Friday, October 31, 2003
Robin Hood!
Oh my god, the guy who wore the Robin Hood shirt the other day came into the office dressed as Robin Hood for Halloween. The only problem, in my mind: the short wasn't part of the costume. That was purely coincidental.
Meanwhile, the Indian programmers in our office are looking at those in costume as though they're deviant freaks.
Oh my god, the guy who wore the Robin Hood shirt the other day came into the office dressed as Robin Hood for Halloween. The only problem, in my mind: the short wasn't part of the costume. That was purely coincidental.
Meanwhile, the Indian programmers in our office are looking at those in costume as though they're deviant freaks.
Never Mess With a Philly Girl
I can completely see the girls at Maria Goretti chasing the flasher down the block. Never mess with a girl from Philly. :-)
I can completely see the girls at Maria Goretti chasing the flasher down the block. Never mess with a girl from Philly. :-)
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Paraphrasing
I won't do this justice, but I thought it was such a good visual and sentiment that I wanted to write it down and remember it.
Rev. McGill did my grandmother's graveside service. He did an excellent job, considering that he'd never met her, but he listened to what we had to say about her and incorporated some really good stuff. But aside from that, it wasn't just a religious walk with god kind of service. It was just good.
He drew the parallel to a ship leaving port and heading out to sea. From our perspective on the shore, the ship becomes smaller and smaller as it moves away from us, eventually disappearing over the horizon. But from the perspective of the ship, it never changes size, and moves along with the same size and vitality that it had in the beginning. Just because we can't see the ship anymore doesn't mean it's not there.
I like that.
I won't do this justice, but I thought it was such a good visual and sentiment that I wanted to write it down and remember it.
Rev. McGill did my grandmother's graveside service. He did an excellent job, considering that he'd never met her, but he listened to what we had to say about her and incorporated some really good stuff. But aside from that, it wasn't just a religious walk with god kind of service. It was just good.
He drew the parallel to a ship leaving port and heading out to sea. From our perspective on the shore, the ship becomes smaller and smaller as it moves away from us, eventually disappearing over the horizon. But from the perspective of the ship, it never changes size, and moves along with the same size and vitality that it had in the beginning. Just because we can't see the ship anymore doesn't mean it's not there.
I like that.
Choices and Changes
Change is never easy. I've realized over the course of many years that I really don't like change. Sometimes, though, you have to just go with it, even when it seems hard and scary (a classic example is the studio, which may turn out to be the money pit, but I'm still holding out hope that it will work out ok). Of course, the kind of change that you control (changing jobs, buying homes, etc) is better than the kind that happens to you (layoffs, deaths, accidents), but it doesn't make the transition any easier.
The past month has been a period of dramatic transformation and change in my world. I bought a business and lost the most dominant force in my family. It's hard. I'm desperately stressed out and in a perpetual state of panic about it all, but at the same time I know that it's my responsibility to move on and make it all work out ok. That's my job.
I try not to regret any choices that I've made, and for the most part, that's true. Were there things that I could have done differently? No doubt. But the choices I've made have shaped me into who I am today. I think I turned out ok. There's nothing wrong with that, right?
Change is never easy. I've realized over the course of many years that I really don't like change. Sometimes, though, you have to just go with it, even when it seems hard and scary (a classic example is the studio, which may turn out to be the money pit, but I'm still holding out hope that it will work out ok). Of course, the kind of change that you control (changing jobs, buying homes, etc) is better than the kind that happens to you (layoffs, deaths, accidents), but it doesn't make the transition any easier.
The past month has been a period of dramatic transformation and change in my world. I bought a business and lost the most dominant force in my family. It's hard. I'm desperately stressed out and in a perpetual state of panic about it all, but at the same time I know that it's my responsibility to move on and make it all work out ok. That's my job.
I try not to regret any choices that I've made, and for the most part, that's true. Were there things that I could have done differently? No doubt. But the choices I've made have shaped me into who I am today. I think I turned out ok. There's nothing wrong with that, right?
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Robin Hood?
There's a guy here at work who showed up today wearing a shirt that looks like it came from a Robin Hood costume, complete with the leather lacing up the front. It is the most bizarre thing I've ever seen, and it's not even Halloween yet.
There's a guy here at work who showed up today wearing a shirt that looks like it came from a Robin Hood costume, complete with the leather lacing up the front. It is the most bizarre thing I've ever seen, and it's not even Halloween yet.
Fire Drills
Isn't the point of a fire drill to simulate the element of surprise? So why do we get these notices on our desks this morning announcing that today is our fire drill? And, more importantly, how is it possible that the last one took us 22 minutes to get out of a single-story building? I've seen a jam-packed Yankee Stadium clear out in less than 22 minutes. If we're all that slow and stupid, don't we deserve to burn in the fire? I think we're all grown up enough to handle the element of surprise.
Speaking of the element of surprise, I've got an appointment with the hairdresser tomorrow night, and I'm contemplating a complete color change. This is what happens when I'm given time to think about things. Suddenly I feel the need for change, and since I don't really want to cut my hair (like I used to do when feeling restless), I'm thinking that color might be the way to go. Maybe blonde, like nana remembers us all to be. ;-)
Isn't the point of a fire drill to simulate the element of surprise? So why do we get these notices on our desks this morning announcing that today is our fire drill? And, more importantly, how is it possible that the last one took us 22 minutes to get out of a single-story building? I've seen a jam-packed Yankee Stadium clear out in less than 22 minutes. If we're all that slow and stupid, don't we deserve to burn in the fire? I think we're all grown up enough to handle the element of surprise.
Speaking of the element of surprise, I've got an appointment with the hairdresser tomorrow night, and I'm contemplating a complete color change. This is what happens when I'm given time to think about things. Suddenly I feel the need for change, and since I don't really want to cut my hair (like I used to do when feeling restless), I'm thinking that color might be the way to go. Maybe blonde, like nana remembers us all to be. ;-)
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Things That Pop Into My Head
My father was a redhead. There is photographic evidence of it. My nana has started insisting that he was a blonde. Uh, no. Even in black & white pictures his hair is clearly not blonde. The other day we were at her house, and she says something about dad's sister also being blonde (her hair is clearly darker than hers in all pictures). So I make some comment about how it's too bad that I wasn't blonde like them, giving my father a smirk the whole time. Nana looks at me, dead serious, and says, "You were blonde as a baby, too!" Now, this can clearly be disproven since 1970s color photography says otherwise. It makes us wonder: does she not know what blonde is, or is she living in a parallel universe with blonde kids and grandkids?
My father was a redhead. There is photographic evidence of it. My nana has started insisting that he was a blonde. Uh, no. Even in black & white pictures his hair is clearly not blonde. The other day we were at her house, and she says something about dad's sister also being blonde (her hair is clearly darker than hers in all pictures). So I make some comment about how it's too bad that I wasn't blonde like them, giving my father a smirk the whole time. Nana looks at me, dead serious, and says, "You were blonde as a baby, too!" Now, this can clearly be disproven since 1970s color photography says otherwise. It makes us wonder: does she not know what blonde is, or is she living in a parallel universe with blonde kids and grandkids?
It Makes Me Wonder
When grandmom died, we requested contributions to an animal charity in lieu of flowers. Grandmom would have given her left arm to make an animal happy.
My nana, dad's mom, called my mother today to announce that she's donating money to the Methodist Church instead of the animal charity. "Your mother wasn't much of an animal lover, but I know that she really loved her church." How could my nana have known grandmom for 50 years and not have known that with the exception of weddings, christenings and funerals, grandmom hadn't set foot in a church since 1961?
Mom has suggested that perhaps the obit should have read, "In lieu of flowers, ignore our wishes and give money to whatever the hell you want."
When grandmom died, we requested contributions to an animal charity in lieu of flowers. Grandmom would have given her left arm to make an animal happy.
My nana, dad's mom, called my mother today to announce that she's donating money to the Methodist Church instead of the animal charity. "Your mother wasn't much of an animal lover, but I know that she really loved her church." How could my nana have known grandmom for 50 years and not have known that with the exception of weddings, christenings and funerals, grandmom hadn't set foot in a church since 1961?
Mom has suggested that perhaps the obit should have read, "In lieu of flowers, ignore our wishes and give money to whatever the hell you want."
And Then It Hits You
It's not like I didn't spend a week in Philly with my family, dealing with funeral arrangements and the conspicuous absence of my grandmother. And yet, this morning when I woke up, it hit me like a ton of bricks. Suddenly I feel completely disoriented by everything and at a complete loss to explain why it's hitting me now.
It's not like I didn't spend a week in Philly with my family, dealing with funeral arrangements and the conspicuous absence of my grandmother. And yet, this morning when I woke up, it hit me like a ton of bricks. Suddenly I feel completely disoriented by everything and at a complete loss to explain why it's hitting me now.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
Strange Moments
It's been a while since I've written anything. I've been back in Philly for my grandmother's funeral. She died 2:30AM eastern on Monday morning. The odd thing is that at 11:30PM in California, I was laying in bed and I started to cry. I told C that I was so worried about her, and that I wanted to know that she wasn't in pain. It was the first time I had a good cry about the whole thing, and then I find out 20 minutes later that this was the moment she died. There's something about my pseudo-psychic moments that scare the hell out of me.
It's been a while since I've written anything. I've been back in Philly for my grandmother's funeral. She died 2:30AM eastern on Monday morning. The odd thing is that at 11:30PM in California, I was laying in bed and I started to cry. I told C that I was so worried about her, and that I wanted to know that she wasn't in pain. It was the first time I had a good cry about the whole thing, and then I find out 20 minutes later that this was the moment she died. There's something about my pseudo-psychic moments that scare the hell out of me.
Monday, October 20, 2003
Saturday, October 18, 2003
Hair
I can't explain why -- it's nothing spectacular -- but I want my hair to look like this picture of Heather Graham (minus the blondeness): http://us.glamour.com/
I can't explain why -- it's nothing spectacular -- but I want my hair to look like this picture of Heather Graham (minus the blondeness): http://us.glamour.com/
100 New (Trampy) Looks for Fall!
Got the new Victoria's Secret catalog today. The sad part is that I like at least 20% of the 100 trampy skintight looks in it. Frightening. You never would have guessed this a few years ago.
Got the new Victoria's Secret catalog today. The sad part is that I like at least 20% of the 100 trampy skintight looks in it. Frightening. You never would have guessed this a few years ago.
Rose Turf
Evidently last night, I spoke at length about rose turf... while sleeping. When questioned about it ("What the hell is rose turf?"), I evidently responded, quite obviously, that it's the turf in a rose garden. Duh.
My brain is always filled with weirdness.
Evidently last night, I spoke at length about rose turf... while sleeping. When questioned about it ("What the hell is rose turf?"), I evidently responded, quite obviously, that it's the turf in a rose garden. Duh.
My brain is always filled with weirdness.
Friday, October 17, 2003
Friday Evening
Always a hot, happening time at my house. I've eaten dinner, watched a movie that Tivo taped for me (some 1980s unremarkable Matthew Broderick movie), and made two necklaces and a bracelet from my bag o'beads. The strange thing with the necklaces is that it doesn't have to be anything I like or find to be particularly good. It just has to satisfy that need to create. So overall, the beads are good for me.
Pilates class at 9:30 tomorrow morning. I'll be skipping the yoga, as usual, even though it's a sub instructor and not the regular. I'm contemplating trying to eat healthy for a week -- salad instead of burgers, for example -- to see if my abs will magically appear as a result. Because there's really no good reason for why I don't have to-die-for abs with all the pilates I do. Actually, the answer is eating (chocolate and cheeseburgers being two very large culprits), but I'd like to think that I can overcome that.
Tomorrow afternoon I'm going to a jewelry exhibition over at Santana Row. It's not a diamond and sapphire extravaganza like in my old jewelry days, but rather a small designer who does a lot of work with beads and stuff. I'll support that. Although it was always cool to go to anything sponsored by the Platinum Guild or the Diamond Promotion Service.
I just remembered: hockey tomorrow night. Go Sharks!
Always a hot, happening time at my house. I've eaten dinner, watched a movie that Tivo taped for me (some 1980s unremarkable Matthew Broderick movie), and made two necklaces and a bracelet from my bag o'beads. The strange thing with the necklaces is that it doesn't have to be anything I like or find to be particularly good. It just has to satisfy that need to create. So overall, the beads are good for me.
Pilates class at 9:30 tomorrow morning. I'll be skipping the yoga, as usual, even though it's a sub instructor and not the regular. I'm contemplating trying to eat healthy for a week -- salad instead of burgers, for example -- to see if my abs will magically appear as a result. Because there's really no good reason for why I don't have to-die-for abs with all the pilates I do. Actually, the answer is eating (chocolate and cheeseburgers being two very large culprits), but I'd like to think that I can overcome that.
Tomorrow afternoon I'm going to a jewelry exhibition over at Santana Row. It's not a diamond and sapphire extravaganza like in my old jewelry days, but rather a small designer who does a lot of work with beads and stuff. I'll support that. Although it was always cool to go to anything sponsored by the Platinum Guild or the Diamond Promotion Service.
I just remembered: hockey tomorrow night. Go Sharks!
So Where's My Money?
I'm pretty much as tall as any woman in the company, so where the heck is my extra money?
I'm pretty much as tall as any woman in the company, so where the heck is my extra money?
Intellectual Crisis
Today has been a bad intersection of NPR's Science Friday and an e-mail from my friend.
First, NPR: Today's topic was IVF and fertility. There's really nothing like a discussion of failed eggs and petri dish procedures to make you start to wonder if your eggs are expiring. For as much as I'm not at all ready to have kids, and may never be, I'm owrried that one day I'll wake up, decide that it's time, and either a) be infertile, b) have some sort of genetically mutated child, or c) just be an old mother. For as much as I don't want to deal with the stress that infertility causes or the problems with kids with Down's Syndrome or spina bifida (yes, I used to work at Children's Hospital and have a fear of the million and two things that can go wrong with children, can you tell?), I think that my greatest fear is just being an old mother. As it stands now, if I got pregnant tomorrow, I'd be 50 when my first kid graduated high school. I don't want to be old like that. I don't want to be exhausted by it all. I don't want to be the kind of mother who can't be involved and can't do stuff because I'm too old or too tired. I don't want to be having hot flashes and hormonal surges at the same time my daughter is hitting puberty (god, that sounds like an evil joke... two generations shouldn't have to go through that crap at the same time). I'm not even sure that I'd want to have anything to do with the kid between the ages of 7 and 20. How do you ever know that you're ready when you weren't born with the biological imperative to be a parent? I envy people like my friend Heather who knew she wanted kids and went out and did it. Which brings me to topic number two....
Preschool. Heather registered the twins for preschool today. I'm in shock. They can't be old enough yet. They can't. Ok, I know they're 2 1/2, but still... it went so quickly! I've missed so much of their lives by being so far away. They're the funniest little pair. One is dark and curly and momma's girl. The other is blonde with straight hair and may very well be the spawn of Satan. How two children raised in the same house at the same time is beyond me. But I love to go visit and see what they're doing, how they're growing and learning. They're hilarious and fascinating and you'd think that I'd want a set of my own, but the need for 24-hour care thing frightens the hell out of me. How would I handle that? Could I handle it? Would I be any kind of a parent, especially when you consider that I'd have to go off my antidepressants during the pregnancy? Good god, I'd be an anxious, sobbing mess for nine months. That would scare the hell out of me.
And what if I had to raise the kids alone? C travels all the time. What if his plane crashes or he's kidnapped by Colombians or it turns out that he's got a Cuban girlfriend shacked up in Miami? I know for sure that I could never do it alone.
This is the one decision in life that's irreversible. You can get divorced, sell your house or car, file for bankruptcy, quit your job... but you can never get rid of the kids. They're yours for life. Shit. Maybe that's what I'm afraid of.
Today has been a bad intersection of NPR's Science Friday and an e-mail from my friend.
First, NPR: Today's topic was IVF and fertility. There's really nothing like a discussion of failed eggs and petri dish procedures to make you start to wonder if your eggs are expiring. For as much as I'm not at all ready to have kids, and may never be, I'm owrried that one day I'll wake up, decide that it's time, and either a) be infertile, b) have some sort of genetically mutated child, or c) just be an old mother. For as much as I don't want to deal with the stress that infertility causes or the problems with kids with Down's Syndrome or spina bifida (yes, I used to work at Children's Hospital and have a fear of the million and two things that can go wrong with children, can you tell?), I think that my greatest fear is just being an old mother. As it stands now, if I got pregnant tomorrow, I'd be 50 when my first kid graduated high school. I don't want to be old like that. I don't want to be exhausted by it all. I don't want to be the kind of mother who can't be involved and can't do stuff because I'm too old or too tired. I don't want to be having hot flashes and hormonal surges at the same time my daughter is hitting puberty (god, that sounds like an evil joke... two generations shouldn't have to go through that crap at the same time). I'm not even sure that I'd want to have anything to do with the kid between the ages of 7 and 20. How do you ever know that you're ready when you weren't born with the biological imperative to be a parent? I envy people like my friend Heather who knew she wanted kids and went out and did it. Which brings me to topic number two....
Preschool. Heather registered the twins for preschool today. I'm in shock. They can't be old enough yet. They can't. Ok, I know they're 2 1/2, but still... it went so quickly! I've missed so much of their lives by being so far away. They're the funniest little pair. One is dark and curly and momma's girl. The other is blonde with straight hair and may very well be the spawn of Satan. How two children raised in the same house at the same time is beyond me. But I love to go visit and see what they're doing, how they're growing and learning. They're hilarious and fascinating and you'd think that I'd want a set of my own, but the need for 24-hour care thing frightens the hell out of me. How would I handle that? Could I handle it? Would I be any kind of a parent, especially when you consider that I'd have to go off my antidepressants during the pregnancy? Good god, I'd be an anxious, sobbing mess for nine months. That would scare the hell out of me.
And what if I had to raise the kids alone? C travels all the time. What if his plane crashes or he's kidnapped by Colombians or it turns out that he's got a Cuban girlfriend shacked up in Miami? I know for sure that I could never do it alone.
This is the one decision in life that's irreversible. You can get divorced, sell your house or car, file for bankruptcy, quit your job... but you can never get rid of the kids. They're yours for life. Shit. Maybe that's what I'm afraid of.
Cosmetics
I've done it. I've gone a full week of wearing eye makeup every day. Consider for a moment that the last time I did this was junior year of high school, and you might see the significance. A few weeks back I woke up in the morning and realized that I just couldn't get away with the makeup-free thing anymore. Granted, I'm still only using eye makeup, but that's only because I think foundation looks totally phony on women with freckles.
And that's another thing: the freckles. I've had them all my life, and yet there are times where I look in the mirror and suddenly realize that they're there. Sounds stupid, I know, but I don't usually notice them any more than I see the smiley-face scar below my belly button or the birthmark on my right thigh. But then, suddenly I'll see them there, and wonder how the heck I could be 30 and still have a face full of freckles. I thought I'd outgrow them somehow. You don't see many grownups with them. They probably make me look silly -- they're not exactly a mark of maturity -- but there's really nothing I can do about it.
Good lord, I just got an e-mail requesting me to do work. What's that about?
I've done it. I've gone a full week of wearing eye makeup every day. Consider for a moment that the last time I did this was junior year of high school, and you might see the significance. A few weeks back I woke up in the morning and realized that I just couldn't get away with the makeup-free thing anymore. Granted, I'm still only using eye makeup, but that's only because I think foundation looks totally phony on women with freckles.
And that's another thing: the freckles. I've had them all my life, and yet there are times where I look in the mirror and suddenly realize that they're there. Sounds stupid, I know, but I don't usually notice them any more than I see the smiley-face scar below my belly button or the birthmark on my right thigh. But then, suddenly I'll see them there, and wonder how the heck I could be 30 and still have a face full of freckles. I thought I'd outgrow them somehow. You don't see many grownups with them. They probably make me look silly -- they're not exactly a mark of maturity -- but there's really nothing I can do about it.
Good lord, I just got an e-mail requesting me to do work. What's that about?
Thursday, October 16, 2003
Halloween
Halloween just isn't a holiday that I really get into. The last time I dressed up was when our friends had a party in 1999, and I very clearly remember sitting in the bathroom crying because I couldn't get my fake nails off. Actually, I was crying because I was flying home the next day for dad's spine surgery, but the nails were the last straw.
So I'm trying to come up with reasonable choices for costumes that don't involve having to buy a lot of stuff. So far I've come up with the following:
1) Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany's.
2) Trinity from The Matrix. I have no idea where I'd get that much pleather, but I could cheat and just wear all black, I suppose.
3) A Jersey girl with big hair.
4) Amish.
5) Me in a wig of another color.
You can tell I got really creative towards the end of the list.
Halloween just isn't a holiday that I really get into. The last time I dressed up was when our friends had a party in 1999, and I very clearly remember sitting in the bathroom crying because I couldn't get my fake nails off. Actually, I was crying because I was flying home the next day for dad's spine surgery, but the nails were the last straw.
So I'm trying to come up with reasonable choices for costumes that don't involve having to buy a lot of stuff. So far I've come up with the following:
1) Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany's.
2) Trinity from The Matrix. I have no idea where I'd get that much pleather, but I could cheat and just wear all black, I suppose.
3) A Jersey girl with big hair.
4) Amish.
5) Me in a wig of another color.
You can tell I got really creative towards the end of the list.
So Close...
I should be delighted that the Cubs made it as far as they did. I really should. But I have to admit to feeling really demoralized by the loss. I don't want to blame Bartman and his foul ball-grabbing hands. It was bigger than that. But that moment was just a stereotypical Cubs moment, when everything seems right and ultimately goes so wrong. I won't be watching the World Series this year. I just don't care if the Marlins, Yankees or Red Sox win. It's totally irrelevant. I'm tempted to wear Cubs gear anyway as though I'm in denial about the loss.
I had this vision that maybe, just maybe, my grandmother was trying to stay alive to see the Cubs win. Clearly that won't happen now. Maybe we can pump her up with news of football or hockey, although neither will ever have the same draw for her.
My first hockey game is this Saturday night vs. Ottawa. The Sharks are in bad shape again this year, but at least I know it early in the season and can adjust my expectations accordingly. I just like the experience of being there, regardless of who wins. Except for next month when they play the Rangers. No matter what else happens, the Rangers will always suck.
I should be delighted that the Cubs made it as far as they did. I really should. But I have to admit to feeling really demoralized by the loss. I don't want to blame Bartman and his foul ball-grabbing hands. It was bigger than that. But that moment was just a stereotypical Cubs moment, when everything seems right and ultimately goes so wrong. I won't be watching the World Series this year. I just don't care if the Marlins, Yankees or Red Sox win. It's totally irrelevant. I'm tempted to wear Cubs gear anyway as though I'm in denial about the loss.
I had this vision that maybe, just maybe, my grandmother was trying to stay alive to see the Cubs win. Clearly that won't happen now. Maybe we can pump her up with news of football or hockey, although neither will ever have the same draw for her.
My first hockey game is this Saturday night vs. Ottawa. The Sharks are in bad shape again this year, but at least I know it early in the season and can adjust my expectations accordingly. I just like the experience of being there, regardless of who wins. Except for next month when they play the Rangers. No matter what else happens, the Rangers will always suck.
Funny Memory
I know there's one person who reads this who will know the person this story is about, but I just remembered it and thought it was funny, so I'm writing it down anyway... although it might have only been funny because I was drunk. :-) And I only remembered because I just heard a song on the radio that brought me back to this moment with a laugh.
So a few years back, there was this company event in Dallas. We were stuck at this hotel for far too long, and we had all made this small, pathetic hotel nightclub our evening hangout. Anyway, as a non-dancer, I was frequently ditched by the dancing girls and often joined at my quiet side table by a coworker named Duran (sorry, I have to name him, it's directly related to the joke). We're having a good old time talking (he really likes to talk), everything's fine, blah, blah, blah. After a few more drinks (probably half a dozen more... it was that kind of week), he starts hitting on me. Ok, fine, not interested, but whatever. He tells me he wants to take me out to some club that he knows of... and of course there is no way in hell that I'm leaving the hotel bar with him under any circumstances. So I come up with a dozen or so reasons why I can't go, finally ending with, "I can't go anywhere with you. I don't even know your middle name." How middle names were relevant at the time, I have no idea, but it seemed reasonable at the time.
He looks at me and says, "My middle name is Duran." Now, with the benefit of a nearly toxic amount of alcohol, I blurt out, "Your name is Duran Duran?" Of course, as soon as I say it, I start laughing hysterically, because to me, this is the funniest thing I've ever heard (remember, this is alcohol-aided). He looks at me like I'm totally insane and tries to explain that he uses his middle name because it's better than his first name, blah, blah, blah (and, having heard his first name, I can see why Duran would be preferable... I don't think his mother liked him much).
The next day, L & G are grilling me about what happened with Duran the night before (for god's sake, absolutely nothing! I do have standards, even when drunk), and I think they still remain convinced to this day that there was more to that story than what they saw... although I find it hard to imagine that L even noticed since she was down on the dance floor kissing someone from the VP ranks, and not even the person that we later strongly suspected that she had a thing with. But I digress. So for the last time, L, if you ever read this, nothing happened. It was a quiet night and I went to bed alone with my bed filled with 10 pillows -- the bed that somehow magically spawned pillows every time they made the bed in the morning.
I know there's one person who reads this who will know the person this story is about, but I just remembered it and thought it was funny, so I'm writing it down anyway... although it might have only been funny because I was drunk. :-) And I only remembered because I just heard a song on the radio that brought me back to this moment with a laugh.
So a few years back, there was this company event in Dallas. We were stuck at this hotel for far too long, and we had all made this small, pathetic hotel nightclub our evening hangout. Anyway, as a non-dancer, I was frequently ditched by the dancing girls and often joined at my quiet side table by a coworker named Duran (sorry, I have to name him, it's directly related to the joke). We're having a good old time talking (he really likes to talk), everything's fine, blah, blah, blah. After a few more drinks (probably half a dozen more... it was that kind of week), he starts hitting on me. Ok, fine, not interested, but whatever. He tells me he wants to take me out to some club that he knows of... and of course there is no way in hell that I'm leaving the hotel bar with him under any circumstances. So I come up with a dozen or so reasons why I can't go, finally ending with, "I can't go anywhere with you. I don't even know your middle name." How middle names were relevant at the time, I have no idea, but it seemed reasonable at the time.
He looks at me and says, "My middle name is Duran." Now, with the benefit of a nearly toxic amount of alcohol, I blurt out, "Your name is Duran Duran?" Of course, as soon as I say it, I start laughing hysterically, because to me, this is the funniest thing I've ever heard (remember, this is alcohol-aided). He looks at me like I'm totally insane and tries to explain that he uses his middle name because it's better than his first name, blah, blah, blah (and, having heard his first name, I can see why Duran would be preferable... I don't think his mother liked him much).
The next day, L & G are grilling me about what happened with Duran the night before (for god's sake, absolutely nothing! I do have standards, even when drunk), and I think they still remain convinced to this day that there was more to that story than what they saw... although I find it hard to imagine that L even noticed since she was down on the dance floor kissing someone from the VP ranks, and not even the person that we later strongly suspected that she had a thing with. But I digress. So for the last time, L, if you ever read this, nothing happened. It was a quiet night and I went to bed alone with my bed filled with 10 pillows -- the bed that somehow magically spawned pillows every time they made the bed in the morning.
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Mothers
The conversation goes a little something like this (and I try to present this with as little bias as possible):
Mom: How's the business going.
Me: Fine.
Mom: I can tell by your voice that it's not fine. Oh my god, what happened?
Me: Nothing happened, it's just plugging along doing its thing.
Mom: You're going bankrupt, aren't you? I knew this would happen.
Me: I'm not bankrupt! I'm a long way from bankrupt! You don't just open the doors and expect thousands of people to swarm in like it's an established business....
Mom: Oh god, I just knew it! I'm so glad I didn't tell your grandmother about this. It would have been such a disappointment....
Me: Jesus, mom, that's really nice. I appreciate thinking that I'm a disappointment to the living as well as the nearly dead....
Mom: No! You're not a disappointment! I support everything you do, right or wrong....
Me: I suppose this falls into the category of Wrong?
Mom: How can you get mad at me when even you admit it was a mistake?
Me: I didn't say it was a mistake.
Mom: You just did, I heard you. Don't try to take advantage of me when you know I'm upset, like I don't have enough on my mind with your grandmother....
Will I be this insane when I'm her age? Because if I am, you might as well lock me in the basement now, because I don't want the rest of the world to see me like that.
The conversation goes a little something like this (and I try to present this with as little bias as possible):
Mom: How's the business going.
Me: Fine.
Mom: I can tell by your voice that it's not fine. Oh my god, what happened?
Me: Nothing happened, it's just plugging along doing its thing.
Mom: You're going bankrupt, aren't you? I knew this would happen.
Me: I'm not bankrupt! I'm a long way from bankrupt! You don't just open the doors and expect thousands of people to swarm in like it's an established business....
Mom: Oh god, I just knew it!
Me: Jesus, mom, that's really nice. I appreciate thinking that I'm a disappointment to the living as well as the nearly dead....
Mom: No! You're not a disappointment! I support everything you do, right or wrong....
Me: I suppose this falls into the category of Wrong?
Mom: How can you get mad at me when even you admit it was a mistake?
Me: I didn't say it was a mistake.
Mom: You just did, I heard you. Don't try to take advantage of me when you know I'm upset, like I don't have enough on my mind with your grandmother....
Will I be this insane when I'm her age? Because if I am, you might as well lock me in the basement now, because I don't want the rest of the world to see me like that.
Dreams
I had the weirdest dream last night. I was in the Buffy musical episode. Weird, weird, weird.
I had the weirdest dream last night. I was in the Buffy musical episode. Weird, weird, weird.
Singles Hell
My friend H is single. She's recently decided to give up on actually finding a relationship ("I really don't want someone sitting here on my couch trying to talk while I'm reading") and just do the casual sex thing. Who does she pick as her first selection? A short, strange-looking man with a beer belly and large sideburns that give him a latter-day Elvis look. I'm not really sure what she was thinking, other than the fact that he happened to be nearby and showed an interest. It's sad, really. She's tall, long dark hair, thin and willowy... not at all unattractive. And yet she has zero luck with men.
I can't say that I don't understand. It's really a marvel that I'm married, judging by my success with prior relationships. There were clingy ones, abusive ones, psychotic ones, stupid ones (and oddly, the stupid ones were never the ones who looked like they might have limited intellect on paper... it was always the educated ones who were functional idiots). I lucked out by finding one that also happened to be my friend.
I can actually remember this one time, back when I was hanging out with C and our mutual friend, R. I knew C from school, but not terribly well (he had the psycho girlfriend and wasn't allowed out much). R got us all together for this one weekend. We were riding to Atlantic City for the evening, R in the backseat and C driving. I was talking with C about a million different things, and after a while it suddenly occurred to me that I'd completely forgotten that R was in the backseat. I was having such a good time with him. He made me laugh. We didn't start dating until three months later, but I should have known from that moment that there was something different about this guy. He wasn't necessarily what I would consider to be my type, either (dark eyes? Italian? how odd), but I guess that doesn't always matter when everything else just clicks. He's the best friend I've ever had. We have ups and downs, but I'm always glad that he's part of my life.
How does the stream of consciousness change direction and become about me all of a sudden? I wasn't intending that. This is why I don't go to therapists... they would probably have a field day with that.
My friend H is single. She's recently decided to give up on actually finding a relationship ("I really don't want someone sitting here on my couch trying to talk while I'm reading") and just do the casual sex thing. Who does she pick as her first selection? A short, strange-looking man with a beer belly and large sideburns that give him a latter-day Elvis look. I'm not really sure what she was thinking, other than the fact that he happened to be nearby and showed an interest. It's sad, really. She's tall, long dark hair, thin and willowy... not at all unattractive. And yet she has zero luck with men.
I can't say that I don't understand. It's really a marvel that I'm married, judging by my success with prior relationships. There were clingy ones, abusive ones, psychotic ones, stupid ones (and oddly, the stupid ones were never the ones who looked like they might have limited intellect on paper... it was always the educated ones who were functional idiots). I lucked out by finding one that also happened to be my friend.
I can actually remember this one time, back when I was hanging out with C and our mutual friend, R. I knew C from school, but not terribly well (he had the psycho girlfriend and wasn't allowed out much). R got us all together for this one weekend. We were riding to Atlantic City for the evening, R in the backseat and C driving. I was talking with C about a million different things, and after a while it suddenly occurred to me that I'd completely forgotten that R was in the backseat. I was having such a good time with him. He made me laugh. We didn't start dating until three months later, but I should have known from that moment that there was something different about this guy. He wasn't necessarily what I would consider to be my type, either (dark eyes? Italian? how odd), but I guess that doesn't always matter when everything else just clicks. He's the best friend I've ever had. We have ups and downs, but I'm always glad that he's part of my life.
How does the stream of consciousness change direction and become about me all of a sudden? I wasn't intending that. This is why I don't go to therapists... they would probably have a field day with that.
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
And Another Thing...
On Sunday, I made homemade ravioli for the first time. I haven't eaten them yet -- they're frozen for future emergency use. I actually made four meals on Sunday: Sunday dinner, the ravioli, a nice bolognese sauce to freeze for later, and Monday's dinner, a not-too-bad beef stew. I had a lot of time on my hands.
On Sunday, I made homemade ravioli for the first time. I haven't eaten them yet -- they're frozen for future emergency use. I actually made four meals on Sunday: Sunday dinner, the ravioli, a nice bolognese sauce to freeze for later, and Monday's dinner, a not-too-bad beef stew. I had a lot of time on my hands.
The Tale of the Dim Reaper
Many of you haven't heard of the Dim Reaper, but he's a distant cousin of the more-famous Grim Reaper. As they share many of the same family traits, you can't avoid either one. They show up at your doorstep and wait patiently for you to give in.
The Dim Reaper, rather than bringing death, brings stupidity. Not just your average stupidity, but the kind that seeps down to the bone and becomes a part of everything it touches. It's not the kind of stupidity that will result in getting run over by a bus because you're not looking, or inadvertently drinking toxic chemicals, but rather it's the Dilbertian stupidity that runs rampant in offices.
So now, as I prepare to enter an hour-long meeting with the web team and the strategic initiatives guy, I can clearly see the Dim Reaper standing outside my door. He's wearing his cloak crooked, and a corner of it is tucked into the waistband of his pants -- what can I say, he's not that bright -- and I just know that he's waiting for me. He's contemplated knocking a few times, but can't yet figure out how to pronounce my name in order to make a proper introduction. So there he stands, looking confused. Regardless, I know he'll find the meeting. He always does.
Many of you haven't heard of the Dim Reaper, but he's a distant cousin of the more-famous Grim Reaper. As they share many of the same family traits, you can't avoid either one. They show up at your doorstep and wait patiently for you to give in.
The Dim Reaper, rather than bringing death, brings stupidity. Not just your average stupidity, but the kind that seeps down to the bone and becomes a part of everything it touches. It's not the kind of stupidity that will result in getting run over by a bus because you're not looking, or inadvertently drinking toxic chemicals, but rather it's the Dilbertian stupidity that runs rampant in offices.
So now, as I prepare to enter an hour-long meeting with the web team and the strategic initiatives guy, I can clearly see the Dim Reaper standing outside my door. He's wearing his cloak crooked, and a corner of it is tucked into the waistband of his pants -- what can I say, he's not that bright -- and I just know that he's waiting for me. He's contemplated knocking a few times, but can't yet figure out how to pronounce my name in order to make a proper introduction. So there he stands, looking confused. Regardless, I know he'll find the meeting. He always does.
On the Brighter Side
Enough of this dark crap, there are better things to talk about. Like the adorable little baby outfit that I found for Valentina's baby-to-be. Granted, I have until Valentine's Day (when else would someone named Valentina have a baby?), but I saw it and it was so cute... a tiny little onesie with a matching little sweater, all with tiny teddy bears on it. Baby clothes are just the most amazing thing. You can't even believe that there could be an actual human that's so tiny. This itty-bitty little thing will one day be a full-grown adult... or worse, a teenager.
I've been doing lots of Christmas shopping lately. Lots of stuff for the kids on my list. I'm getting books for Joey, in spite of the fact that I still think he's autistic and know he won't sit still long enough for Steve & Christina to read to him. But I live in hope that he'll someday be interested in more than throwing things on the ground and watching them break. For Nicholas, I should get him a beer and a baseball cap so he can be just like his drunken daddy, although child welfare might not think that's an appropriate gift for a toddler. He'll get books, too. Promote literacy while I can. The twins... god, what to get them? One probably wants a security blanket and pacifier, while the other would like her own apartment. You couldn't find two more different children if you tried, so the fact that they're twins is all the more astounding.
My father will get luggage, none of that cheap-ass discount store stuff that my mother likes to buy with its cheap wheels and too-short handles. My mother will get something that I make from the bead shop, most likely. Quick projects are good for me. HH gets old movies. MM gets the Muppet Movie soundtrack (she'll crack up and think it's the best gift ever... we are such children at heart).
As for me, what do I want? Nothing in particular, really. Just something that comes from the heart. If the buyer sees it and thinks of me, then that's the right gift. This doesn't include consumer electronics. I'm sorry, but that's not really what I have in mind, unless I can get a better hands-free set for my cell phone. I'm a simple girl, aren't I? I'd also like a manicure, and maybe a facial. Just some stuff to treat myself well. I'd like a weekend away. I'd like a puppy, but the time just isn't right for that. See how easy I am? No diamonds, no $100 handbags. Just me.
Enough of this dark crap, there are better things to talk about. Like the adorable little baby outfit that I found for Valentina's baby-to-be. Granted, I have until Valentine's Day (when else would someone named Valentina have a baby?), but I saw it and it was so cute... a tiny little onesie with a matching little sweater, all with tiny teddy bears on it. Baby clothes are just the most amazing thing. You can't even believe that there could be an actual human that's so tiny. This itty-bitty little thing will one day be a full-grown adult... or worse, a teenager.
I've been doing lots of Christmas shopping lately. Lots of stuff for the kids on my list. I'm getting books for Joey, in spite of the fact that I still think he's autistic and know he won't sit still long enough for Steve & Christina to read to him. But I live in hope that he'll someday be interested in more than throwing things on the ground and watching them break. For Nicholas, I should get him a beer and a baseball cap so he can be just like his drunken daddy, although child welfare might not think that's an appropriate gift for a toddler. He'll get books, too. Promote literacy while I can. The twins... god, what to get them? One probably wants a security blanket and pacifier, while the other would like her own apartment. You couldn't find two more different children if you tried, so the fact that they're twins is all the more astounding.
My father will get luggage, none of that cheap-ass discount store stuff that my mother likes to buy with its cheap wheels and too-short handles. My mother will get something that I make from the bead shop, most likely. Quick projects are good for me. HH gets old movies. MM gets the Muppet Movie soundtrack (she'll crack up and think it's the best gift ever... we are such children at heart).
As for me, what do I want? Nothing in particular, really. Just something that comes from the heart. If the buyer sees it and thinks of me, then that's the right gift. This doesn't include consumer electronics. I'm sorry, but that's not really what I have in mind, unless I can get a better hands-free set for my cell phone. I'm a simple girl, aren't I? I'd also like a manicure, and maybe a facial. Just some stuff to treat myself well. I'd like a weekend away. I'd like a puppy, but the time just isn't right for that. See how easy I am? No diamonds, no $100 handbags. Just me.
Cancer
Aunt Grace, my grandmother's sister, just found out that she has breast cancer. This doesn't come as a surprise to anyone; the symptoms were consistent with malignancy rather than just a run-of-the-mill lump. She's 83 years old and they're trying to talk her into getting a lumpectomy and having chemo. There's no way in hell I'd take that path. Take the whole thing, be sure you've got it all, and don't make me pump hideous chemicals through my body. It's a quality of life issue to me. The cure is worse than the disease. I'd rather lose one breast than spend my days weak, anemic and vomiting from chemical poisoning.
But of course, the other issue here is that now it's confirmed that all three sisters (grandmom, Grace and Blanche) all had breast cancer. Grandmom's came when she was in her 40s, Blanche had it in her 50s, and now Grace in her 80s. Would you say that odds are good that the family carries the gene? Of course, my mother should get checked out, but since she hasn't been to a doctor since I was in preschool, that seems unlikely. I suppose I should be glad that mine are so small. Lumps should be easy to find.
Aunt Grace, my grandmother's sister, just found out that she has breast cancer. This doesn't come as a surprise to anyone; the symptoms were consistent with malignancy rather than just a run-of-the-mill lump. She's 83 years old and they're trying to talk her into getting a lumpectomy and having chemo. There's no way in hell I'd take that path. Take the whole thing, be sure you've got it all, and don't make me pump hideous chemicals through my body. It's a quality of life issue to me. The cure is worse than the disease. I'd rather lose one breast than spend my days weak, anemic and vomiting from chemical poisoning.
But of course, the other issue here is that now it's confirmed that all three sisters (grandmom, Grace and Blanche) all had breast cancer. Grandmom's came when she was in her 40s, Blanche had it in her 50s, and now Grace in her 80s. Would you say that odds are good that the family carries the gene? Of course, my mother should get checked out, but since she hasn't been to a doctor since I was in preschool, that seems unlikely. I suppose I should be glad that mine are so small. Lumps should be easy to find.
Is it Supposed to be Funny?
At my day job, we have this new marketing campaign (no, it wasn't my idea) with the slogan "Red Means Start". No, it doesn't make any sense to us, either. But they have these variants: the "no entry" sign with the text "Red Means Enter" and the red stoplight that says "Red Means Go".
Here's the part that may or may not be humorous. I walk into the bathroom and I'm met with a giant "Red Means Go" poster. My first thought was that they were advertising in the ladies room, and is nothing sacred? My second thought was whether they saw the humor in the "go" message in the bathroom. I have this strange hunch that it wasn't supposed to be funny.
At my day job, we have this new marketing campaign (no, it wasn't my idea) with the slogan "Red Means Start". No, it doesn't make any sense to us, either. But they have these variants: the "no entry" sign with the text "Red Means Enter" and the red stoplight that says "Red Means Go".
Here's the part that may or may not be humorous. I walk into the bathroom and I'm met with a giant "Red Means Go" poster. My first thought was that they were advertising in the ladies room, and is nothing sacred? My second thought was whether they saw the humor in the "go" message in the bathroom. I have this strange hunch that it wasn't supposed to be funny.
Monday, October 13, 2003
Interesting
From How to be Good:
"Getting married and having a family is like emigrating. I used to live in the same country as my brother; I used to share his values and his tastes and his attitudes, and then I moved away. And even though I didn't notice it happening, I started to speak with a different accent, and think differently, and even though I remembered my native land fondly, all traces of it had gone from me. Now, though, I want to go home. I can see that I made a big mistake, that the new world isn't all it was cracked up to be, and the people there are much saner and wiser than the people who live in my adopted nation.
From How to be Good:
"Getting married and having a family is like emigrating. I used to live in the same country as my brother; I used to share his values and his tastes and his attitudes, and then I moved away. And even though I didn't notice it happening, I started to speak with a different accent, and think differently, and even though I remembered my native land fondly, all traces of it had gone from me. Now, though, I want to go home. I can see that I made a big mistake, that the new world isn't all it was cracked up to be, and the people there are much saner and wiser than the people who live in my adopted nation.
Therapy
I know that this blog is, for me, like going to therapy, except without the annoying therapist who pretends to listen intently, but really can't understand what the heck I'm whining about because after all, I have a good life and I should stop dwelling on such trivial crap. But if I didn't dwell on the trivial crap, then there wouldn't be any reason to see a therapist, would there?
I've been in a funk all night. I spent nearly an hour tonight talking with N, one of my instructors, who was born and raised in New York. Granted, NY is two states away from Philly, but everything is much more concentrated on the east coast, so our shared experiences are so similar. And there's something about the conversation that filled me with an almost painful lament for being so far from home, not that I'd want to live in the same town as my parents or anything, but just because I've come so far and things are so wickedly different (see, I talk about the east coast and I start invoking MB's Boston wicked-isms... god I miss him).
And then I come home to find C doing his grad school thing, which I really want to be supportive of. I really do. I've always prided myself on being the good wife, the best friend, the one that is always there to stick with him through every harebrained idea, including but not limited to the move to California, the purchase of the Jeep, the belief that he can do his own plumbing, his desire to tear down the garage by himself with the aid of a sledgehammer... all of this defied reason, and yet I went along with it because that's what I do. I'm supportive. I'm loving. I'm everything you could possibly ever want in a wife (with the possible exception of big tits, and I'm suspecting that at 30, my days of puberty have long passed me by). So now, as I sit here and find myself unnaturally twisted up inside about this whole grad school thing, I feel like some sort of a wife failure. It's like this is a black mark that will end up on my permanent wife record, thus making me ineligible for admission to good wife colleges and dooming me to a lifetime of mediocrity.
And another thing... I have this sharp, stabbing pain in my ear that's making me want to curl up in the corner and die. It actually stops me in my tracks and brings tears to my eyes when it starts.
Maybe I need to cry. Maybe this shit at work and home and my grandmother's pending possibillity of death is just taking its toll, and it's all trying to escape out of my ear.
And then, he comes into the living room, kisses me on the forehead and tells me he loves me. Just like that. No other reason to come in here other than to just let me know that he's thinking of me. And I feel like such a shit that I start to cry, just a little at first until he leaves the room. What the hell is wrong with me?
There are fire trucks racing up our street, and this does nothing to soothe my uneasiness. It's so totally pathetic that I'm afraid of fire trucks, but what do you expect when they're so noisy, represent loss, and were always carrying my friends into danger back home? They always make me shaky.
I sound completely pathetic and maladjusted. I clearly need to up my dosage. I used to be strong. You'd never know it now.
I'm going back to reading. Less dwelling on my own issues, more dwelling on those of fictional characters.
I know that this blog is, for me, like going to therapy, except without the annoying therapist who pretends to listen intently, but really can't understand what the heck I'm whining about because after all, I have a good life and I should stop dwelling on such trivial crap. But if I didn't dwell on the trivial crap, then there wouldn't be any reason to see a therapist, would there?
I've been in a funk all night. I spent nearly an hour tonight talking with N, one of my instructors, who was born and raised in New York. Granted, NY is two states away from Philly, but everything is much more concentrated on the east coast, so our shared experiences are so similar. And there's something about the conversation that filled me with an almost painful lament for being so far from home, not that I'd want to live in the same town as my parents or anything, but just because I've come so far and things are so wickedly different (see, I talk about the east coast and I start invoking MB's Boston wicked-isms... god I miss him).
And then I come home to find C doing his grad school thing, which I really want to be supportive of. I really do. I've always prided myself on being the good wife, the best friend, the one that is always there to stick with him through every harebrained idea, including but not limited to the move to California, the purchase of the Jeep, the belief that he can do his own plumbing, his desire to tear down the garage by himself with the aid of a sledgehammer... all of this defied reason, and yet I went along with it because that's what I do. I'm supportive. I'm loving. I'm everything you could possibly ever want in a wife (with the possible exception of big tits, and I'm suspecting that at 30, my days of puberty have long passed me by). So now, as I sit here and find myself unnaturally twisted up inside about this whole grad school thing, I feel like some sort of a wife failure. It's like this is a black mark that will end up on my permanent wife record, thus making me ineligible for admission to good wife colleges and dooming me to a lifetime of mediocrity.
And another thing... I have this sharp, stabbing pain in my ear that's making me want to curl up in the corner and die. It actually stops me in my tracks and brings tears to my eyes when it starts.
Maybe I need to cry. Maybe this shit at work and home and my grandmother's pending possibillity of death is just taking its toll, and it's all trying to escape out of my ear.
And then, he comes into the living room, kisses me on the forehead and tells me he loves me. Just like that. No other reason to come in here other than to just let me know that he's thinking of me. And I feel like such a shit that I start to cry, just a little at first until he leaves the room. What the hell is wrong with me?
There are fire trucks racing up our street, and this does nothing to soothe my uneasiness. It's so totally pathetic that I'm afraid of fire trucks, but what do you expect when they're so noisy, represent loss, and were always carrying my friends into danger back home? They always make me shaky.
I sound completely pathetic and maladjusted. I clearly need to up my dosage. I used to be strong. You'd never know it now.
I'm going back to reading. Less dwelling on my own issues, more dwelling on those of fictional characters.
Fiction
It was a time when children weren't afraid to ride their bicycles up and down the streets of the town. Bad things -- really bad things -- happened to other people in other places. Oh, sure these were the kind of kids that regularly saw their fathers beat their mothers, or parents stumbling home drunk in the early morning light, the kid of kids who knew that their families were barely living paycheck to paycheck, the kind who knew a friend, neighbor or family member in jail. They played stickball with broomsticks from the shed and tennis balls that they'd found in the bushes at the local high school. But because everyone lived like that in the neighborhood, it didn't seem at all strange. It was just the way life was. There was laughter and taunting and fierce competition, especially among the boys. That all changed on one crisp autumn day.
It was late afternoon and the kids were called home one by one for dinner. Danny knew that his mother was working a double shift that day, and that his father had likely forgotten her schedule and stayed out at the bar with the guys from his shift. His older brother, Bobby, often ate dinner at a friend's house. So Danny remained outside, alone, not noticing the futility of trying to gather leaves into a pile on a windy October day. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows on the lawn. Danny pulled the hood of his blue sweatshirt jacket up over his head to warm his ears, continuing to gather leaves by the armload. Some neighbors noticed him out there as they pulled up to their homes. No one noticed when he was gone.
Danny's father returned home shortly before 10:00, trying to get in before his wife returned from work and gave him hell for drinking. He intended to go upstairs and take a much-needed shower, but he never made it past the threadbare couch. He was asleep when she came home. Grumbling about marrying a drunk, she headed upstairs to sleep, exhausted from 16 hours on her feet at the diner. She heard music coming from the boys' room, and never bothered to look in on them.
Morning came too quickly. The sunslight streamed through the east window, the only way she could rouse herself after a long day. She shuffled towards the boys' room and banged on the door before pulling her robe tight around her and heading for the kitchen to start the coffee. Bobby was downstairs in less than ten minutes to grab his customary bowl of corn flakes covered in orange juice.
"Is your brother up?" she asked him? "He's gonna be late."
Bobby stopped, spoon in midmotion, orange guice dripping down his chin in sticky rivulets. "Danny ain't here," he replied.
She tood with her mug in her hands, cupped around it for warmth. She paused to process this information. "Not here? What do you mean, 'not here'?"
He chewed slowly and swallowed. "I thought he was staying with a friend."
She headed out of the kitchen, calling behind her, "He don't got no friends, where the hell would he be?" She went to the couch and kicked it, startling her husband awake. "Where is he?" she asked.
"Damn it, Mary, don't go shocking me awake like that," he moaned. "Can't you see I'm sick?"
"Sick and drunk ain't the same thing," she snarled. "Where is he?"
He rubbed his eyes. "Where is who?"
"Your son. Danny."
He stared blankly. She couldn't tell if he didn't remember which one was Danny or didn't know what she was talking about. "Uhhhh... he's... uhhh...."
It was at that moment that she realized the gravity of the situation. Her drunk husband, who was supposed to be watching the kids, had been passed out on the couch and hadn't noticed that their child hadn't come home. Why didn't she look in on him last night? Why didn't she tuck him in, in spite of the fact that he protested endlessly that he was too old for that kind of treatment? Her coffee mug crashed to the floor and she sailed through the front door. "Danny! Danny!" She was halfway down the block in her bare feet, spinning frantically from one side to the other, as though he might magically appear from behind a tree and say, "Here I am." But there was no Danny. Her calls were met with the sound of a cold wind and dry leaves scurrying down the asphalt. "Danny!" She collapsed to the ground, overcome with heaving sobs, and remained there, alone until the first patrol car came and the officer gently led her into the house.
It was a time when children weren't afraid to ride their bicycles up and down the streets of the town. Bad things -- really bad things -- happened to other people in other places. Oh, sure these were the kind of kids that regularly saw their fathers beat their mothers, or parents stumbling home drunk in the early morning light, the kid of kids who knew that their families were barely living paycheck to paycheck, the kind who knew a friend, neighbor or family member in jail. They played stickball with broomsticks from the shed and tennis balls that they'd found in the bushes at the local high school. But because everyone lived like that in the neighborhood, it didn't seem at all strange. It was just the way life was. There was laughter and taunting and fierce competition, especially among the boys. That all changed on one crisp autumn day.
It was late afternoon and the kids were called home one by one for dinner. Danny knew that his mother was working a double shift that day, and that his father had likely forgotten her schedule and stayed out at the bar with the guys from his shift. His older brother, Bobby, often ate dinner at a friend's house. So Danny remained outside, alone, not noticing the futility of trying to gather leaves into a pile on a windy October day. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows on the lawn. Danny pulled the hood of his blue sweatshirt jacket up over his head to warm his ears, continuing to gather leaves by the armload. Some neighbors noticed him out there as they pulled up to their homes. No one noticed when he was gone.
Danny's father returned home shortly before 10:00, trying to get in before his wife returned from work and gave him hell for drinking. He intended to go upstairs and take a much-needed shower, but he never made it past the threadbare couch. He was asleep when she came home. Grumbling about marrying a drunk, she headed upstairs to sleep, exhausted from 16 hours on her feet at the diner. She heard music coming from the boys' room, and never bothered to look in on them.
Morning came too quickly. The sunslight streamed through the east window, the only way she could rouse herself after a long day. She shuffled towards the boys' room and banged on the door before pulling her robe tight around her and heading for the kitchen to start the coffee. Bobby was downstairs in less than ten minutes to grab his customary bowl of corn flakes covered in orange juice.
"Is your brother up?" she asked him? "He's gonna be late."
Bobby stopped, spoon in midmotion, orange guice dripping down his chin in sticky rivulets. "Danny ain't here," he replied.
She tood with her mug in her hands, cupped around it for warmth. She paused to process this information. "Not here? What do you mean, 'not here'?"
He chewed slowly and swallowed. "I thought he was staying with a friend."
She headed out of the kitchen, calling behind her, "He don't got no friends, where the hell would he be?" She went to the couch and kicked it, startling her husband awake. "Where is he?" she asked.
"Damn it, Mary, don't go shocking me awake like that," he moaned. "Can't you see I'm sick?"
"Sick and drunk ain't the same thing," she snarled. "Where is he?"
He rubbed his eyes. "Where is who?"
"Your son. Danny."
He stared blankly. She couldn't tell if he didn't remember which one was Danny or didn't know what she was talking about. "Uhhhh... he's... uhhh...."
It was at that moment that she realized the gravity of the situation. Her drunk husband, who was supposed to be watching the kids, had been passed out on the couch and hadn't noticed that their child hadn't come home. Why didn't she look in on him last night? Why didn't she tuck him in, in spite of the fact that he protested endlessly that he was too old for that kind of treatment? Her coffee mug crashed to the floor and she sailed through the front door. "Danny! Danny!" She was halfway down the block in her bare feet, spinning frantically from one side to the other, as though he might magically appear from behind a tree and say, "Here I am." But there was no Danny. Her calls were met with the sound of a cold wind and dry leaves scurrying down the asphalt. "Danny!" She collapsed to the ground, overcome with heaving sobs, and remained there, alone until the first patrol car came and the officer gently led her into the house.
Food Coma
The after lunch exhaustion has kicked in, and just as I started to zone out and stare into space, I heard a baby wail. I thought I had dozed off and was dreaming, but evidently someone has their kid here. At least I'm not losing my mind.
Not today, anyway.
The situation back home is deteriorating rapidly, or so it seems. The hospice nurse tells my mother that grandmom's low, growling voice and incoherent conversations with no one in particular is one of the final steps on the path. She tells my mother that she's getting ready to go, which of course kills mom. I can't imagine that she's not ready to let go. I know it must be hard to lose a parent, but at the same time, grandmom hasn't been there in a long time. Just because the outer shell kind of looks like her, doesn't mean that she's really there. Mom's desperate for me to tell her that I've had dreams about my grandfather, because I've had dreams before where he's watching out for grandmom and protecting her, but it hasn't happened this time around. I saw things in those dreams that I couldn't have remembered from 25 years ago, and yet they were all really features of my grandfather's behavior and personality. Mom's sure that I have some sort of gift, some magical connection with her father. I don't know, maybe I do. I adored him, and she says that even after the stroke left him speechless, he would still light up at the sight of me, six years old and in pigtails. Maybe there is something there.
Death is such a mysterious thing. At this moment, I don't have any interest in what comes after, but I so desperately want to know what goes on as you're slipping away. Grandmom's eyes are like glass, no focus, no expression. What is going on in her brain that isn't getting out? Is there anything in there? Have the neurons stopped firing? Or is it all like a big dream? Is she remembering her childhood? Is she teasing the farm animals or getting struck by lightning in the barn? Is she running varsity track in high school or walking into town from the farm? Is she meeting granddad at the USO dance or getting married? Or is it bad stuff, like learning she had cancer and having the mastectomy? This is what I need to know. This is the stuff that I would give anything to know.
Christ, I just got a pain in my ear so sharp that I wouldn't be surprised to find that someone jabbed a pencil through it. Holy hell, that hurts! Dear god, I'm falling apart. What the hell is wrong with me?
The after lunch exhaustion has kicked in, and just as I started to zone out and stare into space, I heard a baby wail. I thought I had dozed off and was dreaming, but evidently someone has their kid here. At least I'm not losing my mind.
Not today, anyway.
The situation back home is deteriorating rapidly, or so it seems. The hospice nurse tells my mother that grandmom's low, growling voice and incoherent conversations with no one in particular is one of the final steps on the path. She tells my mother that she's getting ready to go, which of course kills mom. I can't imagine that she's not ready to let go. I know it must be hard to lose a parent, but at the same time, grandmom hasn't been there in a long time. Just because the outer shell kind of looks like her, doesn't mean that she's really there. Mom's desperate for me to tell her that I've had dreams about my grandfather, because I've had dreams before where he's watching out for grandmom and protecting her, but it hasn't happened this time around. I saw things in those dreams that I couldn't have remembered from 25 years ago, and yet they were all really features of my grandfather's behavior and personality. Mom's sure that I have some sort of gift, some magical connection with her father. I don't know, maybe I do. I adored him, and she says that even after the stroke left him speechless, he would still light up at the sight of me, six years old and in pigtails. Maybe there is something there.
Death is such a mysterious thing. At this moment, I don't have any interest in what comes after, but I so desperately want to know what goes on as you're slipping away. Grandmom's eyes are like glass, no focus, no expression. What is going on in her brain that isn't getting out? Is there anything in there? Have the neurons stopped firing? Or is it all like a big dream? Is she remembering her childhood? Is she teasing the farm animals or getting struck by lightning in the barn? Is she running varsity track in high school or walking into town from the farm? Is she meeting granddad at the USO dance or getting married? Or is it bad stuff, like learning she had cancer and having the mastectomy? This is what I need to know. This is the stuff that I would give anything to know.
Christ, I just got a pain in my ear so sharp that I wouldn't be surprised to find that someone jabbed a pencil through it. Holy hell, that hurts! Dear god, I'm falling apart. What the hell is wrong with me?
Sunday, October 12, 2003
How?
I'm watching a Discovery Channel special on New York City and how it evolved over hundreds of years. And of course, they show the towers. How the hell is it possible that they're not there anymore? How can it just be a memory? How could the plan have been executed, the people killed... how could any of it have happened anywhere but in the mind of a Hollywood producer? Every time I fly into Newark I'm surprised that they're gone. I saw the video of the planes so many times that in my head it's no more real than any action movie. I could see Bruce Willis starring in a movie like that. But to have something like that happen in reality... it just doesn't make any sense. And then when I think of all of the people, all of the families, like Michael and Miriam and the kids... all of the wives without husbands, kids without parents... how the hell do they go on? How do people manage to live after someone they love is murdered? How do you accept the fact that someone willingly took that life from you?
I need to stop watching TV.
I'm watching a Discovery Channel special on New York City and how it evolved over hundreds of years. And of course, they show the towers. How the hell is it possible that they're not there anymore? How can it just be a memory? How could the plan have been executed, the people killed... how could any of it have happened anywhere but in the mind of a Hollywood producer? Every time I fly into Newark I'm surprised that they're gone. I saw the video of the planes so many times that in my head it's no more real than any action movie. I could see Bruce Willis starring in a movie like that. But to have something like that happen in reality... it just doesn't make any sense. And then when I think of all of the people, all of the families, like Michael and Miriam and the kids... all of the wives without husbands, kids without parents... how the hell do they go on? How do people manage to live after someone they love is murdered? How do you accept the fact that someone willingly took that life from you?
I need to stop watching TV.
Walking on Eggshells
I'm sitting in virtual silence while Mr Business School Applicant works on his GMAT stuff. I just went into the kitchen and got such attitude about interrupting his important business. He's not a prick, not by nature, but when something is really important he hates interference. It's like every noise -- sirens, cars, barking dogs -- are a personal affront to him. I don't think he understands that the world can't stop and wait for him to do his thing. I'm trying to be supportive. I am. I want him to be happy and successful. But if everything is going to be this tense for three years... god, I can't stand it.
Meanwhile, my business isn't exactly taking off as I'd hoped. I was hoping to have more regular attendees by now, but so far I've got little more than the Botox ladies. At this rate I'll never be able to quit the company, and I now have to live in fear of losing money at a rapid pace. I don't even want to think about it. It scares me to death. But of course, I can't tell anyone because I have to maintain this positive attitude and convince people that I'm a success and not just someone who did something totally stupid.
Meanwhile, the saga of grandmom continues. She's completely vacant now, no life behind her eyes. My father says it's like looking at a doll. My mother just cries. Grandmom is sleeping nearly all the time now. After she woke up today, my mother told her that I called and said I loved her. For the first time that I can ever remember, mom says that my grandmother cried. It freaked mom out, so of course she called me hysterical. I don't know why grandmom was crying. I feel like it might have been desperation, her brain calling "help" while her body fails to generate words. I think she's only alive because she's afraid of dying. Or maybe she's afraid that my mother will crumble without her. It's not an impractical belief. But I just hate to think that she's going on like this, hunched over, speechless, weak and weightless, eyes vacant. What's going on in her brain? Is it still active even though her body has failed? That's terrifying.
I'm sitting in virtual silence while Mr Business School Applicant works on his GMAT stuff. I just went into the kitchen and got such attitude about interrupting his important business. He's not a prick, not by nature, but when something is really important he hates interference. It's like every noise -- sirens, cars, barking dogs -- are a personal affront to him. I don't think he understands that the world can't stop and wait for him to do his thing. I'm trying to be supportive. I am. I want him to be happy and successful. But if everything is going to be this tense for three years... god, I can't stand it.
Meanwhile, my business isn't exactly taking off as I'd hoped. I was hoping to have more regular attendees by now, but so far I've got little more than the Botox ladies. At this rate I'll never be able to quit the company, and I now have to live in fear of losing money at a rapid pace. I don't even want to think about it. It scares me to death. But of course, I can't tell anyone because I have to maintain this positive attitude and convince people that I'm a success and not just someone who did something totally stupid.
Meanwhile, the saga of grandmom continues. She's completely vacant now, no life behind her eyes. My father says it's like looking at a doll. My mother just cries. Grandmom is sleeping nearly all the time now. After she woke up today, my mother told her that I called and said I loved her. For the first time that I can ever remember, mom says that my grandmother cried. It freaked mom out, so of course she called me hysterical. I don't know why grandmom was crying. I feel like it might have been desperation, her brain calling "help" while her body fails to generate words. I think she's only alive because she's afraid of dying. Or maybe she's afraid that my mother will crumble without her. It's not an impractical belief. But I just hate to think that she's going on like this, hunched over, speechless, weak and weightless, eyes vacant. What's going on in her brain? Is it still active even though her body has failed? That's terrifying.
Grad School
C is applying to grad school for his MBA today. I shouldn't be surprised. Much like the move to California, it wasn't a question of "if" as much as it was a question of "when". But basically, between his schedule with school and mine with the business, I won't see him at all for three years. Yeah, that makes me sad. He's my best friend in the world, always has been. When he's away on business and I don't have the chance to talk to him and tell him stuff, I feel very isolated and alone. This is going to be like one excruciatingly long business trip. Yes, he'll be home to sleep at night, but it's not like having dinner together or being able to sit around and talk. I guess it's time for me to start making other friends to fill the void.
C is applying to grad school for his MBA today. I shouldn't be surprised. Much like the move to California, it wasn't a question of "if" as much as it was a question of "when". But basically, between his schedule with school and mine with the business, I won't see him at all for three years. Yeah, that makes me sad. He's my best friend in the world, always has been. When he's away on business and I don't have the chance to talk to him and tell him stuff, I feel very isolated and alone. This is going to be like one excruciatingly long business trip. Yes, he'll be home to sleep at night, but it's not like having dinner together or being able to sit around and talk. I guess it's time for me to start making other friends to fill the void.
Friday, October 10, 2003
80s Retro Weekend
One of the local radio stations is playing the 80s retro weekend all weekend long (your favorite 80s hits, all weekend long, only on this station... the station that brings you more cheesy synthesizer pop than any other). One of the songs reminded me of middle school dances, which reminded me of the Legend of the Full Moon.
The Legend of the Full Moon must have been an Italian thing, as nearly everyone was Italian but me, and everyone knew this legend. Anyway, as the story goes, on the night of the full moon you would fall asleep and dream about the person you had a crush on... deep-down feelings, not just the "yeah, he's kinda cute" thing. And the interesting thing was that the other person would supposedly dream about you, too. I'm not clear if you were supposed to have the same dream or not, but you were definitely supposed to dream about each other. So when you wake up tomorrow morning, try to remember who you were dreaming about... and if you're really daring, ask them if they were dreaming about you. ;-)
One of the local radio stations is playing the 80s retro weekend all weekend long (your favorite 80s hits, all weekend long, only on this station... the station that brings you more cheesy synthesizer pop than any other). One of the songs reminded me of middle school dances, which reminded me of the Legend of the Full Moon.
The Legend of the Full Moon must have been an Italian thing, as nearly everyone was Italian but me, and everyone knew this legend. Anyway, as the story goes, on the night of the full moon you would fall asleep and dream about the person you had a crush on... deep-down feelings, not just the "yeah, he's kinda cute" thing. And the interesting thing was that the other person would supposedly dream about you, too. I'm not clear if you were supposed to have the same dream or not, but you were definitely supposed to dream about each other. So when you wake up tomorrow morning, try to remember who you were dreaming about... and if you're really daring, ask them if they were dreaming about you. ;-)
Friday Comes to Save Me
I've almost made it through the week. I haven't killed or beaten any coworkers, in spite of my nearly overpowering desire to do so. I'm quite tired, though. The mind is a fascinating thing. Even when you're just mentally active, you can be left as drained as if you ran a marathon. Which, in the case of this job, isn't far off. It's like a giant endurance race to see how much you can handle before you crack.
I only went to the studio long enough to pick up some paperwork last night. I didn't take any classes, which was probably a good thing. I've done at least one class a day for more than a week, and I'm a little overworked. I think that the salsa dancing class might have been the last straw. I'm going to try to go tonight, but I'm not sure that I'm good for much in my upper body since yesterday's flu shot. I feel like someone beat my shoulder with a baseball bat. Push-ups might be impossible... or should I say more impossible than normal.
I'm hoping that, if nothing else, my ownership of the studio will make me strong. I want to have really spectacular arms. Abs would be nice, too, but I think I have to stop eating McDonalds at lunchtime in order for that to happen. But there are just some days where nothing but a cheeseburger will do.
I think I'll go to Home Depot at lunchtime to check out paint samples for the studio. I won't be painting until Christmas... or maybe Thanksgiving... but it never hurts to keep an eye on the colors. I'd really like the place to look put-together and nice.
I've almost made it through the week. I haven't killed or beaten any coworkers, in spite of my nearly overpowering desire to do so. I'm quite tired, though. The mind is a fascinating thing. Even when you're just mentally active, you can be left as drained as if you ran a marathon. Which, in the case of this job, isn't far off. It's like a giant endurance race to see how much you can handle before you crack.
I only went to the studio long enough to pick up some paperwork last night. I didn't take any classes, which was probably a good thing. I've done at least one class a day for more than a week, and I'm a little overworked. I think that the salsa dancing class might have been the last straw. I'm going to try to go tonight, but I'm not sure that I'm good for much in my upper body since yesterday's flu shot. I feel like someone beat my shoulder with a baseball bat. Push-ups might be impossible... or should I say more impossible than normal.
I'm hoping that, if nothing else, my ownership of the studio will make me strong. I want to have really spectacular arms. Abs would be nice, too, but I think I have to stop eating McDonalds at lunchtime in order for that to happen. But there are just some days where nothing but a cheeseburger will do.
I think I'll go to Home Depot at lunchtime to check out paint samples for the studio. I won't be painting until Christmas... or maybe Thanksgiving... but it never hurts to keep an eye on the colors. I'd really like the place to look put-together and nice.
Thursday, October 09, 2003
Butter Shoes?
I know that some cultures butter everything, but have the Swedes started buttering footwear?
I know that some cultures butter everything, but have the Swedes started buttering footwear?
Pain
Physical and emotional pain are tied to the same area of the brain. It's really amazing that rejection (or perceived rejection) can make us feel so lousy, but at the same time, I can recall some of my emotionally traumatic days with the same clarity that I can recall real pain, right down to the sinking feeling in my stomach.
Physical and emotional pain are tied to the same area of the brain. It's really amazing that rejection (or perceived rejection) can make us feel so lousy, but at the same time, I can recall some of my emotionally traumatic days with the same clarity that I can recall real pain, right down to the sinking feeling in my stomach.
No Tact
From the "I'm glad I'm not sensitive about it" category....
My former boss, L, is talking about weight. I mention that I don't know my weight generally because I don't own a scale (although I went to the doctor about two months ago, so I do have a general idea from that). She responds with, "Yeah, but you know you've gained a lot of weight since we worked at the dotcom. I mean, that's totally obvious, right?" I'm not sure that I have gained weight, necessarily. I do weigh slightly more, but muscle weighs more than fat and I have worked out a lot over the last two years. If she thinks she's seen a change in 2 1/2 years, imagine what she'd say if she saw me in college when I was 35 pounds lighter! Granted, that was way, way too thin, but it was just the way I was. I've never dieted in my life.
From the "I'm glad I'm not sensitive about it" category....
My former boss, L, is talking about weight. I mention that I don't know my weight generally because I don't own a scale (although I went to the doctor about two months ago, so I do have a general idea from that). She responds with, "Yeah, but you know you've gained a lot of weight since we worked at the dotcom. I mean, that's totally obvious, right?" I'm not sure that I have gained weight, necessarily. I do weigh slightly more, but muscle weighs more than fat and I have worked out a lot over the last two years. If she thinks she's seen a change in 2 1/2 years, imagine what she'd say if she saw me in college when I was 35 pounds lighter! Granted, that was way, way too thin, but it was just the way I was. I've never dieted in my life.
Ancestry
I wish I could find out more about my family's history. The only think I've been able to trace is a link back from my maternal grandfather's mother (which, if accurate, shows that I actually had family on the Mayflower... which, I suppose, explains my family's sort of obstinate belief that we've always been here). If that lineage holds true, there were points in time where I had ancestors in the aristocracy of various parts of Europe, so it's pretty amazing to think that they abandoned their relatively decent lives in the name of religious freedom and boarded a ship bound for Massachussetts. It was a long way to go to become poor farmers in rural Vermont. Knowing how my family is now, with everyone living within walking distance of each other, it's strange to think that anyone ever had the balls to just pick up and move across an ocean.
My grandmother's condition has deteriorated so badly that I can't ever get any more information from her, although her father was English. On dad's side, the Miller family remains a mystery, but I know that my pop had traced the Jorgensen part of the family back to Denmark. That's documented somewhere in one of his many notebooks, but I don't want to ask nana to look for it -- she'll spend all night digging through the junk in the attic to find it, like there's some sort of urgency.
I almost understand why people come here now -- Hollywood has done a great job of marketing America as the place of limitless potential, and maybe it's true -- but what would have made someone go so far and settle in a wilderness inhabited by people that they thought were savages? I know they always taught us in school that it was for "religious freedom", but living in our decidedly unreligious culture now, it's hard to imagine that religion could have been such a driving force.
But that's not really the point. The point is that I'd love to know what towns they all came from. I'd like to go back to Europe and walk the streets of towns where my ancestors walked hundreds of years ago. And maybe I already have. There's speculation that there might be some Dutch blood, and maybe I've been to someplace they've been. But it seems strange to me that I just don't know. How can you not know where you're from?
I wish I could find out more about my family's history. The only think I've been able to trace is a link back from my maternal grandfather's mother (which, if accurate, shows that I actually had family on the Mayflower... which, I suppose, explains my family's sort of obstinate belief that we've always been here). If that lineage holds true, there were points in time where I had ancestors in the aristocracy of various parts of Europe, so it's pretty amazing to think that they abandoned their relatively decent lives in the name of religious freedom and boarded a ship bound for Massachussetts. It was a long way to go to become poor farmers in rural Vermont. Knowing how my family is now, with everyone living within walking distance of each other, it's strange to think that anyone ever had the balls to just pick up and move across an ocean.
My grandmother's condition has deteriorated so badly that I can't ever get any more information from her, although her father was English. On dad's side, the Miller family remains a mystery, but I know that my pop had traced the Jorgensen part of the family back to Denmark. That's documented somewhere in one of his many notebooks, but I don't want to ask nana to look for it -- she'll spend all night digging through the junk in the attic to find it, like there's some sort of urgency.
I almost understand why people come here now -- Hollywood has done a great job of marketing America as the place of limitless potential, and maybe it's true -- but what would have made someone go so far and settle in a wilderness inhabited by people that they thought were savages? I know they always taught us in school that it was for "religious freedom", but living in our decidedly unreligious culture now, it's hard to imagine that religion could have been such a driving force.
But that's not really the point. The point is that I'd love to know what towns they all came from. I'd like to go back to Europe and walk the streets of towns where my ancestors walked hundreds of years ago. And maybe I already have. There's speculation that there might be some Dutch blood, and maybe I've been to someplace they've been. But it seems strange to me that I just don't know. How can you not know where you're from?
Sleep
I slept last night. I sleep most nights, but last night was one of those nights where I just knew it was going to be deep, quality sleep from the moment my head hit the pillow. It was great, up until about 20 minutes before the alarm when I had the freaky dream about the guy getting shot in the head. I tried to interpret it with online dream encyclopedias, but none of them really address the dream at all. It was really weird, and the scenes, for lack of a better word, were all very cinematic, like I was watching it all in a movie. I don't know what it meant. I can't say I've ever had a dream like that before. I'm reasonably certain that the gunshot was sparked by the banging from the garbage truck coming through the neighborhood, but the scenes were still really weird.
I slept last night. I sleep most nights, but last night was one of those nights where I just knew it was going to be deep, quality sleep from the moment my head hit the pillow. It was great, up until about 20 minutes before the alarm when I had the freaky dream about the guy getting shot in the head. I tried to interpret it with online dream encyclopedias, but none of them really address the dream at all. It was really weird, and the scenes, for lack of a better word, were all very cinematic, like I was watching it all in a movie. I don't know what it meant. I can't say I've ever had a dream like that before. I'm reasonably certain that the gunshot was sparked by the banging from the garbage truck coming through the neighborhood, but the scenes were still really weird.
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
Nobel Prizes
It's an amazing honor to win a Nobel Prize at any age, but when guys who are in their 40s and 50s win the prize... where do you go from there? I always thought of the Nobel Prize as being an award for elderly men who had been mostly retired for years, living out their 80s as part-time lecturers at prestigious colleges, not as people in the prime of their research careers.
When I was a kid, I thought that I needed to win a Nobel Prize to guarantee that one day I'd get to see Sweden. I don't think it occurred to me that I could just go there because I felt like it. The world seemed too big for that at the time.
It's an amazing honor to win a Nobel Prize at any age, but when guys who are in their 40s and 50s win the prize... where do you go from there? I always thought of the Nobel Prize as being an award for elderly men who had been mostly retired for years, living out their 80s as part-time lecturers at prestigious colleges, not as people in the prime of their research careers.
When I was a kid, I thought that I needed to win a Nobel Prize to guarantee that one day I'd get to see Sweden. I don't think it occurred to me that I could just go there because I felt like it. The world seemed too big for that at the time.
Diamonds
103 carats and D-Internally Flawless. Wow. Having spent time in the jewelry industry, I know how incredibly difficult it is to find a diamond of that size, but to find one that perfect is astounding. I can't even imagine it. Even a two-carat D-IF is a challenge to find.
103 carats and D-Internally Flawless. Wow. Having spent time in the jewelry industry, I know how incredibly difficult it is to find a diamond of that size, but to find one that perfect is astounding. I can't even imagine it. Even a two-carat D-IF is a challenge to find.
Mr. Rogers
Sentimental, yes, but I like the idea that there's a book of Mr. Rogers wisdom out there.
Sentimental, yes, but I like the idea that there's a book of Mr. Rogers wisdom out there.
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Baseball Again
Last night, the Red Sox beat the A's in the 5th game of the series. This sets the stage for the possibility of a Cubs/Red Sox World Series. I don't think it can get any better than that.
The first baseball cap I remember owning was a very tiny Boston Red Sox cap. It had the red B on the front, same as it's always been. I don't know that I understood that it represented Boston at the time, or if I just thought that it represented my last name. I seem to have a memory that the Sox were my grandfather's favorite team, not an unrealistic expectation since he grew up in Vermont. I remember the first time I went to Fenway Park, staring at the green monster in left field, not fully believing that the wall could be so high. It seemed impossible that someone would design a ballpark that way. I was at Fenway in September, the day that their beloved Carl Yazstremski hit his last home run before retirement. I remember watching him circle the bases, rounding third as the crowd went wild. I was there in the 80s when some unknown kid from Oakland was dinging balls over the monster in batting practice like it was six inches high... the kid's name was Mark McGwire, and even then you had a sense that this redheaded kid was going to do some impressive things over the course of his career.
I thought that Fenway was the most magical baseball shrine on earth, until I went to Chicago and set foot in Wrigley. Wrigley is the home of baseball. The grass is greener. The brick wall is redder. The ivy is lush. Wrigley is like watching baseball in your own backyard with thousands of your closest friends. It never feels adversarial; it's always welcoming. You walk into Wrigley and feel the years of history there, the hundreds of thousands of loyal fans who have walked through those gates and taken their place in those seats. You don't feel the cathedral-like awe of Yankee Stadium, where you can almost envision baseball's greats playing on that grass. At Wrigley, you feel the sheer love of the game. People aren't there with expectations, other than to enjoy a nice afternoon in the sun. They don't get angry at losses, don't berate their players. They just love the baseball experience. May this postseason be their reward for their patience and love of the game.
This is the first inspiring October in countless years. Three underdogs and the Yankees, a solid team, but the team everyone wants to beat. It's the first year where I don't feel that bittersweet pang that usually comes with the end of the season and the onset of winter. If only there could be a chance for a magical moment, a win against all odds, then suddenly the winter wouldn't seem so long. It might be enough to carry me until February when the pitchers and catchers once again take the field in Florida and Arizona to begin life anew. Baseball will be in its full glory then, with every fan knowing that the impossible has become possible and that dreams really can come true. It's the story of the underdog. It's so very American. Play ball.
Last night, the Red Sox beat the A's in the 5th game of the series. This sets the stage for the possibility of a Cubs/Red Sox World Series. I don't think it can get any better than that.
The first baseball cap I remember owning was a very tiny Boston Red Sox cap. It had the red B on the front, same as it's always been. I don't know that I understood that it represented Boston at the time, or if I just thought that it represented my last name. I seem to have a memory that the Sox were my grandfather's favorite team, not an unrealistic expectation since he grew up in Vermont. I remember the first time I went to Fenway Park, staring at the green monster in left field, not fully believing that the wall could be so high. It seemed impossible that someone would design a ballpark that way. I was at Fenway in September, the day that their beloved Carl Yazstremski hit his last home run before retirement. I remember watching him circle the bases, rounding third as the crowd went wild. I was there in the 80s when some unknown kid from Oakland was dinging balls over the monster in batting practice like it was six inches high... the kid's name was Mark McGwire, and even then you had a sense that this redheaded kid was going to do some impressive things over the course of his career.
I thought that Fenway was the most magical baseball shrine on earth, until I went to Chicago and set foot in Wrigley. Wrigley is the home of baseball. The grass is greener. The brick wall is redder. The ivy is lush. Wrigley is like watching baseball in your own backyard with thousands of your closest friends. It never feels adversarial; it's always welcoming. You walk into Wrigley and feel the years of history there, the hundreds of thousands of loyal fans who have walked through those gates and taken their place in those seats. You don't feel the cathedral-like awe of Yankee Stadium, where you can almost envision baseball's greats playing on that grass. At Wrigley, you feel the sheer love of the game. People aren't there with expectations, other than to enjoy a nice afternoon in the sun. They don't get angry at losses, don't berate their players. They just love the baseball experience. May this postseason be their reward for their patience and love of the game.
This is the first inspiring October in countless years. Three underdogs and the Yankees, a solid team, but the team everyone wants to beat. It's the first year where I don't feel that bittersweet pang that usually comes with the end of the season and the onset of winter. If only there could be a chance for a magical moment, a win against all odds, then suddenly the winter wouldn't seem so long. It might be enough to carry me until February when the pitchers and catchers once again take the field in Florida and Arizona to begin life anew. Baseball will be in its full glory then, with every fan knowing that the impossible has become possible and that dreams really can come true. It's the story of the underdog. It's so very American. Play ball.
Monday, October 06, 2003
Cubs Win!
It's almost too much to dream about, the thought that the Cubs, having won the division series, might have a shot at the World Series. I loved the Cubs as a kid (always supporting the underdog, that's me), and I don't think I ever really, truly believed that I'd see them advance in the playoffs in my lifetime. A World Series at Wrigley Field, undoubtedly the most beautiful old ballpark left standing, would be magical (in a freezing cold, October in Chicago kind of way, but still...), and would offer validation for all of us who secretly hoped, deep down, that we'd someday see this moment.
The red marquee sign is lit up. They're selling tickets for October games at the box office. There are fans lining up along Waveland Avenue to catch that home run ball. The ivy is thick on the outfield wall, and kids are dressed in Cubbie blue. Could there be anything better? Somehow it gives me hope that anything in the world is possible, even if you have to wait 95 years for it to happen.
It's almost too much to dream about, the thought that the Cubs, having won the division series, might have a shot at the World Series. I loved the Cubs as a kid (always supporting the underdog, that's me), and I don't think I ever really, truly believed that I'd see them advance in the playoffs in my lifetime. A World Series at Wrigley Field, undoubtedly the most beautiful old ballpark left standing, would be magical (in a freezing cold, October in Chicago kind of way, but still...), and would offer validation for all of us who secretly hoped, deep down, that we'd someday see this moment.
The red marquee sign is lit up. They're selling tickets for October games at the box office. There are fans lining up along Waveland Avenue to catch that home run ball. The ivy is thick on the outfield wall, and kids are dressed in Cubbie blue. Could there be anything better? Somehow it gives me hope that anything in the world is possible, even if you have to wait 95 years for it to happen.
Sunday, October 05, 2003
Ghosts
ghosts of lifetime past
dreams of future never seen
unexpected paths
ghosts of lifetime past
dreams of future never seen
unexpected paths
Sixteen Candles
There's nothing like watching cheesy 80s movies to send you flashing back to the teen years. Sixteen Candles is the ultimate... the angst caused by high school dances, boys that you idolize who don't know that you exist. I can remember all of those dances, standing on the sidelines watching the guys I adored pairing up with all the other girls except me. On many occasions I was the one that they asked to find out if the other girls liked them. I would never go back to being 16 again even if I had the opportunity.
There's nothing like watching cheesy 80s movies to send you flashing back to the teen years. Sixteen Candles is the ultimate... the angst caused by high school dances, boys that you idolize who don't know that you exist. I can remember all of those dances, standing on the sidelines watching the guys I adored pairing up with all the other girls except me. On many occasions I was the one that they asked to find out if the other girls liked them. I would never go back to being 16 again even if I had the opportunity.
Friday, October 03, 2003
Things You Wish You Could Say at Work
1) It sounds like English, but I don't understand a word you're saying
2) I see you've set aside this special time to humiliate yourself in public
3) You are validating my inherent mistrust of strangers
4) The fact that no one understands you doesn't mean you're an artist
5) Someday, we'll look back on this, laugh nervously and change the subject
6) I'll try being nicer, if you try being smarter
7) You sound reasonable, time to up my medication
8) I don't know what your problem is but I bet it's hard to pronounce
9) Earth is full, go home
10) I'm not tense, just terribly alert
1) It sounds like English, but I don't understand a word you're saying
2) I see you've set aside this special time to humiliate yourself in public
3) You are validating my inherent mistrust of strangers
4) The fact that no one understands you doesn't mean you're an artist
5) Someday, we'll look back on this, laugh nervously and change the subject
6) I'll try being nicer, if you try being smarter
7) You sound reasonable, time to up my medication
8) I don't know what your problem is but I bet it's hard to pronounce
9) Earth is full, go home
10) I'm not tense, just terribly alert
Deceptive Headline
I don't think that the breast implants themselves lead to a higher risk of suicide. I think it has everything to do with the fact that people who seek cosmetic surgery tend to dislike themselves and think that the surgery will fix everything. Their lives are still just as depressing and inadequate after the surgery, they just have bigger tits. It's sad, really. Everyone has parts of their body that they don't like -- I certainly wouldn't have chosen tiny breasts if I'd had the chance to choose them from the genetic menu -- but I also can't imagine going through the pain and physical trauma of a surgery just to look different. I just never really got the concept of cosmetic surgery for reasons other than repair or reconstruction. I'm probably in the minority. I know lots of people who would do it if they had the money.
I don't think that the breast implants themselves lead to a higher risk of suicide. I think it has everything to do with the fact that people who seek cosmetic surgery tend to dislike themselves and think that the surgery will fix everything. Their lives are still just as depressing and inadequate after the surgery, they just have bigger tits. It's sad, really. Everyone has parts of their body that they don't like -- I certainly wouldn't have chosen tiny breasts if I'd had the chance to choose them from the genetic menu -- but I also can't imagine going through the pain and physical trauma of a surgery just to look different. I just never really got the concept of cosmetic surgery for reasons other than repair or reconstruction. I'm probably in the minority. I know lots of people who would do it if they had the money.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
The Pope
Are we supposed to be shocked be the news that the Pope isn't doing well? The poor man hasn't looked healthy in years, and he's only gotten worse in recent months.
People think I'm strange when I say this, especially as a non-Catholic, but I've always felt sorry for the man. It's got to be tough to be a modern-day Pope, trying to keep the masses in line in societies where your views on divorce, abortion and birth control are thought to be antiquated notions and your church is at the heart of the largest pedophilia scandal in history. I don't agree with the church on most issues, but I have to respect the fact that the man has stuck to his beliefs. I think part of my sympathy for him stems from the fact that he took a bullet for the cause. I just have to figure that he's had a really tough life personally, intellectually and spiritually, and it's sad to see the poor man sick, frail and suffering.
That's the end of my bleeding heart sermon for today.
Are we supposed to be shocked be the news that the Pope isn't doing well? The poor man hasn't looked healthy in years, and he's only gotten worse in recent months.
People think I'm strange when I say this, especially as a non-Catholic, but I've always felt sorry for the man. It's got to be tough to be a modern-day Pope, trying to keep the masses in line in societies where your views on divorce, abortion and birth control are thought to be antiquated notions and your church is at the heart of the largest pedophilia scandal in history. I don't agree with the church on most issues, but I have to respect the fact that the man has stuck to his beliefs. I think part of my sympathy for him stems from the fact that he took a bullet for the cause. I just have to figure that he's had a really tough life personally, intellectually and spiritually, and it's sad to see the poor man sick, frail and suffering.
That's the end of my bleeding heart sermon for today.
One of Life's Mysteries Solved
Thank god we now know why cookies crumble. Packaging manufacturers and transporters are breathing a collective sigh of relief to learn that they are not at fault. The planet returns to a normal orbit and order is restored to the world.
Thank god we now know why cookies crumble. Packaging manufacturers and transporters are breathing a collective sigh of relief to learn that they are not at fault. The planet returns to a normal orbit and order is restored to the world.
Day One
The first day of the business has come and gone. The open house turned out to be a gathering of friends and instructors, but only four potential clients. It was a colossal waste of cheese and crackers. There is a large part of me that's wondering if anyone will ever come. I think that if tonight's class with Stephanina is empty, then I'm in really big trouble. Huge trouble.
I'm trying not to be disappointed about last night, but afterward I had lost my appetite completely and contemplated upping my dose of Celexa. I'm glad my friends came. It's good to have support. C didn't get there until the last 45 minutes. He was busy at work, of course, which I understand, but at the same time, how many times does your wife open a business? Couldn't you drag yourself away just for a little while? I tried not to let it get to me, but it was disappointing.
The funniest part of all of this is the fact that my next door neighbor posted info about the studio onto the neighborhood message board, calling me the "walking advertisement for fitness and all-around hottie." Oh good god, she kills me! Of course, I think after you've had two kids, everyone seems like they have the perfect body.
It's only 10 AM. It seems like it should be later. I've been running around so much lately that I'm hardly ever here, which makes the day go a lot faster.
Tonight I need to go over and be present for the three classes. I might actually do both Nia and pilates if my tendinitis isn't giving me too much of a hard time. Someone has to be taking the classes, right?
The first day of the business has come and gone. The open house turned out to be a gathering of friends and instructors, but only four potential clients. It was a colossal waste of cheese and crackers. There is a large part of me that's wondering if anyone will ever come. I think that if tonight's class with Stephanina is empty, then I'm in really big trouble. Huge trouble.
I'm trying not to be disappointed about last night, but afterward I had lost my appetite completely and contemplated upping my dose of Celexa. I'm glad my friends came. It's good to have support. C didn't get there until the last 45 minutes. He was busy at work, of course, which I understand, but at the same time, how many times does your wife open a business? Couldn't you drag yourself away just for a little while? I tried not to let it get to me, but it was disappointing.
The funniest part of all of this is the fact that my next door neighbor posted info about the studio onto the neighborhood message board, calling me the "walking advertisement for fitness and all-around hottie." Oh good god, she kills me! Of course, I think after you've had two kids, everyone seems like they have the perfect body.
It's only 10 AM. It seems like it should be later. I've been running around so much lately that I'm hardly ever here, which makes the day go a lot faster.
Tonight I need to go over and be present for the three classes. I might actually do both Nia and pilates if my tendinitis isn't giving me too much of a hard time. Someone has to be taking the classes, right?
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Things to Accomplish Before 30
Much to my shock, I'd done most of these things (10 being more of a guideline than an actual "been there, done that"). I thought I lived such a sheltered life, but it looks like I'm doing ok. My personal experiences with these items are available on request. :-)
1. Drive a wickedly cool car, even if you have to rent it. "Wickedly cool" is defined as any car that turns heads on the streets.
2. Date against type. Better yet, date somebody "dangerous." Or if you already tend to date dangerous, then date someone your mother would like.
3. See the world.
4. Live in a cool place.
5. If you're going to drink a lot, do it when you're young.
6. Take risks with your job.
7. Do something physically adventurous. And do it OUTSIDE!
8. Take your parents to dinner.
9. Do volunteer work.
10. Use this decade to go to extremes.
Much to my shock, I'd done most of these things (10 being more of a guideline than an actual "been there, done that"). I thought I lived such a sheltered life, but it looks like I'm doing ok. My personal experiences with these items are available on request. :-)
1. Drive a wickedly cool car, even if you have to rent it. "Wickedly cool" is defined as any car that turns heads on the streets.
2. Date against type. Better yet, date somebody "dangerous." Or if you already tend to date dangerous, then date someone your mother would like.
3. See the world.
4. Live in a cool place.
5. If you're going to drink a lot, do it when you're young.
6. Take risks with your job.
7. Do something physically adventurous. And do it OUTSIDE!
8. Take your parents to dinner.
9. Do volunteer work.
10. Use this decade to go to extremes.
What could he be thinking?
Is it any surprise that men think differently? Or is the surprise that men think at all? :-)
Is it any surprise that men think differently? Or is the surprise that men think at all? :-)
