constant evolution

What about this?

2010-04-08T12:37:00.002-04:00

I'm thinking of starting a new blog, one that centers around my family with pictures and videos. Something that my 3,000 mile away family can read in order to feel a part of our daily lives. Clearly this blog has reached the end of it's life, maybe I can keep up with a new one?

Merry Christmas to all...

2008-12-25T12:11:00.002-05:00

Our cat is a Christmas cat. He loves to play with the wrapping paper, to lay on tissue paper, and to try to catch air that appears to be moving under presents.

Between him, my husband, the kids, and the rest of my family, I can't imagine a better Holiday.

I hope everyone out there has a Holiday as wonderful as mine!

And to all a good night...

My husband is attempting to make a cheesecake...

2008-11-23T16:37:00.003-05:00

...and so far he has broken my mixer, stunk up the kitchen, and is now trying to mix the cream cheese with his power driver using a beater instead of a drill bit.

But I'm sure it will taste wonderful.

I love that he's trying something new, I just thought you folks might get a little chuckle out of it. I sure have.

My Step-Son is Smarter Than Your Husband

2008-09-11T22:46:00.004-04:00

Let's talk about the size of the hole in your toilet, shall we? It's a big hole. It doesn't move. And, if you're a man, you know that there are a couple stray drops after the flow ceases.

Still with me? Okay...I clean houses for rich people. Not "Paris Hilton" rich but, "never want for anything and take vacations to Hawaii and Europe and Fiji and own a second house in Cape Cod" rich. The men of these houses are educated individuals who are CEOs and lawyers and financial advisors. They travel in cultured circles to swanky parties and drive Porches and Mercedes and BMWs. They have wine cellars and attend black tie affairs. They have houses with more bathrooms than most people have bedrooms.

But I tell you what they have not figured out that my 9 year old step-son understands: The pee goes IN the hole. Every last drop. Not on the rim, not down the sides, not down the front to form a miniature puddle at that will dry up into a crusty yellow spot. IN THE HOLE.

Near as I can tell, my step-son is a genious.

So, as the title states, my step-son is smarter than your husband.

Wisdom from Pink

2008-09-11T22:28:00.002-04:00

I'm not up on contemporary music. I've reached that point in life where the majority of top twenties music is just obnoxious noise. I'm don't dislike all new stuff, I'm just very selective regarding what I'll listen to. So when one of the kids in my group was doing a full body spasm and told me he was mocking the video "Disturbia" I came home and watched it on youtube. Then the surfing began.

I have an unusual sense of humor. I found this video hilarious and surprisingly meaningful (you know, for a song by a girl who has named herself after the color of her hair). I just thought I'd share it. Now, I have no idea how old it is, and maybe you've seen it a thousand times, but as I mentioned in my previous post, I don't have a TV so it's all new to me. Enjoy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0oGBvN3rAi0&feature=user

Truthfully...I'm not all that interesting...

2008-09-06T07:54:00.002-04:00

but...SBS has requested that I enlighten you all with 7 interesting things about myself, so, I'm going to try to come up with something. I apologize in advance if you are bored out of your skull while reading the following:

1. We don't have a TV. We sold it for 20 bucks in a garage sale this summer with our DVD/VCR player. We are both prone to television addiction and have therefore removed the temptation. And I can count on one hand the number of Seinfeld episodes I've seen. I think Jerry Seinfeld is an ass.

2. When I went to college right out of high school I intended to major in environmental science. But I had to change my major when I failed chemistry and simultaneously had calculus kick my butt.

3. I think there is a special place in hell reserved for bad tippers. They have to spend eternity serving ungrateful people who treat them like crap.

4. I was such a finicky eater when I was a kid that my diet consisted primarily of mayonnaise sandwiches, hot dogs (with the ends cut off because they looked like belly buttons), and cinnamon toast. I wouldn't touch a vegetable. Now I am a vegetarian. My mom loves to tell people all about her vegetarian daughter who wouldn't touch veggies as a kid.

5. When I was in high school I was part of the nerdy/loser kid clique. We were misfits for a variety of reasons but had fun together. Once one of my friends had a toga party...we all went to his house dressed in sheets and played stupid party games while eating the food his mom made for us. It was a riot.

6. I do this kinda nutty thing whenever I see roadkill on the side of the road. It always makes me sad so I envision it's soul and amassed knowledge being absorbed back into the earth and it's kin so that they know not to run in front of cars. Maybe one of these tidbits about me should be that I'm slightly insane?

7. My mother is legally blind. So I spent my the first part of my life bumming rides because she couldn't drive me anywhere. These days I feel guilty whenever I pass a hitchhiker. But I won't pick them up for fear they may be an axe murderer.

I Love Wine

2008-08-28T22:24:00.005-04:00

No. Really. I do. And coffee. I like coffee too.

I've never been much of a substance abuser. I smoked pot once in my life and it was an awful experience that need not be repeated. Shortly after my first puff I feared that the local police knew exactly what I was up too and was scared to death that my boyfriend was going to die and I was going to spend the rest of my life in jail. All this took place while my sister and best friend sat on my couch giggling uncontrollably about god knows what which just infuriated me because they simply didn't understand that the world was ENDING.

As I said, this is an experience best not repeated.

But wine...wine is LEGAL. Now, before you go jumping to conclusions, and on the off chance that the mother of my step-children or her friends read this blog for some kind of validation that I am an awful influence...I must clarify that I don't drink often, and very rarely do I drink to the point of intoxication.

Now that we've got that out of the way, here's the truth: I'm kind of an uptight person. I take life a little too seriously and I suffer from more than my fair share of anxiety over relatively harmless nonsensical situations and such. Intellectually I understand that doing so makes me prone to heart attacks and the like, but tell that to the emotional portion of my brain that views its rational and intellectual counterpart as a naive moron that sounds something like the teacher in Peanuts. ("mwah mwah mwah."..if you catch my drift).
Now, I could take this opportunity to explain to you the psychological reasons that I have this 'anxiety problem' but that would bore the hell out of you and is not the point of this post.

No, the point of this post is that WINE fixes my uptightness and anxietyness. While I am not an alcoholic and am related to enough of them to steer clear of that path...I understand how people end up in that cycle. Wine makes me feel warm and happy. It makes the petty things in life exactly that...petty, and not worthy of a moment's worry. It makes me smile more and loosen up enough to just laugh.

This house purchasing process is slightly stress inducing. Today I called my sister and asked her how she stayed sane throughout the process of searching for her house and her response was that she drank more wine in that period of her life than she ever had before or after.

Now, for those of you who've never met my sister, let me explain: THAT'S SAYING SOMETHING. Because my sister, (remember, the girl giggling on the couch while the world was ENDING?!) drinks a LOT of wine. All the time. No, seriously. ALL THE TIME.

That having been said, I am not an alcoholic just because I drank a couple glasses of wine tonight. And, by the way, for those of you interested, I painted that beautiful watercolor you see above. And I may have been drunk at the time ;-)

2008-08-13T07:20:00.006-04:00

There is a fog this morning which has muted all of the colors outdoors and seems to be muffling the sounds of normal early day comings and goings. My husband left early this morning for an appointment and the kids are still peacefully slumbering in their beds. The apartment is particularly quiet but for the purring of the cat who is overjoyed to have an early morning companion supplying body warmth and company.

I'm feeling a calm I haven't felt in quite a while. The pace of our lives of late has been overwhelming. I am working so much that my exhaustion and moodiness stemming from too little sleep makes me less than pleasant to be around. The stress of the fact that the children's mother is keeping the kids from us too frequently has taken a toll over the last several months. And the search for a house, recent bidding on one, and last night's phone call that our offer was accepted leaves me with mixed emotions of jubilation and terror.

This week we are vacationing, which may be defined as not working. We're relaxing, taking some family time, and not jamming our schedules with appointments and plans. So, with the kids sleeping, the cat purring, and the house quiet, my brain has been able to take a much needed and infrequently realized hiatus from constant worrying and pondering and thinking. The fog has served to blanket the frenzy of my thoughts and has forced me to just sit and be. To just enjoy the moment, to breathe, and to realize that this too shall pass. Sometimes life forces you to pause, to take a breather, to take in the majestic world around you, to see through all the crap to the beauty of any given day. And for that, and this fog, I am grateful.

Mixed Message

2008-08-10T20:38:00.007-04:00

Funny, huh?

I wish I had a witty post for my two loyal readers, but I got nothin'. We're attempting to buy a house which, by the way, is every bit as stressful, and daunting, and time consuming and expensive as everybody says. I'm sitting here with a glass of wine and some chocolate chips waiting for a phone call from someone...I've lost track. Maybe the realtor? Maybe the mortgage broker? Maybe nobody because they've already called and my brain is so full to the brim with numbers and acronyms that my most recent interaction has simply fallen out of the back of my brain.

Either way, my ability to entertain is at a minimum. Remember when I used to write amusing and/or interesting posts? Yeah, me too. I'll get back there some day. Really. I will.

Cheesy Cheesiness

2008-08-01T21:09:00.003-04:00

I wrote this amazing literary work while running an art therapy group the other day. I started a photography group with some of the kids I work with. The idea is to take pictures of the world from their perspective and write some kind of essay or poem about it. While the girls were writing their own works I was bored, so I flipped through pictures I had in my phone and found this photo, which inspired the moving poem you'll find below:

Dexter

I look innocent don't I?
But go ahead, look me in the eye

I'm a fierce beast
and I see your feet as a feast

When you least expect it
I'll become a big fat twit

I'll meow and howl, and when you turn your back,
that's when I'll attack

Then I'll be your friend
until we do it again.

Thank you, thank you very much.

Farmer's Market: A Photographic Exploration

2008-07-13T09:09:00.005-04:00

Reasons I love the farmer's market:

Local berries taste WAY better than the ones shipped across the country, AND purchasing them supports local farmers, AND it's a more ecologically sound purchase as the fuel required to ship the berries across country is ridiculous.

People at the farmer's market are HAPPY. There's a permeating feeling of community and overall pleasantness.

Mmmmm lettuce

What could be more visually pleasing than buckets and buckets of flowers?!

Pink lillies...pretty

It's so colorful!

It's something I share with my step-daughter. She loves accompanying me to the farmer's market. It's a little thing we do, just the two of us. She's the one who pointed out what a cool picture this would be.

This one's my favorite.

Being a Joiner

2008-07-02T21:35:00.003-04:00

I used to write blog posts with much more regularity. I had multiple blog friends; people I met and connected with through sharing glimpses of my life via the written word. Many of those people are individuals that I no longer communicate with either because I or they have become too busy or focused on other things.

Tonight I was perusing the blogs in my husband's favorite's folders and went to this blog. I've been there before and it's enjoyable. He's come up with this concept of multiple people posting pictures within a theme and I think it's a really fun idea. The 'sky' theme jumped out at me primarily because of the picture posted above.

My first time flying was just a couple of years ago. I shared the experience with the man who is now my husband and his two children. The kids have been flying since infancy as they live on one coast and the majority of their extended family lives on the opposite coast. The fact that I was an adult who had never flown was an anomaly to them. They thought it was the funniest thing that I was going to take my first ever trip on an airplane with them. My future step-daughter was helpful as she showed me the pictures of how, should the oxygen masks fall, I should put on my own and then help her with hers. The three of them watched me during take-off as if they expected me to scream in a panic.

I survived take off in that little puddle jumper and still hate the feeling of taking off despite the fact that 2x4 and the kids insist take-off is the best part of flying. I disagree. I love flying over the country, parts of the world I have never seen before and getting the bird's eye view. One of the positive aspects of flying for the first time as an adult is that it I don't view it as simply the form of transportation one uses to get from point a to b, so much as an enchanting experience that I waited years to live.

The second time I flew was to my wedding in San Diego. I remembered to bring my camera and took the picture you see here. The photo, though the quality is poor, is a reminder to me that experiencing something common place later in life may just make that thing more magical. It's okay to delay in joinimg some clubs.

A Bug on a Rug

2008-06-30T22:13:00.003-04:00

My cat was just entertaining himself by playing with some kind of flying ant that was crawling on my living room rug. I was keeping an eye on him as I logged into blogger in order to monitor the situation and kill said bug should Dexter decide the bug wouldn't be tasty or lose interest. He kept looking at me but I couldn't read his expression. Was he looking for approval? Encouragement? Kudos? Hard to say, whatever it was, he seemed to pick the bug up in his mouth a few times, bat it around a couple times, then all excitement ended and he walked to the other side of the room and is now bathing himself. I lost track of the bug and have decided, for the sake of my own sanity and limiting of creepy-outyness, that he ate the bug and it is no longer crawling on my floor or burrowing its way into anything I own in order to lay larvae that will soon become a swarm of flying ant-like creatures inside my home. Yeah, its being digested as I write this. Definitely.

I don't really get the whole eating a bug thing. Even for a cat. My cat has a very discerning pallet. He will only eat cat food. No tuna, no cheese, no milk, no fish...just cat food. But, he'll eat an insect. He turns his nose up at dairy but he sees a creepy crawly creature that very well may bite, sting, flit about in an alarming way, or all of the above,and he thinks, "Mmmm...that may be very enjoyable in my mouth".

As I've mentioned before, I'm not a cat person. I like dogs. Dogs make sense to me. Well, mostly. I don't really get the eating poop and your own vomit thing, or the drinking hot muddy puddle water instead of the fresh water in your clean bowl thing, but mostly I understand dogs. They're companionable. They answer commands, they can tell a good person from a bad pretty quickly, they eat the food you drop on the floor without missing a beat, they wag their tails when happy. And they have mastered the art of doe eyes in order to convey; "if you don't give me that thing that I want I might be so upset that I'll run out the door and get hit by a car and you'll be haunted by my memory for the rest of your life."

I've never had a dog that ate a bug. And even though they eat poop and puke, I have to give them a certain amount of respect for choosing to leave the creepy crawlies out of the realm of nutrition.

Mute Monday: Things/Places I Want to Exerience in My Life

2008-06-29T12:19:00.005-04:00

Incan Ruins

Chianti Vineyards

Nepal

Mardi Gras

A Sunflower Field

A Poppy field

C is for Cookie

2008-06-22T10:19:00.004-04:00

To know me is to understand that I have an almost insatiable sweet tooth. As my husband has stated, "Slim never met a piece of chocolate she didn't like" and "I can't believe Slim doesn't weigh 300 pounds". It's understandable that he would state these sentiments aloud because the temptation to eat large amounts of sugary foods is indeed my biggest weakness. You can keep your salty chips, or your dollops of sour cream, your tabs of butter, I'm not really tempted by those things, but set a cinnamon role in front of me and the vacuum action begins, will power doesn't even enter the equation.

My husband is not immune to the desire for sugary substances, he just has a little more will power than me on most occasions. On his last grocery shopping trip he picked up a half gallon of chocolate ice cream and pre-made peanut butter cookie dough. This wouldn't be the first time he has made himself cookies in order to dip them into ice cream for an after dinner dessert. And he knows that these types of treats are likely to disappear a lot faster if I am privy to their existence. When I got home from work the other night, 2x4 was still awake, which was a special treat because he's usually asleep by the time I get home. The apartment smelled really good so I asked him what he had made for dinner, assuming that was the source of the aroma.

"Burger" He replied

"That's all?" I asked "Because it smells really good in here, and burgers don't do that."

"Yup" He answered with a sort of grin on his face. I thought about it for a minute.

"You made the cookies!"

"They're mine! Don't eat them!" He asserted. I kissed him goodnight, told him I was going to make myself dinner, and left the bedroom.

"Don't eat the cookies!" He shouted as I closed the bedroom door.

I proceeded to make myself some pasta, sit down and watch an episode of Lost on abc.com and for dessert had one cookie. ONE. This in and of itself is a showing of will power in its grandest proportions because who, really, can eat one cookie?

It was about an hour an a half later that I crawled into bed beside a slumbering 2x4. He has always had the enviable ability to conk out seconds after his head comes into contact with the pillow. So, by the time I came to bed he had undoubtedly been sleeping for a while. I cuddled up next to him, listened to his slow breathing and whispered that I loved him.

Then, a groggy, sleepy voice asked, "How many cookies did you eat?"

That Last Post Was a SERIOUS Downer...

2008-06-05T21:12:00.003-04:00

...so I'm going to tell a couple of my infamous foot in mouth stories in order to bring back positive vibes.

Story 1:
My mom and I were shopping in the mall and had to stop for a bathroom break. We went into one of the department store restrooms that only had three stalls, all of which were empty, and the foul stench of someone having recently emptied their colon. I went on a miniature rant to my mom about the importance of the courtesy flush. I asked her, "Why do people not get the concept of a courtesy flush? Seriously, everybody poops, I get that, but we don't all want to smell it! So, flush a couple times, it's not a complicated concept!"

Mom looked at me with this weird amused smile. But the amusement seemed to transcend what I had said somehow. It was as though she had some knowledge which I was lacking. And she was particularly quiet, which is not typical of my mother in any way. So, mom went into the stall on one end and I went into the stall on the other end, leaving the third, middle stall unoccupied.

Except there were feet there.

In the empty stall.

Crap.

I just embarrassed someone and totally didn't mean to. I thought she was GONE. I swear that stall was EMPTY.

I exited the stall at the same time as my mother. We washed our hands quietly as my mother was silently hysterically laughing at the bug eyed look on my face. We left the bathroom and I shouted, "I didn't know she was still IN THERE!"

"I know" said my mother, who, as it turns out, knows when to keep her mouth shut. Unlike her daughter.

Story 2:
My mother has just finished redecorating her living room and dining room. New paint, new furniture, it looks really nice. I saw the new dining room set the other day and it's a HUGE improvement over the circa 1970s hand-me-down hideous set that she's been living with for the last 20 years. I complimented her on how beautiful the room looks but couldn't just give her a blanket compliment, nooooo. Had to go the extra mile to insult someone unintentionally town.

"Wow, it looks great mom. This dining set is really nice, it changes the whole space. All you have to do is replace those blinds and it will be all set."

Mom's response: "Those blinds are new"

Luckily my mother has a good sense of humor and found my faux pas amusing.

Self Awareness*

2008-05-29T22:14:00.003-04:00

I'm a primarily outgoing person. I'm talkative and personable, and I try to be nice whenever possible to everyone from the check out guy at the grocery store to the bank manager (except for when they piss me off, then look out). But lately I've become aware of a certain level of emotional disconnect that I experience in my interactions with the world at large. It's difficult to put into words. It's like I'm emotionally detached from most of the people I come into contact with. This includes friends, relatives, and strangers. I'm present in interactions with these people intellectually but very rarely am I present emotionally. It's like the thinking part of my brain is present but the feeling part is floating over a field somewhere nearby, uninterested and preoccupied, unwilling to be engaged.

I think this is a fairly recent phenomenon. Well, my realization is recent, I'm not sure if the phenomenon is. I'm not good at frank discussion of emotions. I guess that's one of the biggest immediate attractions I experienced to my husband. He's really good at emotional discussion, and made me comfortable opening up to him, really sharing my feelings and being present and honest with both him and myself about what I'm feeling/experiencing/desiring.

I had a miniature epiphany tonight as to the roots of this emotional detachment. I guess, had I really thought about it, I would have come up with the answer fairly easily. It's kind of a no-brainer. My dad was never one to discuss emotion. As a matter of fact, he's the guy whose backside you're most likely to see should the subject of his own emotion come up while I'm in the room. Sure, he'll say the words, "I love you very much" but that's as far as it goes. I can't ever recall "I feel" statements being emitted from his mouth. Besides loving me, I don't know what else the man feels.

But my dad is only a minor player in this epiphany. Tonight, after I angrily told my mother never to defend my step-father to me, EVER; several pieces of the "why I am a train wreck" puzzle fell into place.

Here's the deal; My step-father (a term that is purely technical because the man is not in any way someone I think of as a father) was an abusive Nazi. Not 'Nazi' in the literal sense but in the metaphorical. His 'running' of the household primarily consisted of fear tactics. I spent the better part of my childhood walking on eggshells for fear of angering him and suffering his wrath. He was generally drunk within half an hour of arriving home from work and my mother generally joined him in his drunken exploits. She also clearly feared him and literally jumped out of his way as he passed through a room. He was a tyrant. We couldn't walk too heavily. We couldn't talk on the phone for more than 10 minutes at a time or we'd lose phone privileges for a week. We needed to run and get into bed when we heard him coming to bed or we'd get into trouble for staying up too late (regardless of the time). When my sister and I were little, we had to be upstairs in our rooms whenever he was home. Whenever I had to venture downstairs to use the only bathroom, I was accused of being 'nosy' despite the fact that I had held it for as long as I could, knowing I would be accused of such. We were never permitted to join in when his kids came to visit. Instead we were banished to our rooms and if they were so inclined, his kids could come upstairs to our bedrooms to say hello, but that was the extend of our communing.

The abuse is not a matter I will articulate upon with regards to specifics. It's not a pleasant topic. You don't want the details and I don't want to share them. Suffice it to say that it was very damaging for me. The thing is, I was cursed at an early age with intelligence. I'm not bragging. What I mean is that I knew, even as I suffered his abuses, that were I to tell anyone about it, life as I knew it would cease to exist. My home would have been ripped apart and my mother (a legally blind woman with no higher education) would be left to fend for herself with no means to do so. I guess that's when the emotional disconnect began. The rest, as they say, is history.

So, this evening, when I referred to my mother's husband as an 'asshole' while speaking with her, and she chose to defend her husband, I realized that my anger towards him has dissipated. I have in fact, forgiven him. He has not had an easy life. He is paying for his sins. In fact, I think he's paying for the sins of others as well.

My mother, on the other hand, has not been granted my forgiveness. I am realizing that I still have anger towards her; the woman who made me her sacrificial lamb, who didn't protect me, and who, to this day, defends that man. It is she who I must find the strength to forgive. It is she who is going to force me to finally admit that maybe, just maybe, I need to see a therapist. Christ. What a thought.

* I should mention that I've had a glass of wine (or 3) prior to and/or while writing this post. Therefore, my spelling and gramar may be suspect. However, thanks to the wine, I don't care.

The Smoking Nazi Polyester Princess

2008-04-30T18:45:00.004-04:00

I'm a little on edge lately. What with the husband's ex being heinous, the working 60+ hours a week, financial strains, planning the shower for my sister's impending wedding, the job search, dealing with troubled youth who just happen to ooze disrespect and animosity, and my customer's dog taking a big smelly dump in the kitchen while I was cleaning this morning; my stress and anxiety levels are high.

So...today when 2x4 and I were arriving from separate locations in order to have a meeting with a financial advisor and I parked in the HUGE and EMPTY Wendy's parking lot nearby, I became somewhat enraged when the polyester garbed smoking Wendy's employee told me that I could not park there or she would have me towed. I yelled at her a little bit. Nowhere NEAR as much as she deserved and moved my car to the next door lot. The ugly minimum wage making biotch apparently needed to have some authority over someone today and pick the woman in the 11 year old rusty cheap model Toyota.

Seriously, it took me a good 2 hours to calm down and I'm still plotting my revenge which will likely involve multiple opened ketchup packets being smeared in hard to reach places throughout the restaurant while I'm parked in their lot.

I'm okay with being petty and small on this occasion. I'm tired of taking the high road. The high road blows. All the hip and happy people are on the low road. I'm taking that route this time.

Job Application Process

2008-04-18T14:31:00.002-04:00

Me: "Hello, I emailed a resume to you folks a week ago and would just like to be sure that you received it."

Human Resources Drone: "I'm sure we did, there's just a really long process it has to go through before you hear back (insert long explanation of the avenues resumes take here) and then if you're qualified the supervisor will call you."

Me: "Ummmmmm, okayyyyy" Gee, I wonder if they received my resume.

Step-Parenting 201: Being the Bigger Person

2008-04-05T21:22:00.003-04:00

We've all heard the stories. They all start the same, "I didn't know it was possible to love another human being this much until I held my son/daughter in my arms for the first time". It's that unconditional parent/child love. The stuff Lifetime movies thrive on. It's the reason kids continue to love abusive parents and parents love their kid even when he becomes a serial killer. It's scientifically unexplainable but the biological parent/child bond is a well known phenomenon.

Step-parenting is NOT the same. Step-parenting is (in my opinion) more thankless than parenting your biological spawn because that carte blanche forgiveness and love are not guaranteed. This is complicated shit people. And not for the weak of heart. And no matter what you think ahead of time, you have absolutely no idea what you are getting yourself into. No idea.

There are, of course, different levels of step-parental involvement. I know step-parents who have as little to do with their spouse's children as possible with no intention of changing that dynamic. My husband and I, however, take a much different tact. We are a parenting team. The results of parenting choices effect us both and we therefore make the majority of those decisions together. The kids know this and it almost nullifies the going to the other parent to get a different answer problem. And it makes the kids realize, quickly, that walking all over step-mom is not a sanctioned activity and will not be tolerated. This is really the only option for me. My husband is an involved father and laissez-faire step-parenting would not have suited my personality nor our lifestyle.

But I tell you what, I sure as hell didn't foresee my husband having the flu and my having to bring the kids to their soccer games, which take place an hour away from our home, ALONE. I've been involved with the kid's school and social lives long enough to know that the parents in and around their community primarily fall into two categories; The ones I don't know, and the ones I don't like. The kids attend school in a small "tight knit" (read: Stepford) type community that I'm pretty sure views me as a hussy idiot. I'm really okay with that. I'll serve as my husband's trophy wife in their eyes, I find it amusing...when my husband is there.

So, today, while my husband lay around with a fever and body aches, I spent 6 hours either driving, watching soccer games, or killing time in between games. My husband and his ex are on the verge of 'Parenting War 3' and I was flying solo into this mission. And I sooooo didn't want to do it. I told the kids just that as they were taking their time getting ready. I said, "Look, I don't even want to go so it doesn't matter to me if you never get ready, we can just stay home".

But I went. Without my husband. And I was polite to his ex and dismissive of all the other losers that have been looking down their noses at me for years. I wasn't obligated to do this in any way. I did what was right. I took on this parenting role with an open heart and I love those kids. For this reason I spent my Saturday playing soccer mom. I figure the fact that the kids didn't thank me just means they do indeed see me as a parent, and you don't generally thank your parent for everyday stuff like rides to soccer.

I just finished my therapeutic bowl of peanut butter cup ice cream while chanting the mantra, "I am the bigger person" over and over again.

I'm witty!

2008-03-25T22:25:00.002-04:00

I enjoy writing. I find that whenever I read a good novel and find aspects of myself in the characters it gets my brain going. It makes me think that if I create characters with just some of the quirks I have and some of the experiences I've had, I could write a very entertaining novel. The problem: writing takes time. And I like to sound eloquent and educated. That's not as easy for me as I make it seem. Therefore, between working 60 hours a week and sleeping periodically, writing takes back burner to the rest of life (as do all of my artistic endeavors).

I've been given a friendly kick in the pants by fellow blogger SBS. She has rated my blog as Excellent entertainment. I found this particularly odd because these days I do about one post every six months. So I went back and read some of my old stuff.

And it made me laugh. I'm funny! Well, not all the time. Sometimes I'm negative and whiny. But my funny posts are witty. So, I'm going to start using that little notebook in my purse again. I'll start writing blog ideas so that they're accessible on the occasions when I fit in writing time.

And maybe I'll start working on that semi-autobiographical novel I started a while back.

Maybe.

Here are some of my funny posts:
That is so not what I meant!
World Domination
Cake and Poo
Lunatic!
So I'm biased, but I thought this meme was amusing

Things that bug the crap out of me Part 1

2008-03-19T22:18:00.002-04:00

1. Blueberry muffins that don't actually have blueberries in them. If they have blueberry flavored sugar chips call them "blueberry flavored sugar chip muffins".

2. People who ride my bumper in the slow lane. Seriously, there are two lanes you can use to pass me...they're called passing lanes. I'm going the speed limit and saving money on gas. Don't MAKE me go 30 miles an hour. Because I TOTALLY will.

3. The fact that my mother attends a Catholic church despite the fact that she believes in abortion, believes women should have equal rights, believes in birth control...the list goes ON...

4. Adolescents. I spend 40 hours a week with these know-it-all emotional basket cases. Can you say 'Drama Queen'? And I'm talking about the boys. Oh! and the language they speak? I had a girl ask me today, "Where you at?" I was standing in front of her. She got annoyed when I told her I didn't understand the question. (In all seriousness, I like working with adolescents in many ways. But there are days...)

5. People who don't like to read. How is that possible?

6. People who don't break for an animal crossing the road.

7. Getting a latte that tastes bad. It's so damn dissapointing. That's aside from that fact that I am now out 4 bucks.

8. Sweaty palms. They're gross. But I can't really help it, they sweat of their own volition. So, how about we just pat each other's backs? Or maybe wink on it?

9. Smelly bathrooms. I've said this before, I'll say it again. Courtesy flush.

10. Stupid bumper stickers. "My boss is a Jewish Carpenter"? Why so cryptic? Why not "Jesus is the boss of me"? "Know Jesus, Know peace, no Jesus, no peace" blech.

11. People who get offended when you don't believe what they believe.

12. People who act all moral and pay top dollar for prostitutes.

13. Prostitutes who become famous for screwing a governor.

14. Mondays

15. Hard boiled eggs. Mmmm...let's eat those nasty fart smelling things!

16. Nobody reads my blog anymore.

Ummm...Ok?

2008-02-28T22:40:00.002-05:00

One of the girls in my group last night informed us all (randomly and totally off topic) that she used to hit babies so that they would bruise and pinch them so that they would cry.

My response: Bug eyed silence followed by the question: "Whose babies?"

You have GOT to see the humor in that. Whose babies? That's the best my therapeutic mind could come up with.

Brilliant. I've got this therapy thing DOWN!

Full Day-Bullets

2007-11-30T18:47:00.000-05:00

I go through long periods of time wherein I have the urge to write but can't come up with interesting subject matter. Then days like today happen, when multiple topics and or incidents occur which are worthy of blog exploration. The problem is, if I don't write about them immediately, the mundaneness of every day life tasks will whisk me away and the topics will never be explored via the published blog post. For that reason, I will offer today's multitude of worthy moments and thoughts in a bullet format with the purpose of keeping the post at a readable length and covering all relevant topics.

-I was listening to NPR today and the discussion of the Military's "Don't ask don't tell" policy was discussed. This is not a subject which is on the forefront of my mind because, luckily, this prejudiced governmental policy has little to no effect on my every day life. I can't honestly believe that in this day in age, with civil rights struggles that have been battled by people for generations, when our children are encouraged to play shooting games wherein they commit murder and crimes, adults who have consensual sex with adults of the same sex cannot choose to defend their country. What's the fear? Seriously? That as the bombs fall they'll turn to a comrade and ask..."Hey wanna get lucky?" Ludicrous. It's such a backwoods policy that has no place in this day and age...it pisses me off.

-My supervisor and I met with two gentlemen today who are retired and want to volunteer some of their time to the kids in our facility. One of them was particularly quirky and didn't appear to have the self assurance that comes with 60 years of life experience, but both were pleasant. They want to join efforts and get a group of our kids together to take photographs relevant to them in some way and then write about them. I'm really excited, think this is a great idea, and hope that we can find some magical funding for cameras.

-My office doubles as an art room and a storage area in addition to housing my desk and computer. It is not a large space and occasionally I get the urge to reorganize. While reorganizing today I found a creation that had been made by a resident and brought it to him. I didn't choose my words carefully when I presented him with the piece, stating that I had been "cleaning out" my office. He looked at me with this horrified expression and said "Cleaning out your office?! You're leaving?" I was touched that he was so upset at the prospect of my leaving...it made me feel a little special.

-That awful woman with no respect for Islam gets to live. What's this damned world coming to when 7 year olds can name a Teddy Bear Mohammad? Next thing you know they'll name their pet lizard Jesus. Shoulda just be-headed her, would have made the world a better place. Craziness! Are people really this nuts?!

-Made a new friend! Which is pretty exciting considering my best friend of 15 years recently dumped me. 2x4 wrote a great post about our first 'date'...stop by his blog if you have time. It's way more entertaining than mine. Oh, and he doesn't mention it, but, she's a hugger. That'll take some getting used to. She's hug happy...full of love and wants to spread her joy via the warm embrace. It's sweet and doesn't creep me out, it's just not something I'm used to.

There you have it...my bullets post. I'll keep trying to come up with more inspiring material. I guess I'm having a slow start getting back into blogging.

Coffee-My Pickmeup of Choice

2007-11-27T22:30:00.000-05:00

I got up early this morning and dragged my exhausted butt to a customer's house to clean. I was so tired and out of it that I broke this thermometer-tube-liquid-with-floating bubbles thing while dusting the picture hanging on the wall above it. It broke on the carpet. And it smelled. And the liquid was not water but some greasy/oily substance which I will likely spend several days attempting to clean out of her really expensive carpet in her really expensive home. Then I spent the rest of my klutzy time there almost breaking everything I touched. Luckily she's a great lady and was totally cool about it, told me not to worry and was very understanding. Nonetheless...I was ready to go home and crawl back into bed, sleep through the day, and start with a do-over tomorrow.

But I couldn't...I have that pesky full time job to go to. So I stopped for coffee, bucked up, and started my do-ever at noon. I was in high spirits, had great groups, a long conversation with my sister (who has been playing a very noble game of phone tag for about 2 weeks now), and left oodles of comments on blogs tonight, perhaps making some new bloggy friends.

And tonight I'm in a great mood. The coffee shakes have passed but I seem to be suffering from a small case of insomnia. I drink coffee so infrequently that a 12oz coffee gives me the shakes and continues to keep me awake 10 hours after being consumed. And...well, it gets my intestines working over time if you know what I mean ;-) Oh, overshare? Sorry. My bad.

Oh, and sorry about the boring "This is how I spent my day" post. I don't generally do that because, frankly, who cares about my mundane day to day existance? But it's caffeine/insomnia induced so try not to hold it against me, k? And did you know..."i before e does except after c" does not apply in caffeine? I didn't. But thanks to blogger's helpful spell checker, I do now!

Damn Him!

2007-11-21T19:14:00.001-05:00

Dumbledore is DEAD?!

And that bastard Snape whom he trusted even when everyone said he was a greasy haired piece of trash KILLED HIM?!

I'm so mad. I don't know if I'm angrier with Snape or J.K. Rowling for making me think that Snape might actually have been a good guy.

Grrrrrr.....

Forgiveness-An Intricate Chain

2007-11-16T20:20:00.000-05:00

He came back from Vietnam a different man than the one who ventured into the war named for a country years before. Those that knew him prior recognized the difference. It wasn't the shrapnel still embedded in various points throughout his body, nor the various physical injuries that made the differences obvious. It was the fact that when his smile appeared (less frequently), the corners of his mouth didn't reach as high, and wasn't reflected in his eyes. There were other differences, subtle as the smile, and some as plain as the yelling at his wife, the cold demeanor that took over without warning.

There were therapeutic groups for people like him, people who had seen horrific scenes of friends and enemies suffering and dieing while they fought for survival, of carnage unspeakable, of the constant awareness that their life could end at any moment, their families receiving that horrible knock on the door. People who couldn't transition back into their previous lives without assistance and understanding from others who shared similar terrifying ordeals. However, years of being a United States Marine, years of enduring mental torture, years of shielding any vulnerability, staying hardened in order to keep alive, left him feeling as though those therapeutic groups were for the soft. He didn't want to be involved in anything that required him to soften, to admit that he wasn't strong enough to survive without help. He couldn't admit to himself that he needed these things, admitting a need for support to others was unthinkable. He truly believed he could heal unassisted, and had every intention of doing so.

His life began spiraling out of control when his wife disappeared while he was at work, taking their two children with her. She left with no warning and with no clue as to her whereabouts, seperating him from his children for weeks before making contact. That period of time was torturous for him, and caused him to withdraw deeper into the hardened shell that had become his shelter from the world. This incident was one more anguish he was forced to endure but would not permit to break him.

Years later he made himself a fresh start. He met a woman who made him happy, who needed and appreciated the strength that emminated from him, the strength that had been years in the making. She accepted him into her home and was happy to have assistance with parenting her young daughter, perhaps too eager to give him control over their lives. Together they had another daughter and he was given another chance at family. It was accepted with little questioning that he chose not to honor or celebrate holidays and birthdays, seperating himself from the mirth others experienced on these occasions. His son and daughter still resided with their mother but he had visitation and tried hard to be an admirable father figure to them despite the limited time they spent together. It was difficult for his son, in whose eyes he hung the moon, to be seperate from his father. As his son grew, his patchwork of emotions towards each parent emerged as demons he would spend years trying to ward off with alcohol and illegal drugs containing escatlating strength and risk. The father/son relationship had ups and downs over the years as the two went back and forth between understanding and alienating each other.

His step-daughter suffered numerous abuses at his hands over the years as his wife turned a blind eye. He had little understanding of why his step-daughter became the outlet for his emotional turmoil. She, in turn, recognized how far reaching the repercusions would be should she expose the happenings within their walls, and chose not to share, fearing her whole world would crumble. She held onto that burden, to the guilt, kept it hidden, protecting her mother and mother's husband from being exposed.

He reached the breaking point after all of his children had grown and left home. After years of working long hours to provide for his family he found himself unable to leave his home, the thought of being around people or venturing out of the haven of his abode left him in a cold sweat, his heart racing; an experience labled by professionals as a "panic attack". His wife struggled to be supportive but it was difficult as his smiles and happiness appeared next to never, making living with him a near constant struggle. Ultimately he sought help from the Veteran's Association, his syndrome was labled PTSD and his family was finally granted an understanding of the odd behaviors he had displayed over the course of their lives. He finally began to see a therapist regularly and took medications aimed at regulating his mood and minimizing panic attacks. However, the years of repressed vulnerability and emotion would not disappear easily, having laid dormant for years, rearing their heads with fury.

Sadly, his step-daughter no longer spoke to him and he, in turn, chose to dismiss her in total. He suffered a great deal of guilt where she was concerned and being around her was a constant reminder of his crimes. It was much easier to view her as the heartless enemy than feel the tightness in his chest that the thought of her invoked in him.

It was tragic that he and his son were in a period of allienation from each other when his son, at 34 years of age, died of a drug overdose. After years in and out of rehab and jail, when everyone thought he had won the fight with his demons, having once again started a business for which he had a great deal of passion, the son succumbed to his demons.

Now, as the Christmas season approaches, as the theme of forgiveness is prevalent in the air, as the family continues to accept and heal after the death mere months before of the son, the step-daughter believes that the time to forgive has come. She has carried the burden and guilt of being the scapegoat of emotional turmoil for the majority of her life. Yet, she sees the human frailty behind the abuser, sees that he too is a victim, she sees that he has suffered for the sins of others, and that she is only one link in chain of hurt, anger, sadness and torture. She sees that in order for the man to forgive himself, he must first be forgiven, and perhaps that forgiveness will spread its way through the chain. That finally he may have some peace, because he is indeed only human, as has suffered enough for several lifetimes. He deserves forgiveness from others, but primarily he deserves forgiveness from himself.

I'm Learning How to Lie

2007-11-14T22:02:00.000-05:00

Therapists, counselors, and those who work with children in some capacity in a residential setting have a really tricky line they must traverse between being caring/approachable and having bad boundaries wherein they share too much of their personal lives. Personal life sharing is totally inappropriate for a variety of reasons, though, the not sharing is easier said than done. In my art groups there's a lot of talking. The kids talk to each other about he said/she said stuff, things going on with their families, school dilemmas, and your average adolescent drama. Some of these kids are regulars in my group and have therefore become increasingly comfortable around me. With that comfort level comes normal human curiosity about the person with whom you are spending time. So, they've started asking questions. Some of the questions are innocuous and I can answer freely. For instance, Paula, who is fascinated that I'm a vegetarian asks me every time we're together, "What's for dinner tonight?" I of course tell her what I'm having (if that decision has been made) because clearly this is a fun and harmless little connection between us.

However, yesterday I was caught off guard when Julia asked "How long have you been married?" Ugh. I gave an honest response because some of the kids on campus know I got married this past summer. No sense in lying (arrgh! how do you spell that?!). The most professional thing would have been to divert the conversation somehow. But, I'm still figuring out how to say "none of your business" while continuing to be an approachable figure in their lives. "Sure, tell me your woes, share with me your inner demons, poor your heart out to me and let me help you better your life, but my life is off limits." Kind of a mixed message. So I was already stumbling back into a (metaphorical) upright position from the previous stumble when she rapid fired, "Where you ever married before?" Inside my head I'm thinking: "Good God why do you care and how the hell can I tell you that we shouldn't really talk about me because it's poor ethics, and where the heck did this brain freeze come from and why CAN'T I THINK?!" So, I responded, "Ummmmm....no".

So, there you have it. I lied. Bald faced lie. Felt like crap. Kinda still do. Still don't know where I went wrong. I've had supervisors tell me to explain to clients who show an interest in parts of my life that should be off limits: "My role is one of a therapist and I am therefore here to help you work on getting better so we really shouldn't focus on me, let's focus on you" Or something to that effect. Except, these kids see me as 'arts lady' not 'therapist lady' they find me approachable because I'm not like any of the other staff, I stand alone in my own separate and distinct category. So...that spiel doesn't fly. Great. Still don't know what to do next time.

How is it Possible to be Exhausted and Unable to Sleep at the Same Time?

2007-11-07T21:54:00.000-05:00

My day went like this: Got up and went to the gym. Why did I go to the gym? Because I spent a lot of years being the chubby friend, and all those Halloween inspired snacks are threatening to send me back into fatty town. When discussing what Star Wars character each of the people in the room would be, one of the kids I work with said that I would be C3PO because (and I quote) "You're mad tall and skinny" (Translation for those of you who don't speak inner city adolescent dialect; mad may be translated as extremely) I don't think I have been described as extremely skinny ever before in my entire life. It was hilarious to me. I was beaming.

Then I went and helped my aunt plant and move monstrously large trees. She has a small landscaping business and I help out when she needs the assistance as I could always use the extra money. We spent our time together yanking and pulling trees around that were too big for us to move. But...seeing as we are two pig headed women, neither of us was willing to admit aloud that some large muscles (ahem, like maybe those of an, ahem, man) would be helpful. So we tugged and pulled and I got a bloody nose from a wayward stick up the nostril (hilarity ensued because truly, who else does that sort of thing happen to?) Then it was time for me to head to my full time job.

So...next I traveled to my full time art therapy job and spent the day forcing art therapy down the throats of uninterested adolescents.

Now I'm home, I've had a beer, I've eaten dinner, my body and mind are exhausted...yet I can't sleep. What kind of utter nonsense is that?! And I'm doing it all over again tomorrow! I guess tomorrow will be a large coffee day. (Yes I take cream and sugar, what of it? I like it that way!)

Shut up about Dumbledore Already

2007-11-01T22:05:00.001-04:00

I'm a reader, have been for as far back as I can remember. When I was just breaking into the teenage years, and had yet to know everything and hate everyone, my dad used to take me to this great locally owned bookstore (which to this day is one of my favorites) and would tell me to pick out one book. Well, anyone who is an avid reader realizes that narrowing the selection down to one book in a bookstore filled to the brim with shiny new books is virtually impossible. So...I rarely left that store with less than two books. Because, how do you say no to a kid that is begging for books? Poor dad and his wallet never stood a chance.

When I went back to school several years ago my days were so full of classes, commuting, textbook reading, paper writing, and work, that leisurely reading time became damn near non-existent. Since graduating I think I have spent equal amounts of time in the public library and sending out resumes. The library and all of its free loner books is my new favorite place. Some women shop for shoes, I linger at the library reading the back jacket of all the new releases.

When Harry Potter first came out I was one of the gazillions of people on the "Harry Potter Rocks" bandwagon. I love the stories and the amount of imagination that oozes from every page.
J.K. Rowling is a freaking genius in my humble yet very relevant opinion. I was furious when the books were turned into movies since the Harry Potter craze was an "Oh my God my illiterate child is reading this totally cool book series" craze. But, I digress, that's another post...ahem.

Anyway, I got through Book 5 before returning to school. Even as I was reading The Order of the Phoenix in '03 I realized that I needed to start back at Book 1 because I couldn't remember a lot of the back story. Then I went to school and Harry Potter became a distant memory. Now the last book in the series has been released and I have re-embarked on my Hogwarts journey. I'm back up to Book 5 and have been very careful to shield myself from climax ruining information. I shush people who talk about the books, don't read articles, and change the station when anything HP related is the topic of discussion.

Then Yahoo fudged it all up. They had some headline posted about the controversy over Dumbledore's homosexuality that simply could not be ignored.

DAMN IT! How does that fit into the story line? I couldn't care less about Dumbledore's sexuality but now I'm left wondering...was he in love with Tom Riddle before he went all Evil Empire on the wizarding world? Does the ministry have it out for him because they're bigots? I'm trying not to think about it but I can't make this tidbit of knowledge go back in the box. It's out.

So, my request is...give me 3 weeks. I should be done with the whole series by then. Until then Shut up about Dumbledore!

Venting-Beware: NOT a happy post

2007-10-18T22:41:00.000-04:00

Ever in one of those moods where it's a good thing nobody is around because you'd drag them kicking and screaming into your cloud of negativity? Yeah, that's where I'm living right now. I spent the last of my shift today 'running' a group of 5 angry adolescent girls. I put 'running' in quotations because I had little to no control over what took place in that room. I had defiance, fighting, complaining, and oodles of negativity, but I had next to no control. Was it a lack of experience? Perhaps. Was it the phase of the moon? Maybe. Was it the fact that I work in a facility that houses adolescents in residential placement who already have a repertoire of bad habits and then comes to live in a shoddy run facility with kids that teach them a whole new set of bad habits to add onto the old one? Yup, that's it.

When the direct care staff consists primarily of underpaid undereducated angry unionized individuals with bad boundaries who allow things like bullying to take place, I don't think the organization is helping the majority of its charges. I do believe that it is likely, in this scenario, that the organization does more harm than good. When a staff member does something like, say, SLEEP when they are supposed to be supervising developmentally delayed adolescents, they should be reprimanded...right? Except, when said emplyee's supervisor is too busy to address his ongoing problems, said employee remains employed and continues to influence already troubled developing minds. Marvelous.

I spoke with my supervisor a couple of weeks ago and told her that I question whether or not I'm helping or making and impact on these kids. Her response was "I think that you do a lot more than this, but, at the very least, you're being a positive adult role model. And as you know, that is something that these kids are seriously lacking."

Gaaa! So, I can keep working for an organization which I have been told is 'resume suicide' and try to make my measly 'positive' impact. Or, I can recognize that I am one damn person and there is only so much I can do. Do I leave the few kids that have a positive attachment to me because I think the organization is a joke, funneling funds out of programs where the money belongs, and I feel may do more harm than good? Or do I try really freaking hard to recognize that impacting a few kids is pretty damn important? For that matter, is my impact all that great? I tend to doubt it.

And frankly, the commute sucks.

Vent over.

This is Negative Nancy, signing off.

That is so NOT what I meant

2007-10-14T08:20:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was a crisp autumn day. The temperature was just shy of the 50 degree mark, and the breeze was enough to penetrate my thick wool sweater as we stood on the sidelines at the kid's soccer games. The Boy was the first to play his game, so 2x4, The Girl, and I were on the 'parents' side of the field offering up encouragement to the team and laughing at the minimal attention The Boy was paying to the game.

We're a family of jokesters. We make jokes about random things that most bystanders would either; not find funny, find totally inappropriate out of context, or simply would not get. That being the case, when I saw a woman across the field carrying a child that was wearing a black hoody sweatshirt that was 2 sizes too big, making his arms look all gangly and making his back side appear very similar to the back side of a chimpanzee, I said to my family (as a joke!) "Look, that lady is carrying monkey!" Now, keep in mind all I could see of this child was the back of his oversized hoody, hood UP.

Neither 2x4 or The Girl laughed. In fact, 2x4 got pretty serious and stated, "You better be careful." What? So I explained the rather obvious long sleeve, monkey arm looking characteristics...and he remained silent with, that look. You know the look, the "I'm not saying anymore, figure it out on your own" look. Infuriating. Next, The Girl begins to explain to me that the woman carrying the child is the mother of a boy on the team. The African-American boy on the team, and that he and his little brother are adopted.

The light bulb went on.

Good Lord, the baby is African-American.

Crap.

I so didn't mean it as a racial slur. The woman was WHITE. All I saw of the baby was a sweatshirt!

Crap.

There is no getting this king sized foot out of my mouth.

Crap.

Still Alive

2007-09-27T20:58:00.000-04:00

Hello!

I'm glad you still stop by periodically. I'm not officially retired from blogging but life is crazy busy right now. I just wanted to update on the off chance that someone still happens by.

Somewhat incoherent quicky update: Married now. Still in love. Wedding ring is engraved with 'These are better days" and overall, it's true. Am employed as an art therapist. Still not paid what I'm worth, but hey, who is? Cleaning rich people's houses to subsidize the crappy income. Kids are great, healthy, happy, growing like little weeds, smart as whipper-snappers. Step-brother died of a drug overdose, still dealing with that in my own slow to comprehend and accept kind of way. Cat is still a big fat weirdo-attacks my feet and emits a weird meow like he's being tortured. Considering going back to school for a Master's degree.

Them's the highlights. Hope you're doing well. Hard to say when I'll be back. I try to keep people guessing.

xoxo
WiP

You Can't Make Me

2007-06-07T06:43:00.000-04:00

I realize that I have been MIA. I've actually had a variety of blog worthy moments in the last several months, I just haven't had the time to put finger to keyboard (so to speak). This is a short anecdote, and somewhat amusing so I figured I'd take the time to share.

I am somewhat of an environmentalist. I try to minimize my impact on nature by doing things like bringing cloth bags with me to the supermarket, recycling, reusing, driving the shortest route, you know, the basics and then some. Plastic bags are awful for the environment for a variety of reasons. First and foremost, they never go away (when I say never, I mean not in my life time or the life time of my potential great-grandchildren).

I went shopping for 2x4's birthday recently and purchased him the 10 inch frying pan he's been anxious to receive for a while now. A frying pan has a HANDLE. Keep this small fact in mind while I share with you the exchange between myself and the older lady at the department store register.

I put the pan on the counter. The nice lady scaned the pan and then grabbed a plastic bag. As I took my money out of my purse, I stated; "You know what, I don't need a bag, I'll just carry that as is."

The nice lady then proceeded to put the pan in the bag and declared, "No, I have to give you a bag or I'll get in trouble with security. If you want to remove the bag when you get outside, you can." Clearly she missed the point. I don't want to use a bag nor waste a bag, nor add one more plastic bag to the world.

I handed the nice lady my money and then removed the pan from the bag stating, "If I get stopped by security, I'll inform them that you tried valiently to give me a bag but I resisted your efforts"

The nice lady was clearly annoyed and moved more stealthily than I would have thought someone her age could, producing a role of tape with the store's logo printed on it and before I had a chance to protest, stuck some to the pan announcing, "Then I have to give you some tape!"

This was particularly amusing because I wouldn't have objected to the tape but somehow her approach made me feel victimized, like she had just smacked me across the face with her glove.

But, as my middle name is compromise, I smiled and said, "That's just fine." After all, the situation had quickly evolved from a simple "I'll do one little thing to help sustain the health of the planet" into "I WILL win."

I feel that in the end, mother nature and I were triumphant. Our team won the battle.

Our New Family Member

2007-04-12T08:53:00.000-04:00

Growing up, the only type of animals we were permitted to have as pets were dogs. My mom hated cats, and rodents and reptiles were out of the question. We had a Chow named Frisky when I was 4 or 5 years of age. Her stay in our household was short-lived. Though my memory of her is limited, I'm told Frisky was simply too frisky to keep. And she was none to friendly, to boot.

Being the product of a broken home meant that I also had dogs at my dad's house. Belle was a wonderful soul. She was the runt of an English Spaniel litter and came as a package deal with step-mother number one. This pair introduced me to the idea that a dog can be loved through training, and that a well trained dog is much more of a pleasure to have around than a jumpy lunatic who can't tell a sit command from a call for dinner time. Belle lived a long life, and I have no doubt that she went to dog heaven for all her years of family love and devotion.

Next at mom's we had Annie the beagle. I loved Annie like crazy as she was the first pet I truly considered mine. I even had pictures of her in my school locker. As much as I loved Annie, she was a slave to her nose like any hound dog and would go deaf when on a scent. She also ate every disgusting thing you can imagine. There was never a dirty pair of underwear or used tissue safe when Annie was around. To my beloved Annie, these were delectable treats. I once watched her crap out a whole damn sock. It wasn't a small sock either, it was a long tube sock. She died young. I couldn't talk about her without crying from saddness for a good 2 years after she was gone. But, Annie's foibles were enough to make me decide that I will never again own a hound of any variety.

Then there was Bandit who slept with me every night. Bandit was a mutt. She was full of energy and as loyal as every other dog I was fortunate enough to own. When I moved out of my mom's house I felt more guilty about leaving Bandit than I did about leaving my mom.

When I started dating my first husband he had Nikki, a beautiful Dalmation who may very well have been Belle reincarnated. Her disposition was similar and she took to me immediately. As a matter of fact, I think my ex-husband was forever jealous that she so easily became my companion and would wait for me at the door every day knowing it was about time for me to arrive home from work. He never grasped the simple concept that I was the one who showered her with love and affection, that I was as excited to see her as she was me, while he was mostly indifferent to her existance. I cried for days after Nikki was gone. And I still miss her.

Why this long tribute to the pets of my past? Because while I am clearly a dog person, 2x4 is a cat person. So, recently, we adopted a beautiful cat from a local shelter. We named him C.K. Dexter Haven (C.K. or Dexter for short) from my favorite movie of all time (ten points if you can tell me the movie without googling it).

And here's the lesson Dexter has taught me: Cats are totally different than dogs. TOTALLY. I don't understand how attacking me with his teeth and claws means he's happy. Dogs don't do that! Or, at least when they do, it's clear that they're playing. The first time Dexter did this, I FREAKED. 2x4 had to explain that this is normal and he's playing. Call me crazy but I don't think playing should involve sharp instruments.

Dexter seems to get more lively the longer we have him. This morning he got all worked up and was stalking my feet. It led to me yelping, jumping onto the couch, and tucking my feet up under my butt so that they wouldn't be ripped to shreds. You wanna know how he got worked up?! I was lovingly PETTING him. Next thing I knew, my feet were near victims of his happy excitement. With dogs, the difference between a play face and an "I'm really viscious and am about to attack you" face are clearly defined. With cats, they're the same! The "you're a juicy mouse and I'm going to eat you" face is the very same face as the "I love you sooo much that I'm going to grab your arm with my paws and nibble on your hand a little, but it's jut because I'm happy and wanna play" face.

Don't get me wrong, it's only been a couple of weeks and I'm totally attached. I'm an animal person, always have been. I love him despite the fact that he makes me sneeze and makes my eyes water. And he seems to like me as well. We're teaching each other. I'm learning how to interact with animals of the feline variety, and he's learning how to deal with a neurotic human.

Impossible

2007-03-26T10:44:00.000-04:00

Girl and Dog has tagged me and asked that I list my 5 favorite songs. This is impossible primarily because my list of favorites shifts drastically with my mood. Also, narrowing it down to 5 is a tall order (though I do appreciate the fact that the list won't be a daunting task). Unlike the rest of the world, I can't refer to a songlist in my mp3 player 'cause I don't have one. Therefore, I'm going to the CD shelves and attempting to recall via osmosis. So, in an effort to participate honestly, I will list 5 songs that I can listen to when in almost any mood. Songs that have stood the test of time and maturity. Songs that I would enjoy hearing at my wedding. Now, without further ado, I give you 5 of my favoritish songs.

1. The Best is Yet to Come performed by Frank Sinatra. LOVE IT. 2x4 once told me this song makes him think of us. It should most definitely make an appearance at the wedding.

2. Mambo Italiano performed by Dean Martin. Whenever this song comes on, I. cannot. sit. still. It always makes me smile. I'm smiling just thinking about it. "Hey mambo, mambo italiano..."

3. Repetetive? maybe. But I have to do it: Withcraft also performed by old blue eyes. An explanation isn't always necessary. This is just a good song.

4. Why Georgia by John Mayer. John Mayer wrote the soundtrack for my life around the time that I decided to end my first marriage. The idea that he wanted to skip his freeway exit and just keep driving, leave his current life because, "might be a quarter life crisis, or just a stirring in my soul"...so what I was feeling. My very own quarter life crisis left me with the realization that I had made a mistake and married the wrong man, but that I could rectify that mistake. Had I not done so, I wouldn't have been available to spend the rest of my life with the man who makes me feel complete.

5. Sunrise by Nora Jones. Happy. Tranquil. Just plain enjoyable.

Inspiration via 2x4

2007-03-08T08:01:00.000-05:00

I sat at my desk, chin deep in med charts, service plans, and scheduling challenges when my purse emitted that tell tale vibration sound, indicating a text message. I absent mindedly fished through the middle pocket, not taking my eye off the puzzling chart in front of me, full of microscopic squares, intended to monitor medication compliance. I used my left thumb in an often practiced maneuver to flip open the phone and read the incoming message.

"Do you want to go out on a date with me tonight?"

My heart skipped a beat at the prospect. Two simultaneous reactions occurred within me.
1. Absofreakinlutely.
2. We can't afford this.

I took a split second to hush number 2. We need this. Our schedules have been opposing, we've both been somewhat on edge, and due to a scheduling snafu I get out of work at 6 this evening instead of 9 which would have put me home just in time to hear the first of his sleeping breaths. Instead, my wonderful love wants to take advantage of the rare opportunity of an evening together and treat the stressed out woman that he loves to a night of wining and dining. God I love this man. So, I responded:

"YES!"

His response:

"Put on something nice"

I paused from my paperwork hell to swoon.

Of course, mental health clients being what they are, my last client decided that TODAY would be the day he does a 180 degree turn and wants to be compliant with his treatment, and talk about it. All I could think was, 'Good GOD would you shut up? Don't you understand I have a life? Why after 3 weeks of bitching and moaning must you want to be chatty today?' How's that for empathy?

I barely made it out of work at 6. I came in the door and he was at the computer, dressed up, sexy as hell. I greeted him with a kiss and stated, "I'm sorry I don't have time to chat, I have a hot date tonight"

He was very understanding, and gave me my space.

Showered, sexy, excited and light hearted, we headed out. We had never been to this restaurant before. We walked in the door and were greeted by a pleasant gentleman who lead the way to our table. We followed him, a slight limp causing his gait to be slow, and I took in the atmosphere, trying to savor each moment. The white linen table clothes looked crisp. The wine glasses on each table held cloth napkins, alternating in black and white. The walls were a calming pale green with a darker chair rail breaking the monotony of the one color The contrast was appealing to the eye. The lighting was just right and the small lanterns on each table helped set the low-key, relaxing mood.

He pulled out my chair, a gesture that I love, and that has never been performed for me by another man. We settled in and ordered a bottle of Chianti. The waitress understood right away that we were not in a hurry and allowed us to enjoy our meal at a slow pace with minimal interruptions. The sounds within the restaurant ebbed and flowed as we immersed ourselves in conversation, enjoying each other's company, catching up on the small portions of life that get lost when our time together is limited. The meals were marvelous, specialty culinary creations not on the menu as there were no vegetarian selections. He had called ahead, he thought of everything. He decided on a white sauce, and I on a red. We sampled each other's, both impressed with the chef's ability to make pasta primavera so enticing, the vegetables cooked just right and the ratio of veggies to pasta perfect.

As the waitress wrapped the remainder of my meal (He had nothing to wrap, his bowl was clean) I noticed that the din had decreased. Many of the evenings diners had moved on, few of us remained. I ordered the triple chocolate cheesecake for desert and was generous enough to feed Him a couple bites. The chocolate was a wonderful pairing for the remainder of Chianti in my glass, the bottle drained.

As we exited the dining room we took a moment to glimpse at the artwork on the walls, offering forth critiques to one another. I shared that wine still lifes are appealing to me despite their generic qualities. Perhaps it's the reaction they invoke in my soul, the feel of romantic evenings, of time well spent, of the unencumbered passage of time.

I'll leave you to your imagination regarding how the night ended. Rest assured, the end was no disappointment. I can't imagine a more inspiring evening. Sometimes, my muse is channeled through the love of my life.

Re-evaluating

2007-03-05T10:12:00.000-05:00

Some blogs have specific goals or themes. Some are simply an outlet for writers, an opportunity to practice writing with the added bonus of connecting with others. Some seem to be ramblings about day to day life, and again a connection to others through comments and reading other's blogs. Some blogs are devoted to hobbies such as photography or computer jargon.

When I first began blogging I never chose a theme. I simply decided that it would be enjoyable to have a writing outlet that wasn't graded or evaluated. A location where I was the one in control and could write about everything from the mundane and trivial to the deep and meaningful. In turn, I enjoy a variety of blogs. I enjoy those devoted to humor and those devoted to introspection. I enjoy the ones that are simply online journals, providing a connection to others that I would otherwise never have met. I've connected with other people from across this country and beyond and look forward to reading about the daily lives of people that I consider friends, friends that I have never met in person but who know more about me than many people I have met in person. I believe that I also know a great deal about these people, perhaps more than many that they have met in person. All of these new connections, and not once did I have to sign up for an online dating service!

Lately I have been somewhat self conscious about the quality of my writing. My blog has slipped into the land of the mundane much too frequently. I feel as though my muse has left the building and left the 'time expected to return' portion of the community bulletin board blank. I have spent a great deal of the last several months seeking out inspiration wherever I may find it and I routinely become frustrated with my inability to translate whatever inspiration I eke out into art. I have always used art in one form or another to keep the depression grip at bay. I have used writing, painting, drawing, pottery, scrapbooking, stamping, watercolor and assorted craft making to keep myself busy, occupied, and content. But, quality has always been important to me as well. A concept that my mother beat into me (figuratively of course) was, "If you're going to do something, do it right." This applied to everything from dusting the living room to the biggest tasks that one decided to take on, and I take this idea very seriously. Otherwise, what's the point of committing yourself to something?

With my blog, I simultaneously feel the desire to hold my writing up to a quality that I am proud to call my own, and to post simply to stay connected to my (for lack of a better term) cyber friends. I have felt as though my posting keeps them coming back, and if I go too long without posting, they'll forget about me and move on to the more entertaining and predictable blogger.

Mel, one of my favorite bloggers ever, has decided to take a break from the world of blogging. She says she's not feeling it anymore. And while I stand behind her need to take a break, I'm saddened that I will no longer be able to take a peak into her entertaining and touching personal world. At the same time, I have zero intention of taking her off my blogroll and will probably stop by her site daily as a matter of habit. So, when she decides she's up for writing again I'll be one of the first to comment and welcome her back on board with cyber hugs and kisses. In the mean time I'll probably drop her an email and ask that she keep in touch.

I guess this made me realize that I don't need to fill my blog with fluff to keep people coming. The people that matter (like 2x4, Mel, Shoparound, Amy, Cyberoutlaw, and Steph, for instance) will stop by periodically regardless of the frequency of posts. For that reason I've decided to focus on quality and not quantity. I will post when inspired to do so and not stress out about how long it's been since my last post. Those of you who are interested, by all means keep coming back as the frequency of my posts is bound to vary. I have no doubt that some weeks I'll post like my muse came back from her hiatus and is full with renewed energy from her invigorating vacation. And some weeks, my unpredictable muse will leave, feeling the unforeseen urge to recharge her battery. Either way, I've decided that I want to be proud of what I put forth in this format, and I can't predict how frequently my mind will offer forth worthy material.

World Domination

2007-03-01T14:46:00.000-05:00

I just want to share with you, my friends, the fact that the Hershey company is taking over my mind. They have implanted some undetectable microscopic device inside the wrappers of the two confections you see here. This device has been programed to erase all will power I have spent decades amassing by making me unable to think about anything else as my mouth waters uncontrollably until I both purchase and consume these confections. Near as I can tell, they are in cahoots with Lane Bryant as both will profit from the expansion of my waist size.

Beware the conspiracy my friends. They're trying to take over the world.

I'm It.

2007-02-25T09:22:00.000-05:00

Mel tagged me. The idea of the game, apparently, is to list 6 weird things about myself and 1 thing that isn't true. Then, in the comments section, you all get to guess which is the untrue statement. Truthfully, I'm having a difficult time coming up with strange things, which is peculiar, because, I'm an odd duck. So...guess away!

1. I have a black thumb (figuratively of course). House plants shudder when I come nearby, knowing that despite my best efforts, I will be the death of them. Pansies and ferns alike have suffered my unintentional murderous ways. Despite this, I can't wait to buy a house, so that I may have a bountiful garden and oodles of fresh produce.

2. I am immune to the smell of baby poo. The substance is gross to me but I have some freak resistance to the smell, it doesn't bother me. This has made me a popular babysitter for friends and family alike (the fathers who have diaper duty especially love it when I'm around!)

3. My ex-husband and I had bed bugs at one point. It was one of the most disgusting and horrific experiences of my life. Unbeknownst to us both our bedroom was infested with the little blood suckers and we had to douche our entire apartment and purchase a new bed. I swear I am NOT a dirt-bag. I'm convinced I got them from a laundromat and will not ever go to them anymore. The one requirement I had for my solo apartment after leaving him was a washer/dryer hook-up.

4. I can't function with long fingernails. I keep them really short because simple tasks such as pulling up my pants become nearly impossible for me. This is tragic because I LOVE the look of a French manicure. For that reason, when I get a pedicure (which is very infrequent, mind you) that I get a French Pedicure. I even have a picture of my toes adorning their first French-style pedicure!

5. I have never imbibed alcohol to the point of vomiting. I REALLY hate to puke. If I feel I am anywhere close to the puke limit, I stop immediately. The idea of upchucking into a throne while inebriated is all the motivation I need to put on the brakes. I have, however, eaten till I puke. Which is, of course, something I'm not proud of. I just didn't want you all to get the idea that I'm perfect ;-) We're not talking eating disorder either, we're talking no self control where chocolate is concerned.

6. One of my baby toes faces the wrong direction. I broke it on a pool side chair and it turned so that the nail is facing out. My sister calls it my alien toe. The other baby toe experienced a similar incident with a door jam, but that one stayed at a 45 degree angle from the rest of the toes and a trip to the emergency room to have it set was in order. Ahh, good times.

7. I don't wear makeup of any kind. Don't get the point. For me, there is an acne issue. I put on makeup, then zits pop up like chicken pox. Then, more makeup is required to cover said zits. It's a vicious cycle. And, mascara makes my eyes itch. Inevitably, I forget that I have it on, I rub my eyes, and spend the day looking like a raccoon or a victim of violence. Luckily, I have a natural type of beauty that doesn't require artificial enhancement :-)

So....what's your guess?

The New Girl

2007-02-20T21:23:00.000-05:00

I started my new job. I've put in three 10 hour days and foresee lotsa mounds of paperwork in my future. I'm still undecided as to whether or not the job will be rewarding, but at this point I do feel as though I made the right decision. I think the experience will help immensely in future job pursuits. And there are perks, like, I have my very own desk. I never had my very own desk before! I've spent the last three days agonizing over how I should go about decorating my personal space. Currently I'm going minimalist but I think I'm going to commission a couple of artists I know to make me some pieces. They work cheap, a couple of cookies as incentive and these artists will put paint to paper like Picassos in the making.

And, I work with some really nice girls. Really nice. Super duper nice.

Too nice.

Like, gag me nice.

Like, you can't possibly be this nice for real nice. I can't handle chicks like this with their singsong voices and their super sweetness. I'm not one of those chicks. I'm nice, and I'm friendly, and I'm outgoing. But I don't raise my voice several octaves while carrying on a conversation. And, I'm not excited every time someone comes in the room (HI!!! HOW ARE YOU?! I know we just saw each other yesterday, but HI, HOW are you??!!!!) And I'm sorry, I realize that the folks we work with are mentally ill, but they're not children. If you spoke to me that way, with your singy songy tone I would slap you. I have a feeling I'm going to be the outcast in super fakey catty nicey girl land. But that's ok. I can handle it.

Perhaps I'm being to harsh. Perhaps these girls are sincerely very nice people. I don't intend to be mean or rude, and I intend to keep an open mind, but I sure as hell have no intention of acting like every person that walks into the office is my long lost best friend. I intend to continue speaking at the same decibel and for the love of all that is holy, please do not invite me to a purse party.

Quick Update

2007-02-17T23:22:00.000-05:00

First of all, I apologize for the lengthy time period between posts. I had some kind of weird seasonal depression set in and I didn't want to doom and gloom my readers. Nobody wants the amout of sad negativity I would have spewed had I posted.

But, I seem to be better now. I accepted the job and just completed my second full day. It has been an eventful week. I had to call in sick on my first day because I was attacked by a stomach bug that tried to take my life (okay, that's a slight exaggeration but it sure as hell didn't feel it at the time) and I couldn't stray far from either my bed or the bathroom. Then we had a winter's worth of snow dumped on us in less than 24 hours. Then our computer crashed. So...I'm attempting to compose this post on our new laptop which is seriously testing my typing skills. I can't even begin to guess how many times my left pinky had hit the caps lock instead of the a in the last 10 minutes.

It's late, and I just got home from a 10 hour shift wherein I saw lots of mentally ill adults, so please forgive me if this post is short and slightly less than inspired. I promise to update soon...damn blogger made me switch to beta today. Forcibly! Can you believe that?!

Summa Cum Laude Naivete

2007-02-01T13:21:00.000-05:00

I got my degree in the mail today. In September of 2004 I returned to college. Having survived my divorce, stood on my own 2 feet financially, and having had a wonderful taste of being on my own, I set out to return to school and attain an education which would render me able to help my fellow man. Mind you, not a career path that would lead to my being in the financial category of Bill Gates, Donald Trump, or the Bushes, but one that would leave me comfortable at the end of a work week; comfortable that I had spent at least 40 hours doing my part to better the lives of others, and making myself and family comfortable financially. I spent the last two years in a caffeine induced trance, stressing over grades, commuting weather, and trying to understand the new fangled way of doing research*. So, here I am, a Summa Cum Laude** graduate with a Bachelor's degree, anxiously anticipating a great job. One that will make me feel as though this education was a good idea. One that will make June not stressful when those student loans come due.

The universe is laughing at me today. HA. Poor naive creature.

I have until tomorrow to accept or decline a job offer I received yesterday. I will be making the same wage I did while working in retail before returning to school. The hours are crap and the pay isn't enough to cover my monthly bills. I will have to continue waiting tables for the time being in order to make ends meet. There is no guarantee that I will advance to a higher position, but the job is a county job and the benefits are really good. I'm told my job will be broken into thirds, one third client contact, one third paperwork, and one third cleaning.

Yup, that's right, one third cleaning. C-L-E-A-N-I-N-G.

But, theoretically, I will have the opportunity to assist adults with mental illness to either move onto, or return to fully funtioning active lives in the community. I will be mentoring, teaching life skills (like CLEANING), and being a source of support. I have to put my money where my mouth is, and decide what it's worth to me to help others. Am I willing to work a little harder? Start at the bottom, in the trenches with those that need my help? Or do I want to take the easier path. The one where I hold out for a Monday through Friday job. One that's less messy, and has a little more distinction than "residential counselor".

I want to be an art therapist, but a Master's degree is in order for me to do so. A Master's degree is not in the cards right now. I have to get several more ducks in a row before I pursue that dream.

So, I have to make a decision tomorrow whether or not to take this position and make the most of it, or whether I should hold out a little while for something 'better' to come along. It's a gamble either way. As our poker buddies would tell you, I'm a lousy gambler. I'll let you know what I decide.

*When I was a wee lass, we went to the library and combed through articles. Nowadays it's all about random article searches on your home school's data base. Sounds easier, but I'm not convinced.

**Wanna hear something funny? I had to google Summa Cum Laude because I thought Magna was higher and I was pissed. Perfectionism is hard to overcome!

I Know Memes are stupid...

2007-01-29T12:29:00.000-05:00

...but this one looked like fun, so, indulge me for a moment, OK?

A- available or single? Der.

B- best friend? 2x4, J, whoever gives me a good tip.

C- cake or pie? Warm apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Or blueberry. Or Key Lime. Or pecan.

D- drink of choice? Alcohol.

E- essential item I use every day: Deodorant. Otherwise, I wouldn't have any friends. I sweat. Secret is Ph balanced for chicks like me.

F- favorite color? Is it possible to have a favorite color? I like the combination of sage green and yellow, and the combination of red and purple. This is a dumb question.

G- gummy bears or gummy worms? Neither, how about I just chew on some sugar coated candle wax? Mmmm.

H- hometown? Yeah, like I'm gonna tell you that.

I- indulgence? Anything chocolate. And organic, fair trade products. It's expensive being ethically and environmentally aware.

J- january or february? What the hell kind of question is that?

K-kid's names: Judy and Peter. You know, from Jumanji? The brother and sister with active imaginations that get into and out of all sorts of trouble together? Yeah, that's our kids.

L- life is incomplete without? Good wine, romantic evenings, friends and family, sunny days, and oxygen.

M- marriage date: THIS SUMMER!

N- number of siblings: This is complicated. Technically? 1 half sibbling, and 3 step stibblings. Truthfully? A sister. She's all that counts.

O- oranges or apples? Apples, with sharp cheese. Oooh...and they make a great grilled sandwich together too, on multi-grain bread, or sourdough!

P- phobias or fears? Drowning. Heights. Spiders. Driving long distances alone and getting lost.

Q- favorite quote? "I do not believe in the creed professed be the Jewish church, by the Roman church, by the Greek church, nor by any church that I know of. My mind is my own church. Sin lies only in hurting others unnecessarily. All other "sins" are invented nonsense." -Robert A. Heinlein

R- reasons to smile? Farts. Farts are funny. Well, except when the smell lingers for too long, then the humor seems to decrease.

S- season? Autumn. Summer's a close second. Spring's too soggy and winter's too damn cold.

T- tag: Nobody. Tagging is stupid unless you're in elementary school and running around on the playground.

U- unknown fact about me: I could not tell you the location of all the contiguous United States, but I could list them for you alphabetically on demand.

V- vegetable you don’t like: peas, brussells sprouts and lima beans. What's the point of any of those? They're all NASTY.

W- worst habit: Procrastination. Why do today what you can put off for tomorrow? That's my motto.

Y- your favorite food? If I had to narrow it down to one thing: Chocolate. However, food is one of those things that life would be much less enjoyable without. The key is in variety, and trying new things.

Z- zodiac? The big dipper. ;-)

Wasn't that fun?

Dumb-Ass

2007-01-23T08:10:00.000-05:00

Lets say that you go out to a restaurant for lunch. Then, let's say that you leave your $300 sunglasses behind on the table with your doggie bagged food. Let's say that your server then puts both the food and the sunglasses aside and assumes you'll be back for them. Then we'll assume that you didn't come back right away (didn't notice that these things were missing until the next day) and when you call the restaurant they've lost your glasses. They were put aside but apparently someone swiped them.

Is this the restaurant's fault? Or maybe, just MAYBE it comes down to personal accountability. Maybe, instead of calling the restaurant 5 times a day every day, pulling strings with your state trooper husband who has the waitress come down to the station to make a statement and practially accuses her of stealing the prescious commodity that is your eyewear (the very eyewear that you LEFT BEHIND), maybe, just maybe, you could accept the fact that you screwed up. You made the mistake of leaving your beloved sunglasses on a table in a restaurant and didn't notice when you stepped back out into the sun that your eyes hurt. Yeah, it sucks, but let's face it, with your husband's trooper salary, you can afford a new pair. And if you can't, maybe this should be a lesson to you. If you're incapable of taking care of your stuff, buy cheaper stuff. Loser.

Here's Why I'm Not in Science

2007-01-13T10:24:00.000-05:00

At about 1:40 this morning the alarm in the living room began screeching. I hopped out of bed, adrenaline flowing, to see what was going on...expecting smoke or some such. By the time I got to the living room the alarm had stopped, and there were no signs of fire. Moments later 2x4 yelled from the bedroom, "What is it?" By this time I had decided there was no imminent danger and was mid way through bladder relief, because if I'm gonna have to get dressed and get out the door quickly, I need an empty bladder. "I don't know" was my intellectual response from the throne.

Then I went back to bed, asked 2x4 if the alarm is a carbon monoxide detector or a fire alarm. He didn't know, turned off the furnace, and went to back to sleep in .02 seconds, just enough time to mutter, "Well, at least if we die, we'll die together." Great.

So I spent the next 2 hours wide awake in bed trying to recall if it's carbon monoxide or dioxide that's the deadly gas. I couldn't remember this basic tid-bit of high school chemistry knowledge and it was keeping me awake. When I first went to college, it was as a science major. I was going to go into environmental science and save the world. Then I took Chem. 101 and within two weeks of the first class changed my major to liberal arts. I just couldn't wrap my artistic brain around the concept of letters and their little number buddies representing atoms and elements and such. Don't EVEN get me started on calculus! The area beneath a curve? You're KILLIN' me! Ask me who painted "Scream" (No, it wasn't Van Gough!) but don't ask me if the tasteless, odorless, faceless gas that is potentially going to kill me while I sleep has one or two Oxygens. I. Don't. Know.

This morning I decided to make biscotti. (Yes we survived the evening, it seems as though the alarm simply wanted us to be aware of its presence and had a little melt down. The alarm once again feels appreciated and has calmed itself). Anyway, I LOVE biscotti. We have a local bakery that charges 2 bucks a slice and I've decided that's too damn much, so I'm making some.

Except, I couldn't figure out how much 1/3 a cup of butter was in terms of conveniently portioned tablespoons drawn on the label of my butter stick. I actually had to ask 2x4 to do the math for me. He took a knife to the stick and handed me a chunk.

"I'm not retarded, you know!"

"I never said you were." Was his calm, loving reply.

I guess I'll just go sip my coffee and eat my biscotti while I make the world pretty with my art. I'll leave the hard math and science to others. Maybe that's why they charge two dollars a slice...all that hard math.

Stuff

2007-01-06T23:26:00.000-05:00

Be forwarned, this post will be completely random, and jump between topics that to the reader seem disjointed and unrelated. However, it will make total sense from my perspective. This is how my brain works...and there will be zillions of gramatical errors.

I have had several shots of alcohol tonight in spite of the fact that I decided a week ago this coming Monday that I will not have alcohol for a week. I didn't make it. Sometimes, you need a little something to make it through.

Why?

Because I'm still a waitress and people still suck. Oh, wait, I'm a waitress with a Bachelor's degree (I think) but I can't seem to find a job.

Why do I only think I have a degree? Well, you see, there are holds on my account. That means I owe the college money. I just put $1200 on my charge cards a couple of weeks ago to pay my tuition, but I'm thinking those damn library fees are coming back to haunt me. If I don't pay the $60 late fee for the books I never read, they'll hold my diploma (that I paid $50 for). Jerks.

So why am I drinking? Because I'm tired of being treated like trash by strangers and being forced to take it. I actually got in a customer's face tonight and sarcastically told her that it had been a pleasure waiting on her. Why? Because she was throwing my tip money back into her daughter's lap while announcing, "She doesn't deserve it!" Details: Irrelevant. I did deserve it after putting up with that heinus bitch for the length of an entire meal. (I have no idea if I spelled heinus correctly). Oh, and that waiterrant guy? No WAY is he that calm and collected all the time. NO. WAY.

How the hell do people find jobs in fields that aren't main-stream? They sure as hell didn't teach me THAT in college. The career counselors helped me write a resume and cover letter, but that's where their useful assistance ended. The director of my program spoke of 98% placement rates and such, but, um, I must be in the 2 percentile that sucks at searching for a job and is doomed to waitressdom.

Oh, and I did take a moment to contemplate the idea of losing my job tonight over that woman. I paused and reflected on how long it would take me to find a job after being fired for harassing her in the parking lot about how sorry I am that her life has been so awful that she must be cruel to perfect strangers who have done nothing to her. I decided against it. Searching for a job while you have a job is tricky enough. An unemployed job search, I imagine, would be slightly more stressful.

I waited on the proprietor of my restaurant tonight (no biggy, I do it all the time, guaranteed 20 smackers) he's in his late seventies, and somehow suckered me into a conversation about religion. That was fun. The topic of religion is RIGHT up there with politics. No, I don't like George Dubya, and yes, I'm a bleeding heart liberal who doesn't believe in organized religion. If you really want to have either conversation with me, be prepared to provide the alcohol.

Today, I seriously had a knot in my stomach because it was too warm outside for this season. Rush Limbaugh (I'm too lazy to google the proper spelling, but you all know who I'm talking about) is an asshole, global warming is real, der.

I won't put people's take out food in plastic bags becuase they're awful for the environment. I've had altercations with management about this. I win. You've gotta stand for something, right?

Well, the DiSaranno sedative is kicking in now. So, my reader, I bid you goodnight. I used to have more readers and commenters, then I stopped blogging so much, and they went away. 2x4 on the other hand is a regular blogging jock, he's got bloggers all over the place who just love his blog. It's not that I'm jealous or anything, it's just that I'm, well, jealous.

No, not really, der. It's a BLOG.

Overheard in NYC

2006-12-27T15:01:00.000-05:00

"This looks cool...does anyone want to go with me?" Asks a young woman looking at a flyer just handed to her as she wandered the streets of NYC the weekend before Christmas.

"I think you have to be 21 to go." Responds her companion.

"Then why did she hand this to me?!" The young woman asks incredulously.

"She hands one to everyone, honey." Her companion gently explains to her.

I didn't hear the rest. I was too busy laughing. I'm easily amused.

Home

2006-12-21T19:57:00.000-05:00

For the first thirteen years of my life I lived in the same house. My mother kept it and all of it's headaches after she and my father divorced. I loved every square inch of that house. When I was thirteen my step-father's last surviving parent died, leaving her house unoccupied, so my mother and her husband saw fit to move into the newly uninhabited abode.

That house was where I lived until I was 19 and left the nest. It never felt like home to me. I remember coming to that realization when I was about 16 years of age. From the time we moved in until the time I moved out, I felt like I was living in someone else's home. Of course, it didn't help that we acquired all of his parent's furniture, antiques, drapes, and dishes, as we couldn't afford to replace everything and his parent's belongings were nicer than anything we owned prior. So, I guess, in essence, we were living in someone else's home; filled with their decorations, their tastes, and their memories. It was a house filled with ghosts. It still is, but that's another post all together.

Tonight, as I was baking Christmas cookies while 2x4 and the kids were reading books in the next room, I shut off the hall light and suddenly found myself overflowing with a sense of being home. It's not a house, it's not as big as we'd like it to be, and I can't afford to decorate the way I would like; but it's our home, and I can't think of anything more comfortable or appealing than that simple feeling.

Christmas Confusion

2006-12-20T08:42:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I'm a little slow, mentally I mean. Here's an example:

When I was somewhat younger than I am now, I sat down and really thought about the Christmas song wherein mommy is caught smooching Santa Claus. I was really upset by the whole thing. I couldn't believe that someone would go and write a song about mommy cheating on daddy with old St. Nick. It was so wrong! I felt so bad for daddy, the poor unsuspecting soul!

It wasn't until about the age of 14 (approximately 8 years after discovering the truth about the jolly old elf) that I got it.

Der.

Tis the Season for Giving

2006-12-13T09:43:00.000-05:00

Check out this guy's photography. His name is Gilad Benari, he lives in Israel, and his work is just plain incredible. I've been admiring his stuff on the DeviantArt website for a while now, and since he's selling his work I figured I'd use my blogging powers of good to spread the word.

I know nothing about him that isn't on the Deviant site. I sent him and email today just to compliment him...I think he deserves the kudos.

These are the Screwed Up Days of Our Lives.

2006-12-11T23:00:00.000-05:00

My coworkers periodically find occasion to hang out together. Some individuals give open invitations to the entire staff to come and hang out at their home and some simply go to the bars to party together. Either way, they all have a single goal and that is to get as inebriated as possible.

I do neither of those things for two reasons.
One: I don't really like my coworkers.
Two: Drinking to oblivion got old when I was like, 21 and 3 days old.

As of this evening I can add a third reason to the list.
Three: The cook, his son, and a third man will beat some unsuspecting soul to a bloody pulp.

Our cook is an interesting man. He has a bit of a temper but I've yet to meet a cook without that quality...you try working in a room that feels like Hades and be chipper all the time-it's a tough proposition.

Our cook's son was recently released from prison. He's 22 and was involved in several incidents which cumulatively lead to him spending a year in prison. The cook's 19 year old daughter recently had a baby and is supported by her dad as she hasn't worked since well before the baby was born, and of course the baby's father isn't involved. The three of them have a friend who washed dishes in the restaurant for a while and gave me the creeps from day one. You know how some people are just bad news? They ooze it? Well, this guy fit the bill.

Last night one of the waitresses extended an open invitation to the entire staff to join her and her boyfriend in their home for a holiday party.

I'm not sure of the specific events leading up to the horrific bloody scene that became their living room, as all of this is via other people (I, of course, was not there, for reasons one and two)...but the long and short of it is the host wanted The Cook and his entourage (son and creepy guy) to leave. The three of them decided instead to beat him almost to death. He is hospitalized with a busted nose, he has a huge gash on his neck and he has several broken ribs. Oh, and they trashed his house; broke windows and destroyed the interior.

The Cook's son and creepy guy are both on probation, so chances are they're both going to be locked up again (his son called the waitress today begging her not to press charges). The waitress and her beau are of course pressing charges, so chances are that The Cook will also spend some time behind bars.

What do you think the odds are that The Cook's grandson will be an upstanding and contributing member of society one day?

As promised.

2006-12-10T08:53:00.000-05:00

Here it is. After much anticipation (I'm sure) I give you my senior art project...You've read my artist statement (hopefully)...so you understand that each piece of artwork represents a role that I currently play.

This one is Sister. Done with graphite pencil and tissue paper collage.

This one is Friend. Watercolor.

This one is Woman...you can't see them in the picture but she is balancing a variety of adjectives such as nurturing and fierce, aloof and available, etc. It's a combination of charcoal and chalk pastel.

Der...Waitress. Acrylic paint. Does she look miserable? 'Cause that's what I was going for. And she looks nothing like me so that my role as waitress will not live on in infamy.

This one is Environmentalist. Incase you can't tell what the hell it is...it's a landscape scene created entirely out of found objects like used Hershey Kiss wrappers (damn those were good cookies!) and oregano, and grass clippings and pine needles and crumpled autumn leaves...

There are more, but I'm either uncomfortable showing them (because they're not all that good) or because I'm too lazy to upload any pictures, either way, I figure this should be enough, right?

Merry F^#*ing Christmas

2006-12-06T07:25:00.000-05:00

The other day I took 2x4's daughter (henceforth to be known as Judy) to the mall to run a variety of errands. Whilst in the parking lot, at a four way intersection, I was about to take my rightful turn when a guy hugged the bumper ahead of him and doubled up as they both slipped through. I hit the brakes in order to keep from hitting the Jack-Ass (and of course couldn't say or do anything that I normally would because there was a 9 year old girl in the back seat). THEN the guy flips ME off as he barrels through! Gawd was I pissed!

Last night 2x4 and I ventured to the mall so that I could purchase an outfit for his company Christmas party. 2x4 is like my fashion consultant. He puts things together that I would never even give a second glance, but then fall in love with. He was blessed with the fashion sense that evaded me. So, I was in a tiny two stall dressing room, and he would periodically show up with a shirt or jacket for me to try on. At one point a woman came in and used the other stall. It wasn't until later that I realized her intermittent mumbling was anger towards me. I just thought she was a little weird. Then as she left, she snidely asked me "Does your husband always dress you?"

I was in the stall with my shirt off and the door closed, so it took a minute for me to detect the hostility. I simply responded, "No, he doesn't ever dress me, but I value his opinion" (you miserable self-righteous bitch). Then a minute or two passed and I asked, "Do you always ask inappropriate questions of strangers?" The much more pleasant woman who was now occupying the stall said, "She's gone." I replied, "I know, that's why I said that" She laughed and we agreed that the woman was miserable but that it takes all types.

Then the miserable bitch went and complained so a sales person who then came to tell him to take 2 steps back so that he was technically outside of the bath tub sized dressing room because store policy says that men cannot be in the dressing room.

It's the most wonderful time of the year...but I guess jerks are jerks all the time. I shouldn't expect a reprieve just because mistletoe is in season. Humbug.

I still love the season...I think the random hostility is bothering me more than usual because I'm feeling festive and I want it to be contagious.

Artist Statement

2006-12-01T08:56:00.000-05:00

This is my statement, as it appears next to my work. 2x4 said it was too wordy, what does he know? The reception went well although I got bloated on cheese and crackers, and my feet hurt from walking around town in my high heels all afternoon. My camera battery died, so I don't have pictures of my work. Consider this a teaser, I'll post the art work later. (BTW, that's a watercolor I did in the background)

Artistic Finale*

2006-11-30T12:40:00.000-05:00

This evening is my big art show. As an art therapy major, I am required to do a "senior project" which means I have to concoct a theme and create some artistic creation to be hung in the school gallery at the end of the semester, sort of a culmination of my artistic experiences and accomplishments thus far.

Of course, I am now stuck on campus because my only class of the day ended at 10:30 this morning, and the reception doesn't start until 4. The price of gas is too damn high for me to drive home and back, so I'm stuck on campus trying to figure out what the hell to do with myself. I am so not going to miss this when I graduate.

I also won't miss the empty purse, the lack of free time, complicated scheduling, the sneering snide witches in the student services office, the late nighters sitting in front of the computer, zombified, waiting for an eloquent paper to flow the long bumpy path from my brain to my fingers (thank GOODNESS for thesaurus.com). I won't miss the hours spent combing Ebscohost's pages of journal articles and reading abstract after abstract, skimming twenty before I find one that just might be relevant to my topic. I won't miss APA format or the bear of a commute in a winter wonderland as my white knuckles grip the stearing wheel and I quietly mumble "stay on the road, stay on the road..." I won't miss due dates, ugh, not one bit.

As unenticing as all of those things are, I will miss academia, the buzz of energy that constantly flows through the campus. I'll miss open minds, constructive criticizm, people thirsty for knowledge, the crammed computer lab at the end of the semester, full of clicking keys and camaraderie about impending due dates and exams. I'll miss those AHA! moments, when that concept which has evaded me finally clicks into place. I'll miss my classmates, the ones who have been in the trenches with me, the ones who truly understand how amazing this profession is, and can relate to the lack of respect we receive from all the other departments on campus. I'll miss commiserating over papers and artistic endeavors, and our choices for the future. I'll miss being around a group of people who share my passion, and can truly understand how freakin' awesome it is that I ran an art therapy group with 15 adolescents ALONE.

I think I'm ready to start opening the doors in front of me. I just hope I don't choose the room holding the famished lion.

*I'll try posting my artist statement and pictures within the week, so that those of you who are interested can get a glimpse of my wonderous accomplishment.

Acceptance*

2006-11-25T23:09:00.000-05:00

My sister recently adopted a puppy from our local animal shelter and had to stop in to ask a question. I accompanied her. It was awful. BIG mistake. It smelled, and there were sad animals in cages everywhere.

I'm an animal lover from way back. I'm also allergic to just about any kind of fur. I decided as a child that the fates were playing some depraved prank...like they decided, "This child shall love all animals and be miserable, watery, itchy and wheezy every time she comes into contact with one" (cue the heartless deep laughter).

Now I realize that the fates were preparing me for the fact that I would fall in love with a dog hater.

My sister and I left the shelter and immediately contacted our significant others, pleading with them on behalf of the 80 plus puppies, 20 plus adult canines, and who-knows how many cats. We both were ready to be the saviors of at least one of the numerous lost mammal souls.

My sister's beau actually humored her for several days. They even commited to taking a puppy until her beloved decided, the night prior to puppy acquisition, that he wasn't ready for slobbery raucous devil number two. She called me in a fit of tears, sad that the puppy would spend Thanksgiving alone, and riddled with guilt because she had told the shelter she would take him off of their hands and now had to rescind. I consoled her, explained that puppies are the first to get adopted, and assured her that this cute little pup had no idea that the country would be gorging on dead turkeys while he misses out on serious table scraps.

Later that afternoon a much more chipper Spaz left me a voice mail. She convinced our mother to adopt the puppy, and one more dog has been saved.

As for 2x4...he was much smarter than my sister's beau. He actually agreed to go with me to look at the dogs. This left me stupefied. 2x4 does not like dogs. His disdain for the canine population is no secret to anyone who knows him. In response to my amazement that he agreed to seriously consider my doggy proposition he said, "If getting a dog will make you happy, then I will go with you to choose a dog". Sly huh? He made me feel guilty for asking. Immediately he made it obvious that he was willing to sacrifice his own comfort for my happiness.

DAMN he's good.

Needless to say, we didn't adopt a dog. Nor did we look at the poor homeless miserable mutts or felines residing in my local animal shelter. I don't think I could go back there without a being on a well defined mission to save an animal soul by accepting it into the family. If I was capable, I'd save them all. For that matter, I'd save all of the poor souls the world over (human and otherwise), the oppressed, the victimized, the poverty stricken, the sick...but I can't.

That's a tough pill to swallow. Maybe Magoo will find a good home. Let's just assume he did, on a farm owned by animal loving happy people, with lots of room to run. Yeah, that's what happened.

Luckily, this particular shelter is a no kill shelter. That's why they have so many animals. The kill shelters bring in the ones that are on death row.

Nice huh? Seriously, I'm sure Magoo has a home. For real.

*Why is coming up with a witty title so difficult for me?

Humble

2006-11-05T12:12:00.000-05:00

At the restaurant we have a dessert cart that I have the pleasure of wheeling from table to table. We have a large variety of desserts such as Key Lime pie, Creme Brule, Bread Pudding, Cheescake, Cherry Cobbler Pie, Apple Crisp Pie, Blueberry Pie, Strawberry Rhubarb Pie, Tiramasu, Triple Chocolate Pound Cake, Toll House Pie, Peanut Butter Pie, and Chocolate Pecan Pie. In my spiel I frequently mention that my favorite selection is our Oreo Mousse, and that I consider myself somewhat of a dessert connoisseur (which is true, I've had more than my fair-share of desserts in the last 29 years).

I am never prepared when the response is, "You sure don't look it", or "You look too skinny to be a dessert connoisseur" or, "How is that possible, you're too slim?". I am by no means a large woman. I am however, not exactly petite. I have struggled with my weight since well before puberty hit; when I lived on mayonnaise sandwiches, cinnamon toast, and hot dogs with the ends cut off because they looked like belly buttons. I am caught off guard because I don't think of myself as slender enough that strangers should feel compelled to comment and I NEVER know how to respond. My responses have varied from, "Ummmm, thanks" to "It's the black pants, they're deceiving". It's uncomfortable, though clearly the delivery is meant as a compliment. Compliments are nice, right? Indeed, we all need them sometimes.

During the last twenty four hours The Girl has innocently informed me that I have a lot of gray hair and look old, that I have a yellow tooth, that I have a lot of acne, that I have a large portion of eye lashes missing, and that I have weird ears. It's a good thing she's around. Otherwise all of those compliments might just go to my head.

Can I?

2006-10-31T15:20:00.000-05:00

As I take in the negativity
I wonder if I have the strength in me
To help those who have yet to decide
If they're willing to embark on the long ride
To a place where their troubles no longer have control
A place where the bad doesn't have hold
A place where excuses are no longer a crutch
A place where they can count on themselves in a clutch.
I wonder if I have the fortitude
To see past the tough guy attitude
To tap into their inner vulnerability
To show them that they matter to me.

Art Therapy 101

2006-10-21T10:45:00.000-04:00

Have you ever lost yourself in creating something? Perhaps you're upset and you bake cookies, become absorbed in creating delectable goodies, and the experience is cathartic. Maybe you enjoy crafts, and you lose yourself in scrapbooking, or candle making, or Christmas gift creating. Maybe you enjoy drawing, or painting, or writing, and you're aware of little else while absorbed in accomplishing an artistic product. Maybe you listen to music, and are carried away to another conscious level by a melody, or lyrics. Quite possibly you write poetry or journal and find that this form of expression is soothing.

This simple idea, finding catharsis in artistic expression is one aspect of art therapy.

Does a piece of artwork ever speak to you? Does the image say something that words cannot? Have you ever viewed art that transcends words and becomes another form of communication?

This idea, that an art creation may become another form of communication, one beyond words, is another aspect of art therapy.

Within an art therapy context, creating an image utilizing art materials and metaphor is a way for individuals to make a problem external, and easier to solve, conquer, or manage.

Also, art creation can, on occasion, reach into the unconscious, tap into thoughts, emotions, and feelings that are under the surface; things that haven't emerged, but are causing turmoil within.

I am just skimming the surface here folks. This field is multi-faceted. It is complicated. It is amazing. It is underestimated and underappreciated.

Art therapists work with a HUGE variety of populations. There is group work and individual work. Some facilities use art therapy with patients on an extremely short term basis (gotta love managed health care). Yet some art therapists are fortunate enough to work with clients over an extended period of time.

Generally, and art directive is given (I'll give specific examples in another post) the client creates art work, and then the therapist and client discuss the piece, or what the client thought about while creating the piece, or what emotions were invoked while creating...and a myriad of other topics.

Ahhh...but that's not all! My degree will be a Bachelor's in Creative Arts in Therapy with a Visual Arts concentration. My school has 4 concentrations. The others are; Dance/Movement, Music, and Theatre. Each one is pretty amazing, but I won't drag this post out any longer with details on each one.

I needed to write this post tonight because I had an awful night at work. I needed to remind myself that I won't be a god-damned waitress forever, and that I really, really believe in this field. I needed to give myself the reassurance that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and that all of the choices I've made so far have not been wrong.

If you're intrigued and would like further info on art therapy please check the following link, because, like I said, I haven't even skimmed the surface on this stuff and it's incredible.

American Art Therapy Association

Oh, and there are internship details to follow as well as more entertaining writing, I graduate in December. Then, LOOK OUT! I'll have time to blog once again.

I'm not Alexander Today*

2006-10-12T15:22:00.000-04:00

Do you ever have a day when your senses seem to function on a higher level?

A day when the autumn colors are more vibrant and intense, and you're dazzled by their beauty?

A day when you notice a lone Blue Jay soaring through the treetops as you're driving down the highway at 70 miles an hour?

A day when that upbeat song on the radio seems to put you in an even better mood than usual?

A day when you drive by the diner where you had those savory waffles and you can taste the strawberries and whip cream once again?

A day when you see a woman smoking a cigarette, dressed in a puffy down jacket, driving her mini-van out of a gas station; and imagine that she is hurried to drop off her children at the sitters in order to make it to work on time?

A day when you imagine that young guy walking down the road, clad in Dockers, a dress shirt, and a neck tie is someone who has finally decided that going out with his friends and getting drunk on the weekends isn't as enjoyable as it used to be, and he's decided that he's ready to settle down?

A day when you can sit down, break out the watercolors, and not worry at all if the final project will be a masterpiece?

A day when you seem impervious to the minor annoyances that occasionally make you tense and anxious?

A day when the sky seems bluer than usual?

A day when you're inspired to take the time to compose a blog post, and don't care in the least if it's full of run-on sentences?

Today I'm having one of those days.

*I'm referring to the children's book, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. If you don't have a copy of this book, you should get one.

**And the sketch is mine...a totally random selection.

------------------------------------------------------------------------
Addendum:

2x4 is making vegetarian crab cakes, and we're drinking organic red wine.

*sigh*

This is such a good day...

Returning to School as an Adult 101

2006-10-09T22:40:00.000-04:00

I promised a post about my internship, but I think this requires a little background information. If I've mentioned all of this before, I apologize, I don't want to be redundant, simply efficient, but I can't remember if I've said all of this before.

Anyhoo...

After my divorce I decided that I needed some major life changes. I didn't like the general direction in which my life was headed (working in miserable dead-end retail jobs for crappy pay and barely making ends meet while residing in the town where I grew up and never, ever escaping...get the picture?) So, I did what people do when this is their dilemma, I decided to go back to school. Except, I still had NO idea what I wanted to be when I grew up and had NO idea where to start. I got through step 1: Choose to make a change, but I needed some help with step 2: Choose a path and run with it.

The career counselor at the local community college where I earned my Associate's Degree in liberal arts was my savior. I took this test-sorta-thing called a Strong Interest Inventory. It weighs your interests against those of professionals in a variety of careers and determines with whom you share the most 'interests'

My top three:
Photography
Fine Arts
Social Work

Great. THAT'S helpful. You know how lucrative the fine arts are (incase you don't, they're not for like 95% of the world's artists). I live in a small town with about 5 professional photography studios, yeah, that market's been tapped. Everyone I spoke with told me that social work is awful and thankless.

I posed the following question to the career counselor, "Is there such a thing as 'Art Therapy'?

He said yes, found me a college within commuting distance that had a program and I began step two...BOY did I run with it! I ran with it in a totally irresponsible way. I didn't check the job market, I didn't research what the hell art therapy was, and I didn't punch numbers to figure out how ON EARTH I was going to make ends meet for the duration of my schooling. I wanted a direction, I didn't want to plan it all out (for once in my life), I wanted to go crazy and chase a dream (how's that for cheesy? It's true though!)

As I've mentioned recently, I'll graduate at the end of this semester. I have studied art therapy for 2 and a half years. I believe in it, I'm passionate about it, and I'm thrilled that I've had this educational experience.

However...the problem is...well, I didn't check the job market. And...there are.no.jobs.

I think I have options...I think. I won't really know until I officially graduate and start pounding the pavement, but I'm panicking right about now about what on earth I'll be doing 6 months from now...I don't have a plan, and that's REALLY not how I've done things for the last 29 years.

Well...where am I going with this? To my inspiring, wonderful, exciting, informative, and helpful internship...which I have to go to in the morning. Right now it's eleven o'clock, and I'm kinda awfully tired.

So...my next post will be: What the heck is art therapy 101. I know people will ask this question, I've been trying to figure out how to answer that question in 10 words or less for two years. It's impossible. It will require an entire post, which I will of course offer to you, my faithful readers, who I'm certain are on the edge of your seats!

I'm Still Here!

2006-10-06T16:12:00.000-04:00

I realize that I have been awful lately when it comes to posting. Rest assured, my blog has not been the sole victim of my malaise. I've been procrastinating with papers, art projects, housework, work, and just about anything that requires motivation.

I don't seem to have any.

It's not that I'm unhappy, I'm not. I'm still happy overall, I'm still madly in love, intending to get married, finishing up school and all that jazz. I think I'm suffering from extreme burn out. I dislike my job, I'm tired of school...how much text book reading, research, paper writing, test taking, graded art projects, and commuting can one person do in 2 and a half years? Well, whatever the quantity, I fear I have reached my limit.

I think this is one of the reasons I've been 'obsessing' (2x4's word) about changing my blog skin. I need to eke out inspiration from wherever I can.

So...I bring you the new look.

It's a little plain and simple, but hey, so am I!

See that blank margin on the right? I wanna put some of my artwork and such over there. Eventually I'll figure out this damn html stuff enough to do just that. For now, I'll try to be inspired by the subtle turquoise margins.

I have to jet off to my humbling job right now, but I intend to do a post within the next day or two about my internship, so please come back. I know I've been neglecting my limited faithful readers.

Oh, and this blog skin change thing only happened because of the advice I got from commenters. I seriously had no idea where to begin. I found this skin on Blogskins.com. They have LOTS of stuff. Thanks, shpprgrl! (she recommended them).

Anger Management

2006-09-28T10:57:00.000-04:00

I realize that it's been a while since I last posted (as ThursdayNext pointed out in the comments section!). I apologize to my faithful readers, but I've been both unmotivated and had too many time restraints since school began. I'm interning with an art therapist this semester, and although the experience is wonderful, it is also draining and time consuming.

I'll get into internship details another time, as it is an inspiring experience worthy of multiple blog posts. Today, I'm going to rant a little. I am on campus as I type this amazing literary accomplishment. Why am I on campus typing a blog post, you ask? Well, I'm killing time waiting for a phone call from the Dean's secretary. She is currently researching to whom I need to direct my extreme dismay and incredulity that I must PAY a $50 fee in order to apply to graduate.

So, you're telling me that a tuition of between $25,000 and $30,000 a year, additional applied art fees for every class I take, completion of 70 credit hours, and a 4.0 GPA isn't enough? Must you SMACK me in the face with a fee to graduate? Am I not poverty stricken enough? Seriously? FIFTY dollars?

So, here's my question, what if I don't have $50? Does that mean I can't graduate? Because, seriously, I don't have fifty dollars. I don't have $5. I don't have enough money to pay rent which is due in 3 days. I'm crossing my fingers, hoping that the tipping Gods smile upon me this weekend so that I can pay my rent on Sunday. Graduation applications (and their ridiculous FEES) are due by tomorrow!

Now what?

The secretary has just called and informed me who I need to speak with, but she added the caveat "I want to tell you, all colleges have this fee, so don't get your hopes too high."

Should I deflate my spirit's belief that I'm going to graduate after working my ASS of for the last 2 plus years?

Oh, and another funny thing, my wonderful state of residence says that since I make over $10,000 a year, they won't give me any aid. Can you imagine surviving on $10,000 a year?

No wonder my parents were so poor for their entire lives.

Our system is set up for the rich to keep having little rich babies who get ahead, while the rest of us schmucks try and fail to get ahead.

Aaaargh!

When I started, I swear, I didn't mean for this post to sound so negative. I guess today was "use your blog to bitch" day.

More upbeat entry promised next time around. I'm off to fight with the director of student services. Wish me luck!

***Update***

Mr. Director of Student Services was unreachable, not in his office, didn't answer the phone. I was told next to email him. Here's Our email correspondence:

Mr. Director of Student Services ,

I would like to discuss with you the graduation application fee. I anticipate graduating in December. However, I simply cannot afford the fifty dollar fee.

I'm curious what I should do at this point. The application (as I'm sure you know) is due by October 1st, and I have no way of paying the fee. Does this mean that I can't graduate?

I've been informed that you are the person with whom I should speak regarding this matter. Please advise me on what my course of action should be. Should we discuss this in person, on the phone, via email? I commute an hour, and am not on campus tomorrow, but I could make a special trip if that is the best course of action at this point.

I thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.
WiP

His response:

WiP,

The diplomas fee cannot be waived. Do you need an extension of time? If so, that is not a problem but we would have to agree upon a date.

Mr. Director of Student Services

So, there you go. I put the stupid fee on my charge card (while crossing my fingers that it wouldn't be declined). Apparently Mr. DoSS has no desire to communicate further about the fee and its relevance. What I find interesting is that the application states that you must pay this fee every time you APPLY. But he calls it a 'Diploma' fee. It should say, 'Fee must be paid for every DIPLOMA received', right? Can we opt for cheaper diplomas? I want the bargain basement one, it's just a friggin' piece of paper! It's not even a Master's degree! We're talking Bachelor's!

I want to email him back and tell him I'm thinking June 15th of 2020. Can we agree on that date Mr. DoSS?

Anyone?

2006-09-15T23:29:00.000-04:00

Do you have to be a computer genious to customize your blog skin?

I'm bored with mine, and with all the other cookie cutter skins. I want to use my creative nature and make mine more mine. But, well, what the hell is the html code for: I want a better look? And what exactly is html? How do I do this? Where do I begin?

Suggestions please.

How Proud am I?

2006-09-11T22:31:00.000-04:00

It's been a busy weekend. It's too late, and I'm too tired to offer up details, but we threw a surprise birthday/slumber party for The Girl this weekend and I've been too busy to blog. This post will be another short one, but I have to share because I had a proud parent moment the other day.

The four of us were in the car and Frank Sinatra came on the radio singing a song I've never heard. From the back seat of the car 2x4's (7 year old) boy pipes up, "This is Frank Sinatra, right?"

How many seven year olds do you know that can recognize Mr. Sinatra's crooning? I was so proud! I looked at him and said, "YEAH! You 'da MAN!"

Ok, so, the kid's cool, and I'm a little lame.

A Short Funny

2006-09-08T08:35:00.000-04:00

The other day 2x4 and I were having a conversation with a friend/coworker. The subject came around somehow to my art work. This friend posed the following question of me:

"Have you ever hung your work in a gallery for sale or anything? I could use some cheap artwork."

*Pause*

"Wait, that didn't come out right."

LUNATIC!

2006-09-06T23:02:00.000-04:00

You know how sometimes reality is more amusing than fiction? Let me share with you some of my reality this evening. It's another waitressing tale, and if you're tired of these, I'm sorry. But this one is just too good to keep to myself.

Towards the end of the evening tonight a guy came in alone and ordered a glass of wine and dinner. He looked normal enough. Yeah, well, so do lots of crazy people. Sadly, when they look normal you have no idea what's coming.

The guy was in the restaurant for MAYBE an hour. He talked my ear off every chance he got and even asked if I wanted to sit and join him (he offered to buy me a meal). HELLO! Maybe you didn't notice, usually the fact that I bring you your food and drink, and the outfit and the neck tie are dead give aways that I'M WORKING HERE.

Here's the story of Mr Crazy as told by none other than: Mr. Crazy.

Mr. Crazy travels ALL over the world. He watched the first plane hit the trade center. He was in England when all the hubub was taking place over liquid bombing materials. He was in Madrid 5 days after the subway bombings. When he travels for 'work' he goes to locations that require bodyguards to meet him and his traveling companions on the jet and escort them in bullet proof cars to their destinations. Next week he's going to China. China isn't bad unless you get lost because nobody speaks English.

He lives in a yacht in New York harbor and drives to Harlem to park his car in the morning where they think he's a school teacher so they only charge him $7 to park (he informed me that parking for a day in a garage in NYC normally costs $50). Anyhoo...Mr. Crazy then takes the C train (I think, maybe he said the A train, does it really matter) to work where he works in a big office building (yeah, he seriously said that he works in a big office building).

Mr. Crazy also has a large farm in Connecticut that is on over 700 acres. He has herds of dear in his yard. He has at least 500 'Posted' signs to keep hunters out and he employs a couple Vietnam Veteran Snipers to keep hunters from trespassing. His sons kill some of the dear. Some of the bucks his kids shoot have holes in their hind quartes deep enough for Mr. Crazy to stick his whole index finger into. (He held up his finger and said "This deep") Yup, he even told me how these holes arrive in buck butts, though he didn't mention why he's sticking his finger into them. They're from other big buck's antlers. (Little nature lesson from Mr. Insane that I'm sharing with you all).

Mr Crazy has lots of really great cars at his Connecticut 'farm'. He has several Shelby Cobras and a Ferrari. Most original Cobras are gone because they're so fast that people died in them (according to Mr. Crazy of course). Well, Mr Insanity drives his so fast that the local police have been trying to catch him for a long time. They've even resorted to using helicopters but Mr. Crazy paid a lawyer $10,000 to keep the local coppers off his back. (When he used the SHOCKING number of $10,000 he even raised his eyebrows several times in quick succession to indicate that I should show enthusiasm. I didn't).

Mr Lunatic also has a daughter who attends NYU. He has her and her friend all set up with armed body guards 'cause she's a rich American girl and sickos kidnap rich American children.

Mr. Crazy is considering buying a farm up in my neck of the woods but it has to be at least 1,000 acres so that he can have a landing strip.

Mr. Freakin' Out of His Mind vacations with the fam in the Bahamas where the water is dangerous. The coral reefs protrude from the water and the HUGE Sting Rays (you know, like the one that killed the crocodile hunter) are all over. He pays a local guy $3,000 at the beginning of their week vacation to take him and his family around and make sure they're safe.

Crazy huh? I swear I'm not making any of this up. Not a bit of it. As a matter of fact I'm even leaving some out.

His bill came to $30.

My tip: $10. Not a bad tip if you're NORMAL and I don't have to endure the pain of listening to your PREPOSTEROUS stories about your wealth and feign interest with head nods and the occasional "Wow".

Rich guy my ass.

I have to admit he freaked me out a bit and I asked the bartender walk me to my car tonight. This guy was NUTS.

This is my reality. Fun huh?

#%^&*#!!!!

2006-09-04T23:16:00.000-04:00

My heart is heavy tonight.

I work with this busser, she's fifteen years old, about four foot tall, and like greased lightning when she works. I've never seen a kid her age work harder. I like her a lot, she's a good kid.

I guess I'll just call her Sydney.

Sydney got her boyfriend a job as a busser. He sucks. He's slow, he's incompetent, and he's inept. He uses his shift to follow Sydney around. He's sixteen years of age. He has rubbed me the wrong way from day one. You know that woman's intuition thing? Yeah, well, my intuition meter says the guy's bad news. Up until tonight it hasn't mattered. What am I supposed to do? Tell Sydney her boyfriend emits a bad vibe and I'm pretty tuned in to these things? Yeah, that'd go over big. I have a tendency to get involved in shit that's none of my business so I tried to stay out of it.

Until tonight. F*^K!

Sydney's beau, I'll call him DW (I know it's harsh but DW as in 'Dick Wad'. Sometimes I get a little juvenile, so sue me!) freaked out on her tonight because she was helping the MALE dishwasher to WASH DISHES. Yup, he accused her of flirting because she had some extra time and was helping the dishwasher dig himself out of dirty dish hell. Then he acted as if he wasn't going to give her a ride home (his mom was supposed to pick them both up).

So, I stepped in. I told Sydney I'd give her a ride home, and I did just that.

Through speaking with Sydney this evening I now know that she has an awful relationship with her mom, her parents have told her that they are staying together only until she's in college, then divorcing, she used to be a cutter, she sees a therapist and doesn't feel like it helps anything, she avoids sleeping because she has nightmares every night, she did two grades of high school in one year so that she and DW would be in the same grade, she has money saved up so that she can get a nose-job, she has a couple of friends in a local psychiatric hospital, she lives in a really nice house, and she lost her virginity to DW less than a week ago.

Ugh.

CLEARLY the girl's got self esteem issues (so does DW I'd say). She's like a battered woman in the making. Her boyfriend is like a wife beater in the making. I know as a reader this probably sounds extreme, but these things start somewhere, and if you could have witnessed what did tonight you'd get it. The kitchen staff had witnessed what happened and were trying to convince her that her boyfriend was out of line as she was saying things like, "yeah, but it's partly my fault because...."

I tried to offer advice. I tried to be non-judgmental. I tried to offer some of the wisdom I've acquired over the years (yeah, I've got some!). I tried to be a new support system, something untherapist and unparent like.

I feel like I said all the wrong things.

I told her that she is beautiful even though she doesn't see it. I told her that she can come to me to talk any time. I told her that a romantic relationship shouldn't involve ridiculous unsubstantiated accusations from the person you love. I told her that feeling love at fifteen is no different or less powerful than feeling love at 30. I told her that I was in no way telling her what to do, just offering a new perspective. I said a bunch of other things but they all seem so lame and irrelevant that I can't even recall them.

She thanked me profusely before getting out of my car. She told me I gave her a lot to think about, and I told her she could come to me any time.

Ugh.

Now I'm emotionally attached. I'm invested. I care and I'm involved. I want to help, but I'm pretty sure that this is out of my jurisdiction as I have no idea what to offer a fifteen year old girl that I hardly know. I'm really not mentor material.

What the hell do I do now?

I'm going to be an awful therapist.

Yeah, my heart is really heavy tonight.

Waitress Rant

2006-09-01T23:33:00.000-04:00

It's no surprise to my readers that I loathe my job. I've certainly beaten a dead horse on the subject, but I have to rant this evening. Etiquette and common sense seem to be MIA in a wide array of people, and I need to write an open list of faux pas to potential diners out there. If you're offended, too bad. I'm not sorry.

1. If you take your kid out to a restaurant, and he/she needs a portable video game to keep him/her occupied or behaved, you're a lousy parent. It's not only rude, but pathetic. A family dinner should not need to involve electronics. Try interacting with your kids, like in the olden days.

2. Ok, my job is to bring you food and beverages. When I come to your table and say "Good evening folks!" Don't look at me in silence like I have three heads. This is formality. I'm being polite, and, just to give you a heads-up; the next question will be, "Can I start you off with some drinks this evening?" So, think ahead. I'm pretty damn demanding what with all the questions and everything.

3. If you're sitting near a baby who happens to be vocal, suck it up. Babies make noise. I'm not talking gut wrenching screaching (that is NOT okay, take the baby OUTSIDE) I'm talking loud giggles and the occasional happy squeel. Babies are allowed out in public too. Enjoy them, stop whining because they're too loud. Dominoes delivers pizza every night, stay home and enjoy the silence if babies bother you, loser.

4. When I pose the question, "How are you folks tonight?" an acknowledgment would be DANDY. A response of silence fills me with disdain. Remember, I have the power to spit in your food. Just be nice, that's all I ask.

5. If you are the last party in the restaurant, I can't go home until you leave. AND, when you leave, my work is not done. I still have to pick up after you and put up all of the chairs in the dining room. If you're going to linger, that's fine, just tip accordingly. My time is valuable, just like yours. I have a family, and a life, and bills to pay. Waiting for you is what I have to do, but keep in mind that I work for tips. I work my ASS off for tips. By the end of the night, I'm beat. Sticking around an extra hour for one table and 8 bucks is simply aggravating. I'll remember you. And I still have the power to spit in your food.

6. When you walk in the front door, and the hostess is not there, she's seating someone and she'll be back shortly. Approaching the first person you see, (like a waitress with a tray full of food over her shoulder who is walking rather quickly like she has somewhere TO BE) and telling her that you have two for dinner isn't going to get you anything, she's busy, and that's not her job. Patience people, patience.

7. It's okay to leave more than twenty percent when your bill comes to $15 and you occupied a table for two hours. I'm just sayin, don't feel obligated to keep the tip below three dollars, it's okay to bump it up to a 5 spot, I won't get upset.

8. See this big thing called a tray that I'm carrying? It's covered with hot food and heavy plates. Please keep your child from running between my legs. I'm klutzy enough contending with my own two feet, your kid's feet aren't helping me any, do you really want your kid to be burned with a cracked skull? No? I didn't think so.

9. Verbal tips don't pay my bills. I appreciate you telling me that the service was excellent and the food very good, and that you'll be back, really, I do. But when I open the book and see that you've left me 10 percent, I can't go to my landlord and say, "Here's half the rent, but table 93 said that I gave them excellent service!"

10. I'm human. I make mistakes, and I forget things. When I do, I will apologize profusely, and I will do my best to make it right. When I screw up and it effects my tip, I get that. Fair enough. But, don't be a jerk. That won't get either of us anywhere. Like you've never screwed up? PLLLLLease!

For the record, I have never spit in food. It never occurs to me to do so, I guess I'm just too nice. I will say that I have waited on a variety of people who not only deserve it, but are begging for a nice loogy in their dinner, however, I haven't gone that far. Yet. Just remember that when you dine out, the person bringing your food is a human being, not your slave. He or she may be on the verge of a breakdown and they are in control of items which are entering your digestive track. Be nice. Is that so hard, really? It goes a long way. Almost as far as a good tip.

FYI, I'm too tired and lazy to spell check this evening, so I apologize for any gramatical errors that you may unearth.

Well then, I feel a little better. Too bad I have to do it all over again tomorrow. Four more months, I graduate in four. more. months....

Strangers in a Coffee House

2006-08-26T00:03:00.000-04:00

I noticed him before he came inside. The coffee shop is located on the corner of a busy intersection. It has large windows that allow patrons to see the comings and goings on the street as they relax over espressos and other assorted beverages. He was bundled in a Mexican blanket; he had a full beard of salt and pepper. His hair was straggly but didn't appear to be grimy. On his feet he wore sandals with socks that couldn't possibly have warded off the bitter cold in the air. He clearly wasn't a local and he gave off the distinct aura of someone who had nowhere specific to go. I watched him come into the coffee shop but stopped watching him as he approached the counter. I didn't want to stare, and I feared that my companion would notice that she did not have my undivided attention.

The next time I saw him he was taking residence at the table adjacent to ours. In his hand he carried an espresso mug. I marveled at the sight. Something about a man who appeared to be near destitute sipping an espresso instead of an old fashioned cup of Joe struck me as humorous. At the same time he sparked an interest in me. He carried no belongings save the worn blanket that appeared to have been colorful earlier in its life.

After a couple of minutes he politely interrupted our conversation and inquired as to where he may purchase tobacco. We directed him to the nearest location and he thanked us profusely. I watched as he attempted to engage others in polite banter only to be rewarded with indifferent shrugs and hurried, mumbled responses.

I was mesmerized by his presence even as he fell asleep; his chin tucked into his chest, his breathing slowed, and his face set with a placid expression. I couldn't help but wish I had my camera. I knew that I was missing out on an amazing photographic opportunity. The photo would have been incredible. At the same time, I was cognizant of a sadness he invoked in me. He was passing through town on his way from somewhere else, to who-knows where. He was clearly a man with a story.

When he awoke he once again thanked us for the directions, left the shop, and has haunted my memory ever since. This was months ago, but I still picture him sitting there, bundled in his blanket, enjoying the warmth, and resting for a spell.

Kerplunk

2006-08-25T23:24:00.000-04:00

I was involved in an incident today which left my sister hysterically laughing in a bathroom stall. In order for everyone to understand the level of hysteria she reached, I must give you a little background story.

The Good Guy (henceforth to be referred to as '2x4' because typing 'The Good Guy' has gotten REALLY old) generally takes his cell phone into the bathroom with him when he showers. If you want to know why you'll have to ask him, I'm not sure. One morning whilst 2x4 was showering I had to use the facilities. As I passed the vanity my arm brushed his phone (which was precariously placed on the edge of the vanity closest to the toilet) and it fell into the toilet. The kerplunk sound was quickly followed by my emitting "CRAP!" and reaching in after it. As I pulled it out of the water its lights went off, and it never fully recuperated. I will never live this down. The cell phone/toilet incident has lived on in infamy.

Today my sister and I needed to use the facilities in the mall prior to shopping. I decided that today wasn't a hovering day so I grabbed one of those tissue paper seat cover things and was placing it on the seat when KERPLUNK! Before my eyes my sunglasses dislodged themselves from their resting place hooked to my shirt and fell INTO THE TOILET! AAAAARGH!

Ok, I'll admit that for a split second I considered going in after them. A microsecond. Then I just yelled a profanity and stared in shock at my sunglasses resting in the bottom of the stupid dirty public toilet. DAMN IT!

My sister (who was in the next stall over) was laughing so hard that she couldn't speak. She came out of her stall all red and gulping for air. She made several comments about how it wouldn't be nearly as funny if I hadn't been involved in the cell phone incident.

Whatever.

Then, more people came into the bathroom. We barely contained our laughter as we washed our hands while watching them do that thing where you open several stalls in order to determine which is the cleanest. Each person stopped with a quizzical look at the stall I had abandoned with the toilet seat tissue and sunglasses still in place.

So, I text messaged 2x4. I told him that I need new sunglasses because I dropped mine in the J.C.Penny's toilet.

His response: Loser. Stop dropping things in toilets.

I now must accept the fact that this is one of those stories that will haunt me forever, like the time I misspelled my own name.

50 More by Popular Demand

2006-08-10T22:45:00.000-04:00

I got three votes (and one challenge) for the next fifty. Enjoy.

51. I think that urine and freshly popped popcorn smell curiously similar. Same goes for raw onions and body odor.
52. I am AWFUL with geography. I skipped that day.
53. I frequently borrow intellectual and informative books from the library then exchange them for chick-lit. Unread.
54. I have a hard time clipping my toe nails. I can't seem to find a comfortable position.
55. I think that if I had received training early in life I would have made a hell of a dancer.
56. I tried out for cheerleading once in high school. That shit's hard.
57. I didn't believe that I was beautiful until The Good Guy convinced me. Now I believe that I'm a Goddess.
58. I've done a great deal of research on Witchcraft. If I were ever to subscribe to a religion, that's the path I'd choose. Not Wicca, Witchcraft. Nature worship. The earth would be my church. I guess it already is.
59. I always feel inferior in academic circles.
60. My favorite movie of all time is 'The Philadelphia Story'.
61. I love Cary Grant. He was dreamy.
62. I wish men still dressed like they did in Frank Sinatra's day.
63. I'm over Brad Pitt. Angelina made him weird.
64. Angelina Jolie is sexy. No doubt about it.
65. The Good Guy loves to correct grammar (whether you ask him to or not). It used to piss. me. off. Now I look to him for proof-reading.
66. I've figured out why my parents made so many mistakes, this parenting stuff is tricky.
67. I could spend hours in a craft store.
68. Chocolate makes my clothes shrink. (I saw this on a sign today-made me laugh out loud in the middle of the store) It's true.
69. Baby shoes are some of the cutest things on earth. They're right up there with kittens and puppies.
70. I once saved a dog from choking on a Milkbone by smacking him really hard on the back of the head. It flew out of his mouth and he proceeded to continue eating.
71. I rock out to Sean Paul in my car when nobody is watching. I belt out muddled non-word grunts instead of the lyrics because I have NO idea what the hell he is saying.
72. I wish kids were more innocent and lived to play ball on the local field instead of playing the latest shoot 'em up video game.
73. I'm an emotional woman. Remember those damn AT&T commercials? I cried EVERY time.
74. I'd rather be emotional than numb.
75. In high school a classmate spread a rumor that J and I were lesbian lovers because we turned him in for cheating.
76. I was voted 'Most Opinionated' in my senior yearbook. I refused to accept the title so they changed it to 'Most Tenacious".
77. In high school, Most Opinionated =Biggest Bitch.
78. I have a hard time with poetry. Most of it is too ambiguos for my simple mind.
79. Someday I want a loft apartment downtown in a bustling city.
80. I very much enjoy the smell of lavender and lilacs.
81. If I had to pick my four favorite flowers they would be tulips, sunflowers, gerber daisies, and roses. OH! and hydrangeas!
82. I once snuck into a movie without paying. A good friend chastized me and I felt horribly guilty.
83. I think some newborn babies are ugly.
84. I have a tattoo. I'm not telling you where ;-)
85. 'Taming of the Shrew' is my favorite Shakespeare play.
86. My first dog was a Chow. When she almost bit my face my parents sent her to a farm. No really, that's what they told me! It has to be true.
87. Buffet=All you can eat germ infested food.
88. I never once in my life ate my boogers. Not once.
89. I think naming your child after yourself is vain. I'm sorry, but I do.
90. I almost died from carbon monoxide poisoning.
91. My dad once removed rust from my bicycle using Pepsi. I stopped drinking soda for years thereafter.
92. I am scared to DEATH of driving in NYC. No way would I do it. Montreal was bad enough. I think I ran three red lights.
93. I can't parallel park. The last time I did was during my driving test.
94. I am a horrible speller.
95. Oh my goodness! One of the kids just ripped a HUGE fart in their sleep! LOL!
96. Farts are funny.
97. I used to own a Dalmation who smiled. She was the best dog ever. I miss her.
98. I have SUPER pale skin. People feel the need to point this out to me. Thanks. I never noticed.
99. Aloe is great for a sunburn.
100. I am in love with the most incredible man in the whole world. He loves me back, just as much. I'm going to spend the rest of my life with him. I'm a hopeless romantic. I believe in happy ever after. I believe in soul mates. I've found mine.

There you have it folks! I hope you weren't too bored.

50 Things About Me

2006-08-09T16:50:00.000-04:00

Ok, so I stole this idea from David who stole it from Thursday. It is also featured on Marty's blog. It's a shameless copy of someone else's idea, but it seemed like fun and I really want to be part of their club. They went with 100 but I'm not really that interesting. So, here you go, 50 pointless factoids about sheltered little ole me:

1. As a kid I was the finickiest eater in all the land. I wouldn't touch a vegetable. I lived on mayonnaise sandwiches, pb&j (grape jelly only) and hot dogs with the ends cut off (because they look like bellybuttons). My mom thinks it's hysterical that I'm now a health conscious vegetarian.
2. I have a tendency to ramble on and on.
3. I grew up in a house where I wasn't permitted to be loud. Children were to be seen and not heard. I now speak REALLY loudly if I'm not careful.
4. Chocolate is a food group in and of itself.
5. I enjoy the sound of horse hooves galloping and the sound gravel makes when tires drive accross it.
6. My dad's house, which I loved more than any home I've ever lived in, was razed many years ago to become a parking lot for a Moose Lodge. I've never driven by because I think I'd get too emotional.
7. I love dogs. I want a Weimereiner someday.
8. I didn't vote in a presidential election until a few years ago because I never felt informed enough to make such a huge decision.
9. Sometimes I think that the sound leaves make when blowing in the wind is the same sound rain makes when it falls on the roof.
10. I used books to escape my reality during childhood. I still do it to this day.
11. One of my guilty pleasures is Dirty Dancing (the movie!)
12. I've never actually danced dirty.
13. I smoked pot once. I got all paranoid and actually started to worry about Homeland Security-no joke. Won't ever touch the stuff again.
14. When I eat cooked eggs the whites and the yokes have to be mixed together. Otherwise they're just disgusting. And who the hell was the first person to smell a hard boiled egg and say mmmm...smells good lets EAT that!
15. I've hated churches since I first stepped foot into one. Even as a child I felt oppressed and wanted nothing more than to get the heck out of there A.S.A.P.
16. One of my biggest fears is getting fat.
17. Soy dogs aren't as bad as I thought.
18. I don't have any wisdom teeth. They were cut out of my head.
19. Red Wine Only.
20. I once puked the brussell sprouts that my mom was making me eat back onto my plate. She didn't make me eat them again. HA!
21. I became environmentally concsious when I took 8th grade Earth Science. From then on I became somewhat of a radical recycler.
22. I loved hiking when I was a kid. My dad bought me the coolest pair of pink hiking boots ever!
23. I used to love watching my grandparents get sloppy drunk on Saturday nights (Martini nights at their house).
24. I used to sneak into my sister's room at night because I was afraid the boogy man would get me, and I figured I'd use her as a sheild.
25. My family used to gather in the bathroom and wave goodbye to my sister's poo while she was potty training. Otherwise she wouldn't go.
26. I resented the fact that my sister broke my whole Black Beauty play set.
27. I once worked in a restaurant where I had to wear a t-shirt that said "Former Contortionist"
28. I have a black thumb. I kill plants.
29. One of my toes faces the wrong direction.
30. Sangria, guacamole, and chimichangas are all proof that Mexicans make damn fine cuisine.
31. I get sad every time I see road kill.
32. One Thanksgiving I drove my car into a ditch full of cow manure in order to avoid hitting a cat. That was fun.
33. One day I want people to look at me and think, "That's a classy lady."
34. I always have a problem with the word dearth. I think it means an overabundance.
35. The first movie I ever saw on a VCR was 'Ferris Beuller's Day Off'. My dad rented both the player and the movie.
36. I also saw 'Amadeus' on that player and was so scared I couldn't sleep. Check the opening scene. It's awful.
37. I used to watch 'Friends' all the time. I liked it. I thought it was funny. I refuse to be ashamed. Same goes for Will and Grace.
38. I could never choose a favorite song, artist, or book. I simply like too many to choose.
39. I love photographs. My apartment has pictures of friends and family all over the place.
40. My first camera was a Fisher Price camera with disposable flash cubes. Remember those?
41. I LOVE the smell of basil. If good pesto wasn't so expensive I'd eat it all the time.
42. Crossword puzzles are stupid.
43. I don't have cable television because I have no will power and would spend too large a portion of my life planted in front of the boob tube.
44. My dad used to call the television a boob tube. Cracked me up every time.
45. Eating ice cream makes my stomach hurt. That doesn't stop me.
46. I am my own worst critic, and I'm a control freak.
47. I procrastinate more than anyone I know.
48. Some guy in a grocery store parking lot once asked me if I would give him a $20 bill for 20 dollars in food stamps. He was holding a case of beer.
49. On my first day of work in a grocery store a guy came through my register with 2 cases of beer and an economy size box of condoms. He was gross. I seriously considered asking him what his plans were for the evening.
50. I was annoyed when my mom made me start wearing bras at 13 years of age.

There you go. If anyone has a burning desire to read 50 more factoids about me, let me know and I'll consider expanding my list to its intended length. If not, I totally understand. That's a lot of useless info.

Remember When?

2006-08-07T23:15:00.000-04:00

Do you ever just want to bottle up a moment so that you can take it out later and enjoy it again?

Last night The Good Guy and I ventured out into the yard of apartment complex after dinner to take an evening walk. We conversed with some of the local kids who were patrolling for hornet nests and killing bees with a baseball bat. We talked to some young girls whose faces were covered in paint applied in elaborate butterfly patterns about their scooters and who has the best one. A neighbor blessed The Good Guy when he sneezed before informing him that it is hay-feaver season.

The weather was perfect. There was a comfortable breeze and the humidity was the lowest it had been for several days. The Black-eyed Susans were in full bloom all around the complex. We held hands as we strolled and enjoyed conversation on a variety of topics. The sun was setting and we paused for a while to watch the clouds morph and change their pink and gray hues as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky. As we watched the sky-line I could hear a woman inside of one of the apartments yelling to her daughter in Spanish. We joked about whether or not the heart-shaped cloud was placed in the sky just for us, we talked about the green flash, Venus' belt, evenings spent watching sunsets, mornings spent watching sun-rises, and considered the view of the sunset that other people were having at that very moment to the west of us.

It was peaceful, tranquil, and wonderful. We all know that time moves forward, and that you can't go back. I guess the next best thing is to write these moments down so that we can re-live them in memory.

Demons

2006-08-03T08:45:00.000-04:00

We watched 'Walk the Line' the other night. If you haven't seen this movie, go out and rent it. It was excellent.

It got me to thinking. Books and movies frequently do that. I can't turn off the T.V. or close a book and be done; they stay fresh in my mind for days as I mull them over, chew on them, and try hard to make more sense of them. Mr. Cash had some serious demons. He was a man who was full to the brim with hurt. His hurt manifested itself in a variety of ways, some good, and some bad. He became an amazing song writer and performer. He also became a man his family couldn't depend on, who abused his body with drug and drink.

I find that the older I get, the more the world is comprised of gray areas. When I was in my early teenage years, and knew everything, there was a whole lot more black and white. The answers were crystal clear.

Now, not so much. I've tried to make it harder and harder for myself to make blanket judgments of others. I've tried to inundate myself with information and alternative view points that allow me to consider the other side of the story, or to see the human behind the awful actions.

I read a book a while back titled, 'Last Chance in Texas, The Redemption of Criminal Youth' by John Hubner. Read it. You can't possibly read this book without gaining a new perspective on teenage criminals.

I also watched 'The Woodsman'. Watch it. It doesn't make excuses for a man who molests little girls, but it makes it clear that the man struggles day in and day out. He's a human being who has a problem. But he's a human none-the-less.

I remember being in a class and having a debate about what society should do with child predators and murderers. I took the position that they are humans, and we should do everything we can to not cast them aside and forget about them. When I took this position, I did it primarily because everyone else simply seemed to be in a lynching state of mind. Everyone in the class was on the same page. I hated that. It just seemed like the easy route to thrust criminals into a cell, consider them demon spawn, and think about it no more. I felt like someone should offer up an alternative. So, unsure as to whether I believed what I was saying or not, I began defending criminals who had committed heinous acts. I was of course not defending the crime, but the human hidden somewhere behind the ugly. I found myself taking the position that it is human society's JOB to eke out whatever is left of a criminal's humanity. I think we should try to shine a light on the part of a person's soul that is not damaged. I'm not saying that an intact portion exists in every criminal, (since I'm not entirely sure) but I am saying we should try and find out if one is still thriving.

I guess the long and short of this whole deal is that I'm still unsure exactly where I stand. I've written and re-written this post several times, and am still unhappy with the result. The point I'm trying to make, I suppose, is that it's really easy to cast aspersions. It's not difficult to saddle someone who did a bad thing with the reputation that he or she is a bad person. I think it's a challenge to try and look beyond someone's actions (regardless of severity) and try to understand what is going on underneath the surface.

Does this post make any sense at all?! Sometimes articulation is not my specialty. Grrrr...

My Sister

2006-07-28T23:58:00.000-04:00

I have only one sibling who shares my blood. We have different fathers, but were for the most part raised in the same household by our mother and her second husband (my sister's father). I think, for the purpose of this post, that I will nickname my sister, Spaz. Spaz is about six years my junior and completely, totally, entirely different than I. After spending the day with her last week, I decided that I must devote a blog post to comparing and contrasting the two of us.

Spaz truly enjoys a good smoke now and again (or all the time). I mean both the legal and the illegal.
I have never tried the legal. Tried the illegal once. It was awful; I hated the whole damn experience, will never do it again.

Spaz can't go a day without discussing her bowel movements (in HORRIFIC detail) to anyone she happens to be around.
I don't discuss bowel movements. I close the door when I go in, I come out when I'm done. End of story.

Spaz is petite. She's like, a size 1. She walks like a damn HORSE!
I have struggled with my weight for my entire life. I have ranged between sizes 6 and 12. I do NOT walk like a horse.

Spaz (apparently) has a farting position. She shared this with me last week. Sometimes the gas needs assistance in getting out, so (for those of you interested) you should get on all fours, put your head and shoulders down, and stick your butt in the air. This gives the gas a clear path out through your back-end. I kid you not. She showed me the position.
I, if anything, have a hard time keeping the gas from coming out at embarrassing times.

Spaz will get out of the pool, drop trow in mom's back yard, squat, and relieve herself.
I will towel off and walk the ten feet to the house in order to use the restroom.

Spaz will order extra whipped cream on any dessert, ask for even more when it arrives, and proceed to shovel it into her mouth with a trowel. Half of it will end up hanging out of the corners of her mouth.
I generally go with the pre-determined amount of whipped topping, and take civilized bites.

Spaz will dip EVERYTHING in ranch dressing.
I don't really like ranch dressing.

Spaz knows a lot about wine and will spend fair amounts of money on good wine.
I know that inexpensive wines are frequently as good as the expensive stuff and stick to the cheap stuff unless Spaz is buying.

Spaz adds so much cream and sugar to her coffee that she ultimately drinks coffee flavored syrup.
I like cream and sugar in moderation, and will occasionally drink my java black.

Spaz will come into my home and plop down on my carpeted living room floor with every intention of trimming her toe nails.
I will yell at her for being gross and banish her to the bathroom, and when she emerges ask, "Did you clean up your mess?!" I will not trim my nails in someone else's home.

Spaz likes her men stocky with no necks.
I like my men trim, fit, and sexy in Levi's jeans.

Spaz likes Pugs.
I think if you're going to have a dog, it should be bigger than a cat.

Spaz is perfectly happy being a waitress. She makes good money, and enjoys her co-workers (several of them anyway).
I HATE waiting tables. I need the money. The hours are right. My co-workers are primarily a bunch of whine-asses with a lack of work-ethic. I'm counting down the days to when I no longer have to bring strangers their food.

Spaz can screw up even the most simple of art projects. Seriously, I didn't believe it until I saw it. It's unreal.
I live to be creative.

Spaz sowed her wild oats when she should have-during and right after high school.
I jumped into a committed relationship, got married, and divorced all before the age of 26-Wild oats still unsowed.

Spaz is perfectly content to go out into the world unshowered and run errands, visit, go out to eat or whatever else, all while being unbathed. (She's not a scum-bag or anything, she does shower)
I can't leave the house until I'm showered. I feel all icky and smelly.

Spaz would do anything in the world for me.
I would do the same for her.

Spaz loves me very much.
I feel the same about her.

I guess we're not entirely different.

'Vacation' Rant

2006-07-24T20:05:00.000-04:00

The Good Guy received news the other day that his uncle had passed away. It wasn't entirely unexpected but was a shock none-the-less. In the interests of offering family solidarity, we made hurried plans and traveled to Baltimore in order to give our love and support to his grieving relatives. Unfortunately I never met the man, and will never have the pleasure of doing so.

This was my first time meeting the extended paternal family, and it was indeed an experience. In general they were a very comfortable people. Strangely, many of his relatives seemed familiar to me. It was as if his family reminded me of people I knew, though no specific individuals came to mind. After a while I decided it was the openness they offered that made me feel comfortable and them familiar.

We accomplished a great deal in a very short period of time. I am going to share a specific incident. It is certainly NOT indicative of The Good Guy's family interactions with me, and in no way reflects the overall tone of the trip. The trip was very enjoyable (despite the reason for the journey). I am only offering this story as a source of entertainment because this is just the sort of thing that happens to me.

A little foreshadowing...I meet my fiance's extended family for the first time and get into an altercation with a drunken twenty-something. Only ME.

The story follows:

Background...We didn't attend the services because we simply couldn't plan, pay for, and execute our journey quickly enough to do so. Instead we joined the family the day after the funeral for a get-together at the abode of a family member. There was swimming, cajoling, eating, reminiscing, drinking, drinking, and more drinking. I didn't drink. I was in a new place with new people, the kids were there, and beer (for whatever reason) was totally unappealing to me that day. In hind-sight it's a damn good thing because I lose some of my ability to reason rationally with alcohol cruising through my system (weird-I KNOW).

The setting...The host of the get-together was another uncle (brother to The Good Guy's father, and brother to the uncle who passed away). Several people were sitting on the outside patio as the evening was winding down. The Good Guy was in the basement with his kids enjoying re-runs of The Pink Panther cartoon. I felt it was important for at least one of us to mingle at any given time, so I was hanging out on the patio with his parents, our host, our host's wife, a neighbor, and the future son-in-law of the host.

The Players...I'll call the future son-in-law L.C. (for Loose Cannon) as he is the villain in my story. He's one of those people that give you a bad-vibe from the get-go. I pride myself on my women's intuition. My intution told me he was an insincere poser, but, quite frankly I didn't think twice about it . To be totally honest, I simply dismissed him as someone who is irrelevant to me in almost every way, as I will probably never see him again, and if I do it will be brief and inconsequential. However, later, my intuition proved to be right-on, and any guilt I felt about judging a complete stranger dissipated.

The INCIDENT...As we were sitting around talking I noticed The Good Guy's swimming trunks laying on the ground in front of L.C. (who was seated next to me). The last I knew they had been draped over the chair on the other side of L.C. in order to dry.

Sidebar...I'm kind of anal-retentive. I need cabinet doors to be closed just-right, I need towels to be folded the correct way, I need curtains to be symmetrical, and I need the discard pile to be organized when playing cards. Otherwise it's like there's a buzzing mosquito flying around my ear. It's like this thing is annoying me and must be fixed in order for me to have peace. So, I didn't know how they got there, and I didn't care. Swim trunks should NOT be on the ground...they must.be.picked.up.

The INCIDENT, cont...Upon noticing the trunks on the ground I got up from my seat and bent over to pick them up and place them back on the chair. As I picked them up, without saying a word, L.C. violently grabbed them out of my hand and chucked them behind me and across the patio.

now, had I been drinking alcohol, the story may have gone as follows, "I then kicked him in the shin, LOUDLY called him a rotten bastard, and punched him in the face"

however...I had NOT been drinking, so, this is what happened:

I looked behind me (in the direction of said trunks), turned back (with eyes BULGING) gave L.C. the scariest stare I could muster, and in a voice that was raised but not yet screaming said,

"YOU are going to go pick those up, because they are MINE and that was RUDE!" Keep in mind that this was a watered down version of what I truly wanted to say (several expletives came to mind) since I was in the presence of strangers and my future parents-in-law.

Thankfully, I think my tone and the 'stare-o-DEATH' knocked some sense into the drunken L.C. because he looked at me for a moment (deer-in-the-headlights-like) and said, "I'll pick them up, ok?"

I then turned around, saw my future mother-in-law smile and wink at me and I said, "I can handle a drunk" as I sat back down. I was EXTREMELY grateful that she was communicating a distinct lack of anger at what I had done. It was one of those moments when I needed some form of back-up and she offered it to me in the best manner she could. She was silent, but I heard her loud and clear. "Good for you". She knew she didn't have to do a thing, I had it covered.

Then the host picked up the trunks and attempted to hand them to me when L.C. stopped him, took them, handed them to me and said, "I'm very sorry"

I responded "Apology accepted" You Jack-Ass.

Then the porch cleared out, I felt like a lepper, and our host made excuses about the boy being young and really upset about the death of his fiance's uncle.

Whatever. This guy's gonna marry your daughter, dude. You might wanna think about this. He apologized, which is great, and not always easy to do, so...I'll give him that.

Shortly thereafter The Good Guy appeared (totally unaware of what had taken place) and we did goodbyes, thank-yous, nice-to-meet-yous, sorry about your loss, etc.

As we walked to the car I told him what had happened and he expressed that he was proud of me and the manner in which I handled the situation. I needed to hear that, I was REALLY uncomfortable and had begun second-guessing my response to the situation.

I am a woman who can hold my own. I am also a woman with a temper. I must say, I'm proud of the decorum I used. I guess I am growing up!

*walks away to ice shoulder which now hurts from patting self on back*

Next Step to Self Improvement Goal: Work on Forgiving and Forgetting. (I think I've made this goal before-it's a hard one)

More about trip to Baltimore to come...the rest of the trip was wonderful. We stayed in a really nice hotel, the weather was great, and a whole lot of writing material was born from the experience. Stay Tuned.

Big News (brought to you in a humble manner)

2006-07-15T23:56:00.000-04:00

It's been a while since I've posted. Sorry about that. Mom's been in the hospital (good results this time around), my birthday was the other day (this will be my last year as a twenty-something), and, well, this happened:

J and her kids were over. We had already eaten dinner and the kids were scattered throughout the apartment playing here and there as J and I cleaned up the kitchen. I noticed The Good Guy whispering something to The Girl but didn't think much of it (sometimes they do that).

Suddenly J and I had the sensation that we were being watched. We looked around and noticed we were surrounded by all of the children who were intently staring at us. We were both confused as The Good Guy started to speak from the other side of the partition that separates the living room from the kitchen.

"The kids and I have a question for you." He had that soft tone in his voice, that sorta nervous, and hoping that you understand this is serious tone.

I took a deep breath as he proceeded.

"Will you marry us?"

The girl took the box out from behind her back and handed it to me.

I was speachless. I knew this was coming, but I didn't know how, and I certianly didn't expect it that evening. When I had envisioned this moment I always figured I'd be reduced to tears, but I think I was too shocked. I went to The Good Guy and gave him a huge hug. The Girl followed me and wrapped us both in her arms, looking up at us with a huge smile on her face. Aloud she announced my first name with her surname and The Good Guy asked, "Is that a yes?"

Of COURSE it's a yes! Would I EVER let this wonderful man go?! Hell NO! Be his wife? Duh, YEAH!

The Boy was unmoved by the experience and as the three of us stood in an embrace, he and J's son stood at the door holding a kickball and asked, "Can we go outside?"

You gotta love little boys.

The girl started asking questions like, "What do I call you now?" I think she was perhaps more excited than I. It truly took me a couple of days to process it. I get teary in the telling of the tale, but I did not get teary in the moment. I seemed to have difficulty forming words (which doesn't happen often).

When deciding to write about this I thought about sharing more details, trying to get the descriptions just right, agonizing over how to explain the beauty of our relationship, but I decided this is it. Our love doesn't need adornment. It doesn't need jazzy descriptions and long winded explanations. I simply love this man to death, and he feels the same for me. Pretty words won't make this occasion any more special or meaningful, I simply want to spend the rest of my life loving him. What could possibly be better than that?

So, It's been a busy week. My mom's colon is whole again, I had a LOT of cake, and...I'm engaged!

Cake and Poo; A Day in the Life of a Parent

2006-07-08T23:27:00.000-04:00

Apparently there is a seedy underbelly to this whole parenting thing that no one speaks of. I don't know that I am accomplished enough as a writer to do the events of this day justice, but I'm sure as hell going to try. J is anxiously anticipating the editorial following the events she witnessed today. She has more faith in my writing ability than I.

A while back I had this bright idea to have a bunch of kids over and make tie-dye shirts. I think it's important for the kids to make friends here, and I want to facilitate this. So, I got ambitious, invited a bunch of kids, begged J to stay and help, and let 7 urchins under the age of 9 loose in my apartment with permanent dye.

Amazingly, the tie-dying was the easiest part of the day.

Eating cake however, became very complicated.

Table manners are big in our house. Near as I can tell the kid's mother doesn't enforce the same rules as we do when it comes to table etiquette, but that's neither here nor there. The kids sometimes forget themselves. They will periodically turn into raving lunatics at the table and act as if their food is going to be taken away if they can't cram every last morsel in their pie holes within 2.4 seconds of the plate making contact with the table.

The Boy learned a lesson today (or so I hope). He learned that shoving an entire piece of cake into your mouth at one time leads to gagging, hinders breathing, and may cause death. That's right people, I almost Heimliched The Boy. The only thing that kept me from breaking a rib in a failed attempt to extract the cake from his wind pipe was J saying "No, he can breath, not yet!" I thought it was time to cash in on the knowledge gained from high school health class, but luckily for me, The Boy dislodged the cake on his own as I stood with my arms wrapped around him, ready to give him the bear-hug of all bear-hugs.

Then, he finished the cake in his mouth, ate the rest of his ice cream, and went outside to play. This of course left nobody to perform CPR on me (J got a phone call), as I began to experience heart attack symptoms from the aftermath of fear that I had killed the child of the man I love. My weapon of choice? Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. It seriously took me a good twenty minutes to stop shaking.

Then came the bowel situation. It was not The Boy's day. Nor mine for that matter.

After a few moments outside The Boy came running in claiming that he was going to change his clothes (which he had just done 10 minutes prior). I told him no friggin' way, the laundry stack is WAY to high for this crap to be taking place. Two outfits a day is the LIMIT.

The following is the conversation that took place between The Boy and me.

The Boy: "But I went to the bathroom in my pants"

Me: "Um, what? I mean, pee, right?"

The Boy: "No"

Me: "How did that happen?" (he's SEVEN!!!)

The Boy: "I thought I had to fart"

Me: Thinking, 'Oh, well the fart oops has happened to the best of us, no need to embarrass the boy', "Oh, okay, here's some clean underwear and a washcloth. The washcloth is for your butt, not your pants." (Because with kids you have to spell these things out)

The Boy: "Ok" He disappeared into the bathroom.

Meanwhile J was in hysterics as she watched this scene unfold. The look on my face must have been priceless. She loves that she can now share the horrors that come with parenting. She used to be in this boat alone. Now she has my company. Poop is not my thing. I'm the hold your hair and rub your back while you puke parent. The other end is The Good Guy's territory. The bastard (I mean that in the most loving way possible) was at work!

The Boy finally emerged from the bathroom with the offending undergarment and handed it to me.

The boxers were totally clean.

Now, pardon my frankness, but we're all familiar with the fart poop. They're runny, right? It's kind of like diarrhea that just sneaks up on you. It's messy, not a pretty thing. But The Boy's drawers were CLEAN. In my head I'm trying very hard to figure out what to say next.

Me: "Um, these are clean"

The Boy: "Yeah"

Me: "What happened to the poop?"

The Boy: "It fell out"

OH.MY.GOD. We're talking a full-on turd and it's M.I.A?!

Me: "Where?" (trying not to panic about the missing turd in my apartment)

The Boy: "It must have fallen out of the bottom of my boxers and then my shorts, like this" (He motions the trajectory of the stray poo from start to finish)

J (barely containing herself): "No bud, where is the poo now?"

The Boy: "Outside"

Me: "THANK YOU for losing it outside, now go play"

Later, all the extra children went home, I went to work, drank a crap-load (pardon the pun) of coffee to get through, and now I'm here, sharing my experience with my blogging friends. I hope you got as much of a laugh as J and I did. In hind-sight it's funny. At the time, not-so-much.

Family on the Fourth

2006-07-06T17:35:00.000-04:00

The day began with temperatures in the seventies and a cool breeze blowing through the trees. We lugged our gear of folding chairs, various pieces of sports equipment, water bottles, and a cooler to the park. The chosen location was very near the carousel. After shuffling of chairs, discussion and sighs as we debated who will sit next to whom and doling out of sandwiches and potato chips, our meal was consumed while we basked in the sunlight of a much deserved pleasant day. The music of the carousel became the tranquil soundtrack to our afternoon of relaxation.

We alternated between playing kickball (wherein the ghost runners did most of the jaunting between bases), frisbee (which only landed in the mucky fish pond once) and stole away for moments in the shade and swigs of water as the sun became more intense and the humidity kept our sweat glistening on skin instead of evaporating into the now dissipated breeze.

The leisure time was filled with delicious exercise, giggling children, cajoling with families passing by, and the occasional childhood drama resulting from a tumble in the grass.

It was a glorious afternoon. One for the books (or blogs).

We ventured into a restaurant for dinner at just the right moment. The sky had not indicated to us that it was about to open the flood gates, so when we looked out the window while waiting for our food to arrive, we realized that we had timed our meal just right.

When we emerged from the restaurant, the town had come alive. An hour before we entered the eatery the streets had been bare. Now the neighborhood was filled with mirth, bustling bodies, and crowds watching the remnants of an Independence Day parade. The sky had cleared once again.

As dusk set in we traversed the paths of the park and watched our serene sanctuary fill with the crowds that had earlier converged on the street for the parade. In the fountain, the two marble men sprayed water at each other, and we debated which was named Spit, and which was pegged Spat.

Finally we settled back into our chairs, tired from the day, but excitedly anticipating the fireworks display that was yet to come. The children became antsy (as children do when it is late, and they are tired), so a book was read aloud using the animated voices of pirates and adventurers.

At last, the sky was lit with explosions and color. The pyrotechnics did not disappoint even as they were forced to pause so that the accumulated smoke could fade.

The show was lengthy enough that the youngest child kept anxiously asking "Is this the grand finale?"

With the grand finale complete, the tired children packed into the car, and the traffic negotiated, we all settled in for a fitful night's sleep.

As I lay in bed, waiting for the dreams to take over, I thought to myself...'This is by far the best Fourth of July I have ever experienced.' Like a child on their birthday, I didn't want it to end.

The Unaccompanied Chapter

2006-06-30T12:32:00.000-04:00

A while back I got this great idea that I could write a novel, become a famous author, and never worry about finding a job again...so I started writing. The following is not an excerpt, it's the whole shebang. I forgot about it until today, and since I'll probably never end up doing anything with it, I've decided to turn it into a blog post. I hope you enjoy it. Re-reading it made me realize that I should leave novel writing to others. I'll just keep reading them.

“Why is it that in books and movies, even the people with crappy jobs, no skills and a serious lack of cash live in apartments that in the real world would cost approximately $1500 a month?” Hanna asked her best friend Jade; fully expecting Jade would simply roll her eyes and act as if Hanna had asked a rhetorical question.

“Because a movie that takes place in a complete shit hole isn’t entertainment” was Jade’s flippant response.

“Yeah, but doesn’t it tick you off? I mean don’t people want some reality in the story, a dose of camaraderie?”

“No, people want to be entertained, and to imagine that the life they see in the movies is one they can attain. They don’t want to pay $8 to see someone living their life. They want glamour, glitz, a dream, and all that happy horseshit.”

Jade always had a colorful way of viewing things. Her carefully placed expletives made even the most mundane conversations more engaging. These were some of the reasons Hanna had dragged Jade to their favorite coffee shop for some lattes, or coffee flavored milk syrup as Hanna’s dad referred to them. She hadn’t been feeling like herself for several months now, and knew that if she continued to sit in her drab apartment longing for summer weather and a million dollars to fall into her lap she may never make it into the light of day again. Trivial conversations with Jade had seemed just the thing she needed to climb out of her funk, if even just for a couple of hours.

“You know what else bothers me? The fact that stories are always about beginnings and endings. You know what I mean? The beginning of a romance, the end of a marriage and beginning of a life in some romantic land, why doesn’t anyone write a story about the middle years? The part where you’re working your butt off, and can’t pay any bills, and your debt is slowly strangling you, and the light at the end of the tunnel is so far away that you can’t even see it-it’s just a long dark pathway. And who gives a crap about Mr. Right, who the hell has the time?”

“Are you okay?” Jade seemed finally to be catching on that Hanna was not in the best of moods, and the latte didn’t seem to be helping as much as usual.

“No…yes… I have no idea.” Hanna really didn’t. She didn’t know what to attribute her awful mood to, and nothing she had attempted so far had any effect. She had stopped listening to any music that wasn’t upbeat, she limited her movie viewing to anything with a happy ending and her casual reading was reduced to chick lit, or any book that was written for pure enjoyment-no biographies, and anything political was entirely off limits. She did however, refuse to give up sugar. If nothing else made her happy, chocolate was the one friend she had that would never let her down. Each bite was like ambrosia, and it lasted until the very last morsel had been consumed. It was a wonder she didn’t weigh 300 pounds.

“What’s eating you?”

“Good Question. Wish I new the answer.”

Wisdom of a Starry Night-Take 2

2006-06-27T08:12:00.000-04:00

For what are you grateful?

I can't possibly list everything. I have a whole lot to be grateful for; like the fact that I live in this country (which in turn comes with lots of specific thanks), I'm healthy, I'm happy, I'm surrounded by loving and supportive friends and family, I have a roof over my head (and always have), I have food on the table, someone once upon a time discovered the magical substance we call chocolate...but I digress.

The other day The Good Guy and I attended an event (the details are irrelevant) where his daughter took the stage. She stood in front of a room full of people (many of them family and friends) and as she stood there and I watched her glowing with comfort in the love of her family, my heart grew ten sizes. Is this what it's like to be a parent? Does being a parent mean that your heart swells inside of your chest and you feel like it is going to explode inside of you with love for this little person? I was teary, it was like an epiphany...not that I love this little girl (because that's nothing new), but that its so damn powerful. I had to stop looking at her because I would have been blubbering in front of lots of people (who would have thought it was for totally different reasons).

The Good Guy and I have discussed on many occasions what my role is in the lives of his children. He refers to me as a parent, and I have been uncomfortable with that term. I have always treaded lightly in that arena, as I don't want anyone to get the impression that I am trying to replace the children's mother. Though I'm not a big fan of many of her choices, I respect that the she does indeed love her children very much, and I don't want anyone to feel that I have a desire to threaten that bond-I truly do not. When Mother's Day rolled around this year, J (who is a mother of 2) sent me a text message wishing me a happy Mother's Day. When I responded that I'm not a mother, she said that there isn't a day honoring "daddy's girlfriend who holds my hair when I'm throwing up, and loves me and takes great care of me" so Mother's day is for me too. (Isn't she great? Talk about supportive friends and family!)

As I sat in that room, holding back tears, wanting to run up and wrap that beautiful little girl in my arms, tell her how much I love and support her, I made a decision...The Good Guy can call me a parent. My being termed 'parent' to that little girl (and her brother) threatens nobody. I am one more person who loves and cares about both of those kids unconditionally, and that shouldn't be threatening to anyone. They come to me when they're upset and need comfort, they share with me when they're excited, they learn ways to annoy their sibling from me, I hold hair and rub backs when stomach bugs attack, I know how they like their waffles, they want me to attend their important events, they give me random hugs and kisses, they know I'll do my darndest to make them happy...if that's not parenting, then what is?

I am grateful for the opportunity to share in the lives of those kids. I am grateful that I am capable of giving and receiving so much love. I am grateful that I have been influenced by a variety of people who have demonstrated how to love by loving me.

I am grateful that angry and venomous anonymous comments have no bearing in reality, and simply validate the lunacy and irrelevance of the person writing them ;-) yes, I know you stop by, and it matters not.

Creative Minds Unite!

2006-06-22T16:59:00.000-04:00

Ok, not a lot of people read my blog, but I am familiar with the written work of the few who do, and I know that you all have exceptionally imaginative and poetic minds...I need your creative help.

This is a pencil drawing that I'm working on. The image of the girl is my rendition of a beautiful photograph I found on a greeting card. However, the background on the greeting card isn't something I want to recreate.

The problem: My creative juices seem to have run dry. I can't for the life of me decide what this little girl in her nightgown is witnessing/heading towards/gawking at. I considered laundry hung to dry and raspberry bushes, but both seemed so...dull.

So, my request of my loyal and ever helpful readers, is: "What is this little girl standing in front of?" Be creative! Have fun with it! Help me PLEASE!

The Wisdom of a Starry Night-Take 1

2006-06-17T09:28:00.000-04:00

With whom would you like to reconnect?

Several Posts ago I mentioned purchasing a book entitled, "The Wisdom of a Starry Night", a book that combines works of art with introspective questions. This is the painting shown with the question, it is titled, "Postcard" and the artist's name is Fernand Leger.

The answer to the above question is the first I would like to unearth.

My father's second wife was the woman I called step-mother for the majority of my childhood. Her name was/is Michele, but she always went by the nickname Mickey. My father is currently on his third marriage (and I hope for him that the third time's a charm).

My relationship with Mickey was complex. My mother is a good woman, but she was bitter for many years towards both my father and my step-mother. It was no secret to me that my mother loathed them both. I loved and respected both of my parents, but I suffered the same struggle that I believe many children with step-parents experience; I didn't know how to love someone that my parent despised without feeling as though I was betraying my loyalty.

Mickey was an interesting woman, and very unlike my mother. My current capacity as pseudo-parent (possibly future step-parent) to The Good Guy's children has left me on many occasions ruminating about my relationship with Mickey. I've considered what she offered me, I wonder where she is now, and I regret that she isn't around any longer. I am remorseful that when she and my father divorced I wasn't receptive to her attempts at maintaining a relationship with me. I can't change the past, but perhaps I can pay homage to a woman who had a significant influence in my becoming the person I am today. Only now, as an adult, can I fully appreciate all that she offered, how hard she tried, and the difficult road she traveled prior to becoming my step-mother.

Mickey and her two sisters spent their childhood being bounced around in foster care. I don't recall the circumstances that lead them to this fate, perhaps she never told me, as it was too awful to share with a child. She shared with me the following story and it haunted me for years. It gave me a sense of how far she had come, and how many obstacles she had conquered. I fear that this experience was one of many, and one of the few G-rated enough to share with a child. As she explained, there wasn't much regulation in place to protect foster kids when she was a child. Many foster parents took on their foster charges simply for the small monetary stipend. One such man allowed Mickey and her sisters to use one lone square of toilet paper each time they used the restroom. He would stand outside of the bathroom door, and they weren't permitted to flush until he determined that only one square had been consumed.

As an adult Mickey maintained a close relationship with one sister, the other I believe was lost to her within the child welfare system.

Mickey had a husband prior to marrying my father. She also had children, but her ex-husband gained custody of the children, and kept her from seeing them. My mother commented that a mother had to be REALLY bad to lose custody of her children in the day and age when Mickey did so. I was never privy to the particulars, but I can't help but wonder how on earth Mickey could have been a good parent, as she never truly experienced a loving dependable attachment to a parent.

Despite all of this, Mickey was a classy lady. She was creative, articulate, confident, and dependable. She was an excellent cook. To this day her twice-baked potatoes, macaroni salad, and blueberry pie have been unmatched by any others I have tasted. She loved to garden, and her backyard was always landscaped elegantly. Her Christmas wrapping and decorating were things of beauty, and to this day I strive to match her expertise. She kept a near immaculate home, and I don't ever recall hearing her complain about housework. I am well aware that she did the gift shopping for my birthdays and for Christmas. Though I hated her fashion sense (and the 'girly' clothes she insisted on purchasing for her tomboy step-daughter), I realized that she had done all of the work in choosing and wrapping the gifts labeled: From Dad and Mickey.

From Mickey I learned how to decorate a home, how to make a home homey, how to appreciate art, how to relax and enjoy a good book, that I like James Taylor, how to make faces in the sand at the beach, that a dog should be well trained, that confidence is attractive, and that a step-mother isn't always personified by Cinderella's step-monster.

I believe I was about fourteen years of age when my father sat down with his parents and myself to inform us that he and Mickey were divorcing. I remember being furious that he didn't tell me in private. I also recall that I couldn't name any single emotion amongst those whirling within the funnel cloud of confusion. I hadn't had the slightest indication that this had been coming, and was caught totally unaware.

Mickey tried to maintain communication with me, but I was a teenager and even my mother (with whom I resided) had a difficult time fitting into my social calendar. Splitting time between friends and two parents was tricky enough, so Mickey and I lost contact.

I am truly sorry for this. I could sure use her expertise in the step-parenting arena. Advice from someone who has been in the trenches would be extremely helpful on some days. However, I think the most resounding reason that I regret not maintaining contact is that I think she deserves thanks; a thanks she never received from me because I was too young to understand all that she offered. Now, I'm not delusional, or idealistic, the woman wasn't perfect (who is?) But at the very least, she should know that I now recognize all that she did, and all she attempted to do. I have no doubt that she cared about me, that she helped make my second home as important as my first, and that she made my childhood more full just by being around, and offering me a bit of herself.

Just.Don't.Think.About.It!

2006-06-12T23:06:00.000-04:00

The weather in my little corner of the country has been total crap lately, but today we had a reprieve. The sun was out, and the temperature and humidity were both tolerable (a rarity this time of year in my neck of the woods) . It was a good day to be outside, which worked out well since I assisted my aunt in weeding and spreading mulch for several hours this morning and afternoon.

She has started her own gardening business, and I help out once in a while when she needs an extra pair of hands. I'll spare you the details, but the woman is ALWAYS late. The circumstances are unforseen every time, but you can count on 3 things in life, death, taxes, and my aunt will always be later than she counted on. Today we started a mere hour and a half later than originally planned.

Whatever...that's not the reason for this post, it simply had to be mentioned.

Here's the reason for this post:

The house we worked on today is approximately 30 minutes away from my apartment. I had to depart earlier than my aunt so that I could drive home and shower the stink off in order to wait tables.

I drove the thirty minutes back to my town, stopped at the drug store, and then went home. When I got home I went into the bathroom. (I'm sure that at this point you're wondering why you're getting a blow-by-blow account of my day, but hang in there, I think it's worth it). I started taking my clothes off and putting them in a pile on the floor (they were filthy, I was going to take a shower, and no-this isn't going where you think it's going!).

As I was getting ready to hop into the shower I noticed something emerging out of the pile of clothes.

Something BIG.

It was a cricket! Not just a baby cricket, we're talking a full grown (freight train sized) adult cricket-came out of my clothes! I had a stow-away cricket in my drawers for at LEAST 40 minutes.

Just to re-cap: A CRICKET was in my pants and I was oblivious!

I hate bugs. I also hate to kill them (or anything for that matter). So I spent the next several minutes dancing around the bathroom (half naked) trying not to think about where the cricket had been for the last hour, and cogitating on how I was going to remove it from the bathroom. I was afraid that if I left the room, it would hide, and then I would never find it-ohmyGOD! So I ran to the kitchen, grabbed one of the kid's cups (it has a lid) and ran back to the bathroom. I caught the savage beast, but the top didn't fit (I grabbed the wrong lid), therefore, I couldn't set the cup down for fear I would lose my prey.

I then held the cup in one hand, contemplated my next move (I had the cricket but I was still half-naked), then proceeded to dress, one-handed (into CLEAN clothes), and went outside to set the cricket free into the wild.

Happy ending?

Yeah, as long as I don't spend too much time pondering where exactly that big-ass bug was hiding all that time. If I think about the fact that a HUMUNGOUS bug was on me for all that time, I can't help but wonder how many small insects (like SPIDERS AAARGH!) found their way into my clothing. If I think about that, I am left wondering...where are they NOW? What about the bugs I didn't notice crawling out of my clothes because I was focused on the cricket?! Are they in my BED now?

If I keep thinking like this...I will never leave the house again. It's a dangerous, bug infested world out there, and I don't have what it takes to stay sane while I am COVERED in insects.

So, I've resigned to just.not.think.about.it.

When This Expensive Education Pays Off.

2006-06-08T07:54:00.000-04:00

Today I was grocery shopping, pinching pennies, counting the monetary value of items in my basket, going over my list and deciding which items I can do without this week in order to stay within my tight budget, when I walked by Regina Something-Or-Other. Regina and I graduated in the same high school class (class of 1995 *gasp*). I didn't really like her. She was somewhat snobby, clearly from a family that had money, and couldn't be bothered with classmates who didn't fit into her social and scholarly clique (the one with all of the wealthy honors students, the privileged few who could concentrate on their school work because they didn't have to work after school instead of concentrating on homework). However, in her defense, she wasn't ever awful either. She was just, well…snobby blah.

Neither of us acknowledged that we recognized the other, even when we ran into each other for the second time in the parking lot. Our cars were parked next to each other, and apparently we departed at the same time (what are the friggin' odds?).

Her car- A brand new black Volkswagen Jetta.

My car- A 1997 two door Toyota Tercel with a garbage bag on the driver's seat to catch the rain seeping through the leaky moon-roof (I've never had enough spare change to have it repaired). My car was sold long before keyless entry was standard (I have to use the KEY) and in order to get the window up or down one must use his or her arm muscles, not simply utilize a wussy finger push.

I was immediately embarrassed, and at the same time I was pissed off that I was embarrassed. Why the hell should I care about status? I'm happy damn it! I'm in love, I have a roof over my head, and overall I'm a very lucky human being. However, her shiny fancy car made me overly aware of the fact that I'm still pinching pennies. Financial woes have been at the forefront as of late, and it's a touchy subject.

My reaction to Regina's car, and my (completely ridiculous and ludicrous) fear of what she'd think of me (which is totally irrelevant to anything) made me decide that I need to make several vows to myself.

If and when I ever have an income which is sufficient to be comfortable and I have money to spare (which is different than being wealthy, but the same rules apply-except, I'd donate more to worthy causes), I vow to do the following:

1. Donate annually to NPR

2. Continue driving cars that are economical and practical. Fuel economy is at the forefront (not just for money's sake, but for our environment's sake). For instance, if I could buy any car right now-I'd buy a Toyota Prius. (However, I can't speak for The Good Guy who has had his heart set on a BMW since I met him.)

3. Purchase only organic produce, and as many fair-trade and sweat-shop free products as I can get my hands on.

4. Live in a practical home, nothing monstrous with more room than we need. Something comfortable and homey, not a home whose purpose is to make others envious of all that we have.

5. Always, always, always tip well. (I do that now and I'm poor, no problem there).

6. Never-ever shop in big-box stores. I will frequent small independently owned shops.

7. Have a compost pile and use the soil in my garden, which I will use to grow my own herbs and vegetables.

8. Not spoil the kids. With that, teach the kids that wealth doesn't equate virtue or morality. As my friend J told her son, "Some good people are poor, and some rich people are not good people, it has nothing to do with money"

9. Not have cable television. (The Good Guy will not be happy about this one. Is there a way to not have cable, and still watch baseball?)

10. Treat family and friends to dinner out, and slip my mom a twenty now and then (which she currently does for me)

11. Wear cocktail gowns and go to galas.
~Drink good wine.
~Have elegant dinner parties in a dining room decorated with elaborate place settings and fresh flowers.
~Have a stocked liquor cabinet-plenty of Jamesons, Tequila, Bailey's, Frangelico, (and Malibu-also known as 'sunscreen with alcohol' for you J. *bleck*)
~Dress fashionably.
~Give the Good Guy all the kitchen gadgets he asks for.
~Never forget that once upon a time I couldn't do these things.

And, although this is petty, and I shouldn't even add the following sentiment, I must say: I'm skinnier than Regina Something-Or-Other. HA!

Hey-I'm only human, and sometimes I'm a little petty.

If you learn to speak correct English, whom are you going to speak it to? ~Clarence Darrow

2006-06-05T23:19:00.000-04:00

Having been in school for the last 2 years, immersed in text book and peer reviewed article hell, I haven't had much time for leisurely reading.

This summer I have decided to make up for lost time. The library has become my new intimate niche. I began with several novels in the chick-lit genre. They were entertaining, and a good way to ease myself out of the purely informational written works I have been deciphering. I have now moved on to a memoir. I was reticent at first, afraid that the transition from the predictable and humorous to meaninful and tragic would be difficult.

It wasn't. The memoir is well written and I'm captivated. (For those of you interested, it is titled The Tender Bar, the author, J.R. Moehringer.)

All of this chain-reading is stimulating the deaply burried creative writer in me. (I'm fairly certain there is one in there, however, its level of ability is certainly in question). This memoir business got me pondering, What makes a memoir readable? How does one's life story become interesting to the masses? Would my memoir be marketable? Would I want to share my life story with just anyone? Then I decided that my childhood memories are extrememly disjointed and vague. Conveying them through an organized written work would be nearly impossible (and there is still the question of entertainment value).

Then I thought-I could write chick-lit! Although, I realized shortly after this epiphany that any chick-lit I write will be a variation of my memoir. Experience (I believe) is the best material.

I have also resolved to read more classics. I have never read "The Great Gatsby", nor Dante's "Inferno", never read any Tolstoy, nor any Sylvia Plath, and I have only seen movie versions of the Bronte sisters works (though my hopes are not high after seeing Wuthering Heights-sorry TN I'll read Jane Eyre first, okay?).

Who knows? Maybe one day I will sit down and begin writing something other than a thesis, or an article review, or a blog post. I think I'll just keep blogging and reading for the time being. You know, build up my writing momentum.

The Legacy of Frank

2006-05-31T07:55:00.000-04:00

He stands at the grill, spatula in hand, his few hamburgers are surrounded by veggie burgers while he is surrounded by other cooks tending to them. He wonders when he became obsolete, when his large family became too busy to attend a holiday gathering, when the meat and potatoes he worked so hard to feed his wife and children for so many years became poison, replaced by rabbit food patties. This was his post for decades. He stood at the grill, and fired up hot dog after buger after hot dog. He handed them out to adults and children alike following the question, "How do you like it cooked?" The kids would shovel in their food as quickly as possible so as to make it back to the pool in time to not miss any of the action. He was surrounded by family then. His six children, and their children (his 12 grandchildren), all cajoling, laughing, and back slapping. Today he looks around. Only three of his children are in attendance; one son with his third wife, his only daughters are the other two that came, both divorced, one still single (who will always be) and the other with her beau. Two grandchildren are present, one who has her own son, his great-grandson, a child with a beautiful smile and an infectious laugh.

He loves having them there. He has worked hard his entire life to be surrounded by family. His devotion to his family is part of his heritage. His father was an immigrant from Italy, this type of get-together is his legacy. He is saddened that the importance of family gatherings is lost on the next two generations. The swimming pool that used to be in the back corner of the yard has been filled in. He has become too old to keep up with maintaining it, and these gatherings have become so few and far between that it was never used anyway. The spans of this large backyard seems almost a waste, as nobody comes around to celebrate in it anymore.

He finds himself getting weepy as they leave. He is saddened when these gatherings draw to a close, as the next one will certainly be far into the future. Until then the house will be full of silence and echoes of times past when the bedrooms were full, and the comings and goings numerous.

As they leave he thinks, "God bless their souls". He has lived a good life. He has wonderful children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren (there are 4 now!). He has lived to see his family grow and thrive. He is proud of what he and his wife have accomplished, the legacy they have left. He pours himself another drink and begins cleaning the yard, already looking forward to the next time he will see them all.

**My grandfather is an amazing man. He is full of love. He can't sit still for very long (even though he is in his eighties), as his entire life has been an active one (he worked three jobs to support his wife and children). He is the hardest worker you will ever meet, and more devoted to those he loves that anyone I have every known. He is a veteran (United Stated Marine Corps). His Memorial Day backyard get together was very sparse this year. I was saddened by the small turnout. I am one of the rabbit food patty eaters. I seriously considered eating a burger just to make him feel better. Amusingly enough, The Good Guy confided in me later that he too had considered eating a burger so that my grandfather would feel more essential. We did have a good time, as did all of those who came.

Udder

2006-05-29T23:25:00.000-04:00

The Good Guy's daughter (reminder: she's 8) was at the playground in our apartment complex the other day swinging next to and chatting with a little boy who is close to her in age (his name is Taylor). After a little while she came running over to where we were seated, sat down next to her father and asked:

"Daddy, what does udder mean?"

"Well, it means a couple of things, for instance, you know cows have udders, right?"

"Yeah, but, Taylor said he was going to play with his udder friends"

I simultaneously had three thoughts (while trying not to laugh out loud).

One: Poor thing, that little snot nosed brat didn't want to play with her-she's going to feel rejected*

Two: She's better off. That kid is really weird...And he can't even pronounce 'other'.(Have I mentioned how protective I am of the people I love? I don't generally have prejudices about speach impediments)

Three: This is hysterically funny, and I must share it with the blogging world.

Kids truly do say the darndest things.

*FYI: She was far from traumatized; she found something else fun to do within approximately 2 minutes of discovering (via her father's diplomatic translation) that Taylor was seeking out alternative playmates.

“How tedious is a guilty conscience!” ~John Webster

2006-05-26T23:55:00.000-04:00

I had a piece of key lime pie before I left work tonight. I was STARVING and the cooks had already closed up the kitchen by the time my side-work was done. All that was available to me was dessert.

Now I feel guilty. Which leads me to the need to blog about guilt (I seem to be coming up short on new subject matter).

Guilt is a wonderful reaction that I have to almost everything imaginable. (And when I say 'wonderful' what I really mean is 'lousy, distressing, unpleasant, and/or annoying'). I attribute this response to my mother's cultivating it during the entire time I resided under her roof. I have no idea if she did this on purpose or if it was simply how she was raised, and therefore she passed it on to me. It is irrelevant at this point in time because guilt is something that I feel in an almost carnal manner. No amount of conscious rationalization seems to quell the unconscious need my mind has to feel guilty.

My jeans are too damn tight. Winter months in a small town in a cold climate are HELL on the waistline. Food has been my savior for as long as I can remember. I eat out of boredom, I eat when I'm upset, I eat to celebrate, I eat when I'm depressed. I have struggled with my weight for as long as I can remember. I was always the pudgy kid. Not fat, just not 'trim'. I was 'not trim' enough to be the fat friend (at least I always felt that way). Therefore, not eating junk food is an exercise in self control and will-power. I am probably the skinniest I have ever been (at least I was when winter started). So, whenever I eat crappy food, I feel guilty. Like...like I've failed somehow. I feel (seriously, one piece of pie has this effect) like my stomach is bloated and my thighs and butt have grown.

J bought me lunch today. She knows I'm financially strapped and decided we should get lunch and offered to buy. I took her up on it. Now, I feel guilty. She's just as poor as I am. I shouldn't have accepted. I suck. Moocher.

I had the kids on Sunday while The Good Guy was at work. I was exhausted from closing the restaurant and then getting up early the two days prior. And, I had to work Sunday night. I was not exactly my good-time self. I feel guilty for being totally preoccupied with the need to sleep while they were trying to get me to play. Loser.

See? I could rationalize that one piece of pie (in lieu of a meal) isn't going to make me tubby, or that J is coming into some extra money and she can afford one $30 lunch, or that the kids were fine and they needed that reading time I made them take while I snuck in a nap.

Still, the guilt lingers on.

It's okay though. I don't seem to be losing sleep. The guilt doesn't last forever. AND, I usually feel really skinny when I wake up in the morning (something having to do with gravity sucking on my stomach fat while I lie in bed).

I do wonder though, is guilt taught, or is it in-born? Is it a gender thing? Is is passed down primarily from mothers to daughters, or do sons carry the burden as well? Do fathers play a role in the passing-on of guilt? Where does religion come in? I am not religious. Spiritual maybe, religious-NO. Organized religion makes me cringe (there's another long post that may leave some offended), so that's certainly not the root of my guilt. It's an interesting phenomenon this "guilt". Does it keep us in check, or hold us back (perhaps a bit of both?)

Well, whatever. I've had two glasses (maybe 3?) of wine, and I feel the guilt melting away. I think that if I were sober, this post would be much more meaningful (Oh, goodness-should I feel guilty about being tipsy?) But, it is what it is-entertainment for me and my few loyal readers.

I would like to open my comment section to thoughts anyone may have on this 'guilt' phenomenon. Who experiences it? To what degree? How do you think it came about?

Oh, and this is a note to self more than a note to anyone reading: I intend to write a post about the book I just read, and the fact that it has inspired me to write a novel :-) No, seriously!

Conditioned Maturity in the Face of Genetic Inferiority

2006-05-22T00:26:00.000-04:00

I was once asked out on a date by a fellow co-worker who is easily twice my age. He is a nice man, a former hippy, and has a daughter close to my age. I handled it all wrong. Hooooey, did I handle it wrong! I wanted to classify and clarify that I would accompany him to see a movie (as a friend), but that I had no intention of "dating" him. He said that he doesn't live his life like that, that he can't make determinate statements such as "I will never be romantically involved with you". I told him that I can, and do. It was shortly after my divorce, and I knew that I couldn't placate people. I couldn't make others happy by pretending I was something other than I am. I had decided that I eventually want children, and I wasn't the least bit interested in him romantically, or sexually. I knew that I never would be for a variety of other reasons. I forget the order of events, but ultimately I told him I had to think about it, and when I finally had the courage to tell him no, he was so completely angry that he told me I was off the hook before I could have a discussion with him.

Time has passed, and we're once again comfortable acquaintences. But, something he said to me at one point during the unfolding of those uncomfortable events has stuck with me. He told me that no matter how old your body gets, you still feel young inside. As you get older, you become surprised with the old face that looks back at you in the mirror because you still feel the same inside.

I looked in the mirror today and paused. Who the hell is that woman? She's a grownup! When on earth did that happen, and where was I? Of course, when I really think about it, I've had a lot of experiences. This age (and I realize that I'm not elderly) didn't exactly sneak up on me, but...sometimes it's all a blur. I really have to think about how I got here, and when exactly I become an adult.

For that matter, when will I start acting like one?

Sometimes I act like one.
For instance: Today I had this miserable old man at a table. These people come into a nice restaurant and ask me first thing if they can order dinner and have it served to them in time for them to eat it and be out the door in 40 minutes. Ten years ago I would have said, "Um, no, but, McDonalds is around the corner. However, at my wise, ripe old age of 28 (and counting) I simply listed the quickest meals on the menu, deflected smart ass comments from the miserable old gentleman in the party, and got them out the door in their desired timeframe. I was so pleasant that I even had the old guy smiling before he left. Freakin' amazing.

Let me tell you about me at 18 years of age.
Miserable middle aged guy who frequents the grocery store where I am employed decides he doesn't owe a late fee for a video rental (despite what the computer says). I tell him that he'll have to talk to the General Manager who is not working at the moment. He says okay and walks away. A couple minutes later he comes up and says he really wants to talk about this with a manager. So, I call the manager who is currently working. Before the manager arrives I remind the gentleman (I use this word as more of a joke than anything) that though this manager can speak with him, he doesn't have the power nor the authority to do anything other than listen to the complaint.

The Guy LOSES it on me. He asks why I bothered calling the guy, why didn't I say anything before I paged him, blah blah blah.

I pretty much tell the guy he's a lunatic and that I had told him all the same stuff just minutes prior.

He insults me in some manner and then calls me a little girl.

So I respond, "Ok, old man"

He proceeds to shake his finger at me and scream (red faced and spitting). "Listen you LITTLE BITCH you're lucky I don't slap you across the face!"

*Sidebar-I'm a little girl (his words) whom he is threatening with bodily harm. Nice.

At this point my manager arrives and tells the guy not to speak to me in this manner. I forget what happened next because I was too stunned to think and this was one of those rare occasions in my life when I was rendered utterly speachless.

Couldn't.
Speak.

Back to the present: I SO could have handled that better. But, I was eighteen years old and was still working under the assumption that the biggest asshole wins.

I was wrong.

I am amazed at the pleasure I get from being calm and rational while being verabally accosted. I am also amazed at the frequency with which my calm politeness creates a certain amount of reciprocity where there was formerly a distinct lack of civility.

Yet, while the moments where I am calm and rational in the face of blatant meanness are more recurring than they once were, the moments where I want to win the battle of hard-ass still exist. I still have this pigheaded portion of my character that feels as though I need to make it clear to the other guy that I am a human being, not a punching bag. But most of all, I want it clear that they are wrong and I am right.

I've decided it's genetic. My initial, gut reaction (which I can trace directly to my mother) will always be the same, "Hey buddy-did you know you're a JERK?!" However, my conditioning is making it somewhat easier to think, "Okay, maybe this guy's dog just died, or his mom is ill, or his kid is hooked on drugs, and the only way he is making it through today is to lose control with a stranger." Then I generally achieve a placid, composed response.

On the days when I try hard and succeed in achieving the conditioned response, I see my reflection and think, "You've come a long way, baby."

On the days when I role my eyes, emit a deep sigh, and retaliate; I look at my reflection and think, "You still have really far to go."

What Begins With M?

2006-05-19T07:59:00.000-04:00

I have willingly decided to play a game wherein I am given a letter and must list ten words beginning with that letter and what they mean to me. I happened upon the game on Steph's blog and she has given me the letter M. I will extend the same invitation to my readers as she did to hers...leave me a comment with a request for a letter if you'd like to play. Here's my list, in totally random order.

1. Margaritas - Tequila, Lime, and salt. What does this mean to me? Good times, good taste, and refreshing! I'll take them on the rocks, I'll take them frozen, and I'll take a lot of them in the right company and circumstances.

2. Mom - This is a BIG one. I could devote an entire blog to what this word means to me. My relationship with my mom has had many ups and downs over the years, but I think we've reached a place of mutual respect and understanding. She gave me the tools I needed to make it through life's bumps, and she was my best friend through childhood and the tumultuos adolescent years. I love her very much. Will I ever be a mom? I'd like to be, but we never really know what the future holds, do we? What is my relationship to The Good Guy's kids? Eventually I will probably be step-mom. I will continue to walk a fine line where I give maternal love while trying not to give anyone the impression that I'm attempting to replace mom. I realize that being a mother whose ex-spouse has a new mate must be threatening and extremely difficult. But rest assured, the other side of that dilemma is not easy either. I don't want overstep my bounds, but I also don't want to be distant and unapproachable. Ocassionally I feel like a tight-rope walker.

3. Music - I love music. Clint Black has a song (the title evades me at the moment), the chorus goes, "Ain't it funny how a melody can bring back a memory, take you to another place in time, completely change your state of mind..." Oh, how true. My music tastes are as wide ranging as my moods (and for those of you that don't know me-it's a wide range). Just the other day, I was driving somewhere, and I was in a somewhat foul mood when a Bon Jovi song came on the radio. (Laugh if you will, but all music has a place, even Bon Jovi.) I started belting out the lyrics to the song and found myself smiling away. My mood shifted. I decided that I need to make a mixed CD of songs that elevate my mood for those times when rainy day blues take over. Just a few of my selections (there are LOTS more) would include; Sinatra's The Best is Yet to Come, Springsteen's Ain't got you, Sara Evans' Perfect, Nora Jones' Sunrise, Junior Brown's Highway Patrol or My Wife Thinks You're Dead, and Kenny Wayne Shepherd's Everything is Broken.

4. Mexican Food - Yes, not only do I enjoy imbibing that Mexican beverage, but I truly enjoy the food that goes along with it. It's wonderful that as a vegetarian I can go into a Mexican restaurant and pick any meal on the menu. Does it have meat? Yes? Well, I'll just substitute that meat with some vegetarian beans please! Just the other day I had a scrumptious chimichanga at a quaint little Mexican restaurant with my sister. And, it was so big that my leftovers became dinner for The Good Guy!

5. Movies - We don't have TV. We have a TV, but it is only used to watch movies. When I left my husband (who spent a large percentage of his life planted in front of the TV) I decided that I would not have cable again. But, we do watch a movie two or three nights a week. It's a wonderful way to keep our couch potato/brain rotting time to a minimum while still having quiet mind numbing evenings.

6. Money - The root of all evil? I don't think so. The root of many problems? Yeah, I'll agree with that. I don't want to be wealthy, just comfortable without a mountain of debt. I don't think I would ever be comfortable if I was wealthy, I would have a constant sense that others have suffered (and continue to) so that I may live in excess. However, I watched my parents struggle to make ends meet their entire lives, and I don't want that for myself. So, I'm going to school to be a therapist of sorts. I'll make a modest living while helping people. I'll stay away from Walmart, and I'll frequent as many locally owned non-corporate shops as I can. Then I'll be able to sleep at night.

7. Merlot - Generally not my favorite wine, but I like it just the same. I prefer Chianti and Shiraz. I've never been much of a white wine drinker. I stick to reds.

8. Memories - I love photographs. I love reminiscing with family and friends about good times we have experienced together. I love the idea that a loved one is always with you as long as you have memories of them.

9. Maybe - What a great word. It gives the speaker time to think before commiting to an answer one way or the other when unsure. I use it with the kids regularly. I'm somewhat new to this parenting thing, and I need time to think to myself; is that really a good idea?

10. Master's Degree - Ugh. I need a Master's degree to become a licensed Art Therapist. However, at the end of next semester I will only have a Bachelor's degree after two and a half years of schooling and I need a break. I'm burned-out. My plan (keep your fingers crossed for me) is to get a job, work for a couple of years, and return to school part time for my Master's if I can't find a job that makes me happy and accepts my current qualifications.

That was fun. Let me know if you want to play.

The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who can't read them. - Mark Twain

2006-05-13T08:02:00.000-04:00

I love books. If I was wealthy (monetarily speaking) I would have my own private library. I am capable of losing all track of time and spending hours on end in a book store. I remember as a kid that my dad would take me to a wonderful bookstore near his home and tell me that I could pick out a book. Then we would part ways. I would go to the section of the store that had books at my reading level, and take great care to make the decision of which book would be coming home with me. Generally I was incapable of narrowing down my options to just one, (there were hundreds to choose from!) so my father would give in and allow me 2 or 3. The poor guy, how do you say no to a kid that is begging for books? He didn't stand a chance. I read them all voracioulsy. To this day I love the feeling of getting lost in a book. I love all of the potential that a trip to the book store holds. I love the sensation of so many options and so little time. I love that I can connect with people through books. Secretly, I'm always a little disappointed when I complete a book because the story is then over.

This year I had no idea what to get my mother for Mother's Day, so I did what I always do when I'm at a loss for gift giving ideas; I went to the book store. I spent at least an hour pawing through the merchandise, reading jacket covers and trying to use self restraint when making selections. Several times I asked for help at the sales counter when I recalled a portion of a title that had been recommended to me, but came up short when trying to recall the author's name, or the entire book title. I bet they love that!

While I was there a bus load of teenagers came in. I overheard various discussions (because, quite frankly, these kids were EVERYWHERE), and I gathered that these kids were from somewhere in NYC. There were cell phones going off left and right, MP3 players blaring in various ears, and groups of kids taking up entire ailes so that I had to walk around them to get to where I needed to go. I couldn't stop smiling. These kids were shopping for BOOKS! Not all of them where thrilled with the idea, but many of them were very serious about making their selections. They were in the store for almost as long as I was, and when they were ready to leave, the check out line was a mile long. I'm not a teacher. I couldn't be, my patience level is nowhere near the required level. Still, expanding minds excite me! The concept of adolescents choosing to read makes me giddy. I truly believe the potential in all of us is enhanced by expanding our minds. I also believe that books are one of the main resources we have for mind expansion. I was beaming!

I did (of course) find a gift for my mom. I also found one for my grandmother, one for someone I can't name because he/she reads my blog and (of course) one for myself.

Incase anyone is interested, the following were my selections:

For Grandma: A cookbook titled, "Splenda". She's daibetic. I thought it would be helpful. Besides, she's lived through enough Mother's Days and birthdays that she has a home full of trinkets and everything she wants or needs. She's a very practical, wonderful woman.

For Mom: "Falling Through the Earth, a memoir" by Danielle Trussoni. My mother's husband has severe PTSD resulting from the Vietnam War. Living with and loving him is no easy feat, but she remains loyal to him and continues to be devoted him. This book is a memoir of a woman whose father never really stopped fighting the battle he was immersed in while in Vietnam, and her choice to stand by him when everyone else gave up on him. I thought it appropriate.

For me: "The Wisdom of a Stary Night, Using the Power of Great Art for Self-Awareness" by Sharon Marson. This book was inexpensive and I had to have it. The book is a compilation of various pieces of art accompanied by introspective questions such as, "Who is in your inner circle?", and "What runs through your veins?" Art and personal growth are at the forefront of my life right now. I am one semester away from getting my degree in Creative Arts in Therapy, and this book resonated with me. For seven dollars, how could I pass it up?

For the person who will remain nameless: I can't say of course!

Bipolar

2006-05-13T00:46:00.000-04:00

I struggle with how much to articulate my frustrations. I don't want to be a Negative Nancy, but I also don't want to deny my true feelings-that's how you get an ulcer. Here's a little sample of the thought processees I am undergoing this evening (keep in mind as you read this that it is REALLY late and I'm very tired, but my mind won't shut down enough for me to be capable of sleeping).

~5 people go out to dinner at a nice restaurant where dinner averages $15 a plate. They sit at a table for over an hour and accumulate a bill of $20. FIVE people, TWENTY dollars. How much of a tip do they leave? $3. This is no joke, this is my reality.
Bright Side: A couple with a small child goes out to dinner, they're friendly, not at all demanding, the baby is ADORABLE and their bill comes to $70. They leave a $25 tip. This is also my reality.

~According the the custody agreement the kids should be with their father. Instead their mother decides that she is a better judge than anyone else (including their father and the court system) of how the kids should spend their time so she keeps them. She lets one have a sleepover with two friends while the other sleeps in bed with her and her boyfriend all night long. In the best interest of the kids? I don't think so. Anything I can do about it? Not a damn thing.
Bright Side: The kids still go to their father's, though not as much as they should. While there, they see how a rational, giving, sincere, loving, and reasonable person interacts with others.

~One of the sweetest people I work with can't stay after our shift and have a drink with me because her husband will accuse her of any number of deplorable actions. She deserves better. I can't tell her that it will all work out okay. I'm not sure it will.
Bright Side: She's healthy?

~The witch waitress at work still has an attitute problem.
Bright Side: I have been strong enough to not light into her with the wit and anger I have been amassing while "maturing" and "bettering myself". It takes great strength to overcome the need to tell stupid people that they suck. I am strong.

~I don't want to be so damned negative all the time. I don't like constantly grinding my teeth and feeling powerless. Chocolate and red wine are the strongest substances I use. They are my last line of defense. They aren't working.
Bright Side: As frustrated as I am, I am going to crawl into bed with a loving man who adores his children enough to continue to be level-headed despite mounting adversity and disappointment. He is as devoted to me as he is to his children. And...there is always more chocolate and wine.

No one can understand the truth until he drinks of coffee's frothy goodness. ~Sheik Abd-al-Kadir

2006-05-11T08:15:00.000-04:00

I remember the first time a sip of coffee didn't cause me to cringe. Up until that point coffee was a substance with a phenomenal aroma that caused me (on many occasions) to stick my head into a bag of coffee beans and breath deep. However, the taste, to me, was god-awful.

The day I left my husband I showed up at my father's doorstep sniveling and sobbing. You know that crying that takes over you until you're left hiccuping for breath,and doesn't generally happen to anyone after they've past the age of 3? That was the state I was in.

After being ushered in and embraced with concerned hugs from both my father and step-mother, I was provided with a cup of coffee while I told them of my decision. I drank the whole thing (it was a REALLY big mug, these are coffee people) and asked for more. It was wonderful. The taste (she had added just the right mix of cream and sugar to please my tastebuds), the feeling of the hot mug in my hand, and the fact that it gave me a focal point for my gaze while I was pondering how to verbalize my emotion, were reasons why this sweet and strong nectar seemed to take the edge off of such a heart wrenching moment.

Today The Good Guy and I had time to kill while the car was being serviced. We walked around town and stopped at a small bookstore with a large selection of greeting cards. We each found several that we couldn't pass up, so we made our purchases and headed to the only coffee shop in town. While there, we sipped mochas and nibbled biscotti and lemon pound cake as we wrote notes inside of our card selections.

As we sat in the shop, with a gentleman using a laptop to the left of us and a man reading a newspaper to the right, I couldn't help but wonder...What is it about coffee shops? What is it that brings people together to sit and relax while drinking a stimulant? What is it that makes people perfectly comfortable to meet up with someone new, or and old friend, or a business associate, or to sit alone? What is it that makes us able to break the ice with the unassuming question, "Would you like to go out for a cup of coffee sometime?"

I suppose that if I pondered long enough I could come up with meaningful answers to these (somewhat rhetorical) questions, but part of the fun is in simply accepting. I love the aura of a coffee shop. I love that I am comfortable doing any of the above things, and that I am comfortable doing so for hours on end.

I should add that I do my best to frequent small privately owned coffee shops instead of the monster corporation that is Starbucks. I always try to help the little guy whenever possible. That's not to say that I never go to Starbucks. I'm not perfect.

Anyway, I digress...I'm glad that I joined the club of people that enjoy coffee, and all of the experience that comes with it. Before I had that sip of my step-mother's perfect mixture I had yet to experience the community sensation I get while sitting with my friends in our local coffee shop. Perhaps for me, it's the association with having the strength to make an immensly difficult decision. Whatever the reason, it's nice to know that wherever I go, I can always find someplace that serves coffee. I can take time to gaze into my mug as I ponder my next move, and I will have some comfort as I do so.

The Kindness of Strangers

2006-05-08T22:50:00.000-04:00

I have to where a neck tie to work. It's nowhere near as humiliating as the floppy bow tie I adorned at my first waitressing job ten years ago, but the need to be careful to not dip it into patron's water glasses was new to me. After several occassions wherein I dragged my tie through food and/or greasy liquid, I asked The Good Guy for a tie-tack, knowing he would have one. I didn't know however, that it would be in the shape of an F-16 (a fighting falcon is its nickname, so I've been informed). It was a gift to The Good Guy from his father, who was in the United States Air Force. I wear it for function, and know very little about planes or jets, etc. The shape was irrelevant as it was purely funtional.

I waited on a patron several weeks ago who was very talkative about my tie tack. He was involved in building F-16s and various other planes/jets (whatever) before he retired. He fired off LOTS of information that didn't sink into my brain, as I was mentally surveying my tables in order to determine my next move at each one. However, his enthusiasm was infectious, and I liked him. His wife boasted that when they had lived on Long Island, he could name the type of plane flying over head just from hearing the sound. It was pleasant to wait on them as it always is when the patrons are personable and friendly. The gentleman mentioned in passing that he would bring me in an F-18 tie tack the next time he and his wife come for dinner. Though I said that it would be great, I didn't for a moment expect it to actually happen.

Friday night he and his wife came back. They were waiting at the bar for a table to be ready when I walked by. I stopped to say hello, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out a plane-shaped tie tack. It was similar to mine but had two tail wings (I think that's what they're called). He told me what it is (a Hornet or an F-18), and told me that I could keep it. His wife asked in amazement, "You remembered?!" then touched my arm and said, "He must really like you because he never remembers anything".

I can't even begin to put into words how touched I was by this stupid little trinket. It wasn't about the tie tack (though I will keep it always as a reminder of this occasion). It was about connection. As I said before, his enthusiasm was infectious, and I caught it. I don't even know this gentleman's name, but he was kind and offered this simple gift to someone who showed interest in what he had to share. He had knowledge, and enjoyed imparting to an interested party. We were simply two people who had a friendly conversation.

I can't seem to articulate it, but this simple gesture was, well...selfless. It was simply a nice thing to do. He got nothing out of it beyond more conversation (and a really big smile). The reward was connection to another person. That's it. He didn't expect more.

And now whenever I look at the Hornet on my tie, I will think of his friendly gesture and smile. He gave me that.

Rainy day doldrums.

2006-05-06T14:24:00.000-04:00

The air was crisp, the sky a shade of blue-grey which seemed to be disputing whether the clouds would part and allow the sun to shine through, or burst, saturating the shuffling bodies below.

To the most vigilant among us, the balmy breeze carried jumbled sensations. There was the unmistakable jovial nature of the marginally organized horseplay. Yet, the undercurrents of insincerity and hostility were evident. The feeling of bridled furry has become familiar. The hope that a remedy exists for unseen wounds has become a decayed yearning.

In the diner, the waitress emits an aura of broken dreams and failed potential. The french toast is bland like the unfulfilled promise of the day which lay before us. He purchases breakfast for the mother and her young son at a booth in the corner as an anonymous thank you; their contagious and innocent enjoyment of one another infecting the negligable number of patrons sparsely populating the eatery.

The lonely ride home is an exercise in restraint. The tears come too easily, and once they begin, cessation will be elusive. The evening ahead will be full of obligatory smiles and banter. The bulge held in my pocket late in the evening as I drive home will not be enough to generate a respite for the financial oppression which lingers overhead like an ever-present and pregnant storm cloud.

Still, the morning holds promise, tomorrow budding with potential. The sun will once again crest the horizon, and with it will come a new beginning, a cleaner slate. All that lies between today and tomorrow are unformulated dreams.

Where do I begin?

2006-05-05T23:52:00.000-04:00

It's amazing that my life is so damn full right now, yet I don't know what to write about. I guess part of it is that I enjoy holding my writing up to a certain standard (believe it or not) and at this point I feel as though I will fall woefully short of cohesion. Therefore, I will provide my loyal readers with what I hope will be a somewhat entertaining and illuminating update on the various tidbits of life which I currently have on my plate...

-We spent 5 hours in the emergency room last night; from midnight until 5 this morning. The Good Guy has some weird pain that won't go away, and the doctors can't seem to figure out the problem. We have no health insurance, so he's minimizing his participation in a number of tests they're offering forth. Great, juuust great. I worry. It's a trait passed on from my mother who would constantly lecture me that I needed to call if I was going to be late, because 1 minute past the moment I was due to arrive home she'd have visions of me dead in a ditch somewhere. So, as we were dressing to go to the hospital, it was The Good Guy (the one who's sick and in pain) who was consoling me that it would be alright. Sometimes I am such. a. chick.

-The kids should (legally and rightfully) be with us tonight but their mother is holding them hostage. It would be small and petty of me to use any of the numerous adjectives and expletives that come to mind when I think of her lately, so I'll refrain (besides, The Good Guy reads my blog and he wouldn't appreciate my choices).

-I turned in my thesis! Sadly, it's total crap. It is by far the worst piece of written work I have put my name on since returning to school. I had a great concept, but I couldn't seem to find an eloquent manner in which to pull it off. So, I gave a half assed presentation and turned in an atrocious piece of research. My final paper does not by any means make it obvious that I read about a billion articles on the subjects of art therapy, adolescents, at-risk youth, group homes, drama therapy, writing therapy and the use of all of those therapy approaches with adolescents. I shudder to think that my 4.0 GPA is in jeopardy at the end of my fourth semester after working my ass off for two years. But, it is what it is, and in the long run, what will a 4.0 vs. a 3.9 get me? A higher paying job?-No. Sometimes my perfectionism is simply a means for my genetically inferior stomach to cause me pain via self induced stress. It's just plain stupid.

-The lyrics to a Tori Amos song popped into my head this evening at work as another waitress PISSED. ME. OFF! "I want to kill this waitress..." I could hear Ms. Amos pleading with me, "If I did it fast, you know that's an act of kindness..." The details of the incident are too tedious and uninteresting to spell out, but rest assured that I was in the right and she was totally wrong. By the end of the night, the high and mighty witch apoligized, but my respect level for her has taken a tremendous nose dive.

So...I guess I need to work on FORGIVENESS in keeping with my bettering of myself mantra.

Oooh! My next post will be about my decision to expand my wardrobe and accessorize! Simple, yet exciting. And I'll bet I can maintain both cohesion and entertainment value within the confines of that subject. Stay Tuned!

Kids Are Gross

2006-05-01T07:51:00.000-04:00

I won't devote another post to the wonderfulness that is my boyfriend, as I fear anyone that has become a regular reader may get sick of hearing just how great he is should I continue to brag. But, I have to post this photo and mention that I came home to 2 dozen red roses out of the blue the other day :-D Aren't they BEAUTIFUL?

And yes, that is my bra drying in the background. I guess I didn't frame the shot very well. I didn't notice it until the photo was posted. It took so damn long to load that I'm not cropping it and putting it back-I simply don't have the patience. Focus on the FLOWERS people, the FLOWERS.

The Good Guy and I took his kids and J's daughter to a local lake resort town this weekend. The weather was what I would call perfect. I could wear a t-shirt and jeans without being cold or hot. In the infamous words of Goldilocks, "It was juuust right". It was the kind of summer/spring day when I don't realize that my delicate milk-white skin is frying to an angry shade of pink. I do it at the beginning of summer EVERY year. Duh. Time to break out the lotion. My skin will be on fire for the next three days, and then it will all peal off while I spend 3 days looking like a lizard.

Anyway...the kids decided to play on a playground next to the beach. While The Good Guy and I were sitting on a bench making googly eyes at each other the kids called me over in excitement to show me their buried treasure (the kids have each inherited their father's penchant for being a jokster). When I arrived to their location under what they refer to as a "climbing structure" they unearthed some stray pretzel pieces that had been deposited in the sand by some drunken teenager or stray toddler, and acted as if they were golden coins. I joked that it was a great find, blah blah blah, and went back to the bench to accompany the good guy in soaking some rays. (He was smart enough to wear a hat-so as not the get burned).

Then, it happened. I turned to look at the kids and noticed that they were....CHEWING!!!! Aaargh! GROSS! The kids range in age from 5-8. We had just come from a nice (somehwhat expensive) breakfast, and they KNOW BETTER. Blech! The good guy made them all sit on the bench, calmly told them they all knew better, mentioned that they may get ebola and have their tongues fall out of their mouths (I'm embelishing here, he's nowhere near as dramatic as I), and after sufficient time to think about how stupid their actions had been, let them go back and play.

Kids are so gross. They pick their noses and wipe it on whatever is close by (sometimes that includes their tongue). They lick the bottom of their shoe when dared to by their older sister (This happened on the car ride home-the boy apparently didn't learn his lesson while sitting on the bench). They try to eat food by shoving it through their face instead of into their mouths. They role around on the grimy floors without a single thought about germs and dog poo deposited by wayward shoes. They pick up unrecognizable objects off of the ground only to find out that it is petrified animal droppings. Yet, they're such innocent, honest, vulnerable, and adorable creatures that you can't help loving them to death.

The Girl (she's 8 years old) is old enough and precocious enough that she tries to deny that part of her that is first and foremost honest. She has an awareness of self-censorship, and uses it sometimes conciously, sometimes not.

There was a split second today when I think that honest part broke through the censorship. On the ride home, as I noticed that my skin was glowing as if on fire, The Good Guy was commiserating with me as I complained that I make the same mistake every year. He said, "I still love you, even if you're sunburned". This is a pattented line that he uses whenever I do something stupid. Immediately from the backseat, The Girl said, "Me too!" A split second later, when censorship kicked in she quickly retracted by saying, "well sort of". I simply chuckled, knowing that she struggles with how much she can openly love or care about me while maintaining loyalty to her mother. I have no doubt that she loves me in some manner, and she and I will probably spend the next 10 or more years ironing out the kinks. I do everything in my power to make her (and her brother) understand that I am not trying to take the place of their mother. I did not birth them, and I didn't raise them, and I won't take credit for doing either. They do know that they can come to me for nurturing, and I think I do a fairly good job of letting them choose the pace at which our relationship progresses. Still, it felt good, even if only for a fraction of a second, to be loved :-)