Good bye, crappy year. I am thrilled to be ushering in a new 366-day annum with very good friends, food, and drinks. And then tomorrow, we start ORGANIZING! (That still means cleaning the garage first.)
While 2011 was a craptastic year (thank you to one of our contractors for introducing me to that great "word"), I did learn a few things through the pain.
1. Not everybody recognizes my greatness and potential.
2. Those people don't deserve the respect I've been giving them.
3. When your faith is strong, the devil fights you harder.
4. People to whom you've freely given respect in the past might not have been deserving of it. (This actually is different from No. 2.)
5. Dolphins are beautiful up close, but I'd rather they were free.
6. Don't plan stuff unless you're OK with nobody showing up.
7. Sometimes, but not too terribly often, "no second chances" needs an exception.
8. Macy can't replace Gigi, but she's just as precious.
9. Doctors are real people, too, and should not be taken at face value.
10. Sometimes you've just stuck your foot in too deep and your shoe will never come clean.
Here's to a better 2012. Scott bought me a Wizard of Oz desk calendar (original Denslow illustrations ... suitable for framing!) today at B&N. I love new calendars!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
Good Riddance, 2011
Two days left. Lasagna meat sauce on the stove, hubby sleeping in the recliner, daytime TV on the tube, and I'm just as happy as a clam to be bidding adieu to the second worse year of my life. I won't go into the reasons, but they were numerous. But why be a downer?
2012 will be better because I will make it so. Plans are in the works. Positive attitude carries over from the last part of 2011, peppered with exercises to make both heart and mind healthier, and I'll be one happy little camper.
This post sucks because I'm not really inspired today, but look for something from me more often. I won't commit to a post a day, but I'll try to put something out there, because as my little notebook says, "If you want to be a writer, write!"
2012 will be better because I will make it so. Plans are in the works. Positive attitude carries over from the last part of 2011, peppered with exercises to make both heart and mind healthier, and I'll be one happy little camper.
This post sucks because I'm not really inspired today, but look for something from me more often. I won't commit to a post a day, but I'll try to put something out there, because as my little notebook says, "If you want to be a writer, write!"
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Free
I am home. Hubby is bowling. And houseguests are ... gone. Two empty rooms. Macy is confused, but she will be fine.
I will be fantastic.
I've spent the evening dancing in the living room, cleaning a little (the real work starts tomorrow), and watching Food Network--in my underwear and a T-shirt. Because I can. I feel like I have a new lease on life (OK, that's a tired phrase, but it fits). While I can tell you to your face that I have felt like a prisoner in my own home, it's a different animal all together to experience the freedom again. Possibilities and hope lay in front of me like the yellow brick road. Getting my life back is like taking that first dive into the pool's cool water every summer. Emerging from the water, you're clean, refreshed, and ready to enjoy.
That's me.
I will be fantastic.
I've spent the evening dancing in the living room, cleaning a little (the real work starts tomorrow), and watching Food Network--in my underwear and a T-shirt. Because I can. I feel like I have a new lease on life (OK, that's a tired phrase, but it fits). While I can tell you to your face that I have felt like a prisoner in my own home, it's a different animal all together to experience the freedom again. Possibilities and hope lay in front of me like the yellow brick road. Getting my life back is like taking that first dive into the pool's cool water every summer. Emerging from the water, you're clean, refreshed, and ready to enjoy.
That's me.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Smart Kids, Mean Kids, and Wormy Kids
It's sort of entertaining, actually, to be able to sit back and watch the kindergartners on the playground. The cliques form and dissolve, the smart kids banding together and enjoying their break in the sunshine, while the mean kids are picking on the little kids and the wormy kids suck up to the teacher, whose inward exasperation is barely concealed.
And all the while, not one of them realizes that there's another world outside the fences of the playground. One day in the spring, they will graduate from kindergarten and move up to first grade, where they're the little kids in a community of kids who are all older and wiser. They'll grow up, slowly but certainly, and look back toward the playground. Back then, life was easier and much less complicated. The smarter ones will assimilate nicely, but they'll still have to deal with the mean kids and the wormy kids. Maybe those little dudes will regret some of their decisions, but more likely they'll just move on to create a bigger playground with bigger kids.
And most of those kids will reach middle age, where they'll still need the social skills they learned on the playground. Many of the mean and wormy kids will not have changed much, except to think they've graduated into the same category as the smart kids. But the smart kids will know the truth.
And all the while, not one of them realizes that there's another world outside the fences of the playground. One day in the spring, they will graduate from kindergarten and move up to first grade, where they're the little kids in a community of kids who are all older and wiser. They'll grow up, slowly but certainly, and look back toward the playground. Back then, life was easier and much less complicated. The smarter ones will assimilate nicely, but they'll still have to deal with the mean kids and the wormy kids. Maybe those little dudes will regret some of their decisions, but more likely they'll just move on to create a bigger playground with bigger kids.
And most of those kids will reach middle age, where they'll still need the social skills they learned on the playground. Many of the mean and wormy kids will not have changed much, except to think they've graduated into the same category as the smart kids. But the smart kids will know the truth.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Pain
Sorry for the stream of consciousness posts. If you're reading this, I hope it makes sense.
Hating a diagnosis where they're like "dont know what causes it. don't know how to fix it. just keep the pain down" and then the pain isn't going down. It's now moved from foot to ankle, which might be progress. I've missed two days of work (unacceptable) and the prospects of being able to walk on Monday don't look good. I'm going in anyway. There's too much to do and too much still hanging in the balance. I hate missing work. I hate feeling this way.
Had a little bit of a breakdown this morning. Had to take a shower; just felt so grimy. But that's pain added to pain. Took two pills against my better judgment. Will admit it took the pain away, and now I am nice and warm downstairs. Hair is sticking to my face now. No moisturizer, so my face is cracky and ashy. Feeling so beautiful today. So sorry for myself. So pitiful. Wah.
Too many responsibilities crashing in on me. I remember this pain from several years ago and how I felt helpless. I remember choosing a life verse while in the shower: Isaiah 40:31. I claimed renewed strength. I took "wait" as literal. I claim that verse still. Perseverance. I'm not asking for perfect, even though I strive for it. I don't think happiness and contentment require perfection.
Hubby is doing a great job as nursemaid. Hasn't complained once and has helped keep my spirits up. He has no idea how to comfort me, and I have no idea what to tell him. He remembers how he felt when the roles were reversed. I love him for that. When this is done, I'll get him a card or something as thanks. He loves cards as a surprise. I love that he loves such simple things. Yes, sometimes simple is more charming than irritating. I love him.
Friday, September 16, 2011
In Love With Fall
As I recuperate from injury
Alone in the house
Dark skies from approaching storms
Satisfied from dinner
Warm from painkillers
I think about fall
It's like God is resting
After toiling outside all day
Hot and sweaty and covered in grime
Then taking a long swig of sweet tea
To cool off His body and His thoughts
And take a long breath
Kids are selling cookie dough
Football players are in high spirits
America is honoring its veterans
The air conditioner is resting
And I'm thinking about soup
The weather is cool
Crisp air and long sleeves make me happy
Dog is ready to play at the park
Anticipation of all the best holidays
And social calendars start to fill up
Winter is beautiful under a blanket of snow
But fall is my favorite
Alone in the house
Dark skies from approaching storms
Satisfied from dinner
Warm from painkillers
I think about fall
It's like God is resting
After toiling outside all day
Hot and sweaty and covered in grime
Then taking a long swig of sweet tea
To cool off His body and His thoughts
And take a long breath
Kids are selling cookie dough
Football players are in high spirits
America is honoring its veterans
The air conditioner is resting
And I'm thinking about soup
The weather is cool
Crisp air and long sleeves make me happy
Dog is ready to play at the park
Anticipation of all the best holidays
And social calendars start to fill up
Winter is beautiful under a blanket of snow
But fall is my favorite
Thursday, September 15, 2011
I Write, You Read, We Smile
[[Disclaimer: I'm on painkillers, so no guarantees about coherence or eloquence. I hope I get my point across.]]
My boss told me a story earlier this week about two very unique young women who became friends in high school and, after graduation, kept in touch. What's unique? Their preferred method of communication is not texting, Facebook, or even email. It is writing. These two young ladies, who are my new inspirations, are corresponding via snail mail by writing real letters to each other.
This same boss, who's a pretty well-read guy, shared an article with me earlier in the month. I fell in love with the concept of creating notecards and actually using them (and immediately became jealous of this woman who owns an actual letterpress and knows how to use it). Slightly off topic: Don't be surprised if you receive a little note card from me, just because. However, if you want one, make sure I have your address. Handmade cards will become more common after I regain the use of the room I use as an office and uncover my craft stuff from the piles in the garage.
And, somewhere in the back of my memory bank, is a vision of my friend Martha lamenting the loss of letter-writing as an art. Martha, who is an Altrusan like me, is passionate about the cause of erasing illiteracy.
And so, my point. You knew I'd get to it, right?
Why not create a program to teach young girls the fading but forever elegant art of letter writing? Entice them with a card-decorating class, and end with a charming story that encourages them to write and mail their cards ... just because. I'm a firm believer in the power of one becoming exponentially influential, and I think this could take off. I'm working through formalizing this idea. What do you think?
My boss told me a story earlier this week about two very unique young women who became friends in high school and, after graduation, kept in touch. What's unique? Their preferred method of communication is not texting, Facebook, or even email. It is writing. These two young ladies, who are my new inspirations, are corresponding via snail mail by writing real letters to each other.
This same boss, who's a pretty well-read guy, shared an article with me earlier in the month. I fell in love with the concept of creating notecards and actually using them (and immediately became jealous of this woman who owns an actual letterpress and knows how to use it). Slightly off topic: Don't be surprised if you receive a little note card from me, just because. However, if you want one, make sure I have your address. Handmade cards will become more common after I regain the use of the room I use as an office and uncover my craft stuff from the piles in the garage.
And, somewhere in the back of my memory bank, is a vision of my friend Martha lamenting the loss of letter-writing as an art. Martha, who is an Altrusan like me, is passionate about the cause of erasing illiteracy.
And so, my point. You knew I'd get to it, right?
Why not create a program to teach young girls the fading but forever elegant art of letter writing? Entice them with a card-decorating class, and end with a charming story that encourages them to write and mail their cards ... just because. I'm a firm believer in the power of one becoming exponentially influential, and I think this could take off. I'm working through formalizing this idea. What do you think?
Saturday, April 23, 2011
To Confer, Converse, and Otherwise Hobnob
... with my sister Altrusans. Next weekend is the fifty-fifth annual conference of Altrusa International Inc. District Nine. And I'm its program coordinator.
Many amazing women have held this position before me, and many more amazing women will hold it after. It's a rite of passage, really, on a long journey of self-discovery. No, really!
I'm pretty proud of what's been implemented in my two years as program coordinator. We've seen two of the highest numbers of first-time attendees EVER, in large part because we just got the word out that Conference is the thing to do. I wrote scripts for the awards luncheon to ensure the winning projects and people all got an equal shake and that the luncheon ran smoothly. I laid out the program more effectively (at least, I think so). I started the practice of giving each attendee a CD with all workshop, awards, and common materials instead of making individual folders and CDs for every workshop, for every club (that was genius, really). And, I hope, I helped workshop presenters prepare their material to the best of their ability.
And through it all, I have learned a few things about myself and others. First, not everybody just "gets it." They need explanation, and they won't be upset with you when you spell it out. Next, delegation is a good way to get things done, but you have to be sure your vision is relayed; interpretation can kill it.
I learned a lot about Conference itself, too. Like how much work goes into making it happen, but how easy it really is to do. OK, that's not making sense, but what I am trying to say is that a club shouldn't be worried that it "can't" host conference. It can. I also learned that we are just scratching the surface of the potential for leadership training at this event. We're going to need more resources.
Anyway, it's been a good run. And now, if I am elected (I'm unopposed) governor-elect at this conference, I'll have two solid years to plan and put the right people in the right place. My challenge will be to make the Mighty Ninth flourish. Many amazing women have taken up this challenge before me, and each has made it happen.
Are you an Altrusan? If you aren't, maybe you should be. Altrusa is opportunity, you know. Make lifelong friends, make a difference in your community, and make a difference in yourself.
Many amazing women have held this position before me, and many more amazing women will hold it after. It's a rite of passage, really, on a long journey of self-discovery. No, really!
I'm pretty proud of what's been implemented in my two years as program coordinator. We've seen two of the highest numbers of first-time attendees EVER, in large part because we just got the word out that Conference is the thing to do. I wrote scripts for the awards luncheon to ensure the winning projects and people all got an equal shake and that the luncheon ran smoothly. I laid out the program more effectively (at least, I think so). I started the practice of giving each attendee a CD with all workshop, awards, and common materials instead of making individual folders and CDs for every workshop, for every club (that was genius, really). And, I hope, I helped workshop presenters prepare their material to the best of their ability.
And through it all, I have learned a few things about myself and others. First, not everybody just "gets it." They need explanation, and they won't be upset with you when you spell it out. Next, delegation is a good way to get things done, but you have to be sure your vision is relayed; interpretation can kill it.
I learned a lot about Conference itself, too. Like how much work goes into making it happen, but how easy it really is to do. OK, that's not making sense, but what I am trying to say is that a club shouldn't be worried that it "can't" host conference. It can. I also learned that we are just scratching the surface of the potential for leadership training at this event. We're going to need more resources.
Anyway, it's been a good run. And now, if I am elected (I'm unopposed) governor-elect at this conference, I'll have two solid years to plan and put the right people in the right place. My challenge will be to make the Mighty Ninth flourish. Many amazing women have taken up this challenge before me, and each has made it happen.
Are you an Altrusan? If you aren't, maybe you should be. Altrusa is opportunity, you know. Make lifelong friends, make a difference in your community, and make a difference in yourself.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Sunday.
Rest in peace, Tucker
Today was a good day with a little bit of sadness mixed in to keep me honest.
Sunday is traditionally grocery day at my house, so we all got up, dressed, and headed downstairs to attack our day. Instead, our day attacked us. Macy, who'd been a bit ill yesterday, proved she wasn't quite over it. Slimy poo decorated our kitchen floor, and its odor, well, it stank. Poor Macy. We let her outside while we scooped, wiped, and then mopped. Side note: Macy looked so cute trying to bite the mop.
OK, then on to grocery shopping. I was so mentally exhausted by the poo ambush that I called Mom to see if we could possibly just pick her up some stuff while we were shopping for our own food. That was OK with her. Apparently she wasn't having the greatest day. I won't tell tales on her (today), but I will say that she's probably the weirdest person I know.
Then, lunch. We discovered a great place in Coppell and headed over to Wal-Mart for a NEW GRILL!!! The old one was just about disintegrated, so we got a cute little grill that takes up less space on my tiny porch. I knew I'd be having fresh grilled veggies for dinner! (You may notice that I could barely contain my excitement.) I whipped up some rosemary garlic butter, skewered some taters, onions, and zucchini, and started the marinade on the steaks. Brett and Noah bought some chicken and pork chops, so we threw them on the grill, too, and the feast was on!
Now, I'm wrapping up some Altrusa stuff in preparation for tomorrow's meeting, and just enjoying my puppy and my husband.
The bittersweet end to my day was firing up Facebook and learning that my good friend Cheryl lost her beloved Tucker this morning. I am saddened, because Tucker was my friend--and Gigi's friend--too. I remember him as a little ball of curly fur when he came to visit shortly after Cheryl brought him home. He was a happy dog, and he remained joyful his entire life. I know he brought Cheryl so much joy, and I know there are hard days ahead for Cheryl as she adjusts to life without her precious family member.
Memories of Tucker brought up fresh sadness--grief is now too strong a word for time-mellowed feelings--for my sweet Gigi. One of the ways I keep her memory alive involved me coining a new phrase and applying it to my new sweetie, Macy. Gigi was not much of a licker; her kisses were nuzzles underneath my ear, and she would "gimme kiss" on demand. That soft, wet, cold little nose could always ease my stress, illness, sadness, or pain and replace it with a smile and a special Mommy-and-me moment. That's "Gigi love."
Today, Macy has shown me the hallmarks of her own brand of affection: She tucks her head under my knee while I scratch and rub her back, eventually turning herself inside-out with happiness. When she does that, that's her "Gigi love." All my animals for the rest of my life on Earth will have Gigi love, and like my precious Gigi, they will leave their own unique legacy and memories for me to cherish.
Most likely, I have many years to enjoy Gigi love with Macy Lou, and I am thankful for that. Losing a pet is quite possibly the worst experience I've had. In many ways, it's worse than losing a human family member. My heart aches for Cheryl tonight.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Macy Is Illin', or How I Spent My Saturday
1. Wake up earlier than usual (around 8:30) because I know I have to stop by Mom's this morning. Looking forward to something tasty for breakfast because I'm already a little hungry after last night's sub-stellar bowling event.2. Read a little of The Lost Symbol until snoring husband flips over to face me. Stare at snoring husband until he opens his eyes a little. Engage him in conversation enough to wake him up. Inwardly snicker a bit at my diabolical success.
3. Shake head in disbelief when husband proclaims "we" woke up too early to have breakfast. "It throws off the whole day," he says. Um, OK. It's now two hours until his designated lunch time. I will try to make it.
4. Load large ladder into not-quite-big-enough car and drive to Mom's to replace air filter. Who builds a house so you need a ladder to change the air filter? And what idiot doesn't notice that when looking for a house for Mom to live in? Oh yeah, that's me.
5. Go to fat-girl store, looking for something formal for the Gov's Banquet. Didn't find anything, but they have something at the store in Cedar Hill, which is only about two hours from here.
6. Try fat-girl sections in major department stores. FOUND SOMETHING, and cannot believe the luck. Not only does it fit, but it was a return and so is drastically marked down. Not sure all parts of the suit will work, but the jacket could be worn with the pant/skirt that I already have. Score.
7. Am finally cleared for nourishment. Choose Mexican food, because I am so freakin' starving at this point. Was able to contain my eyes-bigger-than-stomach syndrome. Food was gooooooood. Drink was even better. Mint at the end was fabulous.
8. Drove around. Went up to Allen and checked out their new little apartment/shopping community. Would totally have loved living there if I was a 20-something. Really nice. Really cool. Really largly undiscovered by the public so far, which is good. Probably will be crawling with peeps around Christmas.
9. Side trip to Stonebriar. To my happy surprise, it was still free gift time at Clinique. I needed cleanser. Got it. Got freebie. Very happy.
10. Came home. It's 3 p.m. Hubby going to play cards in 45 minutes. Opened door to smell of poop. Bad poop. Slimy gift on kitchen floor. Larger, more sold gift on living room carpet (which is just going to have to be replaced anyway). Smore stealthy gifts in "throw-up" areas of kitchen. Spots of blood. I lose it. Call vet. Vet says dog probably ate something bad. (Duh.) Says bring dog in if no improvement.
11. Clean up vom. Vom myself in kitchen sink. Scott cleans up vom. Voms himself outside. Nice.
12. Macy outside, uncharacteristically NOT eating grass. Must be near death, I think. Macy comes back inside. Voms again, beginning the whole cycle over. Two rolls of paper towels later, Macy is in living room resting. Mommy blogs. Daddy leaves for card-playing. Momy leaves back door open for Macy (gotta get a doggie door).
13. Eat, Pray, Love comes on Starz. Perhaps I can watch without vom. Macy sleeps. My poor puppy.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
I Miss You
When you lose the most important man in your life, the grief just never goes away. Some days it's just a vibration that drones in the back of your mind, just below the surface of your consciousness. As you carry on with life, nobody knows the difference, but the grief comes along for the ride, adding a touch of gray to a sunny day. It's insignificant as a hangnail--irritating and sometimes painful, but mostly ignorable. Some days the grief is actually dormant, giving you just a moment of peace, a respite from your underlying sadness, a brief return to "your old self." Some days, though, it lies raw and angry on the surface of your skin; you flinch to the touch. You ache to talk to him again, to hear his voice and beg his wisdom. These days come along when you are burning to tell him something. Today is one of those days. On days like today, I pull out Granddaddy's Bible just to see the notes in the margins. Sometimes a particular phrase will stick with me and give me pause to read a passage or two. It's not my daily quiet time; I just like to see his handwriting and remember how much Daddy's looked like his. It's about as close as I can get to him now. There's so much I need to tell him.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Arboretum 2011
Stefanie and I took a visit to the Arboretum on Saturday with the rest of the metroplex. It was absolutely terrific. I have never been, but I know I will go again. God don't make junk, so purty pictures were easy pickin's (not that I picked the .... anyway). Here are my favorites. 
I thought the old ladies getting up-close and personal with the tulips was cute. Also cute was this guy, who let us walk right up to him. 
And there were fishies, too... I especially like the little girl sitting on the armadillo. Stefanie: Want me to climb that tree? Me: Yeah.
I thought the old ladies getting up-close and personal with the tulips was cute. Also cute was this guy, who let us walk right up to him. 
And there were fishies, too... I especially like the little girl sitting on the armadillo. Stefanie: Want me to climb that tree? Me: Yeah. 
Gray Post for a Gray Day
I am not hungry. But still, I eat. My excuse has a name, a label I give myself: stress eater. It reminds me a bit of the Death Eaters from the Harry Potter movies, flying in silently and stealthily from who-knows-where, taking your very breath away and leaving you with nothing but sadness. Nothing especially provokes the onslaught, but you are overwhelmed and forced to surrender anyway. I must make myself more like Harry, summoning my inner strength and perhaps some supernatural beings to help me face the Death Eaters. My magic wand is but a symbol of the enormous power I have inside and just need to harness in order to secure the victory. I got this.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
A Couple of Pictures Worth a Thousand Words
Started off the day with "additional tests." Here's the lovely waiting room (and don't think I didn't want to eat that entire basketful of chocolate):
By the grace of God, I was able to avoid really fattening food after that experience. The tech kept prodding me, saying "I know IT is there, I can see IT." Until this moment, I had been under the impression that IT was nothing. Now IT practically has a name, rank, and serial number, and IT was residing INSIDE ME.
Anway, after two techs and a bona fide doctor prodded me for a while and took only one picture, the doc looks at me and goes, "Oh, it's probably not cancer. It's just a lymph node or a cyst."
OK, family practitioner who ordered the further tests ... please begin telling me the truth NOW.
Anyway. Had a productive day. Great meeting with the Youth Protection folks. Lots of stuff done. Great meeting with some other folks. And a nice conversation with my friend Kim. Here I am, in a self-portrait, showing Kim my new haircut.
She'd kill me if I posted the one she sent back to show me her bad-hair day. She was concerned about her "roots for miles," but was going to "get that straightened out" tonight.
Made myself a great dinner (salmon and zucchini with onions and romas) and am now snuggled up on the couch with Macy Lou, working on Altrusa.
It was a good day.
By the grace of God, I was able to avoid really fattening food after that experience. The tech kept prodding me, saying "I know IT is there, I can see IT." Until this moment, I had been under the impression that IT was nothing. Now IT practically has a name, rank, and serial number, and IT was residing INSIDE ME.
Anway, after two techs and a bona fide doctor prodded me for a while and took only one picture, the doc looks at me and goes, "Oh, it's probably not cancer. It's just a lymph node or a cyst."
OK, family practitioner who ordered the further tests ... please begin telling me the truth NOW.
Anyway. Had a productive day. Great meeting with the Youth Protection folks. Lots of stuff done. Great meeting with some other folks. And a nice conversation with my friend Kim. Here I am, in a self-portrait, showing Kim my new haircut.
She'd kill me if I posted the one she sent back to show me her bad-hair day. She was concerned about her "roots for miles," but was going to "get that straightened out" tonight.
Made myself a great dinner (salmon and zucchini with onions and romas) and am now snuggled up on the couch with Macy Lou, working on Altrusa.
It was a good day.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
I Got This
One of the "big projects" I've been referring to lately is one of those constant naggers that always gets pushed to the back burner for one reason or another.
"I've got too much to do to think about it right now," I'll say to myself. "When I get really ready, I'll know."
Oh yeah. And when pigs get ready, they'll fly. There is no "right time." The time is now, whether you think you're ready or not.
Fortunately, I have help. I have a cheerleader, who told me quite succinctly one day when I was struggling: You got this.
And, it seems, I do.
Now, on to today's photo. This is NOT a Chargrilled & Fruit Salad. It's a Chargrilled Chicken Garden Salad (or what's left of it).
"I've got too much to do to think about it right now," I'll say to myself. "When I get really ready, I'll know."
Oh yeah. And when pigs get ready, they'll fly. There is no "right time." The time is now, whether you think you're ready or not.
Fortunately, I have help. I have a cheerleader, who told me quite succinctly one day when I was struggling: You got this.
And, it seems, I do.
Now, on to today's photo. This is NOT a Chargrilled & Fruit Salad. It's a Chargrilled Chicken Garden Salad (or what's left of it).
I ordered the Chargrilled & Fruit, and I was quite disappointed when this lame veggie box came out of the bag. Sheesh.
So, just for reference, here are the glamour shots of the two salads. Which looks better to you?
Stupid salad:
Or awesome salad:
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Anyway, About Alice
I was searching the internet for a literary Alice character that would describe my friend, and I found this interesting site: http://www.contrariwise.org/. The site showcases "literary tattoos." Seriously, check it out.
Update from yesterday: Both big projects going well.
My work friend Alice is moving to St. Louis next week. So today, Kim and I took her to lunch as a fond farewell. The bad part is Alice is leaving. She's a lot of fun. The good part is that I was able to stay on my food plan for the day by having a salad. Yummy grilled chicken, light balsamic vinaigrette, a little blue cheese, and sunflowers, pumpkin seeds, and cranberries. Seriously yummy. Sampled the sweet potato fries and fried pickles, too; I hope not enough to blow it.
I needed to get a photo of the day, so I thought Alice would be a perfect subject. Here she is.
Update from yesterday: Both big projects going well.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Today's Photo Will Be ... Conspicuously Missing
I got a haircut. I don't like it. There.
In my quest to be more professional, I got what I hoped was a cute cut. Meh. Not so much. We'll see what I can do with it tomorrow.
Still nursing the ankle. It's about as big as a grapefruit right now, and let me tell you that getting up the stairs is a huge ordeal. I'm sure Scott is tired to listening to the groaning metronome. Step ... groan ... step ... groan ... step ... groan .... Our staircase has 14 steps, and I bet it takes me a full two minutes to get to our room. Sometimes I groan extra loud just to see if he says anything.
Got some of what I hope is promising news today. And that's all I will say about that.
And I took a HUGE step on a project I am working on. That's right. I got this!
In my quest to be more professional, I got what I hoped was a cute cut. Meh. Not so much. We'll see what I can do with it tomorrow.
Still nursing the ankle. It's about as big as a grapefruit right now, and let me tell you that getting up the stairs is a huge ordeal. I'm sure Scott is tired to listening to the groaning metronome. Step ... groan ... step ... groan ... step ... groan .... Our staircase has 14 steps, and I bet it takes me a full two minutes to get to our room. Sometimes I groan extra loud just to see if he says anything.
Got some of what I hope is promising news today. And that's all I will say about that.
And I took a HUGE step on a project I am working on. That's right. I got this!
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Sunday Nights Are All Right!
This will be a busy week! Tomorrow, I'm meeting our Conference chair to go over some plans, then I have a 7:30 meeting that I've been looking forward to. I plan on doing some research for a work-related project early in the week, and I'll try to fit the real work in somewhere.
I love Sunday nights. Today was a long day. Tonight I cooked dinner, started a crock-pot roast for tomorrow night (yum), and went to check on my four-legged charges. Why is it, I wonder, that animals make us so happy? When I returned, my own animals were so jealous that they wouldn't leave me alone!
After tidying the kitchen, I got some Altrusa stuff together for my meeting tomorrow, then I just decided that blogging would be the thing. As you can tell, it's all over the place tonight. Nothing really to say except Sundays are nice for relaxing. My brain isn't in overdrive and I have no deadlines looming. The laundry is in the dryer, the kid is home from spring break, and the dog is lying on the couch right next to me. Contented sigh ... with a smile.
I've decided to take a page out of my friend Kathleen's book of blogging and post a photo every day. She's much better at remembering, and she's way more interesting than I am, so many of my posts might look like this one:
This is the view from my computer tonight. Took some effort to jump through hoops to get it here, but hey, I'm a problem-solver!
Friday, March 18, 2011
I Have This Friend...
I have this friend
Who's been there to the end
Of a lot of big things in my life.
I've known her for years
And she saw all my tears
When I became this dumb dude's ex-wife.
When we disagree
It's usually on me
And it takes us a while to let go.
But then it's all right
So until the next fight
We will laugh 'til our dimples all show!
My friend has this laugh;
If you cut it in half
You could still hear it way across the room.
But her ha's make me smile
'Cause her laugh's like a pile
Of spring flowers all starting to bloom.
What's Your Yellow Brick Road Like?
While chatting with a coworker this morning, I learned of an extraordinary place in the middle of Nowhere, Kansas: the Oz Museum. And I nearly lost my marbles, right there at my desk.
I fancy myself a true Wizard of Oz fanatic. What started the conversation in the first place was a recounting of my plans for a spare room (if it is ever vacated). I own all kinds of Oz memorabilia, both movie and literary, and recently started collecting volumes of the original series. I can run the category in Jeopardy!, much to the amazement of my husband. I even played the tin man in a high school play. And God bless Jim Shore, whose series of figures based on the original characters is beginning to populate my china cabinet. People will have Christmas present ideas for me for years.
What makes Oz so special to so many people? Oh yes, there are folks who love to find allegory. Take my American History professor in college, who walked us through the symbolism of the story that mirrors the events surrounding the Industrial Revolution. OK, I can see that. And everybody knows about the whole Pink Floyd soundtrack thing, right? The point is, folks from all walks of life are fascinated by yellow bricks and ruby (or silver) slippers, flying houses and talking lions, and a whole city of little people who blindly follow a well-meaning buffoon. Hmm, getting a little closer to home on that one, huh?
Anyway, Oz is timeless. It appeals to all ages, shapes, colors, and creeds. It’s part of the American experience and the history of Hollywood. And it’s a lesson for life. The story gives us all hope to find what we’re looking for—not somewhere over the rainbow but right here in our own backyard. It reminds us that rough patches are part the journey, and that “a heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.”
And perhaps the best advice of all? Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.
I fancy myself a true Wizard of Oz fanatic. What started the conversation in the first place was a recounting of my plans for a spare room (if it is ever vacated). I own all kinds of Oz memorabilia, both movie and literary, and recently started collecting volumes of the original series. I can run the category in Jeopardy!, much to the amazement of my husband. I even played the tin man in a high school play. And God bless Jim Shore, whose series of figures based on the original characters is beginning to populate my china cabinet. People will have Christmas present ideas for me for years.
What makes Oz so special to so many people? Oh yes, there are folks who love to find allegory. Take my American History professor in college, who walked us through the symbolism of the story that mirrors the events surrounding the Industrial Revolution. OK, I can see that. And everybody knows about the whole Pink Floyd soundtrack thing, right? The point is, folks from all walks of life are fascinated by yellow bricks and ruby (or silver) slippers, flying houses and talking lions, and a whole city of little people who blindly follow a well-meaning buffoon. Hmm, getting a little closer to home on that one, huh?
Anyway, Oz is timeless. It appeals to all ages, shapes, colors, and creeds. It’s part of the American experience and the history of Hollywood. And it’s a lesson for life. The story gives us all hope to find what we’re looking for—not somewhere over the rainbow but right here in our own backyard. It reminds us that rough patches are part the journey, and that “a heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.”
And perhaps the best advice of all? Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Catching Up
The calendar says it's been 12 days since I last posted (and even then, it wasn't my finest work). For almost two weeks I have abandoned the release that comes with forming individual word images into really long, run-on sentences that have meaning. To me, anyway. And fragments. That have impact. To me, anyway.
Sometimes I just open a new blog post and start that stream of consciousness writing that allows me to put thoughts on paper and exercise my brain. Sometimes some current event has set me off. And sometimes I just want to relate what Sybil did this week (she got a haircut!) or the latest stupid thing the boys in my house are doing. I don't care if you read. It's not about you.
Anyway, my last post was a lament, trying not to whine, about how behind I am in my life. I am happy to report that, after taking two days off this week, I have caught back up a little. My mother got groceries, the aforementioned haircut, and even a shopping trip to Walmart. Altrusa got Leadership Luncheon invitations, workshop scheduling, a master conference schedule, and even about a third of the conference program completed (by the way, that is a TON of work). And I got to sleep in for two extra days, have lunch with my husband, and leisurely shop wherever I wanted. Not that I bought much.
I am so happy with my progress that I am considering taking another day or two in the next week or so. There's still lots more Altrusa to be done in preparation for Conference, and I need to get my mom's taxes finished. I think that qualifies as personal time, don't you?
Sometimes I just open a new blog post and start that stream of consciousness writing that allows me to put thoughts on paper and exercise my brain. Sometimes some current event has set me off. And sometimes I just want to relate what Sybil did this week (she got a haircut!) or the latest stupid thing the boys in my house are doing. I don't care if you read. It's not about you.
Anyway, my last post was a lament, trying not to whine, about how behind I am in my life. I am happy to report that, after taking two days off this week, I have caught back up a little. My mother got groceries, the aforementioned haircut, and even a shopping trip to Walmart. Altrusa got Leadership Luncheon invitations, workshop scheduling, a master conference schedule, and even about a third of the conference program completed (by the way, that is a TON of work). And I got to sleep in for two extra days, have lunch with my husband, and leisurely shop wherever I wanted. Not that I bought much.
I am so happy with my progress that I am considering taking another day or two in the next week or so. There's still lots more Altrusa to be done in preparation for Conference, and I need to get my mom's taxes finished. I think that qualifies as personal time, don't you?
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Getting Behind
I've always prided myself on being able to keep up with my deadlines and responsibilities. Somehow, I've fallen. Right now, I am behind at work and with Altrusa, and let's not even mention the housework. I need to get my mom's house ready to put on the market, and the flowerbeds at my own house need attention.
I know the problem: I have waaaay too much going on in my life. I need to simplify, and I need to rest. With my newfound health kick, I've had more energy, but that can be deceiving. I'm still not 100 percent healthy yet, so I might be smack in the middle of something and just run out of steam. That happened today. I'd gotten up early, bowled three games, grocery shopped for my mom, grocery shopped for myself, put away groceries and cleaned out the fridge, eaten a salad (!) while Scott gorged on Pizza Inn, hooked up the DirecTV receiver upstairs (let's hope this one works), cleaned the kitchen, and selected a movie, which turned out to be a dud. While walking to the theater from the parking lot, I realized I was pooped!
Sunday evenings are my quiet time. I'm vegging in front of the TV with my sweet husband, getting ready to watch a show we've been looking forward to. And, obviously, I'm online. I'd like to find an art class. I want to do something relaxing.
Does it seem strange that I want to rest, yet I want to do something else? If I had the energy, I would be working on Conference. I literally had to take two days off work (week after this coming week) to devote to it. I hope to catch up, and I hope everyone's not too mad that I waited this long to disseminate information.
OK, I'm rambling. Got to schedule a postal pickup for tomorrow and wash the supper dishes...
See you tomorrow. :)
I know the problem: I have waaaay too much going on in my life. I need to simplify, and I need to rest. With my newfound health kick, I've had more energy, but that can be deceiving. I'm still not 100 percent healthy yet, so I might be smack in the middle of something and just run out of steam. That happened today. I'd gotten up early, bowled three games, grocery shopped for my mom, grocery shopped for myself, put away groceries and cleaned out the fridge, eaten a salad (!) while Scott gorged on Pizza Inn, hooked up the DirecTV receiver upstairs (let's hope this one works), cleaned the kitchen, and selected a movie, which turned out to be a dud. While walking to the theater from the parking lot, I realized I was pooped!
Sunday evenings are my quiet time. I'm vegging in front of the TV with my sweet husband, getting ready to watch a show we've been looking forward to. And, obviously, I'm online. I'd like to find an art class. I want to do something relaxing.
Does it seem strange that I want to rest, yet I want to do something else? If I had the energy, I would be working on Conference. I literally had to take two days off work (week after this coming week) to devote to it. I hope to catch up, and I hope everyone's not too mad that I waited this long to disseminate information.
OK, I'm rambling. Got to schedule a postal pickup for tomorrow and wash the supper dishes...
See you tomorrow. :)
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
M is for ... MANbug
This is not a real installment in Alphabet Critters. But it had to be done.
Monte Manbug was out for some lunch
When all of a sudden he had this hunch
He’d better turn around and not look like a hick,
Because some cute girl was taking his pic!
When all of a sudden he had this hunch
He’d better turn around and not look like a hick,
Because some cute girl was taking his pic!
You had to be there.
Friday, February 25, 2011
G is for Goat
Goliath Goat is a hungry dude.
Almost anything counts as food.
He never has time for much work or play
Because all he does is munch all day!
Almost anything counts as food.
He never has time for much work or play
Because all he does is munch all day!
OK, here's the scoop on the artwork. I tried and tried but could not successfully draw a goat. Here's as close as I came:
And so, I have a guest artist today... Superfit, aka Stefanie! Here is her rendering of Goliath:
Pretty good, huh?Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Into the Light
When your doctor looks you in the eye, wishes you a happy 40th birthday, and tells you you're probably going to die soon, you tend to respond with a range of emotions.
First, you change your life. There is no choice, no rationalizing. So, that's that.
Second, you wonder if it's too late, and you start thinking about what will happen if you die before you can save yourself, which leads to late-night speculation about your first day in the afterlife ... heaven.
I imagine waking up in heaven will be a lot like when I was a kid and Daddy would come flip on my light to wake me up. It's a jolt at first, but you soon realize it's the dawn of another great day. The light is blinding, though, so you scrunch up your face and rub your eyes a little. Slowly, you start to register a few shapes and sounds and smells.
When I was a kid, early morning stimuli included the smell of mom's coffee, sounds of John Denver blaring from the guest bedroom, and always, Daddy rustling the newspaper at the kitchen table. When I wake up in heaven, I'll have to acclimate to the light, but I imagine Daddy will be the one who greets me. He'll bring friends, of course, but he'll know I will want to savor the moment, so the others will come slowly.
Daddy and I will take a walk along a beach in heaven, holding hands like we did when I was a kid, splashing in the surf and chatting a little about what's to be expected, and all of a sudden I'll have enough clarity to notice that Daddy is a young man. His hair is black--not the silver I will always remember--but his eyes are just as cornflower blue and his grin is just the same. I stop for a second, and he smiles at me and tells me that I, too, have received a glorified body and will never have a health problem again. Finally, what has eluded me on Earth has been freely received. My heart sings.
All at once I feel like we're not alone on this beach, and I hear little feet trodding along just behind us. Gigi. There's my girl. While on Earth, I always wondered what she was thinking. Here in heaven, I just know. I spend a while just loving on my puppy I missed so much. She loves me and I love her, and we'll be together forever in the house our Father has prepared for us.
And then, right there on the beach, my whole life personified comes to greet me. Grandparents, friends, and maybe even a child or two I never had on Earth come forward to say hello. And finally, Jesus. He'll share with me my lifetime of triumphs and missteps, and I will feel love like I never have before. And I hope to hear, at long last, his welcome into the kingdom of heaven: "Well done, my good and faithful servant."
First, you change your life. There is no choice, no rationalizing. So, that's that.
Second, you wonder if it's too late, and you start thinking about what will happen if you die before you can save yourself, which leads to late-night speculation about your first day in the afterlife ... heaven.
I imagine waking up in heaven will be a lot like when I was a kid and Daddy would come flip on my light to wake me up. It's a jolt at first, but you soon realize it's the dawn of another great day. The light is blinding, though, so you scrunch up your face and rub your eyes a little. Slowly, you start to register a few shapes and sounds and smells.
When I was a kid, early morning stimuli included the smell of mom's coffee, sounds of John Denver blaring from the guest bedroom, and always, Daddy rustling the newspaper at the kitchen table. When I wake up in heaven, I'll have to acclimate to the light, but I imagine Daddy will be the one who greets me. He'll bring friends, of course, but he'll know I will want to savor the moment, so the others will come slowly.
Daddy and I will take a walk along a beach in heaven, holding hands like we did when I was a kid, splashing in the surf and chatting a little about what's to be expected, and all of a sudden I'll have enough clarity to notice that Daddy is a young man. His hair is black--not the silver I will always remember--but his eyes are just as cornflower blue and his grin is just the same. I stop for a second, and he smiles at me and tells me that I, too, have received a glorified body and will never have a health problem again. Finally, what has eluded me on Earth has been freely received. My heart sings.
All at once I feel like we're not alone on this beach, and I hear little feet trodding along just behind us. Gigi. There's my girl. While on Earth, I always wondered what she was thinking. Here in heaven, I just know. I spend a while just loving on my puppy I missed so much. She loves me and I love her, and we'll be together forever in the house our Father has prepared for us.
And then, right there on the beach, my whole life personified comes to greet me. Grandparents, friends, and maybe even a child or two I never had on Earth come forward to say hello. And finally, Jesus. He'll share with me my lifetime of triumphs and missteps, and I will feel love like I never have before. And I hope to hear, at long last, his welcome into the kingdom of heaven: "Well done, my good and faithful servant."
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
She's Right, but ...
OK, let me start with this disclaimer: If you're going to write about your job, you better be damn sure it's not going to offend, implicate, resemble, or otherwise identify or allude to ANYBODY, whether on purpose or accidentally. And you might as well just do it under your own name, because pseudonymns won't save your stupid behind, either. I applaud your use of writing as an outlet for your stress, but it's a lot simpler and safer to open a Word document and write your memoirs in secret.
Have you seen this article (originally by the Associated Press, but I picked it up elsewhere) about the 30-year-old "teacher" who blogged about how lazy and good-fer-nuthin' she believes her students are? I loved it. She has a (vague) point, but so do I, and here it is.
Ms. Munroe claims her students are not motivated. She rants about their lack of discipline. They are disobedient and disrespectful, she says. She even goes so far as to say that the students "are not being held accountable."
Oh, my, Ms. Munroe. What is YOUR job again? Now, before you jump all over me, let me explain. I am not copping out on behalf of a parent and his or her responsibility to raise a child with ethics, morals, and discipline. That's hugely important. But let's not let the teachers off the hook, here. I had fantastic teachers (and coaches), and they had almost if not just as much influence on shaping me as my own parents (who, as it turns out, also were teachers). I contend that if the kid's acting up in school, the teacher needs to be the disciplinarian. Don't bitch about it; make a difference. Make your subject fun. Do what your title says: TEACH.
Ms. Munroe is employed as a high school English teacher. My dream job. I've spent my life dreaming of bulletin boards and literature studies and ways to impart my love of books and authors and writing into the--granted--thick, text-messaging minds of today's kiddos. Kids are sponges, and they crave attention and approval. If she'd lay down the law and be enthusiastic about her subject, those kids would get it. I did.
My ninth-grade English teacher and my eleventh-grade English teacher were the same fellow. He was a little guy, but treated us all with respect; I heard him utter my first name only once--on graduation day. Until then, for me and everyone else, it was "Miss Rash" or "Mr. Denson." Not once did James Henry ever lose his temper with our class, but he did uphold the law of the land he set out on the very first day of school. He respected us, and we rewarded him (for the most part) by making something of ourselves like he asked us to. Mr. Henry pastored a small church in our town for a while, and I would like to think that his respect for us as humans also reflected Jesus.
My tenth-grade English teacher had one of the most disgustingly boring tasks on the planet: vocabulary. But she made it fun. To this day, I can see Rebecca Blackwood in her "Hamlet" pose, nimbly acting out the week's vocabulary words. She made the content contemporary to us. She got on our level and taught us how to use our God-given intelligence in preparation for "one day." She treated us like people, and called us that. [Y'all PG folks know what I mean, dontcha?]
My senior English teacher (who also happened to be my seventh-grade English teacher) was nothing short of hilarious. She made learning fun for us. She explained to us how to pronounce "Goethe" so we "didn't sound like we were falling off the turnip truck." She translated Old English, and we all thought she was a goddess. She forced us to memorize the prologue to The Canterbury Tales, claiming we'd remember it for the rest of our lives. We all thought she was nuts then, but 22 years later I can still recite it--in Old English, in its entirety. If you see me, test me.
She also taught me grammar. God bless you, Lori Ables, for that one sheet of purple-mimeographed paper that listed all the basic grammar rules. That's all it took to teach me the difference between "your" and "you're"; "there," "their," and "they're"; and when to use "whom" and "who." She understood how to crack into our brains and decode our language. Then she reprogrammed us a bit--with proper grammar, of course.
So say what you like about the state of the American teenager, Ms. Munroe. It's a free country. Sorry I can't stand on your side; nobody's going to ask my opinion, but I'd be all for letting you move on to a new career where you're not in charge of shaping the future. But before you go, do me a little favor and think a bit about those students. They were just doing what they could with what YOU gave them to work with. My prayer is for them to find the Mr. Henry, Mrs. Blackwood, or Mrs. Ables in their life, because REAL teachers like that are their only hope.
Have you seen this article (originally by the Associated Press, but I picked it up elsewhere) about the 30-year-old "teacher" who blogged about how lazy and good-fer-nuthin' she believes her students are? I loved it. She has a (vague) point, but so do I, and here it is.
Ms. Munroe claims her students are not motivated. She rants about their lack of discipline. They are disobedient and disrespectful, she says. She even goes so far as to say that the students "are not being held accountable."
Oh, my, Ms. Munroe. What is YOUR job again? Now, before you jump all over me, let me explain. I am not copping out on behalf of a parent and his or her responsibility to raise a child with ethics, morals, and discipline. That's hugely important. But let's not let the teachers off the hook, here. I had fantastic teachers (and coaches), and they had almost if not just as much influence on shaping me as my own parents (who, as it turns out, also were teachers). I contend that if the kid's acting up in school, the teacher needs to be the disciplinarian. Don't bitch about it; make a difference. Make your subject fun. Do what your title says: TEACH.
Ms. Munroe is employed as a high school English teacher. My dream job. I've spent my life dreaming of bulletin boards and literature studies and ways to impart my love of books and authors and writing into the--granted--thick, text-messaging minds of today's kiddos. Kids are sponges, and they crave attention and approval. If she'd lay down the law and be enthusiastic about her subject, those kids would get it. I did.
My ninth-grade English teacher and my eleventh-grade English teacher were the same fellow. He was a little guy, but treated us all with respect; I heard him utter my first name only once--on graduation day. Until then, for me and everyone else, it was "Miss Rash" or "Mr. Denson." Not once did James Henry ever lose his temper with our class, but he did uphold the law of the land he set out on the very first day of school. He respected us, and we rewarded him (for the most part) by making something of ourselves like he asked us to. Mr. Henry pastored a small church in our town for a while, and I would like to think that his respect for us as humans also reflected Jesus.
My tenth-grade English teacher had one of the most disgustingly boring tasks on the planet: vocabulary. But she made it fun. To this day, I can see Rebecca Blackwood in her "Hamlet" pose, nimbly acting out the week's vocabulary words. She made the content contemporary to us. She got on our level and taught us how to use our God-given intelligence in preparation for "one day." She treated us like people, and called us that. [Y'all PG folks know what I mean, dontcha?]
My senior English teacher (who also happened to be my seventh-grade English teacher) was nothing short of hilarious. She made learning fun for us. She explained to us how to pronounce "Goethe" so we "didn't sound like we were falling off the turnip truck." She translated Old English, and we all thought she was a goddess. She forced us to memorize the prologue to The Canterbury Tales, claiming we'd remember it for the rest of our lives. We all thought she was nuts then, but 22 years later I can still recite it--in Old English, in its entirety. If you see me, test me.
She also taught me grammar. God bless you, Lori Ables, for that one sheet of purple-mimeographed paper that listed all the basic grammar rules. That's all it took to teach me the difference between "your" and "you're"; "there," "their," and "they're"; and when to use "whom" and "who." She understood how to crack into our brains and decode our language. Then she reprogrammed us a bit--with proper grammar, of course.
So say what you like about the state of the American teenager, Ms. Munroe. It's a free country. Sorry I can't stand on your side; nobody's going to ask my opinion, but I'd be all for letting you move on to a new career where you're not in charge of shaping the future. But before you go, do me a little favor and think a bit about those students. They were just doing what they could with what YOU gave them to work with. My prayer is for them to find the Mr. Henry, Mrs. Blackwood, or Mrs. Ables in their life, because REAL teachers like that are their only hope.
Friday, February 11, 2011
This One’s for Caryl
Fridays around here are right “up there” on the crazy scale. It’s not enough that a flock of creatives are crammed into a corner of the third floor day in and day out with no sunshine for inspiration; we have to use Friday as our excuse to cut loose a little.
Just now, for example, I received an e-mail from one of my favorite people. The text of the e-mail? “Dork.” And this from the guy whose office is covered with retro toys from our childhood. I’m a dork? He dropped by shortly after sending the e-mail. He touched the nameplate outside my door and said, “I have a hunch that someday, this will say ‘Beth Blair, Dork Extraordinaire.’ Because that rhymes.”
Really. Who’s a dork? But his smile is contagious and I beam at him as he turns and saunters back to his toy chest. Good times.
Sure enough, Friday is peppered (more than usual) with folks shouting over cubicle walls, peals of laughter coming from AV (those guys sure have fun), and even the occasional rubber band shot or paper wad batted into someone else’s domain. One designer has been known to drag out his putter and practice his swing down the hallway. The copy editors gather around their table to scoff at the latest ridiculous demand from whomever. The graphics folks tentatively venture outside the safety of their area to see what all the commotion is. The traffic folks join in with rousing renditions of their lives outside the building. And that one print buyer comes by and chastises us, jokingly reminding us that he’s a company man. Before long, it’s a party, and there’s really no reason to get back to work.
So, blinded by their rationalization that the boss won’t notice, one by one they slip away a little early, back home to their families and their real lives, where deadlines and rush jobs don’t take precedence. For two days, they won’t think about this place, and I’ll try not to think about them. But they’re just as much a part of me as my own family. And I love them all.
Just now, for example, I received an e-mail from one of my favorite people. The text of the e-mail? “Dork.” And this from the guy whose office is covered with retro toys from our childhood. I’m a dork? He dropped by shortly after sending the e-mail. He touched the nameplate outside my door and said, “I have a hunch that someday, this will say ‘Beth Blair, Dork Extraordinaire.’ Because that rhymes.”
Really. Who’s a dork? But his smile is contagious and I beam at him as he turns and saunters back to his toy chest. Good times.
Sure enough, Friday is peppered (more than usual) with folks shouting over cubicle walls, peals of laughter coming from AV (those guys sure have fun), and even the occasional rubber band shot or paper wad batted into someone else’s domain. One designer has been known to drag out his putter and practice his swing down the hallway. The copy editors gather around their table to scoff at the latest ridiculous demand from whomever. The graphics folks tentatively venture outside the safety of their area to see what all the commotion is. The traffic folks join in with rousing renditions of their lives outside the building. And that one print buyer comes by and chastises us, jokingly reminding us that he’s a company man. Before long, it’s a party, and there’s really no reason to get back to work.
So, blinded by their rationalization that the boss won’t notice, one by one they slip away a little early, back home to their families and their real lives, where deadlines and rush jobs don’t take precedence. For two days, they won’t think about this place, and I’ll try not to think about them. But they’re just as much a part of me as my own family. And I love them all.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Super (Dumb) Boys
I can't hear myself think. The Super Bowl is only a quarter gone, and already the boys have discussed the following, mainly while I was missing the commercials because they feel they must each speak louder than the other. Some of these are too good to miss.
- "I don't like the cheese dip. I also don't like Christina Aguilera."
- "Son, go to your room." "No." "OK."
- "Noah can't let Macy out of the box because she will bark, because she thinks Noah is a dog."
- "Scott's reaching into his crapper nuts."
- "Who bowls on Friday?"
- "If you go to Michigan, you get the Heisman. It's that simple."
- "What else has Paul Walker been in?"
- "OMG, Cowboys vs. Aliens. AWESOME!"
- "No frickin way that was Joan Rivers' body."
- "Budweiser's been around for, like, 300 years."
- "Do you just talk to hear yourself talk, or what?" "You're talking right now." "So."
They're so good, in fact, that I will just keep a running list, at least until my typing fingers get tired. Here goes. I wish I had a video camera.
- "Where's your monkey?"
- "Macy could be Daddy's girlfriend." "Macy's too old for Daddy."
- "No, it's the Super Bowl, so you gotta play hurt."
- "Noah, settle down with the dog so it won't vomit on you."
- "Noah, come on, go in the box."
- "Who's got a job interview tomorrow at 10:30?"
- "Beth's over there editing the Boy Scout pamphlet." "Beth, why are you working?" "BETH! Go clean up the kitchen." "[Editorial license not to print what was said next. If you know me, you know what I said. And no, I wasn't working. I was typing every stupid thing that came out of his mouth.]"
- "Gonna snow up in here!" "Not in the living room." "Yeah, take it outside."
- "Tuesday and Wednesday, gonna be rough. Snowy ice."
- "Can I go to the park?" "Son, it's dark." "I know." "No." "Please?"
- "I was hoping to drink enough to pass out tonight."
- "Beth's already quit drinking." "I know!" "Did you ask her why yet?"
- "Ben's like, 'Man! That's what I get for riding a motorcycle without a helmet.'"
- "I'm mad at you because you ate the last cheese in the refrigerator."
- "Hi, Yoda!"
- "Beth's rubbing her eyes. Do you think we're getting on her nerves yet?"
- "Let's play the quiet game." "I won."
- "Mama's gettin' tired already. Gol-ly! She's got school tomorrow."
- "Captain America, the Incredible Hulk, and Thor. They should all make a movie together."
- "'Glee' is so dumb."
- "I think Aaron Rogers got hurt on the sideline, drinking some Gatorade."
- "What?! I did not say you could take a picture of me eating."
- "Can Macy ever ..." "No."
- "This is definitely a touchdown."
- "If you have 50 beers and 50 Dr Peppers, which would you drink?" "I don't know, buddy, but sometimes you just don't need to talk."
- "Macy, Macy Gray!"
- "Git 'em! Now git 'em! I said git 'em!"
- "All I know is these right here, these chocolate ones, they are awesome."
- "Wow. That guy is good. He should play in the Super Bowl." "He is." "Oh."
- "That's what I'm trying to do! And I need to doo-doo." "I DO need to doo-doo. Do you?"
- "All right! Here comes the Black-Eyed Peas!"
- "What the hell are you doing, Noah? Go to your room. Get ready for school tomorrow."
And that was just the first half. I'm going to bed.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Boys Are Weird
So now I have three guy roommates, not counting the cat. My husband's best friend and his 9-year-old son have moved in for a while, joining my husband in the world championships of belch, fart, and leave-yer-dirty-dishes-for-mom. The race is close.
Let me tell you, boys are weird. They think WE never shut up. Good gravy, I have never heard so much chattering in all my life. They think WE are impatient and hyper ... inside, outside, movies, bowling, out to eat ... they never just sit still. They think WE are know-it-alls; they thought I was insane when I left the cabinets open and the faucets dripping ... until they heard the same advice on the news and decided it was their idea. They drink TONS of Diet Dr Pepper and wonder why they are hyper and can't sleep. Macy barks at Noah constantly, probably with good cause (and especially when provoked). And the seat is ALWAYS up.
It's not lost on me that my husband now has a built-in posse. The Wii tournament is nonstop. The discussion of sports is nonstop. The stupid jokes are nonstop. Here's a snippet:
"Hey, Brett Favre is coming back for his 34th season!"
"Hey, did the groundhog see his shadow? Does that mean six more weeks of winter?"
"Wherever they're at, they're cold! See the cow back there? That cow is cold!"
"Why's that guy have a thermometer?"
"Damn, change the channel. It's making me cold!"
"Beth, what's for dinner?"
Um, yeah. Domino's.
Why must I have to train two more?
Let me tell you, boys are weird. They think WE never shut up. Good gravy, I have never heard so much chattering in all my life. They think WE are impatient and hyper ... inside, outside, movies, bowling, out to eat ... they never just sit still. They think WE are know-it-alls; they thought I was insane when I left the cabinets open and the faucets dripping ... until they heard the same advice on the news and decided it was their idea. They drink TONS of Diet Dr Pepper and wonder why they are hyper and can't sleep. Macy barks at Noah constantly, probably with good cause (and especially when provoked). And the seat is ALWAYS up.
It's not lost on me that my husband now has a built-in posse. The Wii tournament is nonstop. The discussion of sports is nonstop. The stupid jokes are nonstop. Here's a snippet:
"Hey, Brett Favre is coming back for his 34th season!"
"Hey, did the groundhog see his shadow? Does that mean six more weeks of winter?"
"Wherever they're at, they're cold! See the cow back there? That cow is cold!"
"Why's that guy have a thermometer?"
"Damn, change the channel. It's making me cold!"
"Beth, what's for dinner?"
Um, yeah. Domino's.
Why must I have to train two more?
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
F is for Flamingo
Fiona Flamingo is a sight to see.
Her legs bend backward at the knee.
This isn't so bad; sometimes it's great,
Especially when she goes out to roller skate!
This was the Marcellus-approved version. I liked the first one better, but Marcellus nixed it because it didn't have a flamingo fact. OK, he was right.
Fiona Flamingo couldn't care less what you think.
Everything throughout her house is pink!
From "deep rose" to "barely blush," she's got every shade.
She even drinks nothing but pink lemonade!
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Sponges, Mops, and Toilet Brushes, Oh My!
Once upon a time, I was a clean freak. I kept up with laundry and dishes during the week, and the entire house got a good dusting, vacuuming, and scrubbing on Saturday morning. I (almost) enjoyed this quiet time. I'd put on a CD or a good movie and just scrub away. Gigi would tag along or lounge on the couch, waiting for the inevitable cookie that would be tossed from the kitchen. (I miss you, Sugar Lips!) I was never embarrassed for company to drop by.
These days, you're lucky if you're invited to pick me up outside my front door, much less come in. This place is a wreck! I blame it on two things: work and husband. (Understand that under no circumstances would *I* ever be to blame.) Work, because I work much longer hours now and because I am emotionally and physically exhausted when I drag through the door. Husband, because while I love him to death, he ain't no housekeeper. And he likes to spend his weekends "doing stuff" outside of the house, so I don't even have a chance to clean. We're always bowling or shopping or traveling or whatever. No wonder I'm exhausted all the time!
To his credit, he does his part (or what he considers his part) by "doing" the laundry every week. I'm OK with that. Sure, not all my clothes come out wrinkle-free--he thinks every load needs to be washed and FOLDED before it is taken upstairs and hung. He doesn't get the principle of hanging fresh clothes to keep them from wrinkling. Anyway... Scott also will load the dishwasher on occasion--hence the dishes that sometimes have to be hand-washed because of the stuck-on food.
But enough Scott-bashing. Like I said, he does what he can, and he's too stubborn to train. I mean, the man was a bachelor for 40 years. He's done all the learnin' he's going to do. If you know him, you know exactly what I am talking about.
But today dawned bright and shiny, and SCOTT WENT TO WORK! I was blissfully alone with my Macy, and when I started sweeping the bathroom, she was right there to help. I gave her a cookie. For the next two hours, Macy helped me clean and mop the bathroom, rearrange decorative stuff in several rooms, and put together the vacuum cleaner we bought two weeks ago. In a few minutes, I'll try it out. Unfortunately, Macy has to go outside during vacuuming. She attacked (and broke) my first vacuum, and goes nuts whenever the machine emerges from the closet. Gigi would just go sleep in another room.
The point of all this is: The house is getting clean. It smells like "freshness" in here. It doesn't make me feel like a slob. And best of all, the "guest wing" of the house is ready for tenants. They're coming on Sunday! I'm worried and excited all at the same time. But at least I don't have to be embarrassed for them to live here among the dirt and pet hair!
Man, I wish Scott would work every Saturday!
These days, you're lucky if you're invited to pick me up outside my front door, much less come in. This place is a wreck! I blame it on two things: work and husband. (Understand that under no circumstances would *I* ever be to blame.) Work, because I work much longer hours now and because I am emotionally and physically exhausted when I drag through the door. Husband, because while I love him to death, he ain't no housekeeper. And he likes to spend his weekends "doing stuff" outside of the house, so I don't even have a chance to clean. We're always bowling or shopping or traveling or whatever. No wonder I'm exhausted all the time!
To his credit, he does his part (or what he considers his part) by "doing" the laundry every week. I'm OK with that. Sure, not all my clothes come out wrinkle-free--he thinks every load needs to be washed and FOLDED before it is taken upstairs and hung. He doesn't get the principle of hanging fresh clothes to keep them from wrinkling. Anyway... Scott also will load the dishwasher on occasion--hence the dishes that sometimes have to be hand-washed because of the stuck-on food.
But enough Scott-bashing. Like I said, he does what he can, and he's too stubborn to train. I mean, the man was a bachelor for 40 years. He's done all the learnin' he's going to do. If you know him, you know exactly what I am talking about.
But today dawned bright and shiny, and SCOTT WENT TO WORK! I was blissfully alone with my Macy, and when I started sweeping the bathroom, she was right there to help. I gave her a cookie. For the next two hours, Macy helped me clean and mop the bathroom, rearrange decorative stuff in several rooms, and put together the vacuum cleaner we bought two weeks ago. In a few minutes, I'll try it out. Unfortunately, Macy has to go outside during vacuuming. She attacked (and broke) my first vacuum, and goes nuts whenever the machine emerges from the closet. Gigi would just go sleep in another room.
The point of all this is: The house is getting clean. It smells like "freshness" in here. It doesn't make me feel like a slob. And best of all, the "guest wing" of the house is ready for tenants. They're coming on Sunday! I'm worried and excited all at the same time. But at least I don't have to be embarrassed for them to live here among the dirt and pet hair!
Man, I wish Scott would work every Saturday!
Thursday, January 27, 2011
My Boy Junior
Ok folks, we here at Hungry Words are now taking requests! From the peanut gallery, let me introduce you to ...
JUNIOR 'June Bug' HILL!
Hell on squeakers and sneakers alike, Junior Hill is a little Mack truck on four legs. Don't let that charming face and dainty step fool you. He's packed with some super jumpin', runnin', and barkin' genes that he apparently inherited from his Mama, aka Superfit.
I recently took some time to interview Junie (as he likes "the ladies" to call him) on the eve of Super Bowl XLV. I asked him how he liked the biggest sports spectacle in the world being in his own backyard.
"What the hell is a super bowl?" he spurted at me, tongue still half inside the empty peanut butter jar he seems married to. "Is that where we get extra helpin's of dinner? When's dinner?"
I moved on to other sports. Junior is quite the accomplished triathlete, earning superlative honors in running, swimming, and car-riding. "Once I figured out how to balance on the seat at 90 miles an hour, I knew I would get the gold," he modestly confided to me. "My Mama drives really fast, but I don't throw up every time. Sometimes she slams me into the dashboard. I get her back by leaving half my hide on the seat for her to wear to work. Sucker!"
I started to engage this boisterous boy in a bit of rhetoric about his epicurean tendencies when he, well, changed the subject. He interrupted me with a string of slurs against his Mama.
"The bitch likes to dress me. Do I LOOK like I like to be dressed up like a little sissy girl?" he screeched. "She's outfit me in parkas fit for Siberia ..."
"Like the Great Ri-Damn-Diculous Punkin' ..."
"And even frickin' Santa Claus." [That's him in the middle.]
"Hell, yeah!" he exclaims when asked about his river-running buddies. "I'm known as the Terror of the Trinity! Them bishes who don't take time for me gonna get some gnawin' on their leg if they don't watch out."
It's a warning I would heed if I were you.
JUNIOR 'June Bug' HILL!
Hell on squeakers and sneakers alike, Junior Hill is a little Mack truck on four legs. Don't let that charming face and dainty step fool you. He's packed with some super jumpin', runnin', and barkin' genes that he apparently inherited from his Mama, aka Superfit.
I recently took some time to interview Junie (as he likes "the ladies" to call him) on the eve of Super Bowl XLV. I asked him how he liked the biggest sports spectacle in the world being in his own backyard.
"What the hell is a super bowl?" he spurted at me, tongue still half inside the empty peanut butter jar he seems married to. "Is that where we get extra helpin's of dinner? When's dinner?"I moved on to other sports. Junior is quite the accomplished triathlete, earning superlative honors in running, swimming, and car-riding. "Once I figured out how to balance on the seat at 90 miles an hour, I knew I would get the gold," he modestly confided to me. "My Mama drives really fast, but I don't throw up every time. Sometimes she slams me into the dashboard. I get her back by leaving half my hide on the seat for her to wear to work. Sucker!"
I started to engage this boisterous boy in a bit of rhetoric about his epicurean tendencies when he, well, changed the subject. He interrupted me with a string of slurs against his Mama.
"The bitch likes to dress me. Do I LOOK like I like to be dressed up like a little sissy girl?" he screeched. "She's outfit me in parkas fit for Siberia ..."
"Like the Great Ri-Damn-Diculous Punkin' ..."
"And even frickin' Santa Claus." [That's him in the middle.]
"Yeah, I've worn all kinds of crap," said Junie, or "J-Man" as he's known in his 'hood. Poor thing has been the subject of such abuse, having endured costumes every Halloween and Christmas for years. He's worn life jackets and harnesses and T-shirts that make a statement. "Yeah, I need an 'I'mWifStoopid' shirt for my Mom!" he says, and I don't blame him.
Inside that tough-guy exterior is an even more fierce inner warrior, with only a touch of wanderlust. Once, after ripping a new toy to shreds, Junie took his Mama for a run down by the river to blow off some steam. Junie decided to follow his own whims. For several days, as he tells it, he ran the wilds of the Trinity River, protecting the good citizens of Fort Worth from the likes of "rabid bastard squirrels, dirty spying nutrias, and nosy honkin' geeses." Along the way, he befriended several fellow runners, all of whom he knows and calls by name."Hell, yeah!" he exclaims when asked about his river-running buddies. "I'm known as the Terror of the Trinity! Them bishes who don't take time for me gonna get some gnawin' on their leg if they don't watch out."
It's a warning I would heed if I were you.
Does This Seminar Make My Butt Look Big?
I'm enrolled in a four-week online seminar. For three hours every Thursday, I am effectively trapped in my office with a beautiful yellow caution-tape ribbon tied artfully around my doorknob (DO NOT DISTURB!) and a klunky, ear-smushing headsetstrapped over my skullcap, theoretically learning how to "Make the Transition From Staff to Supervisor."
OK, first of all, the seminar sounded great in the description. Many of the things I wanted to know, like what I can and cannot say and do in my role as a manager, were covered in the "Things YOU Will LEARN!" bulleted list. I had this seminar on my training to-do list for 2011 and was even more jazzed about it when my boss' boss suggested it to me. So, YAY! And they have it online, so that's gotta be better than missing two entire days of work, right?
Well, not really. Today was the third of four weeks, and while I still hold high hopes for next week's topic, the first nine hours have been a bust.
Let me caution you about online seminars. While sitting in a room full of strangers is, oddly enough, unappealing to some people, it is at least an efficient way of fostering give and take. In an online seminar, one must raise one's virtual hand, be recognized as wishing to speak, be handed the virtual microphone, and activate the virtual microphone before making a contribution to the conversation. Alternatively, one could type one's heartfelt comments into the "chat pod," but there's a risk that the question might be overlooked. Ugh. It's enough to make one want to shrink into the virtual corner. You know the euphemisms for wasting time--teeth pulling, beating one's head against the wall, paint drying, watched pots that never boil? This was worse.
And then there was the curriculum. If ever there was a real plug for the leadership courses the Boy Scouts of America offers its adult leaders, this particular course is it. Their versions of our Leaders EDGE and SMART goal-setting, for example, leave this course in the dust. I felt so smart! And, unfortunately, so bored.
So, as it has been three years since I technically transitioned from staff member to supervisor at the BSA (the first time I was a manager, at the paper, no one cared enough to shepherd me through any kind of training, and that might have been a good thing), in a week I will be loosed upon the world, ready to objectively and fairly lead my employees to new heights of success.
What have we learned here today, boys and girls? Online seminars are not good uses of the company's training dollar. But I will press on and see if I can salvage something. Next week, when I raise my little blue-man virtual hand to be virtually recognized, I will be virtually amazed if I can stay awake long enough to ask my vitual question. And if I learn anything, I'll objectively and fairly pass it along. But, hey, all is not lost. For three hours every Thursday afternoon, I don't have to answer the phone, the door, or the e-mails. Huzzah!
OK, first of all, the seminar sounded great in the description. Many of the things I wanted to know, like what I can and cannot say and do in my role as a manager, were covered in the "Things YOU Will LEARN!" bulleted list. I had this seminar on my training to-do list for 2011 and was even more jazzed about it when my boss' boss suggested it to me. So, YAY! And they have it online, so that's gotta be better than missing two entire days of work, right?
Well, not really. Today was the third of four weeks, and while I still hold high hopes for next week's topic, the first nine hours have been a bust.
Let me caution you about online seminars. While sitting in a room full of strangers is, oddly enough, unappealing to some people, it is at least an efficient way of fostering give and take. In an online seminar, one must raise one's virtual hand, be recognized as wishing to speak, be handed the virtual microphone, and activate the virtual microphone before making a contribution to the conversation. Alternatively, one could type one's heartfelt comments into the "chat pod," but there's a risk that the question might be overlooked. Ugh. It's enough to make one want to shrink into the virtual corner. You know the euphemisms for wasting time--teeth pulling, beating one's head against the wall, paint drying, watched pots that never boil? This was worse.
And then there was the curriculum. If ever there was a real plug for the leadership courses the Boy Scouts of America offers its adult leaders, this particular course is it. Their versions of our Leaders EDGE and SMART goal-setting, for example, leave this course in the dust. I felt so smart! And, unfortunately, so bored.
So, as it has been three years since I technically transitioned from staff member to supervisor at the BSA (the first time I was a manager, at the paper, no one cared enough to shepherd me through any kind of training, and that might have been a good thing), in a week I will be loosed upon the world, ready to objectively and fairly lead my employees to new heights of success.
What have we learned here today, boys and girls? Online seminars are not good uses of the company's training dollar. But I will press on and see if I can salvage something. Next week, when I raise my little blue-man virtual hand to be virtually recognized, I will be virtually amazed if I can stay awake long enough to ask my vitual question. And if I learn anything, I'll objectively and fairly pass it along. But, hey, all is not lost. For three hours every Thursday afternoon, I don't have to answer the phone, the door, or the e-mails. Huzzah!
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
E is for Earthworm
Eleanor Earthworm is every gardener’s dream.
Together, they make the best green thumb team.
Eleanor mulches the soil ‘til it’s fluffy and rich
And the gardener’s veggies grow without a hitch.
Together, they make the best green thumb team.
Eleanor mulches the soil ‘til it’s fluffy and rich
And the gardener’s veggies grow without a hitch.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Personal Time
Here’s how my day went.
Around 7:30 this morning, as I was settling in for my first day back at work after a week of “vacation,” I remembered the note-to-self I’d tried—and failed—to remember last week: I MUST get my driver’s license renewed. Today. I never got it changed when I got remarried, and I have to fly in three weeks—with the new name. So today was the already-too-late absolute latest day I could do it.
Pressing my luck, I requested to leave at 2 p.m. for personal time. It was approved. (Thanks, Dan!) So I let everybody know I was leaving early and started preparing. Things went relatively well. I was out of there by 2:15, which was earlier than I expected.
I went home to retrieve my marriage license. I knew right where it was, but I was stopped dead in my tracks by the absolute MESS in my living room, courtesy of this wild animal who lives with me. Her name is Macy, and she’s a little bit thick-headed. She’d eaten a pencil. And the mate to the shoe she ate yesterday. (OK, I was fine with her eating the shoe, but you should see the mess!)
Off to the Texas Department of Public Safety. I knew right where it was, because I got married right next door and remember thinking, “I’m going to need to remember this.” I walked in, and there were a few people waiting. The information lady helped me out, and I went through the door to get in line. The line went through the doorway and stretched down the hall. I uttered an expletive and took my place. An hour later, I was straining to interpret the thick accent of an extremely soft-spoken Hispanic woman. I’m already a little deaf, and by this time I was more than a little irritated, so you can imagine how that went.
I’m almost tempted to scan in my temporary driver’s license to show you the picture. Nowadays it prints out so you have instant gratification. I was not gratified.
Anyway, it was 4 p.m., an hour and a half before Scott even got off work. My goal was to replace the shoes Macy ate, but the library was beckoning from next door. After cruising the parking lot for 10 minutes, I found NO parking spots available (damn after-school kids!) and left.
On to DSW. Or not. Flat tire. Expletive.
So, here I sit at Firestone. It’s 5 p.m. The obnoxious kids who were here an hour ago are gone, and replacing them is a darling little girl named Gabby and her mommy. Gabby has a couple of gray stuffed cats; their names are Audrey and Audrey. (Mommy says all Gabby’s animals are named Audrey.) She also has purple tennis shoes and long, curly blonde hair. Adorable. Her mommy has been on the phone since about three minutes after I walked in. Not so adorable. Mommy looks like she’s about 20 and, much like her adorable daughter, like she just rolled out of bed.
Anyway, it’s the second time in a week I’ve been a Firestone patron. I wasted half a day of my vacation here last week, getting tires for SCOTT’s car. Answer me this: Does this man take care of ANY of his maintenance issues himself? Wait, I have the answer: No.
Around 7:30 this morning, as I was settling in for my first day back at work after a week of “vacation,” I remembered the note-to-self I’d tried—and failed—to remember last week: I MUST get my driver’s license renewed. Today. I never got it changed when I got remarried, and I have to fly in three weeks—with the new name. So today was the already-too-late absolute latest day I could do it.
Pressing my luck, I requested to leave at 2 p.m. for personal time. It was approved. (Thanks, Dan!) So I let everybody know I was leaving early and started preparing. Things went relatively well. I was out of there by 2:15, which was earlier than I expected.
I went home to retrieve my marriage license. I knew right where it was, but I was stopped dead in my tracks by the absolute MESS in my living room, courtesy of this wild animal who lives with me. Her name is Macy, and she’s a little bit thick-headed. She’d eaten a pencil. And the mate to the shoe she ate yesterday. (OK, I was fine with her eating the shoe, but you should see the mess!)
Off to the Texas Department of Public Safety. I knew right where it was, because I got married right next door and remember thinking, “I’m going to need to remember this.” I walked in, and there were a few people waiting. The information lady helped me out, and I went through the door to get in line. The line went through the doorway and stretched down the hall. I uttered an expletive and took my place. An hour later, I was straining to interpret the thick accent of an extremely soft-spoken Hispanic woman. I’m already a little deaf, and by this time I was more than a little irritated, so you can imagine how that went.
I’m almost tempted to scan in my temporary driver’s license to show you the picture. Nowadays it prints out so you have instant gratification. I was not gratified.
Anyway, it was 4 p.m., an hour and a half before Scott even got off work. My goal was to replace the shoes Macy ate, but the library was beckoning from next door. After cruising the parking lot for 10 minutes, I found NO parking spots available (damn after-school kids!) and left.
On to DSW. Or not. Flat tire. Expletive.
So, here I sit at Firestone. It’s 5 p.m. The obnoxious kids who were here an hour ago are gone, and replacing them is a darling little girl named Gabby and her mommy. Gabby has a couple of gray stuffed cats; their names are Audrey and Audrey. (Mommy says all Gabby’s animals are named Audrey.) She also has purple tennis shoes and long, curly blonde hair. Adorable. Her mommy has been on the phone since about three minutes after I walked in. Not so adorable. Mommy looks like she’s about 20 and, much like her adorable daughter, like she just rolled out of bed.
Anyway, it’s the second time in a week I’ve been a Firestone patron. I wasted half a day of my vacation here last week, getting tires for SCOTT’s car. Answer me this: Does this man take care of ANY of his maintenance issues himself? Wait, I have the answer: No.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Bucket List
A bucket list, things you want to do before you kick the bucket. Whether they make a physical list or just have some random thoughts floating around, pretty much everybody has a bucket list. After a bit if inspiration from SuperFit (aka Stefanie), I decided to write my own.
So, in no particular order:
So, in no particular order:
- Write a book (working on various books; nothing really coming together).
- See blue water (gonna take a cruise this year!).
- Get totally out of debt (absolutely essential for a bucket-kicker with no heirs).
- See a baseball game in at least half the ballparks in America.
- See a Broadway play, on Broadway.
- See every inch of Italy that has captivated me since childhood, including Rome, Pompeii, Tuscany, Venice, Verona ... .
- See New York in the fall, Arizona in the winter, Washington DC in the spring, and Colorado in the summer.
- Teach.
- Visit Walden Pond, Stratford-Upon-Avon, London, and other places that lit up my imagination when I was discovering literature as a kid.
- Lose enough weight to be comfortable in my own skin at the coolest water parks in America (lazy rivers of the country, look out!).
- Take a cooking class, a cake decorating class, and an art class. Or classes.
- Beat my husband in bowling. For a series. During league.
- Own a house with a big kitchen, a huge master bath with jetted tub, and a swimming pool with a big covered deck (OK, had that once, but I mean something else).
- Get married. Get divorced. Get married. And stop there (so far, so good).
- Drive a black Shelby Mustang. And not wreck it.
I asked Scott what was on his bucket list. It took some thought, but in no particular order:
- Bowl a 300 in a sanctioned league (he's bowled one before, but the league wasn't sanctioned).
- See Notre Dame play football at home.
- Meet Bono and Lou Holtz.
- Perform stand-up comedy, at least once.
What's on your list? And what are you doing to complete it?
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Things People Don't Bother to Tell Me
Tonight I went upstairs to enjoy my guilty pleasure. No, get your heads out of the gutter.
I wanted to watch my show. For years, I have been sneaking away to catch up on the psychic goings on of one Allison Dubois, a television character based (loosely) on a real person. Lately, because the Friday night timeslot for "Medium" has coincided with bowling night, I've taken to waiting until Scott's snoring in the chair before stealing away to enjoy what's on the DVR.
This week was very much the same as all the rest. It's been a strange season, what with oldest daughter Ariel off at college in Boston (and therefore a rare appearance on the show) and Allison at a crossroads in her professional career, but I've enjoyed my hour with the Dubois family.
Episodes of "Medium" have a hallmark of being resolved at the very last second, sometimes (to my chagrin) unsatisfactorily to the tie-all-loose-ends logic I like. Tonight, as we followed Allison and her brood seven years after a major trauma, all I could think of was how the episode would wrap.
Wrap was the operative word. It was the series finale. No one bothered to tell me. I figured that out when, during the final credits, they trotted out all the major players with their credit lines. Of course, by that time I was bawling. The denouement was reminiscent of the best show ever on television ("Six Feet Under") in that everybody dies eventually, but with a bit of hope that only "Medium" could deliver: Allison and Joe are reunited for eternity on the other side.
I cried hardest when I projected the reunion of my grandparents, which is inevitably coming nearer and nearer. My beatuiful Mimi and my handsome, strong Granddaddy, who exhibited the strongest love between two people I have ever witnessed, will someday relatively soon be reunited to live out their love with each other and with Christ for all of eternity.
My Mimi is without a doubt the most precious person I have ever known. She taught me how to cook and she taught me the true value of volunteerism. She taught me that friends are best kept close, but I am afraid I have let busyness get the better of me in that area. She is selfless and giving, a beautiful person on the inside even if time has stolen what must have surely been so adorable on the outside so many years ago. Ill health has squeezed away her ability to live on her own, but sometimes a twinkle still shines in her eye. She'll turn 86 (87?) this week. And apparently she was in the hospital recently, although no one bothered to mention that to me. I found out in a Facebook post that just showed up on my wall. It doesn't escape me that among the gazillions of posts that hit my wall every day, I could have missed it. I just let it go. I can't fix this now.
That kind of sums up my relationship with Mimi over the past decade or so. Granddaddy died on a Thursday in February, and later that year, Daddy died on a Thursday in October. Right then, things began to change in my family. I tried to hold on, but I felt more like an outsider every time a decision was made and I found out about it after the fact. I eventually got the hint and moved on. Nowadays, I am so busy I don't have time to think about things like deteriorating family ties, but I still have memories of summers and holidays and the people who loved me most.
My most treasured hope aside from the promise of eternity beside my Lord is the hope of my reunion with those people. I want to make fudge with Nana, play piano with Mama Nash, and hear Granddaddy return thanks before the meal. I want to thank Aunt Donnie for good advice and hear Aunt Bitty tell her stories. I want to fish with my Uncle Buddy and have coffee with my Papaw and Sarah. I want to hang out and talk about old times with some friends. I want to meet those patriarchs I never had the pleasure of knowing on Earth. And I just want to hug my Daddy's neck and know that I'll never have to ache for that hug. Never again.
Nobody needs to tell me that.
I wanted to watch my show. For years, I have been sneaking away to catch up on the psychic goings on of one Allison Dubois, a television character based (loosely) on a real person. Lately, because the Friday night timeslot for "Medium" has coincided with bowling night, I've taken to waiting until Scott's snoring in the chair before stealing away to enjoy what's on the DVR.
This week was very much the same as all the rest. It's been a strange season, what with oldest daughter Ariel off at college in Boston (and therefore a rare appearance on the show) and Allison at a crossroads in her professional career, but I've enjoyed my hour with the Dubois family.
Episodes of "Medium" have a hallmark of being resolved at the very last second, sometimes (to my chagrin) unsatisfactorily to the tie-all-loose-ends logic I like. Tonight, as we followed Allison and her brood seven years after a major trauma, all I could think of was how the episode would wrap.
Wrap was the operative word. It was the series finale. No one bothered to tell me. I figured that out when, during the final credits, they trotted out all the major players with their credit lines. Of course, by that time I was bawling. The denouement was reminiscent of the best show ever on television ("Six Feet Under") in that everybody dies eventually, but with a bit of hope that only "Medium" could deliver: Allison and Joe are reunited for eternity on the other side.
I cried hardest when I projected the reunion of my grandparents, which is inevitably coming nearer and nearer. My beatuiful Mimi and my handsome, strong Granddaddy, who exhibited the strongest love between two people I have ever witnessed, will someday relatively soon be reunited to live out their love with each other and with Christ for all of eternity.
My Mimi is without a doubt the most precious person I have ever known. She taught me how to cook and she taught me the true value of volunteerism. She taught me that friends are best kept close, but I am afraid I have let busyness get the better of me in that area. She is selfless and giving, a beautiful person on the inside even if time has stolen what must have surely been so adorable on the outside so many years ago. Ill health has squeezed away her ability to live on her own, but sometimes a twinkle still shines in her eye. She'll turn 86 (87?) this week. And apparently she was in the hospital recently, although no one bothered to mention that to me. I found out in a Facebook post that just showed up on my wall. It doesn't escape me that among the gazillions of posts that hit my wall every day, I could have missed it. I just let it go. I can't fix this now.
That kind of sums up my relationship with Mimi over the past decade or so. Granddaddy died on a Thursday in February, and later that year, Daddy died on a Thursday in October. Right then, things began to change in my family. I tried to hold on, but I felt more like an outsider every time a decision was made and I found out about it after the fact. I eventually got the hint and moved on. Nowadays, I am so busy I don't have time to think about things like deteriorating family ties, but I still have memories of summers and holidays and the people who loved me most.
My most treasured hope aside from the promise of eternity beside my Lord is the hope of my reunion with those people. I want to make fudge with Nana, play piano with Mama Nash, and hear Granddaddy return thanks before the meal. I want to thank Aunt Donnie for good advice and hear Aunt Bitty tell her stories. I want to fish with my Uncle Buddy and have coffee with my Papaw and Sarah. I want to hang out and talk about old times with some friends. I want to meet those patriarchs I never had the pleasure of knowing on Earth. And I just want to hug my Daddy's neck and know that I'll never have to ache for that hug. Never again.
Nobody needs to tell me that.
I Made Up a Word
So today I was talking to my ultra-in-shape friend Stefanie about her plans to take over southern Oklahoma, and the conversation turned to how both of us are, well, old. We're about to hit the big 4-0, me a little sooner than she, and neither of us is happy about it.
I laughed at how her version of exercise is hiking and kayaking and shredding her shins on some strange torturous workout contraption, and mine is whipping my husband's butt in Wii. (By the way, do NOT take me on in boxing. I am a KILLA.) In the exchange, I mistyped (or DID I?) and confused "excuse" with "exercise." What I came up with is brills ... Exercuse. I define it as "the well-rationalized reason one cannot bring herself to become healthy, generally punctuated by a strong desire to watch 'Twilight' for the millionth time and/or to blog about ridiculously mundane topics."
Heck, yeah. I made up a word. Take that, Webster.
I laughed at how her version of exercise is hiking and kayaking and shredding her shins on some strange torturous workout contraption, and mine is whipping my husband's butt in Wii. (By the way, do NOT take me on in boxing. I am a KILLA.) In the exchange, I mistyped (or DID I?) and confused "excuse" with "exercise." What I came up with is brills ... Exercuse. I define it as "the well-rationalized reason one cannot bring herself to become healthy, generally punctuated by a strong desire to watch 'Twilight' for the millionth time and/or to blog about ridiculously mundane topics."
Heck, yeah. I made up a word. Take that, Webster.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
D is for Dragonfly
I don't have a doodle to go with this one yet, but I will work on it. Think dragonflies in suits. Anyway, I just wanted to post this one before I forgot it. This just in: Dragonfly illustration!
Devin Dragonfly rocks his job's corporate climb.
He gets all his work done in just half the time.
His friends shake their heads as they watch him speed by.
Using both sets of wings, Devin makes his work fly.
###
Location:Burr Oak Dr,Lewisville,United States
Saturday, January 15, 2011
My Mom Has More Junk Than Your Mom
Goodness, mercy, sakes alive. This place is like a museum of family history, and not necessarily in a good way.
Scott and I are spending our weekend at the hold home front, packing what is left of my mom's stuff to take back to Satan's Armpit so she might feel more comfortable surrounded by her junk.
I called her three times before I learned my lesson: Yes, she does want that. Never mind that there is no room, no storage, no use for it in her new house. She wants it. Those pants that are three sizes too big? Yes, bring those. The six cans of "sample, not for resale" MEN'S shaving cream? Yes, she says, those are probably still good, bring those. And don't forget my Aunt Flora's china. And mine, too. And Mama Nash's. And those blue glasses that go with the grape plates, because someday you will want them. And yes, those cheap red plates! I use those for Christmas and Valentine's Day!
Oh, yes, Mother. God knows we're going to need place settings for 49 this Easter. I bought 17 plastic boxes at walmart today (and the whole walmart experience is a complete new blog entry in itself). All to pack her junk in.
But I digress. Family history. While digging through the junk, I found a $50 savings bond that matures next month; a list my father wrote shortly before he died, titled "Where the Money Is"; his discharge papers from the Army (yes, we might need those!); and some photos of my family I had never seen before. I found a special edition box set of Glenn Miller 45s that are probably 60 years old, and some 78s that are older. I found the dress my grandmother wore to my mother's wedding (gorgeous, perfect condition, and now vintage!). I found a box of unused valentines from the 1940s. I found a shoebox full of my father's prescription medications, including vicodin (if only it were not a decade old) and one I wish I hadn't seen. I found no fewer than 50 notebooks, legal pads, and looseleaf papers (Oh bring those! I need those!). And I found some of my grandmother's, ahem, unmentionables.
I immediately prayed that I would not follow my mother down this particularly dark road of hoarding. And for what is probably the umpteenth time in my life, I mentally derided my parents for having only one kid. Thanks, dad and mom. Just for that, I'm going to sell all your records to Half Price Books!
###
Scott and I are spending our weekend at the hold home front, packing what is left of my mom's stuff to take back to Satan's Armpit so she might feel more comfortable surrounded by her junk.
I called her three times before I learned my lesson: Yes, she does want that. Never mind that there is no room, no storage, no use for it in her new house. She wants it. Those pants that are three sizes too big? Yes, bring those. The six cans of "sample, not for resale" MEN'S shaving cream? Yes, she says, those are probably still good, bring those. And don't forget my Aunt Flora's china. And mine, too. And Mama Nash's. And those blue glasses that go with the grape plates, because someday you will want them. And yes, those cheap red plates! I use those for Christmas and Valentine's Day!
Oh, yes, Mother. God knows we're going to need place settings for 49 this Easter. I bought 17 plastic boxes at walmart today (and the whole walmart experience is a complete new blog entry in itself). All to pack her junk in.
But I digress. Family history. While digging through the junk, I found a $50 savings bond that matures next month; a list my father wrote shortly before he died, titled "Where the Money Is"; his discharge papers from the Army (yes, we might need those!); and some photos of my family I had never seen before. I found a special edition box set of Glenn Miller 45s that are probably 60 years old, and some 78s that are older. I found the dress my grandmother wore to my mother's wedding (gorgeous, perfect condition, and now vintage!). I found a box of unused valentines from the 1940s. I found a shoebox full of my father's prescription medications, including vicodin (if only it were not a decade old) and one I wish I hadn't seen. I found no fewer than 50 notebooks, legal pads, and looseleaf papers (Oh bring those! I need those!). And I found some of my grandmother's, ahem, unmentionables.
I immediately prayed that I would not follow my mother down this particularly dark road of hoarding. And for what is probably the umpteenth time in my life, I mentally derided my parents for having only one kid. Thanks, dad and mom. Just for that, I'm going to sell all your records to Half Price Books!
###
Location:Mom's old place
Friday, January 14, 2011
100 in 200
A good friend recently challenged me, and I am seriously considering taking him up on it. Well, I am going to try to reach the goal, I just dont know if it's physically possible. But, as he has reminded me, if you can see it, you can be it.
I see myself in the Sangre de Cristo mountains, whooping it up with some of the finest people on Earth. I see two beads of wood hanging around my neck, symbolizing the reward for all my efforts (OK, you don't get the beads until later, but work with me here).
What's stopping me? Well, let's just say to gain admission to the mountain, I must lose about a third of myself. I have to pass Philmont's medical exam, which entails among other things, meeting the height/weight requirements. So, in essence, in order to be present on that mountaintop as the embers die down on the campfire, I am going to have to lose half a pound a day for the next 200 days.
So, my goal in words is this: To lose enough weight by August 1 that I am not only well within the specified height/weight limits, but also free of other health problems that would exclude me from passing the medical evaluation for participation in this training course.
Is this goal SMART? Let's see.
I believe it is specific. I don't need to put in the numbers here for you all to see exactly how fat I am, but I know them. And believe me, they are always hanging around to torture me. I have specifically said what needs to be done to reach this goal, and I know what I have to do to get there.
It's definitely measurable. Ugh. I hate scales. And if my doctor chooses to lower the dosages on certain medications, that is a measure, too.
Is it attainable? Yes. It probably is humanly possibly to do this... I didn't say it would be easy.
It's definitely relevant. Losing 100 pounds will save my life. Period. Getting to hang out at camp with some really cool people is, in the great scheme of things, just (low-carb) gravy.
And it's timely. If it's not done by the first of August, I will be missing the boat. The course starts on August 11.
I'll have lots of support. Stefanie will yell at me every day. Michael will review my workout logs. Scott will do whatever Scott does. And various friends and family who know what's going on will lend supportive words. And then one day, someone who doesn't know will go, "Are you losing weight?" and I will respond, "Well, maybe." and inside I will be ready to explode with excitement. At that moment, it will all become real to me: Yes, you got out of this terrible rut. Yes, you can be active and healthy and happy with yourself again. Yes!
So, I have to decide how badly I want to go to Philmont. And how badly I want to live to see age 93.
Footnote: Before you start screeching at me about how unhealthy this plan of action is, let me just remind you of the relevant component of the SMART goal: If I don't lose this weight, I will die before my time. And I have plans. I need time. And nobody can do it for me. This I have to do it for myself. And, let's face it, if I die, who will write my blog?
I see myself in the Sangre de Cristo mountains, whooping it up with some of the finest people on Earth. I see two beads of wood hanging around my neck, symbolizing the reward for all my efforts (OK, you don't get the beads until later, but work with me here).
What's stopping me? Well, let's just say to gain admission to the mountain, I must lose about a third of myself. I have to pass Philmont's medical exam, which entails among other things, meeting the height/weight requirements. So, in essence, in order to be present on that mountaintop as the embers die down on the campfire, I am going to have to lose half a pound a day for the next 200 days.
So, my goal in words is this: To lose enough weight by August 1 that I am not only well within the specified height/weight limits, but also free of other health problems that would exclude me from passing the medical evaluation for participation in this training course.
Is this goal SMART? Let's see.
I believe it is specific. I don't need to put in the numbers here for you all to see exactly how fat I am, but I know them. And believe me, they are always hanging around to torture me. I have specifically said what needs to be done to reach this goal, and I know what I have to do to get there.
It's definitely measurable. Ugh. I hate scales. And if my doctor chooses to lower the dosages on certain medications, that is a measure, too.
Is it attainable? Yes. It probably is humanly possibly to do this... I didn't say it would be easy.
It's definitely relevant. Losing 100 pounds will save my life. Period. Getting to hang out at camp with some really cool people is, in the great scheme of things, just (low-carb) gravy.
And it's timely. If it's not done by the first of August, I will be missing the boat. The course starts on August 11.
I'll have lots of support. Stefanie will yell at me every day. Michael will review my workout logs. Scott will do whatever Scott does. And various friends and family who know what's going on will lend supportive words. And then one day, someone who doesn't know will go, "Are you losing weight?" and I will respond, "Well, maybe." and inside I will be ready to explode with excitement. At that moment, it will all become real to me: Yes, you got out of this terrible rut. Yes, you can be active and healthy and happy with yourself again. Yes!
So, I have to decide how badly I want to go to Philmont. And how badly I want to live to see age 93.
Footnote: Before you start screeching at me about how unhealthy this plan of action is, let me just remind you of the relevant component of the SMART goal: If I don't lose this weight, I will die before my time. And I have plans. I need time. And nobody can do it for me. This I have to do it for myself. And, let's face it, if I die, who will write my blog?
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
C is for Chipmunk
Cornelius Chipmunk is an organized guy.
He stocks up on stuff so he won’t have to buy.
He’s been stacking up fruits, nuts, and berries for weeks,
But if he runs out of room, he can just use his cheeks!
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
It Was a Day
At the end of the day, when the cars are parked, the shoes are kicked off, and the animals (including the human ones) have been fed, my husband and I finally have a chance to discuss our days.
"How was your day?" I will ask. "It was a day," he invariably replies. These days, life is pretty good, but there was once a time when "it was a day" was code for "it really sucked, and i don't want to talk about it."
Good code. Today was a day for him. Tonight I will pray for what I don't understand, for what I don't even know. And tomorrow, which will be a better day, I'll continue to pray, because we all need it. Every "day" and every day.
###
"How was your day?" I will ask. "It was a day," he invariably replies. These days, life is pretty good, but there was once a time when "it was a day" was code for "it really sucked, and i don't want to talk about it."
Good code. Today was a day for him. Tonight I will pray for what I don't understand, for what I don't even know. And tomorrow, which will be a better day, I'll continue to pray, because we all need it. Every "day" and every day.
###
Location:Home
B is for Blackbird
Becca Blackbird likes to bake.
Her neighbors love her chocolate cake.
But certain recipes she won't try
'Cause blackbirds never, ever eat pie!
OK.... My editor has chided me for not including a blackbird "fact" in this verse. So, I have recast to include something educational about blackbirds:
Becca Blackbird likes to bake.
Her neighbors love her chocolate cake.
She has many recipes she wants to try
'Cause blackbirds crave her berry pie!
Her neighbors love her chocolate cake.
She has many recipes she wants to try
'Cause blackbirds crave her berry pie!
Monday, January 10, 2011
A is for Alligator
Angela Alligator arises and greets every day
By brushing all 74 of her teeth the same way.
Upwards and sideways, with bristles so fine,
Such careful attention makes her smile really shine!
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Snow, or Another Reason to Want to Skip Work Tomorrow
I love snow. I love standing at the window watching it pour to the ground, like God ripped open a sack of flour and its contents are spilling all over heaven's kitchen. I love the way it kisses the tops of branches, leaving the bottoms stark and bare to accentuate their lovely patterns. I love the way a good snowfall paints the landscape in a monochrome, proving to the world that the simplest beauty is the best.
What is there more calm and serene than snow falling silently on a cold night? Maybe that is why I love it so much: I'm jealous. I covet its calmness, its simplicity, its singular purpose. I have so little of that in my life, and i want it desperately.
Snow doesn't demand respect, reciprocity, or revenge. It has no interest in backbiting, bullying, or belittling. Tomorrow, it doesn't matter whether the office is closed, its opening delayed, or its workers all just forget to show up. Tomorrow, whether the roads are clear or mottled with commuters, I'll be in my chair, on time, as always, ready for another week. Tomorrow will be the opposite of snow.
Monday.
###
What is there more calm and serene than snow falling silently on a cold night? Maybe that is why I love it so much: I'm jealous. I covet its calmness, its simplicity, its singular purpose. I have so little of that in my life, and i want it desperately.
Snow doesn't demand respect, reciprocity, or revenge. It has no interest in backbiting, bullying, or belittling. Tomorrow, it doesn't matter whether the office is closed, its opening delayed, or its workers all just forget to show up. Tomorrow, whether the roads are clear or mottled with commuters, I'll be in my chair, on time, as always, ready for another week. Tomorrow will be the opposite of snow.
Monday.
###
Location:Home
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Oh, Thank Heaven
So, I finally got my act together and bought an app that would allow me to blog from the iPad, which actually belongs to work. Seriously, I am actually, really, truly, honestly researching the functionality of the thing because I think it would be cool to have all our account managers using them. If Apple is reading this, we would love to be product testers...
Anyway, nothing earth-shattering about this post. Just practicing typing on the iPad. So far, so good. It would be nice if the little kickstand on the case would act right. Guess I need to break it in some more.
I try to make it a practice not to talk about work in my blog (or anywhere else in my real life), but since I just admitted using a work tool for private use, I will throw work a little bone.
Alex, I work for the largest youth-serving organization in the United States. (If that isn't true, it's close, and it sounds good.) I love it. I love its mission, I subscribe to its beliefs, I follow its policies, sometimes blindly. Ok, always blindly.
For the past decade, I have been the editor for a series of adult training course materials that tout the benefits of servant leadership. The more I practice these theories myself, the more I would like to see every person in our organization take that course. I won't pretend to be good at servant leadership, but I will tell you that my heart is in the right place. Servant leadership needs to be tempered with discipline. And sometimes I am not the best at that, either.
But it's a new year, and i am determined to exercise servant leadership, discipline, and courage. I am keeping good notes about the year because my memory is nanosecond short. I owe my folks and my position the benefit of consistency, thoughtful decision-making, and emotional intelligence. Last year, as you know if you've read other posts, was a tough one personally for me; too many things going on outside the office to effectively deal with goings-on in the office. This year, I am forcing myself to balance. Work does not come home with me to the extent it once did. I am parcelling my time and scheduling deadlines. I am giving all my staff members a piece of myself, every day. I am attending my clients to effectively meet their needs, and I am doing what I. Can to educate them on how whey can help me help them.
So now I am rambling. And this was going to be a "practice" post... Ok, I'm done. Until tomorrow.
###
Anyway, nothing earth-shattering about this post. Just practicing typing on the iPad. So far, so good. It would be nice if the little kickstand on the case would act right. Guess I need to break it in some more.
I try to make it a practice not to talk about work in my blog (or anywhere else in my real life), but since I just admitted using a work tool for private use, I will throw work a little bone.
Alex, I work for the largest youth-serving organization in the United States. (If that isn't true, it's close, and it sounds good.) I love it. I love its mission, I subscribe to its beliefs, I follow its policies, sometimes blindly. Ok, always blindly.
For the past decade, I have been the editor for a series of adult training course materials that tout the benefits of servant leadership. The more I practice these theories myself, the more I would like to see every person in our organization take that course. I won't pretend to be good at servant leadership, but I will tell you that my heart is in the right place. Servant leadership needs to be tempered with discipline. And sometimes I am not the best at that, either.
But it's a new year, and i am determined to exercise servant leadership, discipline, and courage. I am keeping good notes about the year because my memory is nanosecond short. I owe my folks and my position the benefit of consistency, thoughtful decision-making, and emotional intelligence. Last year, as you know if you've read other posts, was a tough one personally for me; too many things going on outside the office to effectively deal with goings-on in the office. This year, I am forcing myself to balance. Work does not come home with me to the extent it once did. I am parcelling my time and scheduling deadlines. I am giving all my staff members a piece of myself, every day. I am attending my clients to effectively meet their needs, and I am doing what I. Can to educate them on how whey can help me help them.
So now I am rambling. And this was going to be a "practice" post... Ok, I'm done. Until tomorrow.
###
Location:Home
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Where Are They Now?
I knew a boy in kindergarten. I never gave him much thought, except at Halloween. We made big black bats out of bulletin board paper and wrote our initials on them with chalk. We all laughed and commented as only sophisticated 5-year-olds could that his initials were like the cola: R.C. Later, he did the most valiant thing any boy ever did for me. He rescued me after the mean boys tied me to the fence by my coat's hoodie strings. Surely, there is a special place in heaven for the boy who ran all the way back from his place in the milk line to free me from the fear and shame that would surely have come. His name is Romondo Collins.
I knew a boy in elementary school who gave me one of the best compliments ever: a double-take! I was sick with chicken pox the week my new contact lenses came in, I returned to the playground with a brand new look the next week. I shouted and waved to my friend Dwayne Welsh as he ran full-out toward the basketball goal. He waved as he flew by, then stopped dead in his tracks and looked back. He smiled, and I was smitten forever.
I knew a girl in grade school who was on the really good basketball team. When it came time for my team--winless as we were--to take our licks on the court against them, all I wanted to do was show them that the Purple Panthers were nothing to snicker at. Taking seriously my role as captain and best player (that wasn't saying much), I found a fire in my belly that had never surfaced before. Disgusted at myself for a double-dribble (told you I wasn't that good), I stopped moving in preparation for the ref's shrieking whistle. It never came. And that no-good You-Know-Who-You-Are streaked past, stole the ball, and scored for her team. Like they needed it. And I hate her to this day.
I knew a girl in junior high who all the kids made fun of. She was slight and dark and quiet, and not particularly smart and not partiularly dumb. Once I took time to talk with her during Theater Arts class, and I found that she liked some of the same things as me! From then on, I would not allow anyone to speak ill of her in my presence. And I remember her name, but I won't post it here.
I knew a boy in high school who became my first true love. There really are no words for how I longed for him when we were away or for how my heart sang when we were together. He once brought me a beautiful rose he'd stolen from the neighbor's garden, and I thought it charming. Immaturity on both our parts sent us along our current courses, but he knows and I know that what we had was real. We cross paths every so often, and I can't help but wonder. Sure, I love my husband, but it's true what they say about your first love.
I knew a guy in college who taught me about art and English and how to be true to myself. He stood up for me when others treated me the same as that little girl from high school. He became one of my best friends. Together, we lamented his poor choices in women and English professors, and we tried our best to help him overcome his dyslexia. I adored him, even if he was an Aggie first. After graduation, he sent me postcards and Christmas cards and long letters from his posts all over the world. About 10 years ago, I wondered why the cards and letters stopped. A few months later, I found out: Lt. Paul Marion had been murdered in his home. I haven't recovered. TTOSBT, my friend.
All of these people shaped who I am today. Some for the good, some for the bad. But no matter what, they deserve my thanks. Who do you remember?
I knew a boy in elementary school who gave me one of the best compliments ever: a double-take! I was sick with chicken pox the week my new contact lenses came in, I returned to the playground with a brand new look the next week. I shouted and waved to my friend Dwayne Welsh as he ran full-out toward the basketball goal. He waved as he flew by, then stopped dead in his tracks and looked back. He smiled, and I was smitten forever.
I knew a girl in grade school who was on the really good basketball team. When it came time for my team--winless as we were--to take our licks on the court against them, all I wanted to do was show them that the Purple Panthers were nothing to snicker at. Taking seriously my role as captain and best player (that wasn't saying much), I found a fire in my belly that had never surfaced before. Disgusted at myself for a double-dribble (told you I wasn't that good), I stopped moving in preparation for the ref's shrieking whistle. It never came. And that no-good You-Know-Who-You-Are streaked past, stole the ball, and scored for her team. Like they needed it. And I hate her to this day.
I knew a girl in junior high who all the kids made fun of. She was slight and dark and quiet, and not particularly smart and not partiularly dumb. Once I took time to talk with her during Theater Arts class, and I found that she liked some of the same things as me! From then on, I would not allow anyone to speak ill of her in my presence. And I remember her name, but I won't post it here.
I knew a boy in high school who became my first true love. There really are no words for how I longed for him when we were away or for how my heart sang when we were together. He once brought me a beautiful rose he'd stolen from the neighbor's garden, and I thought it charming. Immaturity on both our parts sent us along our current courses, but he knows and I know that what we had was real. We cross paths every so often, and I can't help but wonder. Sure, I love my husband, but it's true what they say about your first love.
I knew a guy in college who taught me about art and English and how to be true to myself. He stood up for me when others treated me the same as that little girl from high school. He became one of my best friends. Together, we lamented his poor choices in women and English professors, and we tried our best to help him overcome his dyslexia. I adored him, even if he was an Aggie first. After graduation, he sent me postcards and Christmas cards and long letters from his posts all over the world. About 10 years ago, I wondered why the cards and letters stopped. A few months later, I found out: Lt. Paul Marion had been murdered in his home. I haven't recovered. TTOSBT, my friend.
All of these people shaped who I am today. Some for the good, some for the bad. But no matter what, they deserve my thanks. Who do you remember?
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