Kinsella novels I will admit have given me guilty pleasure once in awhile. It's not that it's classic literature - again, look at my two favorite books (and the fact that I actually like Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Dante, etc.). I'm not sure what it is. Even though I plan on trying again someday, I just cannot seem to make myself like Jane Austen. (Much like the fact that while I keep trying Ahi Tuna steak - I cannot make myself like it. I love the concept of it, it's just the eating part that gets in the way.)
With all that, I was already feeling a bit outcast from the "literate females of the world unite!" clique, but lately, I'm feeling even more outside the bounds of literate femininity.
I don't plan on seeing Twilight. Or, even finishing the series. Unless things change drastically and soon.
I did eagerly read the first book - and it was good in a 'nothing else to read, breezy, easy, done in a few hours' kind of way. I was mildly annoyed that it didn't wrap things up, but not enough to stand in line for Book 2 (No, I can't remember the title. Yes, it does in fact make me lazy). In fact, I never got around to reading the rest of the series.
When my mom called a few weeks ago asking me if I'd like to listen to Book 2 on CD, I said, "Sure, why not?" After all, I listen to books on CD while cleaning and heaven knows my house needs cleaning. I even caught myself thinking this would at least potentially redeem me in the world of chick lit (not that I am confusing Stephanie Meyer's writing skills with Jane Austen's - even I recognize that would be a cardinal sin). I could at least hold a conversation with a girl/woman between 12 and 40 who had read it. Feel like a part of society. (Besides, everyone else is doing it!)
Except, I don't actually like Book 2. In fact, it is grating on my nerves so much that I can barely tolerate it. The whining. The self-entitlement. The sheer oddness of the whole thing. Not to mention the plot. Maybe it's the mother in me - the wanting to reach out and shake Bella and say, "Good grief. The world doesn't revolve around you!"
Like my aversion to Austen, I can't exactly explain why I don't like series. To be certain, many times I just need a book to entertain me. It doesn't have to be realistic. It can be rather far-fetched. This is, after all, coming from someone who unabashedly loves the Mrs. Pollifax series and has read every single one - more than once. Those are certainly far-fetched and terribly unrealistic. Yet, at least the characters are entertaining. Mrs. Pollifax is, in fact, quite charming. It's just not very entertaining to be cringing and rolling one's eyes through an entire book like I am through this one.
I'm not sure if I am more disatissfied with the book or with the fact that I feel like something must be wrong with me as a woman who likes to read. If I can't identify with Elizabeth or Emma (or even Mr. Darcy, as unlikely as that would be) on one end or Bella and Edward and Jacob on another end ... what does that say?
How can I not like Jane Austen novels (on one, classic end of the spectrum) OR Twilight (on the other, modern chick lit end of the spectrum)?
One or the other, fine, a woman is entitled her selectiveness and tastes. But both?
Clearly something must be wrong with me.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Happy Thanksgiving, Charlie Brown
Five years ago, I cooked an entire Thanksgiving dinner, by myself, for the very first time.
It was utter nonsense. The kitchen in the poorly named Malibu Palms Complex* had enough counter space for a small dish drainer and a dorm-sized microwave (no dishwasher, which meant the dish drainer was a necessity). It had a 3/4-sized oven with one rack, which meant only one pot, pan, or cookie sheet could fit in it at once. The refrigerator door only opened 3/4 of the way, as it hit the stove and could go no further. There was garage shelving in the kitchen, to make up for the lack of cabinet/counter space.
It meant baking the pies, one at a time, the night before, then getting up at 5 a.m. to put the turkey in and start the rolls, which would go in when the turkey came out. It meant that rolling pie dough out on the dining room table, cooking the stuffing in a crock pot on the floor (no counter space, and there was a bird in the oven) and eliminating any offers of help because with pies and rolls on the table, the in-progress or finished sides on one of the shelves of the industrial shelving unit, the cutting board on top of the microwave - where the potatoes, sweet potatoes and fruits and veggies were chopped, the bird in the oven, four pots on the stove, and the stuffing on the floor, there was no room for another human being - helpful or otherwise.
Ironically, it was also the year I decided to make homemade cranberry sauce. As if homemade stuffing, rolls and pies weren't already enough to earn me the title role of Queen of Holiday Insanity.
The five of us (Himself, myself, two stray Navy friends of Himself's and a random girl on holiday from Dover AFB) sat down to eat dinner at the 4-person dining room table in the middle of the living room, because the kitchen (the table's normal place of occupancy) was too small to actually USE the table for anything but a one-person countertop. This meant displacing the pies, rolls, etc. and putting them on top of the stove. Serving dinner was like going to a progressive dinner - each item was dished up from some random location - right down to the stuffing still being on the floor.
Dinner took 15 hours to prepare and 15 minutes to eat. The clean up (due to lack of space, lack of ability to open the fridge all the way, lack of a dishwasher and lack of space enough to cajole anyone else into helping) took another 4 hours. I went to bed exhausted, only to have to rise the next morning and head to work.
I vowed, "Never Again!"
Except, well, I did it again. Twice more. And I liked it. The kitchen in NoVa was larger, much nicer, had tons of counter and cabinet space, opened to the living room (all the better to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade), and I gave up on homemade stuffing, cranberry sauce and having guests. (As it turns out, Himself hates stuffing, Grover only eats the boxed kind and Jane doesn't like onions - why kill myself for something only I liked?).
Two years ago we went to the World's Smallest Townhouse for Thanksgiving - I only had to bring the pies (Pumpkin Mousse and Coconut Cream). Last year, we had The Great Pie Gathering at my Uncle's, and I only had to bring the pies (Key Lime, Coconut Cream) and homemade macaroni and cheese.
As it turns out, Great Malibu Palms Holiday Insanity of 2003 aside, I prefer staying home for Thanksgiving. However, it appears to be the eighth deadly sin to stay home for a holiday now that we're within hundreds of miles (versus thousands of miles) from family. Which means we will be trekking to the Great Frozen North on Thursday with pies (Pumpkin, Key Lime and Coconut Cream - see a pattern?), all of Woodstock's baby gear, festive attitudes and enough clothing for a 2-3 day stay.
Next year, we're having a roast chicken (Himself actually doesn't like turkey), roast sweet potatoes and pies (we don't need anything but the basic favorites), watching the parade, sleeping in, watching football, playing board games and eating leftovers for four days - the only leftovers I truly like. Not necessarily in that order.
God bless the pilgrims for enduring the North Atlantic seas in the fall, learning to harvest a crop and inspiring a president to make their celebratory meal a national holiday more than two centuries later.
*1. Palm trees aren't indigenous to Virginia's tidewater region - or to Virginia at all, as a matter of fact. 2. It was as close to a ghetto complex as you could get without actually living IN the ghetto, right down to having to call the cops on the neighbors. 3. Malibu is in California, not in Virginia.
It was utter nonsense. The kitchen in the poorly named Malibu Palms Complex* had enough counter space for a small dish drainer and a dorm-sized microwave (no dishwasher, which meant the dish drainer was a necessity). It had a 3/4-sized oven with one rack, which meant only one pot, pan, or cookie sheet could fit in it at once. The refrigerator door only opened 3/4 of the way, as it hit the stove and could go no further. There was garage shelving in the kitchen, to make up for the lack of cabinet/counter space.
It meant baking the pies, one at a time, the night before, then getting up at 5 a.m. to put the turkey in and start the rolls, which would go in when the turkey came out. It meant that rolling pie dough out on the dining room table, cooking the stuffing in a crock pot on the floor (no counter space, and there was a bird in the oven) and eliminating any offers of help because with pies and rolls on the table, the in-progress or finished sides on one of the shelves of the industrial shelving unit, the cutting board on top of the microwave - where the potatoes, sweet potatoes and fruits and veggies were chopped, the bird in the oven, four pots on the stove, and the stuffing on the floor, there was no room for another human being - helpful or otherwise.
Ironically, it was also the year I decided to make homemade cranberry sauce. As if homemade stuffing, rolls and pies weren't already enough to earn me the title role of Queen of Holiday Insanity.
The five of us (Himself, myself, two stray Navy friends of Himself's and a random girl on holiday from Dover AFB) sat down to eat dinner at the 4-person dining room table in the middle of the living room, because the kitchen (the table's normal place of occupancy) was too small to actually USE the table for anything but a one-person countertop. This meant displacing the pies, rolls, etc. and putting them on top of the stove. Serving dinner was like going to a progressive dinner - each item was dished up from some random location - right down to the stuffing still being on the floor.
Dinner took 15 hours to prepare and 15 minutes to eat. The clean up (due to lack of space, lack of ability to open the fridge all the way, lack of a dishwasher and lack of space enough to cajole anyone else into helping) took another 4 hours. I went to bed exhausted, only to have to rise the next morning and head to work.
I vowed, "Never Again!"
Except, well, I did it again. Twice more. And I liked it. The kitchen in NoVa was larger, much nicer, had tons of counter and cabinet space, opened to the living room (all the better to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade), and I gave up on homemade stuffing, cranberry sauce and having guests. (As it turns out, Himself hates stuffing, Grover only eats the boxed kind and Jane doesn't like onions - why kill myself for something only I liked?).
Two years ago we went to the World's Smallest Townhouse for Thanksgiving - I only had to bring the pies (Pumpkin Mousse and Coconut Cream). Last year, we had The Great Pie Gathering at my Uncle's, and I only had to bring the pies (Key Lime, Coconut Cream) and homemade macaroni and cheese.
As it turns out, Great Malibu Palms Holiday Insanity of 2003 aside, I prefer staying home for Thanksgiving. However, it appears to be the eighth deadly sin to stay home for a holiday now that we're within hundreds of miles (versus thousands of miles) from family. Which means we will be trekking to the Great Frozen North on Thursday with pies (Pumpkin, Key Lime and Coconut Cream - see a pattern?), all of Woodstock's baby gear, festive attitudes and enough clothing for a 2-3 day stay.
Next year, we're having a roast chicken (Himself actually doesn't like turkey), roast sweet potatoes and pies (we don't need anything but the basic favorites), watching the parade, sleeping in, watching football, playing board games and eating leftovers for four days - the only leftovers I truly like. Not necessarily in that order.
God bless the pilgrims for enduring the North Atlantic seas in the fall, learning to harvest a crop and inspiring a president to make their celebratory meal a national holiday more than two centuries later.
*1. Palm trees aren't indigenous to Virginia's tidewater region - or to Virginia at all, as a matter of fact. 2. It was as close to a ghetto complex as you could get without actually living IN the ghetto, right down to having to call the cops on the neighbors. 3. Malibu is in California, not in Virginia.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Note to Self
Do not wear red the day before rivalry day.
Even if the red long-sleeved shirt is the only weather-appropriate shirt left in the closet.
Even if your high school colors were red (and black) and they are playing the state championship game for the first time in eons in the stadium just up the way.
Even if you think no one will notice.
As it turns out, EVERYONE will notice. Every single meeting today had people in their "spirit" wear. One woman wore red mardi gras beads.
Even if the U is going to win the game, it's not very nice of me to wear red to sway the evenly divided office (two red, two blue) to the "other side" and leave the lone blue employe all by himself in the fun and games.
It happens to be very hard to be taken seriously as a serious fan of "the other team" when you are wearing their rival's colors.
Next year, I must remember I'm in Ute country now ...
**Sidenote: productivity today? OUT THE WINDOW. You would think it was the day before a holiday instead of the day before the season's biggest college football game.
Even if the red long-sleeved shirt is the only weather-appropriate shirt left in the closet.
Even if your high school colors were red (and black) and they are playing the state championship game for the first time in eons in the stadium just up the way.
Even if you think no one will notice.
As it turns out, EVERYONE will notice. Every single meeting today had people in their "spirit" wear. One woman wore red mardi gras beads.
Even if the U is going to win the game, it's not very nice of me to wear red to sway the evenly divided office (two red, two blue) to the "other side" and leave the lone blue employe all by himself in the fun and games.
It happens to be very hard to be taken seriously as a serious fan of "the other team" when you are wearing their rival's colors.
Next year, I must remember I'm in Ute country now ...
**Sidenote: productivity today? OUT THE WINDOW. You would think it was the day before a holiday instead of the day before the season's biggest college football game.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Partying Like It's 1999
Okay, you thought that Pop Culture commentary only appeared on Bonnie's blog, but once in a great awhile, I snap out of my pop-culture-dummy fog and actually know about something before reading it on her blog or hearing it about it in staff meeting from someone whose oldest child is only six years my junior.
On Monday, MTV's one-time hit show, TRL was on the air for a celebrity reunion finale after a 10-year run. It's funny that the article caught my attention. I haven't purposely watched MTV since Real World Seattle aired 10ish years ago. However, I was a TRL junkie by default during the show's early days when Britney was still an "innocent" teen pop star, Justin Timberlake was better known as part of a boy band, Eminem was still married to Kim the first time, Beyonce was a child of destiny and no one dreamed of being an American idol.
My junkie-as-an-innocent-bystander status was short-lived, but nonetheless very impactful. During the late summer of 1999, my 18-year-old freshman roommate from Arizona* would come home from class every day and turn the TV to Carson Daly and thousands of screaming fans in Midtown.
In fact, it was so critical to her educational and moral development that she (or rather daddy dearest) paid the entire cable bill, just so she could have MTV. Come to think of it, I'm not sure how we even got it. I didn't think the school in Happy Valley let their approved housing have MTV, but we did (shhh - don't tell - we probably committed other horrible atrocities as well!).
I remember sitting on the couch working on my physics homework (it had to be physics - I had physics homework every day for the eight straight weeks of summer term) with "Baby One More Time" in the background and her drooling over Eminem. Every. Single. Day. I have her to thank for the fact that I actually know who Carson Daly is, though I would be hard-pressed to pick him out of a lineup. (Only slightly related sidenote: I also read a story of a woman unable to identify anyone's voice - even her own daughter's - except for Sean Connery's. Long live the sexy Scottish burr!)
TRL was a storied part of that almost-final semester of college. It unwittingly played a small role in my education that summer. In fact, other than the tornado that hit The Frontier and the sudden death of JFK Jr., watching my roommate watch TRL would have a fighting chance as my most significant memory of that moment in lfie.**
Farewell, TRL. Thanks for the memories.
*Said roommate drove me up the wall. However, I now realize it could not have been much fun living with a grad student and a college senior who both had "get me out of here now" attitudes that were probably not well disguised.
**I was stuck in a weird East Coast v. Happy Valley time warp for those eight weeks. I don't remember much of anything, which is probably why what I DO remember is so ridiculously insignificant.
On Monday, MTV's one-time hit show, TRL was on the air for a celebrity reunion finale after a 10-year run. It's funny that the article caught my attention. I haven't purposely watched MTV since Real World Seattle aired 10ish years ago. However, I was a TRL junkie by default during the show's early days when Britney was still an "innocent" teen pop star, Justin Timberlake was better known as part of a boy band, Eminem was still married to Kim the first time, Beyonce was a child of destiny and no one dreamed of being an American idol.
My junkie-as-an-innocent-bystander status was short-lived, but nonetheless very impactful. During the late summer of 1999, my 18-year-old freshman roommate from Arizona* would come home from class every day and turn the TV to Carson Daly and thousands of screaming fans in Midtown.
In fact, it was so critical to her educational and moral development that she (or rather daddy dearest) paid the entire cable bill, just so she could have MTV. Come to think of it, I'm not sure how we even got it. I didn't think the school in Happy Valley let their approved housing have MTV, but we did (shhh - don't tell - we probably committed other horrible atrocities as well!).
I remember sitting on the couch working on my physics homework (it had to be physics - I had physics homework every day for the eight straight weeks of summer term) with "Baby One More Time" in the background and her drooling over Eminem. Every. Single. Day. I have her to thank for the fact that I actually know who Carson Daly is, though I would be hard-pressed to pick him out of a lineup. (Only slightly related sidenote: I also read a story of a woman unable to identify anyone's voice - even her own daughter's - except for Sean Connery's. Long live the sexy Scottish burr!)
TRL was a storied part of that almost-final semester of college. It unwittingly played a small role in my education that summer. In fact, other than the tornado that hit The Frontier and the sudden death of JFK Jr., watching my roommate watch TRL would have a fighting chance as my most significant memory of that moment in lfie.**
Farewell, TRL. Thanks for the memories.
*Said roommate drove me up the wall. However, I now realize it could not have been much fun living with a grad student and a college senior who both had "get me out of here now" attitudes that were probably not well disguised.
**I was stuck in a weird East Coast v. Happy Valley time warp for those eight weeks. I don't remember much of anything, which is probably why what I DO remember is so ridiculously insignificant.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Life as Numbers
I want to know when I got so old.
I'm not saying that I AM old, necessarily, just that I FEEL old. Like the world has been placating me for years, making me think nothing has changed, and BAM! suddenly I wake up and realize that the illusory netting has been yanked away only to reveal significant gaps between what was and what is.
Just as in the story of the frogs slowly boiled to death as the heat was turned up a notch at a time, so as not to alarm them (how's that for a gruesome image of the day?), time seems to lull one into a false sense of "everything is staying the same" as the subtleties of change are hidden to stop the inevitable freaking out and moaning about lost youth, opportunities and the hideous outfit that you swore would never go out of style.
Browsing through some old high school photos of friends today, I had one of those moments of sudden realization: things have changed A LOT. I don't remember everyone looking quite that funny. And we definitely didn't look quite that young. We were OLD. 16 at least. Nearly adults. Old enough to know that our parents knew nothing and that we would conquer the world.
Except, it was all an illusion. Now that I am actually growing old (or at the very least speeding into middle age - after all, the life expectancy when I was born was 77.3 - which means sometime the last week of April 2016 I will be exactly "middle aged"), I realize my parents knew almost everything, the world is only conquered in the minds of youth and poofy hair bows were NOT the be all and end all of style.
The kids I babysat as infants and toddlers are in college. Some are married. Some have kids. I reminisced yesterday about the birthday of a friend I met a decade ago - how we, 10 years ago, hit up TGI Fridays for a girls' night out and a round of frozen drinks. The fact that it has been 10 years and a dozen hairstyles ago made me ponder if I was any better off now than I was then. My greatest fear in life is looking back and realizing I was running in place. And then I think about the numbers ... I haven't even stood still long enough for my bookcase to gather dust.
Since the high school photos, I have lived at 16 separate addresses (if you don't count my stint as a semi-permanent basement dweller at Heidi's or the two summers I spent with my parents) in 11 cities and 3 states. I've lived with at least 50 people - not including Woodstock, Grover, Heidi's clan or any relatives. I have lived with people from at least 20 different states (Utah and Wisconsin being the two states from which the most roommates hailed ... ironically, I've never actually been to Wisconsin).
In that time, I have traveled to 20 additional states, held 16 different job titles at 9 companies (including 4 job titles at 3 companies since I moved to The Frontier), supervised just shy of two dozen people, reported to nearly that many different people and broke a personal record interviewing 40 times in a single calendar year on three different job occasions. I have earned a college degree, been promoted and promoted, volunteered, held countless church positions, made friends, dated, become engaged, been married and given birth.
It's a lot to cram in less than 1.5 decades. In fact, it averages out to a new job title and address every 9 months over the last 12 years and a new company every 15 months. It's no wonder people can only track me down via Facebook! The whole thing becomes rather alarming when I realize I've worked for two different companies at more than 3 years each and had a 3-year stint at one address and a 2-year stint at another address. (The statistics looked much better prior to our migration west).
It makes me feel old, as it is likely with all that change that I've become chronically exhausted. Add in Himself's stats and the whole thing threatens to bring my life expectancy down several decades.
Looking at it that way, the change has been rapid and a little jerky - creating a metaphor between my life and the pinball machine that used to inhabit the infamous "214" where Himself once took up residence. And yet, while the environmental changes have been stacatto, the internal ones have been subtle. It seems like mere moments until closer examination reveals enough subtle change to feel like centuries.
Cell phones were only used in dire emergencies, if at all. They were luxuries few people had. I was the first incoming freshman class in The Great Frozen North to have an e-mail account - a laughable, plain text, FTP-access-only, no attachments, graphics, sounds or hyperlinks e-mail account. Debit cards were a new thing, $100,000 could buy a very nice home in a lot of places and the 90s became the decade of the super model, grunge, platform shoe revival, and the anti-80s.
It's no wonder change has to be subtle. Otherwise, the sheer volume of the sights, sounds and experiences would threaten to overwhelm one's fragile persona. Either that, or one would simply feel like 12+ hours of sleep was mandatory.
That's another thing ... I don't remember needing this much sleep before I started growing old.
I'm not saying that I AM old, necessarily, just that I FEEL old. Like the world has been placating me for years, making me think nothing has changed, and BAM! suddenly I wake up and realize that the illusory netting has been yanked away only to reveal significant gaps between what was and what is.
Just as in the story of the frogs slowly boiled to death as the heat was turned up a notch at a time, so as not to alarm them (how's that for a gruesome image of the day?), time seems to lull one into a false sense of "everything is staying the same" as the subtleties of change are hidden to stop the inevitable freaking out and moaning about lost youth, opportunities and the hideous outfit that you swore would never go out of style.
Browsing through some old high school photos of friends today, I had one of those moments of sudden realization: things have changed A LOT. I don't remember everyone looking quite that funny. And we definitely didn't look quite that young. We were OLD. 16 at least. Nearly adults. Old enough to know that our parents knew nothing and that we would conquer the world.
Except, it was all an illusion. Now that I am actually growing old (or at the very least speeding into middle age - after all, the life expectancy when I was born was 77.3 - which means sometime the last week of April 2016 I will be exactly "middle aged"), I realize my parents knew almost everything, the world is only conquered in the minds of youth and poofy hair bows were NOT the be all and end all of style.
The kids I babysat as infants and toddlers are in college. Some are married. Some have kids. I reminisced yesterday about the birthday of a friend I met a decade ago - how we, 10 years ago, hit up TGI Fridays for a girls' night out and a round of frozen drinks. The fact that it has been 10 years and a dozen hairstyles ago made me ponder if I was any better off now than I was then. My greatest fear in life is looking back and realizing I was running in place. And then I think about the numbers ... I haven't even stood still long enough for my bookcase to gather dust.
Since the high school photos, I have lived at 16 separate addresses (if you don't count my stint as a semi-permanent basement dweller at Heidi's or the two summers I spent with my parents) in 11 cities and 3 states. I've lived with at least 50 people - not including Woodstock, Grover, Heidi's clan or any relatives. I have lived with people from at least 20 different states (Utah and Wisconsin being the two states from which the most roommates hailed ... ironically, I've never actually been to Wisconsin).
In that time, I have traveled to 20 additional states, held 16 different job titles at 9 companies (including 4 job titles at 3 companies since I moved to The Frontier), supervised just shy of two dozen people, reported to nearly that many different people and broke a personal record interviewing 40 times in a single calendar year on three different job occasions. I have earned a college degree, been promoted and promoted, volunteered, held countless church positions, made friends, dated, become engaged, been married and given birth.
It's a lot to cram in less than 1.5 decades. In fact, it averages out to a new job title and address every 9 months over the last 12 years and a new company every 15 months. It's no wonder people can only track me down via Facebook! The whole thing becomes rather alarming when I realize I've worked for two different companies at more than 3 years each and had a 3-year stint at one address and a 2-year stint at another address. (The statistics looked much better prior to our migration west).
It makes me feel old, as it is likely with all that change that I've become chronically exhausted. Add in Himself's stats and the whole thing threatens to bring my life expectancy down several decades.
Looking at it that way, the change has been rapid and a little jerky - creating a metaphor between my life and the pinball machine that used to inhabit the infamous "214" where Himself once took up residence. And yet, while the environmental changes have been stacatto, the internal ones have been subtle. It seems like mere moments until closer examination reveals enough subtle change to feel like centuries.
Cell phones were only used in dire emergencies, if at all. They were luxuries few people had. I was the first incoming freshman class in The Great Frozen North to have an e-mail account - a laughable, plain text, FTP-access-only, no attachments, graphics, sounds or hyperlinks e-mail account. Debit cards were a new thing, $100,000 could buy a very nice home in a lot of places and the 90s became the decade of the super model, grunge, platform shoe revival, and the anti-80s.
It's no wonder change has to be subtle. Otherwise, the sheer volume of the sights, sounds and experiences would threaten to overwhelm one's fragile persona. Either that, or one would simply feel like 12+ hours of sleep was mandatory.
That's another thing ... I don't remember needing this much sleep before I started growing old.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Running from Kites
I sat in Wolfgang Puck's express yesterday, in Terminal B in the Cincinnati Airport, absently dining on four cheese ravioli in a spicy tomato sauce, lost among the streets of Kabul and the loss of innocence of a fictional character named Amir, the trade paperback held open by the heavy rim of the white stoneware plate.
My four-hour layover came and went, my nose buried in The Kite Runner just outside gate B15 - tasting the shwarmas and curries, the naan and the kebabs of the novel instead of the cinnamon cookie the airline had handed out earlier. My flight came and went - only a dim cacophony in the background of the story's narrative - a betrayal, a lie, a fugitive escape to Pakistan, a new life in the United States.
I arrived home just as the sun turned to gold and the horizon began to darken, after a four-day sojourn in Florida, exhausted. Physical exhaustion was the result of the frequent emptying of my stomach contents, the stubborn, lingering abdominal discomfort, the long flights, time change, early mornings, late nights and the 11-hour work days between. Mental exhaustion from repeating the same 30-second "cocktail" spiel over and over as each person inquired as to who we were and what we were doing - to the point of monotony. The questions and answers blurred and soon I found myself unable to deviate from the unofficial script I had created in my head. Emotional exhaustion from reading an emotionally painful, historically significant, terrifying book. Or two, actually, the first half of the trip was spent reading about presidential assassinations. Emotionally draining in its own right, for vastly different reasons, adding to the emotional void of longing to hold Woodstock and kiss her good night.
I came home, spent - burdened by the need for healing, food prepared by someone other than a restaurant, restorative rest and solace. Woodstock was just waking up when I arrived home - her wide, toothy grin and outstretched arms greeted me. I held her close, examined her startling, obvious weight loss from the illness we both now shared and breathed in the scent of her fine-as-cornsilk hair and her porcelain skin.
We snuggled, played with her new puzzle and shared lots of "loves" - always ending with her sighing contentedly, patting me on the back and burying her little head in my shoulder - burrowing herself into my arms. We retired to bed, she and Himself sleeping peacefully in the cool darkness. Me, tossing in a fitful frenzy - at first too hot, then too cold, too uncomfortable, too many sounds ... and then, the dreams of bearded men (a little-disclosed, terrifying phobia that has stalked me from before the days of my first coherent memories), the sound of gunfire and children's cries, the pain of betrayal, the fear of solitude, the whirling colors of bazaars and ancient cities, the scent of coriander and cardamom and tumeric filling my nose, the narrator's voice in my head, continuing the novel I had used to pass the time in a bizarre choose-your-own-answer fashion, enveloping me in the plot.
Dawn came too soon, my body not yet used to the time change, my mind full of terrors and tiny pieces of reality strung in with liberal doses of foreign fiction like garish blinking Christmas lights on a child's tree. My half-dazed self unable to sort out the two time zones, three states, four cities of reality and the far away place of the novel; the small doses of bland food from the vibrant, richly fragrant food of fiction; the smell and feel of Woodstock's cornsilk hair with the rough, raven beards of my nightmares.
I pondered the viability of calling in sick. It could be physical illness - certainly worshiping the stainless bowl in the lavatory onboard the 767 four days prior should have been enough reason. Or mental illness - my inability, in my complete exhaustion, to sort fact from fiction, the clear mental strain of not being able to string two logical thoughts together. Possibly the longing to bury Woodstock in my arms, feeling the grateful warmth of her spreading all the way to my toes which hadn't felt warm all day.
Instead, I shuffled through the motions - barely registering menial tasks. Had I brushed my teeth? What do I normally feed Woodstock at breakfast? Where was the list of items for the sitter? I arrived at work, tired, sullen, late. Twin task lists, one for work, one for home, stared up at me - daring me to be productive enough to finish them.
Yawning, I struggle to focus. Not on Woodstock. Not on the story still lingering in my head - filling the crevices of any functioning portion of gray matter. Not on the grocery shopping that needs doing or my stomach - still sore and broiling with anger over breakfast. Focus. I work to focus on documents, lists, tasks, crossing one off in a brave attempt to slip back into mundane reality.
All in a silent, just-warm-enough office that begs me just to close my eyes for a few minutes' slumber. Just for a moment I want to stop running from kites, being sick, having a to do list and slip into a blissful state of just being.
My four-hour layover came and went, my nose buried in The Kite Runner just outside gate B15 - tasting the shwarmas and curries, the naan and the kebabs of the novel instead of the cinnamon cookie the airline had handed out earlier. My flight came and went - only a dim cacophony in the background of the story's narrative - a betrayal, a lie, a fugitive escape to Pakistan, a new life in the United States.
I arrived home just as the sun turned to gold and the horizon began to darken, after a four-day sojourn in Florida, exhausted. Physical exhaustion was the result of the frequent emptying of my stomach contents, the stubborn, lingering abdominal discomfort, the long flights, time change, early mornings, late nights and the 11-hour work days between. Mental exhaustion from repeating the same 30-second "cocktail" spiel over and over as each person inquired as to who we were and what we were doing - to the point of monotony. The questions and answers blurred and soon I found myself unable to deviate from the unofficial script I had created in my head. Emotional exhaustion from reading an emotionally painful, historically significant, terrifying book. Or two, actually, the first half of the trip was spent reading about presidential assassinations. Emotionally draining in its own right, for vastly different reasons, adding to the emotional void of longing to hold Woodstock and kiss her good night.
I came home, spent - burdened by the need for healing, food prepared by someone other than a restaurant, restorative rest and solace. Woodstock was just waking up when I arrived home - her wide, toothy grin and outstretched arms greeted me. I held her close, examined her startling, obvious weight loss from the illness we both now shared and breathed in the scent of her fine-as-cornsilk hair and her porcelain skin.
We snuggled, played with her new puzzle and shared lots of "loves" - always ending with her sighing contentedly, patting me on the back and burying her little head in my shoulder - burrowing herself into my arms. We retired to bed, she and Himself sleeping peacefully in the cool darkness. Me, tossing in a fitful frenzy - at first too hot, then too cold, too uncomfortable, too many sounds ... and then, the dreams of bearded men (a little-disclosed, terrifying phobia that has stalked me from before the days of my first coherent memories), the sound of gunfire and children's cries, the pain of betrayal, the fear of solitude, the whirling colors of bazaars and ancient cities, the scent of coriander and cardamom and tumeric filling my nose, the narrator's voice in my head, continuing the novel I had used to pass the time in a bizarre choose-your-own-answer fashion, enveloping me in the plot.
Dawn came too soon, my body not yet used to the time change, my mind full of terrors and tiny pieces of reality strung in with liberal doses of foreign fiction like garish blinking Christmas lights on a child's tree. My half-dazed self unable to sort out the two time zones, three states, four cities of reality and the far away place of the novel; the small doses of bland food from the vibrant, richly fragrant food of fiction; the smell and feel of Woodstock's cornsilk hair with the rough, raven beards of my nightmares.
I pondered the viability of calling in sick. It could be physical illness - certainly worshiping the stainless bowl in the lavatory onboard the 767 four days prior should have been enough reason. Or mental illness - my inability, in my complete exhaustion, to sort fact from fiction, the clear mental strain of not being able to string two logical thoughts together. Possibly the longing to bury Woodstock in my arms, feeling the grateful warmth of her spreading all the way to my toes which hadn't felt warm all day.
Instead, I shuffled through the motions - barely registering menial tasks. Had I brushed my teeth? What do I normally feed Woodstock at breakfast? Where was the list of items for the sitter? I arrived at work, tired, sullen, late. Twin task lists, one for work, one for home, stared up at me - daring me to be productive enough to finish them.
Yawning, I struggle to focus. Not on Woodstock. Not on the story still lingering in my head - filling the crevices of any functioning portion of gray matter. Not on the grocery shopping that needs doing or my stomach - still sore and broiling with anger over breakfast. Focus. I work to focus on documents, lists, tasks, crossing one off in a brave attempt to slip back into mundane reality.
All in a silent, just-warm-enough office that begs me just to close my eyes for a few minutes' slumber. Just for a moment I want to stop running from kites, being sick, having a to do list and slip into a blissful state of just being.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The Sick Child Academy
Woodstock and I have been able to spend lots of time together lately, due to her ongoing need to empty her stomach at frequent intervals and eat at even fewer intervals.
Consequently, she has picked up some new bits of knowledge along the way. In the School of The Sick Child, we have learned:
At least we're learning as we're scrubbing, sanitizing, starving and cuddling.
Consequently, she has picked up some new bits of knowledge along the way. In the School of The Sick Child, we have learned:
- The words and actions to "Itsy Bitsy Spider". Of course, Woodstock's version is still a bit rusty and goes a bit like this: "bippy bippy bippy Da (down) uppie!" She can do all the actions (I've seen it), though she prefers to just do the spider motion. She'll come up and start doing the spider motion and saying "bitty bippy". Yesterday we sang the song 15 times. Today, we're already up to 4.
- New words: Uck (yuck), Ju (Juice) and All Ga (all gone)
- Exercising old words and signs incessantly: Num num num (hungry), foo (food), ma (more - along with a vigarous Woodstockized sign for "more"), chee (cheese) and the sign for milk. Repeated 7,429 times. Unfortunately, while Woodstock is slowly starving to death, she doesn't actually want to eat anything. She just wanders around forlornly looking half-starved and begging for food, only to refuse to eat it.
- New animal sounds: Yesterday, while "reading" her animal book, she began saying "hee hee hee" and pointing to the orangutan. I've been trying to teach her a sound for "monkey" - and well, to a 14-month-old, an orangutan is close enough.
- Target practice. Last night, Woodstock snuggled up to me, buried her face in my chest and puked. She aimed it just right to get a little on the outside of my clothing and the rest of it INSIDE my clothing and down my chest - managing to leave a trail to my waistline. Himself thought this was wonderful, since she's been practicing her targets on him.
At least we're learning as we're scrubbing, sanitizing, starving and cuddling.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
A Solemn Obligation
"They fought together as brothers-in-arms. They died together and now they sleep side by side. To them we have a solemn obligation." -Admiral Chester Nimitz
It is perfectly silent right now.
I am working form home. Woodstock is fast asleep. There is no traffic on the road in front of the house (sound proof, our windows are not). The wind isn't blowing. It's not raining. The sun is out. My living room carpet is cleaner than it was this morning (carpet spot cleaning - one of those joys you never realized adults got to experience over and over and over). The house is bright and full of sun.
And, there is a flag in my front yard.
Seven years ago yesterday, I stood on Pier 5 at the Norfolk Naval Base with Grover, then only 5, and waited. "God Bless the U.S.A." and "I'm Already There" - two anthems that had defined the deployment of the USS Enterprise, blared over the loudspeakers. Thousands of people huddled together in the unusually cold November air as the breeze blew off the Chesapeake Bay, up the mouth of the James River and across the pier. We barely noticed.
We put our hands up to shade our eyes from the early morning sun - searching to watch the Enterprise make its first debut on the horizon. We first caught sight of the Navy's largest, and fastest, carrier - returning from a scheduled deployment that had ended in unscheduled combat following the terror of 9/11 - a little after 7 a.m. It would take nearly four hours to reach the pier - it's rails manned by sailors dressed in their dress blues.
I cannot begin to describe the adrenaline, the tears, the joy, the pride, the anticipation that filled that pier that day. I absolutely will never be able to put into words the chills that ran down my spine and the tears that coursed down my face as the first sailors set foot on Pier 5. Following ship tradition, they were the "new daddies" - those whose wives had born children while they were out to sea. Gathered in a tent, the sailors met their newborn children for the very first time.
It was a day that I will remember forever. Next to Woodstock's birth, it was one of the most amazing days of my life - not everyone gets to stand on a pier and welcome a shipful of sailors home from combat.
Nearly three years later, my parents and sister stood in the quiet stillness of the California desert. They held signs, wore matching t-shirts and cheered as a bus rumbled down a long dusty road. My brother, a combat Marine veteran, was returning home from Iraq. He had witnessed all the horrors of war and was changed, physically and mentally and spirtually. Relief flooded the family members meeting their Marines in the lonely midnight desert. With that relief came a long moment of silence - a pause to remember the arms that would go empty that night for those Marines who gave the ultimate sacrifice. Twice my parents stood in the California desert to welcome my brother home. Twice he left to battle in the desert - the cradle of civilization - to answer his country's call. Twice he risked everything, beat the odds, returned to fill the arms of those left behind.
Two different experiences. Two different homecomings. Dozens of friends. Hundreds of acquaintances. A nearly four-year sojourn in a beachside community of military bases, squadrons, fleets, companies - family.
A day that means much to me as family, friends and dear strangers are honored for their service, sacrifice and devotion.
Happy Veteran's Day.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Ode to General Electric
It's funny that Friday's post was this, because this weekend I would have had the kind of gratitude journal entry that would seem odd to anyone else.
I am grateful that I own a washer and dryer.
Not only that, but I am particularly grateful that it is a front-loading, king-sized capacity washer and dryer with a sanitize cycle.
Woodstock hasn't kept anything but water down all weekend. As a result, I have done four batches of heavily soiled laundry. This was, of course, on top of the six batches of laundry that already needed doing (it was the weekend to wash sheets and towels, and the weekend I re-washed all warm-weather clothes before putting them in storage).
I didn't even complain that the sanitize cycle takes nearly two hours and all the hot water in the house, because I was so grateful that it was a good enough washer to get all the "soiled bits" off the clothing/bedding/odds and ends in one cycle.
I was grateful for the king-sized capacity because it meant that I could wash the sheets and blankets (and clothing) each time Woodstock soiled them, all in one batch (The couch is "draped" with linens because while the washer does have a large capacity, it is not large enough to wash the couch).
I was grateful for the front-loading style, because it meant I could wash her high chair cover, the straps and the stuffed animals that also fell victim to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even those that say "hand wash only." As if I would have the stomach capacity to handwash something with little bits stuck to it.
All that makes me grateful for the job I had in Virginia that allowed me to purchase said GE washer (and dryer - I love my dryer too) at contractor's pricing, which meant I could justify said king-sized, front-loading and sanitize features.
Unfortunately, while the washing machine worked near miracles, it could not ensure more than a couple of hours of sleep for Himself or I or a baby that got better.
We may end up having to test the washer's ability to wash car seat covers today, as Woodstock has to go see the doctor when they open.
(Side note: Himself's "gratitude list" would include the fact that we have a clean shower - since Woodstock seemed to have a knack for getting sick on him. She knows her mother has a terribly weak stomach and gave her some pity, I suppose).
I am grateful that I own a washer and dryer.
Not only that, but I am particularly grateful that it is a front-loading, king-sized capacity washer and dryer with a sanitize cycle.
Woodstock hasn't kept anything but water down all weekend. As a result, I have done four batches of heavily soiled laundry. This was, of course, on top of the six batches of laundry that already needed doing (it was the weekend to wash sheets and towels, and the weekend I re-washed all warm-weather clothes before putting them in storage).
I didn't even complain that the sanitize cycle takes nearly two hours and all the hot water in the house, because I was so grateful that it was a good enough washer to get all the "soiled bits" off the clothing/bedding/odds and ends in one cycle.
I was grateful for the king-sized capacity because it meant that I could wash the sheets and blankets (and clothing) each time Woodstock soiled them, all in one batch (The couch is "draped" with linens because while the washer does have a large capacity, it is not large enough to wash the couch).
I was grateful for the front-loading style, because it meant I could wash her high chair cover, the straps and the stuffed animals that also fell victim to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even those that say "hand wash only." As if I would have the stomach capacity to handwash something with little bits stuck to it.
All that makes me grateful for the job I had in Virginia that allowed me to purchase said GE washer (and dryer - I love my dryer too) at contractor's pricing, which meant I could justify said king-sized, front-loading and sanitize features.
Unfortunately, while the washing machine worked near miracles, it could not ensure more than a couple of hours of sleep for Himself or I or a baby that got better.
We may end up having to test the washer's ability to wash car seat covers today, as Woodstock has to go see the doctor when they open.
(Side note: Himself's "gratitude list" would include the fact that we have a clean shower - since Woodstock seemed to have a knack for getting sick on him. She knows her mother has a terribly weak stomach and gave her some pity, I suppose).
Friday, November 07, 2008
Giving Thanks
The first semester I spent at a new college was tough. It was a new town, I was a senior. I knew no one. I had just left two of my best adult experiences behind and felt lost.
One of the bright spots was my religion class - taught by a professor I had had at my original university. A man whom I deeply respected and remains to this day one of the most phenomenal professors I had.
Toward the beginning of the class, we studied a passage of scripture about gratitude. Dr. Whitmore encouraged us to keep "gratitude journals" through the semester - where every day we would write down three things for which we were grateful. There were no rules about how simple or complex they could be. Just that there HAD to be three and there could be no "even thoughs" or "buts" attached. They had to be genuine.
I took the challenge with resolution. Looking bad, I realize just how lost and misfit I felt. There are some days where my gratitude list was a challenge and merely stated, "I am thankful for the sun outside." It actually helped, because it forced positive thinking - and, on the worst days, forced me to look for things about which I was thankful so I could have an honest list.
November always makes me think "Thanksgiving," which makes me think of food and being grateful (not necessarily in that order). I got up this morning and started thinking about the little things that I would list in my gratitude journal today, if I had one.
1. It was above freezing this morning and it is "partly sunny." If the word "sunny" appears in a forecast AT ALL between November and April in The Frontier, I greet it with glee.
2. Woodstock. I could write a book. I'll refrain. Even on the worst days there are 14 different things I could list about Woodstock that would make me smile.
3. I am employed. Not only that, but because I worked very hard during the beginning of my career I am in a position where I have a job that is largely self-managed, one that allows me to work from home as often as necessary, is flexible and pays well.
4. I don't live in an apartment and I don't own a house. For some inexplicable reason, both of those make me deliriously happy. Not that I never want to own a house - quite the contrary - but right now, it's one less thing to worry about.
5. I am putting Dave Ramsey's plan in action. We have more savings, less debt and more spending money - which seems like it should be an oxymoron, but it isn't. Next year we will have a lot less debt and that will be even better. There is a plan. In the nation's worst economy in 50+ years, I actually feel peace.
6. I made a real-life friend who went through the same darkness I did last witner - in nearly the same way. Her baby is three months older and she is a stay-at-home-mom, but our stories are eerily similar. For the first time, I've been able to actually talk, out loud, about the whole thing from a big picture standpoint and not feel like I'm some hideously disfigured creature inside.
I haven't done much about a Gratitude Journal since that semester in college, but this month, I wonder if it is a tool that will help me focus on the immediate, here-and-now blessings that grace everyday life.
This Thanksgiving, I'm giving thanks for second chances, for little girls and for new beginnings. And, for (hopefully) good food.
One of the bright spots was my religion class - taught by a professor I had had at my original university. A man whom I deeply respected and remains to this day one of the most phenomenal professors I had.
Toward the beginning of the class, we studied a passage of scripture about gratitude. Dr. Whitmore encouraged us to keep "gratitude journals" through the semester - where every day we would write down three things for which we were grateful. There were no rules about how simple or complex they could be. Just that there HAD to be three and there could be no "even thoughs" or "buts" attached. They had to be genuine.
I took the challenge with resolution. Looking bad, I realize just how lost and misfit I felt. There are some days where my gratitude list was a challenge and merely stated, "I am thankful for the sun outside." It actually helped, because it forced positive thinking - and, on the worst days, forced me to look for things about which I was thankful so I could have an honest list.
November always makes me think "Thanksgiving," which makes me think of food and being grateful (not necessarily in that order). I got up this morning and started thinking about the little things that I would list in my gratitude journal today, if I had one.
1. It was above freezing this morning and it is "partly sunny." If the word "sunny" appears in a forecast AT ALL between November and April in The Frontier, I greet it with glee.
2. Woodstock. I could write a book. I'll refrain. Even on the worst days there are 14 different things I could list about Woodstock that would make me smile.
3. I am employed. Not only that, but because I worked very hard during the beginning of my career I am in a position where I have a job that is largely self-managed, one that allows me to work from home as often as necessary, is flexible and pays well.
4. I don't live in an apartment and I don't own a house. For some inexplicable reason, both of those make me deliriously happy. Not that I never want to own a house - quite the contrary - but right now, it's one less thing to worry about.
5. I am putting Dave Ramsey's plan in action. We have more savings, less debt and more spending money - which seems like it should be an oxymoron, but it isn't. Next year we will have a lot less debt and that will be even better. There is a plan. In the nation's worst economy in 50+ years, I actually feel peace.
6. I made a real-life friend who went through the same darkness I did last witner - in nearly the same way. Her baby is three months older and she is a stay-at-home-mom, but our stories are eerily similar. For the first time, I've been able to actually talk, out loud, about the whole thing from a big picture standpoint and not feel like I'm some hideously disfigured creature inside.
I haven't done much about a Gratitude Journal since that semester in college, but this month, I wonder if it is a tool that will help me focus on the immediate, here-and-now blessings that grace everyday life.
This Thanksgiving, I'm giving thanks for second chances, for little girls and for new beginnings. And, for (hopefully) good food.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Cookies
Woodstock woke up this morning, yelled "Uppie" from her crib and, upon being asked if she would like some milk (my standard morning question), she replied:
"COOKIES?!" This was followed by her version of the ASL sign for "More" and significant bouncing anticipation.(Translation: "I want." Lately she wanders around the house signing "more" - her way of asking for something, anything, in sight).
That is not part of the usual morning script.
Just in case you're thinking of asking - the only "cookies" she's ever had in any sort of quantity are graham crackers that she gets at Miss Jan's. She does get Kashi 7-grain crackers as a snack fairly often and she frequently mixes up the words "crackers" and "cookies" when the items in question aren't present.
But still ... cookies? For breakfast?
As she was having her morning milk, she would stop sucking, look up at me with huge blue eyes full of hope, sign "more" and ask, "Cookies?"
She did not have cookies (or crackers) for breakfast, though she asked again when she saw the cracker box on the counter and again when she got into the car. Rather, she had a sensible bowl of cinnamon oatmeal with apple slices.
It was, however, the first thing she asked Miss Jan for today. The minute Miss Jan opened the door, Woodstock opened her arms, leaned over to Miss Jan, signed "more" and said, "Cookies?"
Poor kid. Such a rough life. Already she has the meanest mom on the block.
"COOKIES?!" This was followed by her version of the ASL sign for "More" and significant bouncing anticipation.(Translation: "I want." Lately she wanders around the house signing "more" - her way of asking for something, anything, in sight).
That is not part of the usual morning script.
Just in case you're thinking of asking - the only "cookies" she's ever had in any sort of quantity are graham crackers that she gets at Miss Jan's. She does get Kashi 7-grain crackers as a snack fairly often and she frequently mixes up the words "crackers" and "cookies" when the items in question aren't present.
But still ... cookies? For breakfast?
As she was having her morning milk, she would stop sucking, look up at me with huge blue eyes full of hope, sign "more" and ask, "Cookies?"
She did not have cookies (or crackers) for breakfast, though she asked again when she saw the cracker box on the counter and again when she got into the car. Rather, she had a sensible bowl of cinnamon oatmeal with apple slices.
It was, however, the first thing she asked Miss Jan for today. The minute Miss Jan opened the door, Woodstock opened her arms, leaned over to Miss Jan, signed "more" and said, "Cookies?"
Poor kid. Such a rough life. Already she has the meanest mom on the block.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Somewhere in the Middle
Somehow, I managed to forget that the election wouldn't be over on November 4 after all. In fact, all the post-election jabber - after 22 months of pre-election jabber -is just driving me further to the brink of insanity.
What is paining me more, however, is the devisive finger pointing that is still continuing. I woke up this morning and felt rather positive about things because I felt that, whatever anyone's political persuasion, the new president-elect just might be charismatic enough to at least get people to take action and try and sort out the historical mess he is inheriting. At the very least, what's done is done, we will roll up our sleeves and join together to make headway among failing finances, global instability and corruptive power.
But reality isn't in 30-second sound bites on the morning news. Reality is people misunderstanding. People calling names. People failing to respectfully agree to disagree. People breaking the basic rules of civility - sometimes politics and religion cannot be discussed - and that isn't a bad thing. Sometimes it is okay to not understand, not persuade, not see eye-to-eye. Sometimes it is okay to step back and say, "we see differently, but that doesn't make either of us a bad person - let's do lunch and change the subject."
Sometimes - one just has to sit silent, pray for understanding and strength and not answer. And sometimes one has to turn, brush away the tears and walk away.
My heart hurts this morning as I know several people, friends, on different sides hurling generalizations, accusations and hurtful things. Both sides making bold, sweeping generalized proclamations. Each is wounded. Each is pacing in the corner, like an injured bear - lashing out at any perceived attack. Some are likely guilty of taking a soundbite and passing it on - without really forming his/her own opinion.
I'm not proposing sitting down and singing Kumbaya with our fingers stuck in our ears and ignoring the issues, but I am pleading for civility. There has to be a better way.
I want to cry. Instead, I am sharing my own statement:
Maybe this post, by a blogger I do not know, and have never met, says it even better.
You don't have to agree with me to be my friend. You just have to play nice.
What is paining me more, however, is the devisive finger pointing that is still continuing. I woke up this morning and felt rather positive about things because I felt that, whatever anyone's political persuasion, the new president-elect just might be charismatic enough to at least get people to take action and try and sort out the historical mess he is inheriting. At the very least, what's done is done, we will roll up our sleeves and join together to make headway among failing finances, global instability and corruptive power.
But reality isn't in 30-second sound bites on the morning news. Reality is people misunderstanding. People calling names. People failing to respectfully agree to disagree. People breaking the basic rules of civility - sometimes politics and religion cannot be discussed - and that isn't a bad thing. Sometimes it is okay to not understand, not persuade, not see eye-to-eye. Sometimes it is okay to step back and say, "we see differently, but that doesn't make either of us a bad person - let's do lunch and change the subject."
Sometimes - one just has to sit silent, pray for understanding and strength and not answer. And sometimes one has to turn, brush away the tears and walk away.
My heart hurts this morning as I know several people, friends, on different sides hurling generalizations, accusations and hurtful things. Both sides making bold, sweeping generalized proclamations. Each is wounded. Each is pacing in the corner, like an injured bear - lashing out at any perceived attack. Some are likely guilty of taking a soundbite and passing it on - without really forming his/her own opinion.
I'm not proposing sitting down and singing Kumbaya with our fingers stuck in our ears and ignoring the issues, but I am pleading for civility. There has to be a better way.
I want to cry. Instead, I am sharing my own statement:
"If I disagree with you, it doesn't mean I don't like you, don't respect you, don't understand why you might believe differently. It doesn't mean I think you are bad or that I am 100%right and you are wrong. It just means that my own life's path has led me to believe something different. While everything in life gives me perspective, depth and consideration, no one forms my opinions for me. They are mine, and mine alone."
Maybe this post, by a blogger I do not know, and have never met, says it even better.
You don't have to agree with me to be my friend. You just have to play nice.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
A Job I Do Not Want
I'm as apt to criticize the President of the United States as anyone. Though I'd rather moan about the status the House of Reps or the Senate.
However, I realized today, after reading the headline story in The Wall Street Journal ("New Economic Ills Will Force Winner's Hand" - seen here), I realized I should probably keep my mouth shut.
In high school and college, economics bored me to tears. Now, nearly a decade after entering corporate America, I find it fascinating. I love figuring out how futures, markets, hedge funds, short sells, naked short sells, etc. work. I like macro economic theory. I particularly find the nuances of real estate finance on both the corporate/bank and consumer side fascinating. Not surprising to anyone who has known me for more than 30 seconds, I have opinions on everything.
It doesn't mean I would want to (or necessarily know how to) deal with the huge drop in auto sales and factory output, the credit freeze, the bailout or ridiculous executives at the helm of the likes of AIG (since forcing them to relocate to Siberia in the dead of night is more than slightly illegal and reeks of Stalinism). On top of that there is the big "What to Do" about Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Kenya, North Korea, Russia, Georgia (the country, not the state), Venezuela, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan and several handfuls of other countries bordering on the brink of insanity, instability, and odd behaviors. Not to mention the collapse of economies from Western Europe to the Far East. What to do? Who knows, exactly?
It is a job I do not want. I voted today and did a little happy dance that A) I got to vote for someone ELSE to worry about it and B) there are NO MORE ELECTION COMMERCIALS. After 22 months of campaign nonsense, I'm not sure which felt better.
All in all, voting today gave me warm fuzzies. A short line, a nice chat with the neighbors and a lovely walk to my polling place just as the sun was rising (and the rain was falling).
Tomorrow, one of the candidates will wake up, turn to his spouse and say, "Honey, what on earth were we thinking!?"
Because sometimes reality isn't nearly as cool as the anticipation.
However, I realized today, after reading the headline story in The Wall Street Journal ("New Economic Ills Will Force Winner's Hand" - seen here), I realized I should probably keep my mouth shut.
In high school and college, economics bored me to tears. Now, nearly a decade after entering corporate America, I find it fascinating. I love figuring out how futures, markets, hedge funds, short sells, naked short sells, etc. work. I like macro economic theory. I particularly find the nuances of real estate finance on both the corporate/bank and consumer side fascinating. Not surprising to anyone who has known me for more than 30 seconds, I have opinions on everything.
It doesn't mean I would want to (or necessarily know how to) deal with the huge drop in auto sales and factory output, the credit freeze, the bailout or ridiculous executives at the helm of the likes of AIG (since forcing them to relocate to Siberia in the dead of night is more than slightly illegal and reeks of Stalinism). On top of that there is the big "What to Do" about Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Kenya, North Korea, Russia, Georgia (the country, not the state), Venezuela, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan and several handfuls of other countries bordering on the brink of insanity, instability, and odd behaviors. Not to mention the collapse of economies from Western Europe to the Far East. What to do? Who knows, exactly?
It is a job I do not want. I voted today and did a little happy dance that A) I got to vote for someone ELSE to worry about it and B) there are NO MORE ELECTION COMMERCIALS. After 22 months of campaign nonsense, I'm not sure which felt better.
All in all, voting today gave me warm fuzzies. A short line, a nice chat with the neighbors and a lovely walk to my polling place just as the sun was rising (and the rain was falling).
Tomorrow, one of the candidates will wake up, turn to his spouse and say, "Honey, what on earth were we thinking!?"
Because sometimes reality isn't nearly as cool as the anticipation.
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