Seeing you stand, against the railing of the escalator, waiting. Not in the crowd, but somewhat further back. Checking for a familiar face - catching a glimpse of the me you thought I'd be.
Holding you there, just for a moment. Everything stopped, and then full speed ahead. Getting my bag. Sitting next to you. Finally. Meeting your family. Knowing your stomping grounds. Seeing your history through your eyes. Talking. Laughing. Crying. Staring. Watching. Falling into the ocean. Sleeping. Sighing. Sharing. Listening.
Our life together is not measured in minutes but by moments. We have already had so many. We'll have thousands of thousands of thousands of thousands of thousands more.
Bring it on.
Showing posts with label Heroes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Heroes. Show all posts
Monday, April 29, 2013
Friday, September 21, 2012
A Low "Ha!"
I haven't written much - or, really, at all - about the incredible two week vacation that the Awesome Fiance and I took this summer. We've been back for over a month now so it's probably time to revisit it.
I could write about the travel experience itself but the airline (I'll call it "Untied") would probably put me on the "no-fly" list after reading my tirade. I'd have to create new, more descriptive words beyond "dunder-headed ass clown" and "inept corporate maggot" ... and I'm just not feeling all that creative today.
I could write about this being the ONLY time in my life I've actually taken two whole weeks from work for vacation. Yes, I had a sabbatical, which was 6 weeks, but in all the 29 years I've been employed, I've never taken two solid weeks of vacation.
I could write about the food ... OH. MY. LORD. THE. FOOD. ... but that'll probably just make me hungry and I probably wouldn't be able to describe some of the dishes to the level of deliciousness they deserve.
I think I'll write about my overall take-away from the first portion of our two weeks. The "Family" portion.
Ya' know that family you see on occasion when traveling? Grandparents, grown children, grandkids ... dining together, smiling and laughing, posing for goofy photos, etc? The clan that piles out from the minivan and walks into the mall, maybe wearing similar teeshirts ... or the multi-generational gathering on the beach - a few are reading, some are splashing about in the water, the youngest members are creating elaborate piles of sand? Well, I was part of that family as a child. My best friend really did have the perfect family and I spent countless hours as an extended, adopted family member. Oh, they were SO much better than my real family.
Dad was a teacher, an avid weekend golfer, and liked to take rides on his motorcycle. Mom, also a teacher, liked to go on walks, spend time with her family, and be outdoors. Son - the youngest member of the family - was into all things bicycle. Daughter - my best friend - was everything I wasn't ... graceful, very pretty, delicate. They'd include me on short weekend getaways and I'd see a family who REALLY enjoyed being together. Parents who had conversations about news and politics and things that didn't involve work or animals or relatives. Children who played nicely together and went to the movies together - not because they were told to but because they wanted to. For me, it was surreal.
It was also fake.
I know now that my seemingly perfect adopted family ... was not. Dad, it seemed, waited until the children were grown and on their own, and then got on his motorcycle and rode away. Mom developed an eating disorder and handled her divorce as 'tho everything was fine when, clearly, it was not. Little brother got married *WAY* too young but to a wonderful woman who nursed him back to health for a year after a very nearly deadly motocross accident. And best friend, who had aspirations on being a psychologist, instead became a grumpy, gloomy, unhappy stay-at home mom who shielded her own small children from their "awful" Grandfather ... even as she herself continued the cycle of cheating on - and eventually leaving - her own spouse. I stopped being a part of her life after her second child. We just didn't have anything in common anymore and I got tired of trying to set up the lunch date that clearly was never to be. We had a mutual friend who kept me updated on her activities and, last I heard, her two oldest children asked to move in with their father because they were tired of being told how awful both he AND their own Grandfather was.
*******************
So while, as a child, I had my seemingly perfect family and my real one, as an adult I knew that my real one was so much better than "perfect". It was flawed, but flawed in a way I understood. The members (myself most assuredly included) were maddening, but in a comfortable way. We have family logic for the things we do - twisted as it is but it is, at least, logic of some sort. And, as the airplane drifted towards our family getaway home for the week, I thought that I was ready for the quirks and actions and whatnot that were likely to come ... flaws and maddening members and twisted logic and all.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh I was mistaken.
It's an exaggeration, to be sure, that I spent the WHOLE week closing screens, sliding glass doors, turning off lights, turning on ceiling fans, drawing drapes, turning on the air conditioner, and locking front doors. It's an exaggeration, certainly, that the week was spent washing the same dishes, clearing the same table, drying the same glasses, closing the same freezer doors, and wiping the same counter-top surface. It's an exaggeration, yes, that my island time was filled with folding towels and doing laundry and explaining how air conditioning works and sharing that, while I was sorry the upstairs was 76 degrees (aka "super cold") in the mornings, our bedroom was still at 87 degrees at 11pm the night before because no one could be bothered to close a door or shut a window to keep the air temperature at a reasonable number - say, somewhere slightly lower than 80.
It did FEEL like the whole week was like that, but I know it wasn't.
"But remember", you say calmly. "Remember that you were sharing the house with young children and you're not used to young children."
"And that's very true", I reply just as calmly. "But what makes you think I was talking about the young children?"
*******************
Ahhhhhhhhhhh but they are my people. They are my family. Are they perfect? Ha! No. Thank heavens no, they are not perfect.
I could write about the travel experience itself but the airline (I'll call it "Untied") would probably put me on the "no-fly" list after reading my tirade. I'd have to create new, more descriptive words beyond "dunder-headed ass clown" and "inept corporate maggot" ... and I'm just not feeling all that creative today.
I could write about this being the ONLY time in my life I've actually taken two whole weeks from work for vacation. Yes, I had a sabbatical, which was 6 weeks, but in all the 29 years I've been employed, I've never taken two solid weeks of vacation.
I could write about the food ... OH. MY. LORD. THE. FOOD. ... but that'll probably just make me hungry and I probably wouldn't be able to describe some of the dishes to the level of deliciousness they deserve.
I think I'll write about my overall take-away from the first portion of our two weeks. The "Family" portion.
Ya' know that family you see on occasion when traveling? Grandparents, grown children, grandkids ... dining together, smiling and laughing, posing for goofy photos, etc? The clan that piles out from the minivan and walks into the mall, maybe wearing similar teeshirts ... or the multi-generational gathering on the beach - a few are reading, some are splashing about in the water, the youngest members are creating elaborate piles of sand? Well, I was part of that family as a child. My best friend really did have the perfect family and I spent countless hours as an extended, adopted family member. Oh, they were SO much better than my real family.
Dad was a teacher, an avid weekend golfer, and liked to take rides on his motorcycle. Mom, also a teacher, liked to go on walks, spend time with her family, and be outdoors. Son - the youngest member of the family - was into all things bicycle. Daughter - my best friend - was everything I wasn't ... graceful, very pretty, delicate. They'd include me on short weekend getaways and I'd see a family who REALLY enjoyed being together. Parents who had conversations about news and politics and things that didn't involve work or animals or relatives. Children who played nicely together and went to the movies together - not because they were told to but because they wanted to. For me, it was surreal.
It was also fake.
I know now that my seemingly perfect adopted family ... was not. Dad, it seemed, waited until the children were grown and on their own, and then got on his motorcycle and rode away. Mom developed an eating disorder and handled her divorce as 'tho everything was fine when, clearly, it was not. Little brother got married *WAY* too young but to a wonderful woman who nursed him back to health for a year after a very nearly deadly motocross accident. And best friend, who had aspirations on being a psychologist, instead became a grumpy, gloomy, unhappy stay-at home mom who shielded her own small children from their "awful" Grandfather ... even as she herself continued the cycle of cheating on - and eventually leaving - her own spouse. I stopped being a part of her life after her second child. We just didn't have anything in common anymore and I got tired of trying to set up the lunch date that clearly was never to be. We had a mutual friend who kept me updated on her activities and, last I heard, her two oldest children asked to move in with their father because they were tired of being told how awful both he AND their own Grandfather was.
*******************
So while, as a child, I had my seemingly perfect family and my real one, as an adult I knew that my real one was so much better than "perfect". It was flawed, but flawed in a way I understood. The members (myself most assuredly included) were maddening, but in a comfortable way. We have family logic for the things we do - twisted as it is but it is, at least, logic of some sort. And, as the airplane drifted towards our family getaway home for the week, I thought that I was ready for the quirks and actions and whatnot that were likely to come ... flaws and maddening members and twisted logic and all.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh I was mistaken.
It's an exaggeration, to be sure, that I spent the WHOLE week closing screens, sliding glass doors, turning off lights, turning on ceiling fans, drawing drapes, turning on the air conditioner, and locking front doors. It's an exaggeration, certainly, that the week was spent washing the same dishes, clearing the same table, drying the same glasses, closing the same freezer doors, and wiping the same counter-top surface. It's an exaggeration, yes, that my island time was filled with folding towels and doing laundry and explaining how air conditioning works and sharing that, while I was sorry the upstairs was 76 degrees (aka "super cold") in the mornings, our bedroom was still at 87 degrees at 11pm the night before because no one could be bothered to close a door or shut a window to keep the air temperature at a reasonable number - say, somewhere slightly lower than 80.
It did FEEL like the whole week was like that, but I know it wasn't.
"But remember", you say calmly. "Remember that you were sharing the house with young children and you're not used to young children."
"And that's very true", I reply just as calmly. "But what makes you think I was talking about the young children?"
*******************
Ahhhhhhhhhhh but they are my people. They are my family. Are they perfect? Ha! No. Thank heavens no, they are not perfect.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Love Story
I can see by our wall clock that it's story time, folks. Grab a snack and get cozy. Today I'm going to tell a love story. It involves all the things that a really good love story should have - friendship, independence, sneakiness, significant hurdles, emotional pain, sorrow, struggle, accomplishment, growth, joy, pride, and a lasting, almost unexplainable bond.
*********************************
One night, many many years ago, an independent-minded woman (we'll call her "Em") decided to call up a few friends to go to have a few drinks after work. Em, age 26, lived alone in a one bedroom apartment with a set-up that one could see later in the show "Laverne and Shirley". You had to walk "underneath" the street to get to her door and, from her window, all she could see were shoes strolling by. Em was the second-youngest child in her family, but she was the first to move out alone from her parents home, and probably the only member of her family who would occasionally call up friends to go out for drinks. Em's father passed away years before, and Em did her best to not worry her mother with her life "in the big city". She shouldn't have worried, as Em's mother was very proud of her daughter's achievements and her strength.
Em and her friends went to a favorite bar and started their evening. Unbeknownst to Em, a young man noticed her as she sat down. This man (we'll call him "Dee") couldn't help but smile as he appreciated Em's laugh, her smile and how at ease she was. Dee, on the other hand, was not at ease at all. At 21, he was still nervous at bars and he was even more nervous because the group of friends he was waiting for seemed to have all made other plans. He walked to a corner of the bar and made a call to his closest friend, Paul. Dee explained his situation to Paul - he was alone in a bar and there was a group of women he'd noticed, but he needed a friend to be with him, to "even the numbers". Paul was hesitant and wasn't sure he wanted to go out, so Dee told a little white lie. He said he'd already talked to the women and they wanted to meet Paul. That was all it took ... Paul was on his way to meet Dee and these women.
Well as often happens, everyone got along very well. Em was charming and sweet, Dee was a good story-teller and attentive, and Paul was the life of the party, as usual. Things went so well, in fact, that soon afterwards Paul and Em were quite the couple. Yes it seems that Dee had mis-judged the situation and somehow he'd set up Paul with Em, instead of getting her attentions for himself.
After a few months, Paul was no longer the life of Em's party. However she continued her friendship Paul and, more importantly, with Dee. And soon after that, the friendship had become something more. Em and Dee found themselves to be a pair ... an odd pair, for sure, but a pair. Em worked to support herself, while Dee was comfortable living with his parents while getting his college education and working a part-time job. Em enjoyed travel, especially road trips on weekends and Dee was still spending any free time he had planning for his future goals. Em was good with numbers and enjoyed working in a business environment but Dee could never see himself working for a corporation in a "regular" job.
Just a year after that night at the bar, Dee and Em decided to get married. Dee's parents were against it, thinking that Em would only serve to distract Dee from his goals. They also weren't comfortable with Em's age, or the working-class family she came from. But, like any loving pair, Em and Dee could not be swayed. So one night, Dee once again called his closest friend, Paul. Dee explained that he and Em were eloping and that they needed a best man. And, once again, Paul agreed to lend a hand.
Em and Dee were married on February 28, 1963. They returned to their families and friends to share their happy news. Em's mother accepted them with open arms and asked only that Em and Dee please get married in a church, and they did so, but February 28th was always the anniversary they would celebrate. Dee's parents declined to attend, as they were still against the union, and it wouldn't be until a couple years later that they'd start to rebuild their relationship with their son ... and get to know their daughter-in-law. By that time, Em and Dee had a daughter and, in 1968, they'd have a second daughter.
And all these years later, Mom and Dad are still close to Paul and his family. (In fact, it was Paul who pretty much saved Dad's life during his heart attack a few years ago.)
Happy 49th wedding anniversary to Em, my mom, who is still very independent, level-headed, encouraging and strong ... and to Dee, my dad, who never did lose focus on his life goals or his friendships (and who still tells a white lie every now and again to get what he wants).
*********************************
One night, many many years ago, an independent-minded woman (we'll call her "Em") decided to call up a few friends to go to have a few drinks after work. Em, age 26, lived alone in a one bedroom apartment with a set-up that one could see later in the show "Laverne and Shirley". You had to walk "underneath" the street to get to her door and, from her window, all she could see were shoes strolling by. Em was the second-youngest child in her family, but she was the first to move out alone from her parents home, and probably the only member of her family who would occasionally call up friends to go out for drinks. Em's father passed away years before, and Em did her best to not worry her mother with her life "in the big city". She shouldn't have worried, as Em's mother was very proud of her daughter's achievements and her strength.
Em and her friends went to a favorite bar and started their evening. Unbeknownst to Em, a young man noticed her as she sat down. This man (we'll call him "Dee") couldn't help but smile as he appreciated Em's laugh, her smile and how at ease she was. Dee, on the other hand, was not at ease at all. At 21, he was still nervous at bars and he was even more nervous because the group of friends he was waiting for seemed to have all made other plans. He walked to a corner of the bar and made a call to his closest friend, Paul. Dee explained his situation to Paul - he was alone in a bar and there was a group of women he'd noticed, but he needed a friend to be with him, to "even the numbers". Paul was hesitant and wasn't sure he wanted to go out, so Dee told a little white lie. He said he'd already talked to the women and they wanted to meet Paul. That was all it took ... Paul was on his way to meet Dee and these women.
Well as often happens, everyone got along very well. Em was charming and sweet, Dee was a good story-teller and attentive, and Paul was the life of the party, as usual. Things went so well, in fact, that soon afterwards Paul and Em were quite the couple. Yes it seems that Dee had mis-judged the situation and somehow he'd set up Paul with Em, instead of getting her attentions for himself.
After a few months, Paul was no longer the life of Em's party. However she continued her friendship Paul and, more importantly, with Dee. And soon after that, the friendship had become something more. Em and Dee found themselves to be a pair ... an odd pair, for sure, but a pair. Em worked to support herself, while Dee was comfortable living with his parents while getting his college education and working a part-time job. Em enjoyed travel, especially road trips on weekends and Dee was still spending any free time he had planning for his future goals. Em was good with numbers and enjoyed working in a business environment but Dee could never see himself working for a corporation in a "regular" job.
Just a year after that night at the bar, Dee and Em decided to get married. Dee's parents were against it, thinking that Em would only serve to distract Dee from his goals. They also weren't comfortable with Em's age, or the working-class family she came from. But, like any loving pair, Em and Dee could not be swayed. So one night, Dee once again called his closest friend, Paul. Dee explained that he and Em were eloping and that they needed a best man. And, once again, Paul agreed to lend a hand.
Em and Dee were married on February 28, 1963. They returned to their families and friends to share their happy news. Em's mother accepted them with open arms and asked only that Em and Dee please get married in a church, and they did so, but February 28th was always the anniversary they would celebrate. Dee's parents declined to attend, as they were still against the union, and it wouldn't be until a couple years later that they'd start to rebuild their relationship with their son ... and get to know their daughter-in-law. By that time, Em and Dee had a daughter and, in 1968, they'd have a second daughter.
And all these years later, Mom and Dad are still close to Paul and his family. (In fact, it was Paul who pretty much saved Dad's life during his heart attack a few years ago.)
Happy 49th wedding anniversary to Em, my mom, who is still very independent, level-headed, encouraging and strong ... and to Dee, my dad, who never did lose focus on his life goals or his friendships (and who still tells a white lie every now and again to get what he wants).
Friday, February 17, 2012
Tail of a Trial
I recently expressed an interest in participating in a Phase II double-blind trial for an already approved medicine - Pioglitazone (which is for treatment of Type II Diabetes) that MAY have benefit towards the treatment of the effects of Parkinson's Disease. Yesterday was my appointment to review my medical history to see if I'd be allowed into the trial. Here's what happened:
***********************************************
Well for starters, the Awesome Fiance is a pretty amazing guy. Since this was a preliminary exam with minimal REAL information exchanged, I told him I’d just meet him at home and fill him in when I got home afterwards. I don’t know why I was surprised to see him walking up to me as I was checking in. He had to walk several blocks in very cold, rainy weather and he STILL doesn't think it was a big deal at all. He tells me that anyone would do the same. He stayed with me to keep me company until my name was called – it was very sweet.
I was called to an exam room by a Research Nurse, whom I've met with before. We reviewed my recent medical history ("recent” being no more than 7 years ago). I recalled a few allergic reactions to medication, had a list of every pill I take (and when, and why), and from there we checked my height, weight, took a urine sample and did a blood draw. (My compliments went to the very skilled hands of the phlebotomist … it was completely painless!) From there, we took my temperature, did two blood pressure readings (sitting and standing) and an ECG – which took longer to set up than to actually run.
Dr. M was the doctor whom I went to for a second opinion when I was first diagnosed last year. Well, Dr. M is the principal investigator of this study, which is how I found out about it. Dr. M came in and tested my eyes, reflexes, muscle strength – all normal. We tested my sense of smell, something that some Parkinson’s patients lose over time. This is something I rather dread – as a sense of smell is a BIG part of your sense of taste and, well, me loving food and all …
Anyway being presented with the first scratch-and-sniff, I guess I was feeling cocky. I could have said “campfire” but nooo – showoff that I am, I said it smelled of toasted nuts, maybe cashews, with a mushroom undertone. Dr. M said “well it just says that it’s supposed to smell like peanuts but sure – we’ll go with what you said.” Properly embarrassed, I then sniffed the next sample with just my left nostril and said “mint". Dr. M said I was correct. For the right nostril, I sniffed and said “uhhhh – I got nothing.” He scratched again and I inhaled deeply but … I didn’t get anything at all. “Maybe … the beach?” I said weakly. “Ok, let me offer some ideas” he said. “Cola, Cinnamon, Roses, or Paint Thinner?" I took another deep breath, this time using both nostrils and said “well it’s not paint thinner. They’ve been painting in the halls of my office for two weeks so I KNOW that scent. Maybe it could be ….. cola????” It was, of course, paint thinner.
Aside from getting that obviously wrong, everything else was on target. I haven’t progressed much since the last time the doctor had seen me (October), which was good to hear. The study allows for 10 participants from my state and five have signed up, 'tho one who had to drop out due to something the lab work found. Barring anything unusual in MY lab results (which I’ll hear about in a week or so), I’ll be subject #5. I’ll go back in a month and we’ll do this all again, only more extensively and I’ll be given my first dose of Pioglitazone. I’ll be watched for any reactions for about an hour and … and then we’ll just go from there.
I’ll either be given 15mg of the med, 45mg, or a placebo. The test is scheduled for 44 weeks, with about 6 checks through the testing period to track my response. Even if I do wind up taking the actual medication, it may do nothing at all, it could slow down the progress of my Parkinson’s, or it could be that Pioglitazone will protect my nerve cells and stop the progression altogether. Phase I of the test (done on animals) showed that it protects nerve cells - but we need to prove it happens to humans, too.
Clearly this isn't going to be a quick result but it does look like, for now, my time is not limited by the progression of my Parkinson's. Barring this stuff changing my mood radically (or sprouting a tail), I think we’ll hardly notice much of difference for a while.
Yanno, unless I grow a tail.
***********************************************
Well for starters, the Awesome Fiance is a pretty amazing guy. Since this was a preliminary exam with minimal REAL information exchanged, I told him I’d just meet him at home and fill him in when I got home afterwards. I don’t know why I was surprised to see him walking up to me as I was checking in. He had to walk several blocks in very cold, rainy weather and he STILL doesn't think it was a big deal at all. He tells me that anyone would do the same. He stayed with me to keep me company until my name was called – it was very sweet.
I was called to an exam room by a Research Nurse, whom I've met with before. We reviewed my recent medical history ("recent” being no more than 7 years ago). I recalled a few allergic reactions to medication, had a list of every pill I take (and when, and why), and from there we checked my height, weight, took a urine sample and did a blood draw. (My compliments went to the very skilled hands of the phlebotomist … it was completely painless!) From there, we took my temperature, did two blood pressure readings (sitting and standing) and an ECG – which took longer to set up than to actually run.
Dr. M was the doctor whom I went to for a second opinion when I was first diagnosed last year. Well, Dr. M is the principal investigator of this study, which is how I found out about it. Dr. M came in and tested my eyes, reflexes, muscle strength – all normal. We tested my sense of smell, something that some Parkinson’s patients lose over time. This is something I rather dread – as a sense of smell is a BIG part of your sense of taste and, well, me loving food and all …
Anyway being presented with the first scratch-and-sniff, I guess I was feeling cocky. I could have said “campfire” but nooo – showoff that I am, I said it smelled of toasted nuts, maybe cashews, with a mushroom undertone. Dr. M said “well it just says that it’s supposed to smell like peanuts but sure – we’ll go with what you said.” Properly embarrassed, I then sniffed the next sample with just my left nostril and said “mint". Dr. M said I was correct. For the right nostril, I sniffed and said “uhhhh – I got nothing.” He scratched again and I inhaled deeply but … I didn’t get anything at all. “Maybe … the beach?” I said weakly. “Ok, let me offer some ideas” he said. “Cola, Cinnamon, Roses, or Paint Thinner?" I took another deep breath, this time using both nostrils and said “well it’s not paint thinner. They’ve been painting in the halls of my office for two weeks so I KNOW that scent. Maybe it could be ….. cola????” It was, of course, paint thinner.
Aside from getting that obviously wrong, everything else was on target. I haven’t progressed much since the last time the doctor had seen me (October), which was good to hear. The study allows for 10 participants from my state and five have signed up, 'tho one who had to drop out due to something the lab work found. Barring anything unusual in MY lab results (which I’ll hear about in a week or so), I’ll be subject #5. I’ll go back in a month and we’ll do this all again, only more extensively and I’ll be given my first dose of Pioglitazone. I’ll be watched for any reactions for about an hour and … and then we’ll just go from there.
I’ll either be given 15mg of the med, 45mg, or a placebo. The test is scheduled for 44 weeks, with about 6 checks through the testing period to track my response. Even if I do wind up taking the actual medication, it may do nothing at all, it could slow down the progress of my Parkinson’s, or it could be that Pioglitazone will protect my nerve cells and stop the progression altogether. Phase I of the test (done on animals) showed that it protects nerve cells - but we need to prove it happens to humans, too.
Clearly this isn't going to be a quick result but it does look like, for now, my time is not limited by the progression of my Parkinson's. Barring this stuff changing my mood radically (or sprouting a tail), I think we’ll hardly notice much of difference for a while.
Yanno, unless I grow a tail.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
The Lucky One
Oh I am the Lucky One.
You understand my weakness for all-things animal (especially feline). You silently provide support when my strength has withered and you share your confidence with me when mine has fled. You nourish me with your creativity, both in the kitchen and in your point-of-view. You share with me your concerns, worries, and troubles while encouraging me to move beyond my concerns, worries and troubles. You laugh with me and cry with me. When I am at my "Polly Anna" worst, you are the realistic voice I need to hear. You help me stay grounded when I'm about to float away and you help me to fly again when it's appropriate to do so. You remind me to continue forward, no matter the barriers, and reassure me that you will be right beside me.
And you always ... always are.
Which makes me the Lucky One.
You understand my weakness for all-things animal (especially feline). You silently provide support when my strength has withered and you share your confidence with me when mine has fled. You nourish me with your creativity, both in the kitchen and in your point-of-view. You share with me your concerns, worries, and troubles while encouraging me to move beyond my concerns, worries and troubles. You laugh with me and cry with me. When I am at my "Polly Anna" worst, you are the realistic voice I need to hear. You help me stay grounded when I'm about to float away and you help me to fly again when it's appropriate to do so. You remind me to continue forward, no matter the barriers, and reassure me that you will be right beside me.
And you always ... always are.
Which makes me the Lucky One.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Memories of My Grandmother
(These "memories of ..." stories will link together in due time. First, the cast of characters need to be defined and then the nightmare will be shared.)
*****************
My dad's mother was born with a very small hole in her heart which, as she got older, gave her blood system circulation issues. On the hottest days, she'd wear sweaters - plural. Being constantly cold was, I'm sure, a problem but it meant she made the most excellent pie crusts ever. (Cold fingers are a huge help when working with pastry.)
Another thing that hole did was greatly limit her activity level. Since her blood couldn't circulate properly, oxygen wasn't carried throughout her body (as it would normally be) and it didn't take much for her to get very tired. Oh, and I remember her as appearing to be of a blue-ish hue and always ... always ... properly dressed for each occasion.
She was raised as an only child ('tho she was her father's second daughter - his first being from a different marriage) and in a fairly well-to-do home. Since her heart defect was detected at an early age, she was restricted from most normal childhood activities. There was no running about, no jump rope ... nothing that raised her heartbeat too terribly. From what I've learned in asking family members, she was raised as a very protected, very sheltered child.
*****************
This couldn't have been more opposite for her half-sister, who I'd come to know as "The Candy Lady". My Great Aunt was the first woman on record under the age of 21 to shoot a mountain lion in the county. She also was in charge of driving a team of 12 horses at the tender age of 16. She roamed into the valley areas - alone - and fell in love with the different cultures and tribes she found there. (I'm not being insensitive ... the Valley we know as "Silicon" was, at that time, very much home to Native Americans of all sorts.) She became a teacher to the children of these cultures and tribes, instructing them on the very basics - how to read, how to sign their names, how to count - so that they could teach their parents the same skills. My Great Aunt came boldly into a room where my Grandmother would quietly just suddenly be there. They couldn't have been more different.
*****************
I don't know at what point my Great Aunt and my Grandmother knew of each other, and while I wouldn't exactly call them best friends, they seemed to enjoy each other’s company well enough. When my parents decided my Grandmother was going to come and live with us, my Great Aunt took it upon herself to introduce her to the local libraries, activity centers, churches and schools ... all places my Great Aunt loved to visit but that my shy and withdrawn Grandmother was overwhelmed by. She'd go along without complaint, but I never got the feeling she looked forward to these outings.
At some point I became aware that my Grandmother was not just shy ... but that she was also sad. I know now that she was likely suffering from (at least) clinical depression and, in reviewing her life, I give her credit for all she forced herself to do. She was sullen and quiet at times, but always made an effort to help me practice piano (the one activity her parents allowed her to do in her childhood) and seemed genuinely pleased when I'd do well. As a child who enjoyed playing a musical instrument in a family where there were no musically-inclined members, her guidance and critiques were helpful to me. Having her in our home was alright by me, but her "sadness" was difficult - and, at times, maddening - for my parents.
The treatment for "chronic sadness" in that time was pill-driven. My Grandmother was a master at faking swallowing her pills (she'd had her whole life to perfect this skill, after all) and my mother would find them wrapped up in a napkin or sitting at the bottom of a glass after meals. Since pills weren't working (not surprising, since they weren't actually being taken), I guess it was decided that more severe treatment options should be tried.
While I wasn't ever told what that treatment would be (I was deemed too young to understand), I knew that twice a month, my Grandmother would get her hair done, dress for a day out, and then would go to her doctor's appointment. When she came back from those appointments, she was VERY tired and seemed ... not herself. Unresponsive. Vacant. She'd stare at her TV in her room for hours, and it wasn't turned on. My young self was confused but understood that this was an adult topic. I'd be informed of whatever I needed to know only on a "need-to-know" basis and - apparently - I didn't need to know anything at all. While my frequent trips to the doctor became stories of "show and tell" in school, we never talked about what went on at my Grandmother's trips to her doctor.
My Great Aunt continued to encourage my Grandmother to go with her to the libraries and activity centers during this time of new treatments. Sometimes my Grandmother would agree to tag along but, as treatment continued, more and more, she'd just choose to sit alone in her room. She didn't seem as sad to me anymore, but she didn't seem ... anything at all, really. I'd learn years later how extreme these treatments were but I was never told details as a child.
Which made my nightmare all the more curious and frightening to my family.
*****************
My dad's mother was born with a very small hole in her heart which, as she got older, gave her blood system circulation issues. On the hottest days, she'd wear sweaters - plural. Being constantly cold was, I'm sure, a problem but it meant she made the most excellent pie crusts ever. (Cold fingers are a huge help when working with pastry.)
Another thing that hole did was greatly limit her activity level. Since her blood couldn't circulate properly, oxygen wasn't carried throughout her body (as it would normally be) and it didn't take much for her to get very tired. Oh, and I remember her as appearing to be of a blue-ish hue and always ... always ... properly dressed for each occasion.
She was raised as an only child ('tho she was her father's second daughter - his first being from a different marriage) and in a fairly well-to-do home. Since her heart defect was detected at an early age, she was restricted from most normal childhood activities. There was no running about, no jump rope ... nothing that raised her heartbeat too terribly. From what I've learned in asking family members, she was raised as a very protected, very sheltered child.
*****************
This couldn't have been more opposite for her half-sister, who I'd come to know as "The Candy Lady". My Great Aunt was the first woman on record under the age of 21 to shoot a mountain lion in the county. She also was in charge of driving a team of 12 horses at the tender age of 16. She roamed into the valley areas - alone - and fell in love with the different cultures and tribes she found there. (I'm not being insensitive ... the Valley we know as "Silicon" was, at that time, very much home to Native Americans of all sorts.) She became a teacher to the children of these cultures and tribes, instructing them on the very basics - how to read, how to sign their names, how to count - so that they could teach their parents the same skills. My Great Aunt came boldly into a room where my Grandmother would quietly just suddenly be there. They couldn't have been more different.
*****************
I don't know at what point my Great Aunt and my Grandmother knew of each other, and while I wouldn't exactly call them best friends, they seemed to enjoy each other’s company well enough. When my parents decided my Grandmother was going to come and live with us, my Great Aunt took it upon herself to introduce her to the local libraries, activity centers, churches and schools ... all places my Great Aunt loved to visit but that my shy and withdrawn Grandmother was overwhelmed by. She'd go along without complaint, but I never got the feeling she looked forward to these outings.
At some point I became aware that my Grandmother was not just shy ... but that she was also sad. I know now that she was likely suffering from (at least) clinical depression and, in reviewing her life, I give her credit for all she forced herself to do. She was sullen and quiet at times, but always made an effort to help me practice piano (the one activity her parents allowed her to do in her childhood) and seemed genuinely pleased when I'd do well. As a child who enjoyed playing a musical instrument in a family where there were no musically-inclined members, her guidance and critiques were helpful to me. Having her in our home was alright by me, but her "sadness" was difficult - and, at times, maddening - for my parents.
The treatment for "chronic sadness" in that time was pill-driven. My Grandmother was a master at faking swallowing her pills (she'd had her whole life to perfect this skill, after all) and my mother would find them wrapped up in a napkin or sitting at the bottom of a glass after meals. Since pills weren't working (not surprising, since they weren't actually being taken), I guess it was decided that more severe treatment options should be tried.
While I wasn't ever told what that treatment would be (I was deemed too young to understand), I knew that twice a month, my Grandmother would get her hair done, dress for a day out, and then would go to her doctor's appointment. When she came back from those appointments, she was VERY tired and seemed ... not herself. Unresponsive. Vacant. She'd stare at her TV in her room for hours, and it wasn't turned on. My young self was confused but understood that this was an adult topic. I'd be informed of whatever I needed to know only on a "need-to-know" basis and - apparently - I didn't need to know anything at all. While my frequent trips to the doctor became stories of "show and tell" in school, we never talked about what went on at my Grandmother's trips to her doctor.
My Great Aunt continued to encourage my Grandmother to go with her to the libraries and activity centers during this time of new treatments. Sometimes my Grandmother would agree to tag along but, as treatment continued, more and more, she'd just choose to sit alone in her room. She didn't seem as sad to me anymore, but she didn't seem ... anything at all, really. I'd learn years later how extreme these treatments were but I was never told details as a child.
Which made my nightmare all the more curious and frightening to my family.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Memories of The Candy Lady
When I was a child, my parents’ home was considered to be "in the country". We were not on city water, we were served not by city police and fire but by the county sheriff and the local forestry department, we had dirt roads with no sidewalks, and even pizza places that said they delivered city-wide drew the line at driving "up the hill".
My parents’ home was the only structure on the left side of the road, and only Old Miss Jaton's place and the Harris' homes were on the other side. The Davidson's lived one road over, as did "The Candy Lady". And, except for Mr. Mariani's ranch across the creek, that was the extent of the neighborhood. Not one of those homes had children under the age of forty, and so my sister and I had our animals and a few friends who lived a few blocks away to keep ourselves busy.
I can't speak for how my sister spent her childhood hours, but I spent more than my fair share of time playing with Old Miss Jaton's cats (ignoring my sister's warnings that she was really a witch, which couldn't be true. After all, she had cats!), helping Mr. Harris take care of his rabbits and his chickens (which we'd inherit soon enough), helping Mr. Mariani with his horses and goats, looking at Mr. Davidson's polished rock collection (which was sparkly and some of it was gold! Fool’s gold, sure but still!!) and, most of all, hanging out with "The Candy Lady".
*****************
That wasn't her name, of course, though that was the nickname she'd been given and she more than lived up to it. She was also my Great Aunt from my father's side of the family, and it was because of her that my parents had even known of the house being for sale. "Don't pass this up", she told my dad. "It isn't cheap but it's good land and the house is in good shape."
My parents drove down from the city, walked around the property and checked out the house. I don't know how much they'd saved up by that point, but I've been told the asking price was slightly under $30,000.00. I do know it was farrrrr more than they'd budgeted and that my father was leaning against the purchase - but my mother would not be swayed. Her father had always wanted to own a farm ... and while he wasn't around to see it, I guess my mom wanted to somehow fill that dream for him. My folks borrowed cash from everyone they knew, with a decent chunk coming from my Great Aunt, and moved in. They still live there today.
Growing up "on a farm" was, for an active kid with a wandering imagination, great fun. There were forts to make and animals to play with and insects to discover. And when we'd get tired or bored, we could go visit "The Candy Lady" and know we'd get some "coffee" (heated condensed milk with two sugar cubes and a scant teaspoon of Folger’s Coffee) and, true to her name, be made an offer of having some candy, usually from a bowl of Brach's Pick-A-Mix.
We would sit on her deck with her two mis-matched dogs - Dutchie, the squat gentleman Dachshund, and Buster, the gray shortish hair mutt who constantly smelled of creek water and who was, truth be told, our dog. Buster was lured from being our dog by the constant stream of treats and attention that he knew he could count on at my Great Aunt's home. Buster was no dummy.
On quiet sunny afternoons, even Boots, the tuxedo Tom Cat we'd given my Great Aunt, would slowly sway by. At his largest, I remember weighing Boots on the bathroom scale and that he added 22lbs. to my scrawny kid frame. The dogs knew enough to steer clear of bothering Boots and he paid them no mind. It was a peaceful existence for all concerned.
*****************
The not great part of being an active kid with a wandering imagination was that I spent an extraordinary amount of time with my mother, sister, and Great Aunt in the hospital emergency waiting room. I fell out of trees, off of swing sets, from the backs of horses, you name it. I broke both my arms twice before the age of 18. I actually knew - and recognized - ER hospital staff, especially the two guys in the casting room - when I saw them in grocery stores. And it never failed that my father would be working a long shift when these trips to the ER were required, so we had to "borrow" an extra adult for the ER wait and my Great Aunt would come along for the wait.
My sister would walk over to my Great Aunt's house to tell her we needed to go to the hospital while my mother was wiping my forehead, or my shoulder, or my knees, or my hands clean before we drove to see what I'd broken, sprained, split, shattered, or need stitched up. My father would return home to discover I was now missing my front teeth, had a new cast on my right arm, a split on my ring finger ... I'm sure he came to expect it. And my Great Aunt, God love her, sat for hours in those plastic ER chairs watching my sister sleep while my mother and I explained, once again, what had happened to cause the latest visit.
*****************
The other not great part of being an active kid with a wandering imagination had to be the nightmares. My dreams were filled with scary phone calls from monsters who could reach through the telephone wires, being trapped in a wooden barrel never to be seen again, or creepy things in the attic looking down at me when I wasn't aware of them. Those were the three recurring nightmares I had - on a rotating basis - and while they don't read as "scary", I find my description here doesn't do them justice even today.
I think it was in my early teen years that I had such a frightening dream that I managed to wake up the entire house with my yelling before I was even fully awake. And the memory of having that dream would be triggered by an MRI experience in 2011.
My parents’ home was the only structure on the left side of the road, and only Old Miss Jaton's place and the Harris' homes were on the other side. The Davidson's lived one road over, as did "The Candy Lady". And, except for Mr. Mariani's ranch across the creek, that was the extent of the neighborhood. Not one of those homes had children under the age of forty, and so my sister and I had our animals and a few friends who lived a few blocks away to keep ourselves busy.
I can't speak for how my sister spent her childhood hours, but I spent more than my fair share of time playing with Old Miss Jaton's cats (ignoring my sister's warnings that she was really a witch, which couldn't be true. After all, she had cats!), helping Mr. Harris take care of his rabbits and his chickens (which we'd inherit soon enough), helping Mr. Mariani with his horses and goats, looking at Mr. Davidson's polished rock collection (which was sparkly and some of it was gold! Fool’s gold, sure but still!!) and, most of all, hanging out with "The Candy Lady".
*****************
That wasn't her name, of course, though that was the nickname she'd been given and she more than lived up to it. She was also my Great Aunt from my father's side of the family, and it was because of her that my parents had even known of the house being for sale. "Don't pass this up", she told my dad. "It isn't cheap but it's good land and the house is in good shape."
My parents drove down from the city, walked around the property and checked out the house. I don't know how much they'd saved up by that point, but I've been told the asking price was slightly under $30,000.00. I do know it was farrrrr more than they'd budgeted and that my father was leaning against the purchase - but my mother would not be swayed. Her father had always wanted to own a farm ... and while he wasn't around to see it, I guess my mom wanted to somehow fill that dream for him. My folks borrowed cash from everyone they knew, with a decent chunk coming from my Great Aunt, and moved in. They still live there today.
Growing up "on a farm" was, for an active kid with a wandering imagination, great fun. There were forts to make and animals to play with and insects to discover. And when we'd get tired or bored, we could go visit "The Candy Lady" and know we'd get some "coffee" (heated condensed milk with two sugar cubes and a scant teaspoon of Folger’s Coffee) and, true to her name, be made an offer of having some candy, usually from a bowl of Brach's Pick-A-Mix.
We would sit on her deck with her two mis-matched dogs - Dutchie, the squat gentleman Dachshund, and Buster, the gray shortish hair mutt who constantly smelled of creek water and who was, truth be told, our dog. Buster was lured from being our dog by the constant stream of treats and attention that he knew he could count on at my Great Aunt's home. Buster was no dummy.
On quiet sunny afternoons, even Boots, the tuxedo Tom Cat we'd given my Great Aunt, would slowly sway by. At his largest, I remember weighing Boots on the bathroom scale and that he added 22lbs. to my scrawny kid frame. The dogs knew enough to steer clear of bothering Boots and he paid them no mind. It was a peaceful existence for all concerned.
*****************
The not great part of being an active kid with a wandering imagination was that I spent an extraordinary amount of time with my mother, sister, and Great Aunt in the hospital emergency waiting room. I fell out of trees, off of swing sets, from the backs of horses, you name it. I broke both my arms twice before the age of 18. I actually knew - and recognized - ER hospital staff, especially the two guys in the casting room - when I saw them in grocery stores. And it never failed that my father would be working a long shift when these trips to the ER were required, so we had to "borrow" an extra adult for the ER wait and my Great Aunt would come along for the wait.
My sister would walk over to my Great Aunt's house to tell her we needed to go to the hospital while my mother was wiping my forehead, or my shoulder, or my knees, or my hands clean before we drove to see what I'd broken, sprained, split, shattered, or need stitched up. My father would return home to discover I was now missing my front teeth, had a new cast on my right arm, a split on my ring finger ... I'm sure he came to expect it. And my Great Aunt, God love her, sat for hours in those plastic ER chairs watching my sister sleep while my mother and I explained, once again, what had happened to cause the latest visit.
*****************
The other not great part of being an active kid with a wandering imagination had to be the nightmares. My dreams were filled with scary phone calls from monsters who could reach through the telephone wires, being trapped in a wooden barrel never to be seen again, or creepy things in the attic looking down at me when I wasn't aware of them. Those were the three recurring nightmares I had - on a rotating basis - and while they don't read as "scary", I find my description here doesn't do them justice even today.
I think it was in my early teen years that I had such a frightening dream that I managed to wake up the entire house with my yelling before I was even fully awake. And the memory of having that dream would be triggered by an MRI experience in 2011.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The November Chronicles
A month ago, I wrote this:
"Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn."- Elizabeth Lawrence
*****************
As one could see from what I've written since then, it's clear to see that the leaves are, in fact, turning. I've had quiet periods to reflect, to sit still and observe the changes in my life, wonder on my future ... wonder on OUR future ... and while I can't say that I've embraced or even fully accepted what is still left undone, I respect that the timeline was not created by me and isn't mine to measure against.
And while I wish ... with all my being ... that the diagnosis of Parkinson's was mine alone to deal with, I also thank the heavens that the diagnosis of Parkinson's is NOT mine alone to deal with.
I will not be alone to take the time to sit still and watch the leaves turn.
The Awesome Fiancé is by my side.
"Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn."- Elizabeth Lawrence
*****************
As one could see from what I've written since then, it's clear to see that the leaves are, in fact, turning. I've had quiet periods to reflect, to sit still and observe the changes in my life, wonder on my future ... wonder on OUR future ... and while I can't say that I've embraced or even fully accepted what is still left undone, I respect that the timeline was not created by me and isn't mine to measure against.
And while I wish ... with all my being ... that the diagnosis of Parkinson's was mine alone to deal with, I also thank the heavens that the diagnosis of Parkinson's is NOT mine alone to deal with.
I will not be alone to take the time to sit still and watch the leaves turn.
The Awesome Fiancé is by my side.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Tag! Someone Else Can Be "It"
I remember. I remember all too well, actually. I remember how safe and how comfortable my mom made the rest of us felt when she went to get her knee replaced. She shrugged it off as no bigger than the average dental appointment. And because she was so casual … so nonchalant about it, I guess I didn’t think about it as being a big deal. I mean – I realized that not everyone gets fake knees at any age, let alone in their 70s, but still … she didn’t seem even remotely concerned about the actual procedure OR the recovery and so the rest of the family didn’t … or, at least, I didn’t … consider anything outside of the “get surgery, recover, rehab, carry forth” circle. Naive? Perhaps. But if the individual going through the process is fine with everything, what was my getting too worked up gonna do, except to freak her out?
And a year or so later, she had the other knee replaced. And the combo of it being a now familiar process as well as the continued non-freak-out-ed-ness of the patient once again made it easier for those supporting her to keep it low-key.
Now keeping in mind that my mother’s personality tends to default to “comforter, safe-harborer, caregiver, listener of woes and burdens, lightener of troubles and cares”, it’s more than probable that she *was* completely freaked out and wasn’t going to bother the rest of us with her concerns or worries. But that kind of “keeping fears to yourself” thing can bring on ulcers, cause nightmares, etc. And what IS family for if not for leaning on? Maybe she felt that she’d lean too hard, or that we wouldn’t be able to provide enough strength to calm her fears.
In any event, I’ve always been more like my father than my mother. And I’ve had plenty of opportunity to prove it as of late. Keep my fears, worries, concerns to myself? Hell no! While being careful to suppress the urge to run about like a headless chicken (‘tho believe me I’ve had my missing cranium fowl moments), I feel I’ve been far more Drama-Queen-esque about the status quo than is necessary. Certainly more than my own mother was.
So when I was told today about coming off as “being brave” about something? I laughed. And not a polite “tut tut” bashful kind of laugh. No, it was a verbal explosion of a snort/guffaw combo. The truth of the matter is that I don’t know enough to be brave. I don’t even know enough to be in denial. Numbness maybe … yeah, I can safely say I’m numb. Tell me that I’m “handling everything so well” and I’ll respond – honestly – that I’m not handling a damn thing.
Yanno that child that closes their eyes and says “Ha ha - you can’t see me!”? That’s who I am. I’ll open my eyes at some point … but only when I’m ready.
Monday, September 5, 2011
A Laborious Rambling
I looked it up.
Labor Day was the dream child of one Mr. Peter McGuire from the AFL (American Federation of Labor ... NOT American Football League). Seems Mr. McGuire got the idea from the Canadians, who had an ALF (Annual Labor Festival ... NOT a brown, furry puppet). Building from smaller state-wide observances, President Grover Cleveland signed it into Federal Law in 1894. This was right about the time that the nation also started having white sales, too. (*sigh* no ... not really. Sarcasm just doesn't work on the Internet.)
Somewhere along the way, Labor Day also ushered in the new school year, the end of Summer, the last great BBQ and my mother's birthday. As a kid, Labor Day also signaled the countdown of days until Halloween and then Christmas.
I have had jobs that have allowed me to not work on Labor Day and I've also had jobs that rewarded me/expected me to work on Labor Day. Those who do not get Labor Day as a paid holiday tend to be quite bitter about it, as though those who don't labor on Labor Day are somehow undeserving of such luxury. To which I reply "you forgot to ask me if I wanted fries with that order".
(Again ... sarcasm. Mostly.)
My mother was employed for most of her life, with a few chosen exception periods of time to allow for the proper care and upbringing of her children. She would have liked to have had more help from my father, I'm sure, but he worked about 10 days a month.
As a firefighter.
He averaged 10 24-hour watches each month ... sometimes less but most of the times more. When he was home, there was a never-ending list of large tasks to do for the house and surrounding land: Build a new fence and electrify it for the horses, continue to shore up the retaining wall, repaint the shed, take down the scaffolding on the back, insulate the attic, remodel the bathroom, fix the shingles that were put up wrong, re-tar the side driveway that leads to the back of the house oh, and in your spare time, could you borrow a backhoe and dig out underneath the dining room for that second garage you keep saying you really want. They weren't exactly things my mom and her two challenging brats could do alone, so we did them as a family.
I don't remember a lot of family vacations but I remember helping my folks celebrate paying the last mortgage payment. We maybe didn't camp or take ski-weekends, but we would go get Sunday Doughnuts together or one of us kids might be invited for a last-minute run to the hardware store. We stayed home a lot but ... home was fun and big and there was lots to do and we all kept busy. Hell, we didn't even have cable TV ... but we had critters and we had imagination.
I don't remember us having a lot of relaxing down-time but we spent years of weekends working on that land, building that fence, slopping that tar, and digging the second garage. (That's NOT sarcasm. We really did that. It's why my parents have an upstairs garage and a downstairs garage. We worked moving that dust and rock bucket-full by bucket-full so much that my sister and I still know the smell of the land and can both remember finding it in our ears and noses. We worked so much that we ALL remember the time my mom challenged my uncle to an arm-wrestling match after our Thanksgiving meal to see who would do dishes ... and she unapologetically kicked his ass.)
Back to my dad. It'd be easy to say that, based on days worked in a month, my father wasn't a "full-time" employee and maybe didn't *deserve* Labor Day off. (An empty argument ... he didn't get it as a holiday anyway. If it was on his regular watch schedule, he worked it.) But there was no "Firefighters Day" to celebrate at the time. (There is now - May 4th. I looked that up, too.)
But I put this to you: When your car is on fire ... when your child has stopped breathing at the mall ... when you're stuck in an elevator ... when the smoke from the kitchen gets to be too thick and you have to call someone for assistance, who shows up? Look at an average emergency situation sometime and count the responders ... 9 times in 10 you'll see a firefighter. It makes sense - they're local, they don't usually patrol outside of their district, and they're ALWAYS waiting for your call so the dispatch transfer doesn't eat up valuable time. Next time you really need help, give your checkout clerk at the market - the one who feels he's EARNED Labor Day off - a call and see what happens.
And it's not just Labor Day, either. I can count on one hand the number of Christmas Days we celebrated ON December 25th. Family birthdays, Anniversaries, and pretty much all the other "special" days *still* have a 3-day window of happening within the ACTUAL day. Old habits die hard.
So maybe Betty Bitter and Paulie Pissedoff should just take a moment from bagging groceries, pumping gas, driving their bus, working the takeout window, answering the help-desk, or whatever their supposedly thank-less job is, and look around. Unemployment is STILL in the 8% average for the nation and if Betty and Paulie are that bent out of shape about working on a holiday that they feel must take a stand, they should do it somewhere else so the next person in line can take that job and be thankful for the opportunity.
The thing is that this country, like my parents home, was built by all sizes of hands. If you don't wanna get yours dirty or feel like you deserve a pat on the back for just doing your job ... well I recently learned that Canada has an ALF for you.
Labor Day was the dream child of one Mr. Peter McGuire from the AFL (American Federation of Labor ... NOT American Football League). Seems Mr. McGuire got the idea from the Canadians, who had an ALF (Annual Labor Festival ... NOT a brown, furry puppet). Building from smaller state-wide observances, President Grover Cleveland signed it into Federal Law in 1894. This was right about the time that the nation also started having white sales, too. (*sigh* no ... not really. Sarcasm just doesn't work on the Internet.)
Somewhere along the way, Labor Day also ushered in the new school year, the end of Summer, the last great BBQ and my mother's birthday. As a kid, Labor Day also signaled the countdown of days until Halloween and then Christmas.
I have had jobs that have allowed me to not work on Labor Day and I've also had jobs that rewarded me/expected me to work on Labor Day. Those who do not get Labor Day as a paid holiday tend to be quite bitter about it, as though those who don't labor on Labor Day are somehow undeserving of such luxury. To which I reply "you forgot to ask me if I wanted fries with that order".
(Again ... sarcasm. Mostly.)
My mother was employed for most of her life, with a few chosen exception periods of time to allow for the proper care and upbringing of her children. She would have liked to have had more help from my father, I'm sure, but he worked about 10 days a month.
As a firefighter.
He averaged 10 24-hour watches each month ... sometimes less but most of the times more. When he was home, there was a never-ending list of large tasks to do for the house and surrounding land: Build a new fence and electrify it for the horses, continue to shore up the retaining wall, repaint the shed, take down the scaffolding on the back, insulate the attic, remodel the bathroom, fix the shingles that were put up wrong, re-tar the side driveway that leads to the back of the house oh, and in your spare time, could you borrow a backhoe and dig out underneath the dining room for that second garage you keep saying you really want. They weren't exactly things my mom and her two challenging brats could do alone, so we did them as a family.
I don't remember a lot of family vacations but I remember helping my folks celebrate paying the last mortgage payment. We maybe didn't camp or take ski-weekends, but we would go get Sunday Doughnuts together or one of us kids might be invited for a last-minute run to the hardware store. We stayed home a lot but ... home was fun and big and there was lots to do and we all kept busy. Hell, we didn't even have cable TV ... but we had critters and we had imagination.
I don't remember us having a lot of relaxing down-time but we spent years of weekends working on that land, building that fence, slopping that tar, and digging the second garage. (That's NOT sarcasm. We really did that. It's why my parents have an upstairs garage and a downstairs garage. We worked moving that dust and rock bucket-full by bucket-full so much that my sister and I still know the smell of the land and can both remember finding it in our ears and noses. We worked so much that we ALL remember the time my mom challenged my uncle to an arm-wrestling match after our Thanksgiving meal to see who would do dishes ... and she unapologetically kicked his ass.)
Back to my dad. It'd be easy to say that, based on days worked in a month, my father wasn't a "full-time" employee and maybe didn't *deserve* Labor Day off. (An empty argument ... he didn't get it as a holiday anyway. If it was on his regular watch schedule, he worked it.) But there was no "Firefighters Day" to celebrate at the time. (There is now - May 4th. I looked that up, too.)
But I put this to you: When your car is on fire ... when your child has stopped breathing at the mall ... when you're stuck in an elevator ... when the smoke from the kitchen gets to be too thick and you have to call someone for assistance, who shows up? Look at an average emergency situation sometime and count the responders ... 9 times in 10 you'll see a firefighter. It makes sense - they're local, they don't usually patrol outside of their district, and they're ALWAYS waiting for your call so the dispatch transfer doesn't eat up valuable time. Next time you really need help, give your checkout clerk at the market - the one who feels he's EARNED Labor Day off - a call and see what happens.
And it's not just Labor Day, either. I can count on one hand the number of Christmas Days we celebrated ON December 25th. Family birthdays, Anniversaries, and pretty much all the other "special" days *still* have a 3-day window of happening within the ACTUAL day. Old habits die hard.
So maybe Betty Bitter and Paulie Pissedoff should just take a moment from bagging groceries, pumping gas, driving their bus, working the takeout window, answering the help-desk, or whatever their supposedly thank-less job is, and look around. Unemployment is STILL in the 8% average for the nation and if Betty and Paulie are that bent out of shape about working on a holiday that they feel must take a stand, they should do it somewhere else so the next person in line can take that job and be thankful for the opportunity.
The thing is that this country, like my parents home, was built by all sizes of hands. If you don't wanna get yours dirty or feel like you deserve a pat on the back for just doing your job ... well I recently learned that Canada has an ALF for you.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Happy Birthday to The Awesome Boyfriend
Well, after all this time, it's finally happened.
You've met some of my family.
So you're either reading this while sitting at an airport waiting to be called for a stand-by flight back home, hoping I'll understand for your sudden, unannounced departure ............ or you're asleep by my side knowing later this week you'll meet the rest of the family and beginning to feel like you know why I am the way I am.
You silly, silly glutton for punishment, you.
**********************
Sweetheart,
We have already had so much go between us. We will, no question, have even more.
I will not make promises that are beyond my reach.
I am unable to offer assurances that are not mine to give.
I cannot hand over to you things I do not have possession of.
Simply put, all that I am - and all that I will ever be - is yours.
Happy Birthday.
You've met some of my family.
So you're either reading this while sitting at an airport waiting to be called for a stand-by flight back home, hoping I'll understand for your sudden, unannounced departure ............ or you're asleep by my side knowing later this week you'll meet the rest of the family and beginning to feel like you know why I am the way I am.
You silly, silly glutton for punishment, you.
**********************
Sweetheart,
We have already had so much go between us. We will, no question, have even more.
I will not make promises that are beyond my reach.
I am unable to offer assurances that are not mine to give.
I cannot hand over to you things I do not have possession of.
Simply put, all that I am - and all that I will ever be - is yours.
Happy Birthday.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Happy Valentine's Weekend
An open letter to the love of my life:
You give so much. You are so patient. Thoughtful. Caring. Creative. You provide arms to hold me, ears to listen to me, and laughter to make me smile. You are considerate of my opinions and give me new things to think about. You have opened entire worlds for me. You encourage me when I am low, and you keep me grounded when I lose my focus. You excite me, calm me, appreciate what I am and look forward to what you know I can be. You believe in me when I doubt myself. You don't let me give up and hold me to my own standards. Your compassion is overwhelming, your support is rock-solid, and your smile warms my soul.
How could I ever find a way to express to you what all of that means to me? What grand gesture would work? What could I possibly do or give or say?
And so, tonight, I will have you read this while we are finishing our meal. Because, while I could not ever thank you enough for all that you are or all you have done, I can show to you that I understand your vision for our future. That I embrace it. Welcome it. Believe it. Cherish it.
Yes, it's a silly, small gesture on my part. I hope you see it for the deeper meaning. That I want walls filled with our experiences and that all the rest of my days ...and my heart ... they are yours.
You give so much. You are so patient. Thoughtful. Caring. Creative. You provide arms to hold me, ears to listen to me, and laughter to make me smile. You are considerate of my opinions and give me new things to think about. You have opened entire worlds for me. You encourage me when I am low, and you keep me grounded when I lose my focus. You excite me, calm me, appreciate what I am and look forward to what you know I can be. You believe in me when I doubt myself. You don't let me give up and hold me to my own standards. Your compassion is overwhelming, your support is rock-solid, and your smile warms my soul.
How could I ever find a way to express to you what all of that means to me? What grand gesture would work? What could I possibly do or give or say?
And so, tonight, I will have you read this while we are finishing our meal. Because, while I could not ever thank you enough for all that you are or all you have done, I can show to you that I understand your vision for our future. That I embrace it. Welcome it. Believe it. Cherish it.
Yes, it's a silly, small gesture on my part. I hope you see it for the deeper meaning. That I want walls filled with our experiences and that all the rest of my days ...and my heart ... they are yours.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Battle of Shiloh
Sometime early last week, in the midst of feeding "white kitty", I noticed a new patron of our cat cafe. First she was "gray kitty" and then "kinda fluffy gray kitty" and, soon enough, "wonder if she's pregnant gray kitty". She didn't honestly look all that pregnant but, after she decided I was worthy of her trust (and her company), I could feel tiny little kitty bodies in her belly. She was incredibly active and liked to jump to the balcony from the ground (at least 3 times her length) so I figured we had a few weeks to either figure something out for what would happen or that whomever she belonged to would notice she was too far along to keep letting her roam free.
Sure enough, when I went to do my chef duties at the cafe earlier this week, I realized that I wasn't seeing her anymore. The Awesome Boyfriend confirmed that he wasn't seeing her either. Two days went by and no pregnant gray kitty appeared. "Good", I said to myself, "she's being taken care of and soon will be a mother. How sweet. I'm glad I could help out while she was outside."
While I was getting routine errands done around town, I stumbled across a sale of small warm blankets and purchased two of them, figuring that at some point this winter, maybe a make-shift den would be appreciated at the cafe and I'd use these to soften it up and provide a little warmth.
On Friday, I was in the living room and glanced out the side window ... and there, very slowly and pretty unsteadily walking towards our home, was no-longer-pregnant gray kitty.
And so the battle began.
Since Shiloh, as we've decided to call her, found us once again, we've slowly (and very cautiously) started to become a family ... humans and cat. We, of course, already have a terrific feline to attend to and, over time, it will be up to the primary cat if we extend our pet count to two.
What we do know is that Shiloh is horribly under weight, tremendously tolerant of humans, and a little overwhelmed by the amount of change she's experienced in the past 48 hours. We managed to find someone to take care of her surviving kittens (which Shiloh was too malnourished to care for), and she's been to her first vet appointment so that we could get her fever under control and have her tested for any issues, which save for dehydration, seem to be few. In the short time she's been allowing us to care for her, she's already showing dramatic improvement and we hope she continues to let her body recover.
So, to whomever is reading this, allow me the pleasure of introducing Shiloh.
She's still fighting her battle (so she's not looking all that happy here), but we're fighting right along side of her and doing all we can to give her what she needs to not just survive but to really recover.
We hope she does.
Sure enough, when I went to do my chef duties at the cafe earlier this week, I realized that I wasn't seeing her anymore. The Awesome Boyfriend confirmed that he wasn't seeing her either. Two days went by and no pregnant gray kitty appeared. "Good", I said to myself, "she's being taken care of and soon will be a mother. How sweet. I'm glad I could help out while she was outside."
While I was getting routine errands done around town, I stumbled across a sale of small warm blankets and purchased two of them, figuring that at some point this winter, maybe a make-shift den would be appreciated at the cafe and I'd use these to soften it up and provide a little warmth.
On Friday, I was in the living room and glanced out the side window ... and there, very slowly and pretty unsteadily walking towards our home, was no-longer-pregnant gray kitty.
And so the battle began.
Since Shiloh, as we've decided to call her, found us once again, we've slowly (and very cautiously) started to become a family ... humans and cat. We, of course, already have a terrific feline to attend to and, over time, it will be up to the primary cat if we extend our pet count to two.
What we do know is that Shiloh is horribly under weight, tremendously tolerant of humans, and a little overwhelmed by the amount of change she's experienced in the past 48 hours. We managed to find someone to take care of her surviving kittens (which Shiloh was too malnourished to care for), and she's been to her first vet appointment so that we could get her fever under control and have her tested for any issues, which save for dehydration, seem to be few. In the short time she's been allowing us to care for her, she's already showing dramatic improvement and we hope she continues to let her body recover.
So, to whomever is reading this, allow me the pleasure of introducing Shiloh.
She's still fighting her battle (so she's not looking all that happy here), but we're fighting right along side of her and doing all we can to give her what she needs to not just survive but to really recover.
We hope she does.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Whoops!
So I was gonna write about being accident prone. How, as a child, I had a habit of getting myself into situations where I was destined to be injured and that now, as an adult, I have a propensity of cutting corners too sharply, scraping my shins while exiting from vehicles, and conking myself on the head when I know damn well to duck in that part of the basement.
Yes, yes I was gonna write about that.
So we'd had dinner and were relaxing in the living room. We were enjoying a bit of downtime when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the cat had wandered into the space between the sofa and the wall, next to where The Awesome Boyfriend was seated. She has been known to sit there, under the side-table at times, so this wasn't a new maneuver for her. After a few minutes, The Awesome Boyfriend turned to me and said "hey - is the cat behind us?"
Thus began a 20-minute stress-filled, furniture moving exercise whereby we needed to figure out how our feline had climbed up into our couch and, far more importantly, how we were going to assist in her removal from it. It wasn't until we started to urgently call for her, shine flashlights underneath the couch, and move it into the middle of the room that she started to meow rather strongly, probably more reacting to our increasing nervousness than any discomfort she was feeling.
Anyway so yes - I was going to write about my being a klutz but had to set that aside because our couch was trying to eat our cat.
It's nice to know that it runs in the family.
**********
(Follow Up: The feline in question is perfectly fine and is blissfully slumbering in her bed, having chomped down on the large handful of treats she received after FINALLY emerging from our couch. We, on the other hand, are still recovering from the stress, worry, and immediate response needed to ensure her safe extraction from what is clearly a cat-eating sofa.)
Yes, yes I was gonna write about that.
So we'd had dinner and were relaxing in the living room. We were enjoying a bit of downtime when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the cat had wandered into the space between the sofa and the wall, next to where The Awesome Boyfriend was seated. She has been known to sit there, under the side-table at times, so this wasn't a new maneuver for her. After a few minutes, The Awesome Boyfriend turned to me and said "hey - is the cat behind us?"
Thus began a 20-minute stress-filled, furniture moving exercise whereby we needed to figure out how our feline had climbed up into our couch and, far more importantly, how we were going to assist in her removal from it. It wasn't until we started to urgently call for her, shine flashlights underneath the couch, and move it into the middle of the room that she started to meow rather strongly, probably more reacting to our increasing nervousness than any discomfort she was feeling.
Anyway so yes - I was going to write about my being a klutz but had to set that aside because our couch was trying to eat our cat.
It's nice to know that it runs in the family.
**********
(Follow Up: The feline in question is perfectly fine and is blissfully slumbering in her bed, having chomped down on the large handful of treats she received after FINALLY emerging from our couch. We, on the other hand, are still recovering from the stress, worry, and immediate response needed to ensure her safe extraction from what is clearly a cat-eating sofa.)
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Reading This Will Probably Make You Itch
See the title?
You've been warned.
So in the past ... oh - three months? ... I've been hearing a sound when I walk outside. It sounds like an automatic sprinkler system. The kind they use during the opening moments of "Caddy Shack" ... that "nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada dadadadadadada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada" kind of thing. And, given how there are many green areas and gardens here, it'd make sense to hear sprinkler systems being used.
Here's the weird part, tho - I hear it at night, like at 8:30, after the sun has set. Annnnd I hear it in the middle of the day, when no one in their right mind would be watering. In fact, I hear it all the time. Those of you who live (or have lived) anyplace further East than, say, Sacramento already know the noise. You're telling me the answer already. I know. I can hear you (just barely over the din of the noise) saying the word "cicada".
So ok - cicada it is. Haven't actually SEEN any, but yep - I've done some digging around on YouTube and that sound is for sure a cicada sound. More quick research says that they (generally) don't bother humans, aside from that sound that makes ya' wanna jab pencils into your eardrums. I say "generally don't" because sometimes, if they land on a human and chill there for a bit, they'll forget where they are (te-hee) and try to extract tree sap from the lucky person. Apparently that can hurt quite a bit (geez yeah - ya' think?!?), but it won't really harm a person.
Now since my East Coast move, I've dealt with crickets larger than the size of my big toes and ants that could, if motivated and organized, carry off small children, so it's safe to say that insects generally kinda freak me out. I don't like being surprised by them, mostly. (Yeah, those crickets last year. That was sooooome fun.) If I KNOW that an insect is around - well, insectS really, 'cause there is never just ONE - it's alright. Not "great", but "alright".
When I was gutting homes in Biloxi, there were walls just *filled* with huge cockroaches. Filled with 'em. As in, "when the moldy sheet rock was removed, the 'wall' appeared to still be there" kinda filled. But see - I KNEW they'd be there. So we created a system where ya'd pound on the wall a few loud times, yell "cockroach!!!!!" and then take the wall out and sure enough, they'd all fall to the ground to go find a new fun place to hide ... a cockroach version of "Hide-N-Seek".
Also lately - as in "over the past two weeks" - I've noticed small sawdust-looking mounds of dirt on the dry side of the back yard. "Gophers!" I thought, proud of myself for having solved this easy mystery (because, if this were the West Coast, that's what would be causing this mound). I mentioned it via text to The Awesome Boyfriend this morning. "Cicada Killer Wasps", responded The Awesome Boyfriend.
"Sure", I laughed out loud when I saw the text. I shared it with my friends at the coffee house, and it escaped my attention that they weren't laughing with me. "Enjoy killing 'em", I texted back, still giggling at his comment.
But he wasn't fooling. And a quick trip to the garden supply center confirmed exactly what he said. And more research on the Internet confirmed it more.
(A side note: I was pretty graphic about the cockroach thing above. I shoulda warned you, I guess, about planting that visual in your head. I apologize, and offer this advice as a means of making it up to you: DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE OF CURIOSITY OR GENERAL WONDERINGMENT, RESEARCH PHOTOGRAPHS OF "Cicada Killer Wasps". Just ... don't. Seriously.)
Information states that they also don't really mess with humans. That they tend to be solo-type critters (uh huh but there's like 30 or more of 'em in the back yard, so not all THAT solo), the males don't sting (but they will swoop down on you and want to "inspect" you to make sure you're not a sexy cicada killer female wasp that they can mate with), the females have a stinger that they very rarely use (unless, yanno, you're trying to kill them) and even when they do, it feels "like a small pinch" (sure but again - 30 or more of 'em). Oh - and they're beneficial (because they're killing cicadas). And they also have short life spans (just six weeks).
And while I read and absorbed all this information ... while I understand it and it makes total sense ... my brain is still saying "blah blah yadda yadda blah - killer wasps. Killer freakin' wasps!!!!! No way, no how, no chance, not happening." Well, it's not actually "saying" that, it's more shouting it. Over and over. In fact, now that I'm thinking about it, it sounds a lot like "nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada dadadadadadada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada".
So yes, Awesome Boyfriend, my original response stands. Enjoy killing them.
You've been warned.
So in the past ... oh - three months? ... I've been hearing a sound when I walk outside. It sounds like an automatic sprinkler system. The kind they use during the opening moments of "Caddy Shack" ... that "nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada dadadadadadada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada" kind of thing. And, given how there are many green areas and gardens here, it'd make sense to hear sprinkler systems being used.
Here's the weird part, tho - I hear it at night, like at 8:30, after the sun has set. Annnnd I hear it in the middle of the day, when no one in their right mind would be watering. In fact, I hear it all the time. Those of you who live (or have lived) anyplace further East than, say, Sacramento already know the noise. You're telling me the answer already. I know. I can hear you (just barely over the din of the noise) saying the word "cicada".
So ok - cicada it is. Haven't actually SEEN any, but yep - I've done some digging around on YouTube and that sound is for sure a cicada sound. More quick research says that they (generally) don't bother humans, aside from that sound that makes ya' wanna jab pencils into your eardrums. I say "generally don't" because sometimes, if they land on a human and chill there for a bit, they'll forget where they are (te-hee) and try to extract tree sap from the lucky person. Apparently that can hurt quite a bit (geez yeah - ya' think?!?), but it won't really harm a person.
Now since my East Coast move, I've dealt with crickets larger than the size of my big toes and ants that could, if motivated and organized, carry off small children, so it's safe to say that insects generally kinda freak me out. I don't like being surprised by them, mostly. (Yeah, those crickets last year. That was sooooome fun.) If I KNOW that an insect is around - well, insectS really, 'cause there is never just ONE - it's alright. Not "great", but "alright".
When I was gutting homes in Biloxi, there were walls just *filled* with huge cockroaches. Filled with 'em. As in, "when the moldy sheet rock was removed, the 'wall' appeared to still be there" kinda filled. But see - I KNEW they'd be there. So we created a system where ya'd pound on the wall a few loud times, yell "cockroach!!!!!" and then take the wall out and sure enough, they'd all fall to the ground to go find a new fun place to hide ... a cockroach version of "Hide-N-Seek".
Also lately - as in "over the past two weeks" - I've noticed small sawdust-looking mounds of dirt on the dry side of the back yard. "Gophers!" I thought, proud of myself for having solved this easy mystery (because, if this were the West Coast, that's what would be causing this mound). I mentioned it via text to The Awesome Boyfriend this morning. "Cicada Killer Wasps", responded The Awesome Boyfriend.
"Sure", I laughed out loud when I saw the text. I shared it with my friends at the coffee house, and it escaped my attention that they weren't laughing with me. "Enjoy killing 'em", I texted back, still giggling at his comment.
But he wasn't fooling. And a quick trip to the garden supply center confirmed exactly what he said. And more research on the Internet confirmed it more.
(A side note: I was pretty graphic about the cockroach thing above. I shoulda warned you, I guess, about planting that visual in your head. I apologize, and offer this advice as a means of making it up to you: DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE OF CURIOSITY OR GENERAL WONDERINGMENT, RESEARCH PHOTOGRAPHS OF "Cicada Killer Wasps". Just ... don't. Seriously.)
Information states that they also don't really mess with humans. That they tend to be solo-type critters (uh huh but there's like 30 or more of 'em in the back yard, so not all THAT solo), the males don't sting (but they will swoop down on you and want to "inspect" you to make sure you're not a sexy cicada killer female wasp that they can mate with), the females have a stinger that they very rarely use (unless, yanno, you're trying to kill them) and even when they do, it feels "like a small pinch" (sure but again - 30 or more of 'em). Oh - and they're beneficial (because they're killing cicadas). And they also have short life spans (just six weeks).
And while I read and absorbed all this information ... while I understand it and it makes total sense ... my brain is still saying "blah blah yadda yadda blah - killer wasps. Killer freakin' wasps!!!!! No way, no how, no chance, not happening." Well, it's not actually "saying" that, it's more shouting it. Over and over. In fact, now that I'm thinking about it, it sounds a lot like "nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada dadadadadadada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada nawhooshdada".
So yes, Awesome Boyfriend, my original response stands. Enjoy killing them.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Ten Reasons To Be The One
(10) Do ya' like seafood?
(9) Are birds fun to watch?
(8) Have you ever chilled out to the music of Dave Matthews? ... Lenny Kravatz?
(7) Do you enjoy the sound of the sea lapping onto the shore?
(6) Ever find yourself rooting for Drew Brees? ... Peyton Manning?
(5) Are you a fan of turtles? ... Pelicans? ... Dolphins?
(4) How do you feel about a relaxing day on the water and maybe doin' a little fishing?
(3) Ever learned anything while watching Emeril Lagasse? ... Giggled while seeing Harry Shearer in a role? ... Has John Goodman ever made ya' smile? ... Enjoyed the talents of Blake Lively?
(2) Do you support generationally-owned businesses?
(1) Do you respect the work - public and private - that Sandra Bullock has done?
I gave ya' ten questions. And now, if there's even one "yes" in there, I'm asking you to Be The One.
(9) Are birds fun to watch?
(8) Have you ever chilled out to the music of Dave Matthews? ... Lenny Kravatz?
(7) Do you enjoy the sound of the sea lapping onto the shore?
(6) Ever find yourself rooting for Drew Brees? ... Peyton Manning?
(5) Are you a fan of turtles? ... Pelicans? ... Dolphins?
(4) How do you feel about a relaxing day on the water and maybe doin' a little fishing?
(3) Ever learned anything while watching Emeril Lagasse? ... Giggled while seeing Harry Shearer in a role? ... Has John Goodman ever made ya' smile? ... Enjoyed the talents of Blake Lively?
(2) Do you support generationally-owned businesses?
(1) Do you respect the work - public and private - that Sandra Bullock has done?
I gave ya' ten questions. And now, if there's even one "yes" in there, I'm asking you to Be The One.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
But wait ... there's more!
Picking up a series from February ...
- It means being comfortable enough to know your strengths (powering through on a task come hell or high water) and your weaknesses (slowing down to understand why the first way isn't working so great).
- It means finding better ways to say something. "What did ya' say?", for instance, can be something I say A LOT, due to hearing damage in one ear. So instead, I've started repeating back what I think I've heard, to thus far comical results. Just this morning "Heston Blumenthal" became "It's Wonder Dog!"
- It means doing - instead of thinking of doing - around-town stuff months in advance of a birthday ... and then finding yourself too excited to wait until the right day to share the gift.
- It means enjoying the quiet times, be it watching fireflies dance by the window or rabbits dart in the backyard, and realizing that you're honestly just happy to be beside your partner.
That's a few more moments of what it means to love someone.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Just Cause
Remember when I wrote this from February?
Well today, while thumbing through a newspaper, I found an article about a dynamic duo I'd never heard about ... "A Chance For Bliss". They do work that ... well, they might just be the bravest people you'd ever wanna know about. Oh, and they have a blog (which you'll find over there ------>) and they're also in the running to get a little financial relief from Pepsi (click here).
Now, before ya' say "awwww man - I gotta REGISTER to do this? It's too much trouble" and whine and bitch and decide not to, lemee ask you this one question:
Have you ever cried over the loss of a pet?
'Cause if you have, if you know what that feels like, if you ever had to make that difficult decision where ya' knew what the right thing to do was but it made your heart heavy ... well then, imagine voluntarily taking in animals who were near the end of their journey just so their last days would be good ones. Imagine voluntarily taking in critters who would probably be around just long enough to break your heart when they passed.
Right ... as I said, the bravest people you'd ever wanna know about.
Take the two minutes, sign up, use your "fake" email and don't check the "send me spam all day" boxes, and whatever all else you want ... but sign up and help these people continue to do the work they do. You're allowed to vote for 10 different worthy causes every single day ... I'm just asking for you to use one of those votes. Feel free to find other ideas closer to your heart (or towns) and give them your support, too.
But let's at least give bliss a chance, ok?
Well today, while thumbing through a newspaper, I found an article about a dynamic duo I'd never heard about ... "A Chance For Bliss". They do work that ... well, they might just be the bravest people you'd ever wanna know about. Oh, and they have a blog (which you'll find over there ------>) and they're also in the running to get a little financial relief from Pepsi (click here).
Now, before ya' say "awwww man - I gotta REGISTER to do this? It's too much trouble" and whine and bitch and decide not to, lemee ask you this one question:
Have you ever cried over the loss of a pet?
'Cause if you have, if you know what that feels like, if you ever had to make that difficult decision where ya' knew what the right thing to do was but it made your heart heavy ... well then, imagine voluntarily taking in animals who were near the end of their journey just so their last days would be good ones. Imagine voluntarily taking in critters who would probably be around just long enough to break your heart when they passed.
Right ... as I said, the bravest people you'd ever wanna know about.
Take the two minutes, sign up, use your "fake" email and don't check the "send me spam all day" boxes, and whatever all else you want ... but sign up and help these people continue to do the work they do. You're allowed to vote for 10 different worthy causes every single day ... I'm just asking for you to use one of those votes. Feel free to find other ideas closer to your heart (or towns) and give them your support, too.
But let's at least give bliss a chance, ok?
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Sing It With Me
Over this past weekend, during a grocery run, I tossed a magazine into my shopping cart. The main story was about Grace Kelly and the cover photo was intriguing enough that it made me wanna read the article (which, let's be honest, is the job of the cover photo).
Today, while passing time in an auto shop repair lobby, I found myself thumbing through the other pages. I stopped on a well-written piece about the two individuals who created "Time" magazine and, before I knew it, I was sucked in. (And I identify the piece as "well-written" because I don't read the magazine they created and wasn't all that curious about the process they took to get it started before I started reading.)
I passed the waiting time (all three hours of it) reading and pondering. Afterwards, I went to get my morning coffee (*sigh* at 1:30pm) and returned home. I was still chewing on all I'd taken in when I opening up my laptop. From my homepage, there was a link ... from Time Magazine ... on the "100 most influential people in the world" and, for whatever reason, I once again found myself reading about something I'd ordinarily pass by.
Not surprisingly, there were a number of names on this list that the general public doesn't yet know (but likely will). I clicked on a few that looked interesting and then found myself drawn to a videolink about actor/director Ben Stiller and the charity work he's been funding that's going on in Haiti.
It seems he created his own non-profit ("StillerStrong") and was doing work in Haiti before the huge earthquake they recently experienced. The workers that were based on-site managed to reopen their school sooner that expected, if for no other reason than to provide a gathering place, a day care, and a safe place for children to be - as an alternative to spending their days on the streets.
The team that StillerStrong partnered with? Architecture for Humanity Haiti.
And then - just now, in fact - an ex-coworker of mine sent me an email asking if I knew that I was in AFH's book about the Biloxi rebuilding project. (I did not know I was in it - I knew that said book existed, 'tho.)
********
It's a world of laughter, a world of fears.
It's a world of joy, and a world of fears.
There's so much that we share that it's time we're aware
It's a small world after all.
Today, while passing time in an auto shop repair lobby, I found myself thumbing through the other pages. I stopped on a well-written piece about the two individuals who created "Time" magazine and, before I knew it, I was sucked in. (And I identify the piece as "well-written" because I don't read the magazine they created and wasn't all that curious about the process they took to get it started before I started reading.)
I passed the waiting time (all three hours of it) reading and pondering. Afterwards, I went to get my morning coffee (*sigh* at 1:30pm) and returned home. I was still chewing on all I'd taken in when I opening up my laptop. From my homepage, there was a link ... from Time Magazine ... on the "100 most influential people in the world" and, for whatever reason, I once again found myself reading about something I'd ordinarily pass by.
Not surprisingly, there were a number of names on this list that the general public doesn't yet know (but likely will). I clicked on a few that looked interesting and then found myself drawn to a videolink about actor/director Ben Stiller and the charity work he's been funding that's going on in Haiti.
It seems he created his own non-profit ("StillerStrong") and was doing work in Haiti before the huge earthquake they recently experienced. The workers that were based on-site managed to reopen their school sooner that expected, if for no other reason than to provide a gathering place, a day care, and a safe place for children to be - as an alternative to spending their days on the streets.
The team that StillerStrong partnered with? Architecture for Humanity Haiti.
And then - just now, in fact - an ex-coworker of mine sent me an email asking if I knew that I was in AFH's book about the Biloxi rebuilding project. (I did not know I was in it - I knew that said book existed, 'tho.)
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It's a world of laughter, a world of fears.
It's a world of joy, and a world of fears.
There's so much that we share that it's time we're aware
It's a small world after all.
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