I came in here, the room we call our “office” with the sole intention of writing something incredibly witty. I had it all planned out, content, body and everything… I sat down, and promptly forgot every last shred of interesting tidbit I had left rattling around in my brain. I find myself doing that on a regular basis as of late.
I have a legitimate excuse. You see, this motherhood deal is all consuming—every part of me is eaten alive by this beast that is fulfilled only by the smile of my baby girl. I have never pined so hard for a gummy grin, nor have I prayed that a long awaited poop will come her way after a horrifying day of constipation. You see, poopy relief waits in the twilight darkness of her days, which end (fortunately for me) promptly at 7:00 PM.
My little girl has the most amazing grin, capable of pulling sunshine out of the darker more rainy days we’ve been experiencing around this lovely part of Southern Georgia. (How cliché do I sound now?). Regardless, of overused phrases and metaphors, I find myself grinning from ear to ear like a bumbling idiot every time she cracks a smile following a long awaited fart; praying for the day when her stomach accepts that she will be receiving formula rather than breast milk.
At times I find myself hiding in the closet of evil—more formally known as the “breast-fed baby weaning locale” asking myself “why it is that I have not endured more days of aggravation, dairy deprivation, and screaming babies”—for I am surely mistaken that this course of action is correct, no? The weaning course I mean, not the hiding in the closet course.
This being a mom stuff, well, I’ll just leave it at that—it’s being a mom and I can’t even begin to describe how it has affected me. Many mornings have come, at 3:00 AM, beginning with a bang, er, a cry in the night, and I can’t stop myself from racing into her room to pick her up and tell her that she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen grace this earth. I want to hang out with her; be by her side all the time; always be next to my infant daughter. I get excited when she supports herself on her own two feet—and laugh when her eyes twinkle because she’s proud of the fact that she can control her neck enough to look me in the eye. Never did I think that my life would be dictated by “milestones,” but I could not be happier that it is.
I leave myself post-it notes all over my computer screen, “blog ideas,” things I know were important for me to share, yet I never find time to actually sit down and compose what I’m turning over in my mind. Normally, these “revelations” or ideas (on a much less grand scale, strike me in the most inopportune of times—normally when I’m being a stable bottle support whilst watching “Desperate Housewives.” Yes, pathetic, I know, but I swear, those shows are made for people literally stuck to their chairs, and well, my three month old has shown me that for a half an hour here and there throughout the day, I am quite literally—stuck to my chair come feeding time.
I wouldn’t trade it for the world, although at times, sitting around watching other rich and “desperate” housewives reminds me of the fact that I am indeed wasting valuable time in a comfy recliner… Time I could be spending pretending that my house is a movie set complete with a maid and live in chef to clean up and cook for me. Time I should be using to push a vacuum and do a load of laundry or two. Although, to hear my husband tell it, I’ve got it rough for I’m on the front lines of Ocean. These duties include, but are not limited to: Dealing with her crying for hours on end for reasons unknown. Truth be told—I wouldn’t trade my job for anyone’s, because—holding true to character and cliché, no one can do a better job than I can raising my daughter, even though I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing and am flying by the seat of my pants—but hey, we can keep that between the two of us.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Genetics
I’m going to let you in on a little secret; Waiting is hard work. I’ve been sitting around waiting for this baby to decide the time is right for her to make her grand entrance, and aside from regular bouts of hiccoughs, some very well placed kicks and the occasional practice contractions, she seems rather cozy and perfectly content to fight with me about who gets the space underneath my right rib cage.
Yes, we are fighting already, and she really does not play fair. She waits until I stretch out for a brief period of time and then with lightning speed manages to lodge a foot up under my rib cage effectively blocking me from returning my torso to a normal comfortable position—and the battle begins. I combat this invasion of torso space with a well meaning massage of said offending foot in a feeble attempt to maneuver it from underneath my lower ribs. She diligently defends her newly conquered territory with an all out attack on my bladder which I swear she is using as a speed bag to prove her boxing prowess. Sufficiently distracted I relinquish the battle for the rib cage and seek out the well known confines of the bathroom while she settles in with a smirk on her face and the ever lovely knowledge of one more victory over my body. Pregnancy is wonderful…
She’s a fighter I’m telling you, it takes one to know one, and well, I know it. I can’t wait to meet her face to face, which brings me back to my initial statement—this waiting stuff is no joke. I’ve had a lot of time to ponder about who she may be—throwing in variables regarding various markers in both John and my genetic background. Some of these thoughts are bordering on ridiculous, although I wonder if some geneticist has pondered the same questions while in his brightly lit lab room sporting a spiffy crisp white lab coat and peering through his trusty microscope at the building blocks of human life.
I’ve found myself attributing many traits that I carry to my genetics—granted they may in fact be scapegoats for my behaviors, but I prefer to think of them as genetic markers and hereditary conditions instead. For instance, I am beyond convinced that there is a messy car gene. I inherited this gene from my father and I’m praying that I do not pass it along to my daughter.
My father’s car was always in a condition of disarray when I was a young impressionable child. He had piles of junk all over the place, yet he claimed to know where everything was. I never missed an opportunity to comment on his cars condition, while riding high upon my horse and looking down upon the lowly cart of junk on wheels. To my dismay, I have developed this same tendency. I always swore that my car would be pristine, you know, the kind of car that retains its new car smell for three plus years or so. Thanks to genetics, I have yet to maintain a spotless car for more than a few weeks. I simply have found that fighting my nature is far too difficult a task for me, so I have given in.
I am well aware that some may argue that apathy rather than genetics are to blame for my car’s condition, but I will staunchly defend my attribution of my problems to Mother Nature herself, for there are many traits which I find myself at a complete loss of any ability to control. Maybe, possibly, it could be a lack of desire to control these hereditary compulsions, but most likely at least in my highly educated opinion—the messy car gene may very well become Ocean’s to embody, though I pray that she too will know exactly what is in which pile, for if she does not inherit the pack-rat organization gene as well, she truly will be lost when it comes to retrieving anything from the depths of her backseat.
Yes, we are fighting already, and she really does not play fair. She waits until I stretch out for a brief period of time and then with lightning speed manages to lodge a foot up under my rib cage effectively blocking me from returning my torso to a normal comfortable position—and the battle begins. I combat this invasion of torso space with a well meaning massage of said offending foot in a feeble attempt to maneuver it from underneath my lower ribs. She diligently defends her newly conquered territory with an all out attack on my bladder which I swear she is using as a speed bag to prove her boxing prowess. Sufficiently distracted I relinquish the battle for the rib cage and seek out the well known confines of the bathroom while she settles in with a smirk on her face and the ever lovely knowledge of one more victory over my body. Pregnancy is wonderful…
She’s a fighter I’m telling you, it takes one to know one, and well, I know it. I can’t wait to meet her face to face, which brings me back to my initial statement—this waiting stuff is no joke. I’ve had a lot of time to ponder about who she may be—throwing in variables regarding various markers in both John and my genetic background. Some of these thoughts are bordering on ridiculous, although I wonder if some geneticist has pondered the same questions while in his brightly lit lab room sporting a spiffy crisp white lab coat and peering through his trusty microscope at the building blocks of human life.
I’ve found myself attributing many traits that I carry to my genetics—granted they may in fact be scapegoats for my behaviors, but I prefer to think of them as genetic markers and hereditary conditions instead. For instance, I am beyond convinced that there is a messy car gene. I inherited this gene from my father and I’m praying that I do not pass it along to my daughter.
My father’s car was always in a condition of disarray when I was a young impressionable child. He had piles of junk all over the place, yet he claimed to know where everything was. I never missed an opportunity to comment on his cars condition, while riding high upon my horse and looking down upon the lowly cart of junk on wheels. To my dismay, I have developed this same tendency. I always swore that my car would be pristine, you know, the kind of car that retains its new car smell for three plus years or so. Thanks to genetics, I have yet to maintain a spotless car for more than a few weeks. I simply have found that fighting my nature is far too difficult a task for me, so I have given in.
I am well aware that some may argue that apathy rather than genetics are to blame for my car’s condition, but I will staunchly defend my attribution of my problems to Mother Nature herself, for there are many traits which I find myself at a complete loss of any ability to control. Maybe, possibly, it could be a lack of desire to control these hereditary compulsions, but most likely at least in my highly educated opinion—the messy car gene may very well become Ocean’s to embody, though I pray that she too will know exactly what is in which pile, for if she does not inherit the pack-rat organization gene as well, she truly will be lost when it comes to retrieving anything from the depths of her backseat.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Dinner Conversations
Growing up, there were not a whole lot of conversations considered sacred around my dinner table. Many bold and brazen topics were broached at that time when the sun was going down over the Pacific and the TV was clicked off so that we could all eat and discuss our days as a family. One such topic which has stuck in my mind and provided me forever with a mental image slightly more than a little disturbing had much to do with methane, or natural gas and the major contributors to earth’s plentiful supply of this highly sought after fuel.
My father, ever the delicate man, brought up this conversation with the following eloquently posed question: “Hana, do you know what farts are made of?” “Um, well, uh, what dad?” “Farts are methane, you know, natural gas.” “OK, why are we talking about this?” “Do you know which animal’s farts are actually contributing to an overabundance of methane in the air? Actually polluting with their farts?” I don’t know how he managed to make this whole line of conversation sound like it was just normal information one person would impart to another over a chicken and rice dinner, but somehow, someway, he kept a straight face—even while staring my flabbergasted, jaw dropped expression in the eye. “Cow’s Hana, cow’s fart so much that some scientists say they are polluting our air.”
When some of my composure was regained I tried to brush this topic off, in a similar way that people who figure themselves for the gullible butt of a joke will try and see if a practical jokester is pulling their leg or not. “Come on dad, you have to be kidding me.” Here’s where that familiar twinkle came back into his eye and I knew that he knew he had roped me into this one. “Well, it would be amazing if we could harness all that methane escaping wily-nilly from flatulent cows and put it to good use.” At this idea we both exploded into peals of laughter, and the awful image of a field of cows walking around with glass bottles strapped to their butts to “harness the methane” became permanently implanted in my mind.
I find this image disturbing, I really do—in fact, I still find myself smirking when I drive by a field of cows (living in Southern Georgia, in the county none the less, this is not an unusual sight). My father, ever the thinker, tinkerer, mad scientist, felt that farting cows were appropriate dinner conversation for that fateful night—and my adult life is now scarred by ideas of bottle-butted cows. I have pondered many times, just how much time he contributed during his day to this bottle-butt idea, and if for even a millisecond he seriously put his mind to work on the logistics of this particular brand of “methane harvesting.” Most of all--now I fully understand that I owe my inquisitive nature—albeit tactless at times ideas to my father and his indiscriminate dinner time topics.
Thanks dad for making me smile when I see commercials for California Cheese. Thanks for giving me hope of future conversations with my growing family, as we huddle around our own dinner table, possibly with some classical music playing softly in the background, to discuss such necessary things as “methane harvesting.” If only I can enrich Ocean’s life with such broad and tasteful ideas, I’ll feel as if I’ve accomplished what I was put here to do. The first time I catch a glimpse of a smirk on Ocean’s face while I’m driving past a cow pasture, I’ll know that she too will feel the richness that I have grown to know and love. The richness one cannot truly know until they have felt the power of imagining a whole herd of cows with bottles strapped to their butts.
My father, ever the delicate man, brought up this conversation with the following eloquently posed question: “Hana, do you know what farts are made of?” “Um, well, uh, what dad?” “Farts are methane, you know, natural gas.” “OK, why are we talking about this?” “Do you know which animal’s farts are actually contributing to an overabundance of methane in the air? Actually polluting with their farts?” I don’t know how he managed to make this whole line of conversation sound like it was just normal information one person would impart to another over a chicken and rice dinner, but somehow, someway, he kept a straight face—even while staring my flabbergasted, jaw dropped expression in the eye. “Cow’s Hana, cow’s fart so much that some scientists say they are polluting our air.”
When some of my composure was regained I tried to brush this topic off, in a similar way that people who figure themselves for the gullible butt of a joke will try and see if a practical jokester is pulling their leg or not. “Come on dad, you have to be kidding me.” Here’s where that familiar twinkle came back into his eye and I knew that he knew he had roped me into this one. “Well, it would be amazing if we could harness all that methane escaping wily-nilly from flatulent cows and put it to good use.” At this idea we both exploded into peals of laughter, and the awful image of a field of cows walking around with glass bottles strapped to their butts to “harness the methane” became permanently implanted in my mind.
I find this image disturbing, I really do—in fact, I still find myself smirking when I drive by a field of cows (living in Southern Georgia, in the county none the less, this is not an unusual sight). My father, ever the thinker, tinkerer, mad scientist, felt that farting cows were appropriate dinner conversation for that fateful night—and my adult life is now scarred by ideas of bottle-butted cows. I have pondered many times, just how much time he contributed during his day to this bottle-butt idea, and if for even a millisecond he seriously put his mind to work on the logistics of this particular brand of “methane harvesting.” Most of all--now I fully understand that I owe my inquisitive nature—albeit tactless at times ideas to my father and his indiscriminate dinner time topics.
Thanks dad for making me smile when I see commercials for California Cheese. Thanks for giving me hope of future conversations with my growing family, as we huddle around our own dinner table, possibly with some classical music playing softly in the background, to discuss such necessary things as “methane harvesting.” If only I can enrich Ocean’s life with such broad and tasteful ideas, I’ll feel as if I’ve accomplished what I was put here to do. The first time I catch a glimpse of a smirk on Ocean’s face while I’m driving past a cow pasture, I’ll know that she too will feel the richness that I have grown to know and love. The richness one cannot truly know until they have felt the power of imagining a whole herd of cows with bottles strapped to their butts.
Monday, July 28, 2008
An Adult... Me?
I came out of our bedroom the other day after folding a load of laundry only to hear the sweet sounds of Brahm’s Lullaby coming from Ocean’s nursery. I walked into her fabulously pink room to see John standing with one hand on the edge of her crib and the other petting the scrumptiously soft pink ballerina sheets covering her mattress. Her mobile was twirling away and John had a distant look in his eyes.
I walked in and put my hand on his shoulder. He looked at me and said, “I can’t believe that I’m an adult now, I still feel like a big kid. “I can’t believe that I’m going to be responsible, entirely responsible for another life, how did I become so grown up?” I hugged him and we finished listening to the lullaby. Much was discussed that night regarding how quickly things have progressed to this point. It’s been something that both of us wanted, yet never really believed that we could achieve.
We’ve been together since June 16th of 2006. The day I left my ex-husband was the day I began a new life with John. I knew from the moment I met him at work that there was something about him, I was immediately head over heels for him and spent quite a bit of time irrationally irritated at him because I was still married and couldn’t get him out of my mind. He made me weigh my options, and I knew that the life I had been living was not even a shell of the life I wanted for myself—so I left it behind and never looked back.
I wasn’t sure if John would be there like I hoped he would, but I knew that leaving was the only thing I could do to save the remnants of myself. John was more than there and within a month I was wearing the most amazing engagement ring on my finger and living a fairytale life that I thought would only be mine in dreams. We spent many lazy afternoons lying in bed, looking out the window and talking about what we wanted in life.
John said that he wanted children. I had never wanted to be a mom when I was with my ex, but with John, all I could think about was how great of a father he would be and how complete my life would feel being a mother. We talked about backyard barbeques, and white picket fences, big gardens full of flowers, and football games, cheer meets and birthday parties… I couldn’t believe that all of this could be mine, much less, that I was with someone who I honestly believe was reading my mind. I know we were seeing the same images in our imaginations.
John’s first gift to me was a card and an African Violet, his card apologized for the fact that he couldn’t get me a garden right now, but that he would in the future. He hoped that his flower would hold me over till then. We moved into an apartment together two months after Chapter One of my fairytale. I planted our patio area with some variegated ginger, Impatiens, and a few other odds and ends. Friends would stop by for bbq’s and we would inevitably end up outside on the patio chatting and enjoying a couple beers. I fell even more in love with John the day he fiercely defended my flowers from an ill placed foot. I couldn’t believe that he paid that much attention to my little garden and was willing to go to battle for it.
Fast forward to the first days in our home—our very own home—we have a white picket fence now, a lot of nice toys, the start of a garden, and a daughter on the way. John looked at me one night and took my hands in his. He asked me what else I wanted in life, saying “well May, we have our white picket fence, we’ve got our garden, our dogs and our baby on the way… I’m a cop, doing what I’ve always wanted to do, and I can hardly believe we’ve made it here. I think that we can do anything.”
We’ve spent hours laying next to each other propped up on pillows and dreaming big dreams about the future. Who knows which ones we’ll choose to pursue. Some have come in delirious states, like the ones that may have been overheard by nurses in the halls of UCLA shortly after we were engaged. John had a stroke and amidst tears of pain and fear we talked about what our future held. When he was conscious, he spent his time telling me that everything was going to be ok, petting my hair and singing to me. He asked me to marry him yet again during one of those sleepless nights spent in a hospital bed.
Nothing stopped or even really slowed our progress towards what we wanted, and now, well, now we have it. Granted, we are in Southern Georgia, but our life is beautiful, and we’re all grown up. Ha, yeah, well, as grown up as two scared 20 something-year-olds can be. I can’t believe how quickly this has all happened, and it scares me that the rest of my life will come in a flash. I don’t want to miss anything, for everything is exactly as I dreamed it would be. I don’t want to blink for fear that Ocean will be walking down the aisle with her very own prince charming before I know it. I want nothing more than for her to feel as fortunate and lucky in life as I do—my heart hurts with the tremendous amount of gratitude I carry in it and I spend my days eternally grateful for all that I have.
I walked in and put my hand on his shoulder. He looked at me and said, “I can’t believe that I’m an adult now, I still feel like a big kid. “I can’t believe that I’m going to be responsible, entirely responsible for another life, how did I become so grown up?” I hugged him and we finished listening to the lullaby. Much was discussed that night regarding how quickly things have progressed to this point. It’s been something that both of us wanted, yet never really believed that we could achieve.
We’ve been together since June 16th of 2006. The day I left my ex-husband was the day I began a new life with John. I knew from the moment I met him at work that there was something about him, I was immediately head over heels for him and spent quite a bit of time irrationally irritated at him because I was still married and couldn’t get him out of my mind. He made me weigh my options, and I knew that the life I had been living was not even a shell of the life I wanted for myself—so I left it behind and never looked back.
I wasn’t sure if John would be there like I hoped he would, but I knew that leaving was the only thing I could do to save the remnants of myself. John was more than there and within a month I was wearing the most amazing engagement ring on my finger and living a fairytale life that I thought would only be mine in dreams. We spent many lazy afternoons lying in bed, looking out the window and talking about what we wanted in life.
John said that he wanted children. I had never wanted to be a mom when I was with my ex, but with John, all I could think about was how great of a father he would be and how complete my life would feel being a mother. We talked about backyard barbeques, and white picket fences, big gardens full of flowers, and football games, cheer meets and birthday parties… I couldn’t believe that all of this could be mine, much less, that I was with someone who I honestly believe was reading my mind. I know we were seeing the same images in our imaginations.
John’s first gift to me was a card and an African Violet, his card apologized for the fact that he couldn’t get me a garden right now, but that he would in the future. He hoped that his flower would hold me over till then. We moved into an apartment together two months after Chapter One of my fairytale. I planted our patio area with some variegated ginger, Impatiens, and a few other odds and ends. Friends would stop by for bbq’s and we would inevitably end up outside on the patio chatting and enjoying a couple beers. I fell even more in love with John the day he fiercely defended my flowers from an ill placed foot. I couldn’t believe that he paid that much attention to my little garden and was willing to go to battle for it.
Fast forward to the first days in our home—our very own home—we have a white picket fence now, a lot of nice toys, the start of a garden, and a daughter on the way. John looked at me one night and took my hands in his. He asked me what else I wanted in life, saying “well May, we have our white picket fence, we’ve got our garden, our dogs and our baby on the way… I’m a cop, doing what I’ve always wanted to do, and I can hardly believe we’ve made it here. I think that we can do anything.”
We’ve spent hours laying next to each other propped up on pillows and dreaming big dreams about the future. Who knows which ones we’ll choose to pursue. Some have come in delirious states, like the ones that may have been overheard by nurses in the halls of UCLA shortly after we were engaged. John had a stroke and amidst tears of pain and fear we talked about what our future held. When he was conscious, he spent his time telling me that everything was going to be ok, petting my hair and singing to me. He asked me to marry him yet again during one of those sleepless nights spent in a hospital bed.
Nothing stopped or even really slowed our progress towards what we wanted, and now, well, now we have it. Granted, we are in Southern Georgia, but our life is beautiful, and we’re all grown up. Ha, yeah, well, as grown up as two scared 20 something-year-olds can be. I can’t believe how quickly this has all happened, and it scares me that the rest of my life will come in a flash. I don’t want to miss anything, for everything is exactly as I dreamed it would be. I don’t want to blink for fear that Ocean will be walking down the aisle with her very own prince charming before I know it. I want nothing more than for her to feel as fortunate and lucky in life as I do—my heart hurts with the tremendous amount of gratitude I carry in it and I spend my days eternally grateful for all that I have.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Nostalgia
I out-waited the gnats tonight. I went outside at 8:30PM and commenced pulling weeds and deadheading my gigantically overgrown rose bushes. I found myself thinking about a conversation I had with Lindy this afternoon as I drove her to the airport. She helped me tremendously, I mean, help doesn’t even really qualify as an appropriate word for what she did for me—she actually unpacked my entire house and put together the most incredible nursery. Ocean’s room really does look like something out of a magazine; it’s beyond anything I could have dreamed of.
Lindy and I talked about a lot of things in the ten days that she was here, many of them old subjects which had been graced numerous times, yet which we are reluctant to give up, for there may be a new way of approaching them if we keep at it. Out of this bunch of topics, being a new home owner and an expectant mother came to the forefront. She mentioned how this—my life—would seem surreal; almost as if I am living someone else’s for some time to come… I was unaware how obvious it was that I am still floored by the path my life has taken.
Perhaps all these new things in my life, and the easing in that I am doing to the realization that these things are indeed pieces of my own life, not someone else’s, are causing me to become rather nostalgic. I found myself at my rosebushes tonight—as I had mentioned earlier—really giving it to them good with my handy dandy clippers. It seemed like they had never seen a pair of clippers in their lives; but that is all beside the point. For a minute, I felt that I was in my parent’s garden at our Malibu house. I can remember the long days of weed pulling culminating with my mother watering her gigantic birds nest ferns which had been strategically placed in front of the “real” front door, to usher approaching visitors to the left and in through the sliding glass doors.
My father made the planters these ferns inhabited, and I did not realize how lucky my mother was to have someone with the ability to go to his little shop in downtown Inglewood and come home with something that would cost a fortune to buy in the store. Her garden was beautiful, so tropical, and so a part of them—together. It was established, older, well loved—it was theirs and someday I hope to have something as eclectically beautiful to call my own.
My father was not a huge fan of the actual gardening part per se, don’t get me wrong, he’d get out there on a Sunday afternoon and pull his fair share of weeds, always keeping up with the best of us, but he certainly did not revel in the task. His forte was accessorizing—dressing the garden up in a new set of stairs, making star gazers (which I wish I had a few of my own), and doing all the heavy work. I thought that I hated those times when I was younger, I mean, it was time out of my Sunday spent getting dirty, finding grotesque alien looking bugs, being pricked by thorns, and fighting with every weed that came my way. I really thought that I would not miss having to go out in the yard and pull weeds—I was wrong.
I miss the time spent bent over a plot of land pulling out milk weeds, and jumping back when a grub came out of the ground with the roots of a giant weed. I miss my mom going inside at around 1:30 in the afternoon to make sandwiches for everyone. I miss watching the sun go down off of our deck—watching it duck into the sea and listening to my dad tell tales of the Merchant Marines. I miss smelling wet dirt while my mom finished up watering and my dad told me that the green flash, although clothed in all sorts of lore and fairy tales did in fact happen every time the sun went down and that there was some kind of scientific explanation for it but he wasn’t really sure what it was. I had such a rich young life.
I hope I can give that same gift to Ocean. I want her to moan and groan about coming out into the garden with me, but I hope secretly she enjoys it. I hope that she too will look in her flower beds when she buys her first home in hopes of seeing a weed she can pull. I hope that her husband talks as fondly of her green thumb as her father does of mine. I hope she likes the smell of wet dirt, and I hope she never gets sick of hearing about her grandparents, for the older I get, the more I hope I can be like them.
Lindy and I talked about a lot of things in the ten days that she was here, many of them old subjects which had been graced numerous times, yet which we are reluctant to give up, for there may be a new way of approaching them if we keep at it. Out of this bunch of topics, being a new home owner and an expectant mother came to the forefront. She mentioned how this—my life—would seem surreal; almost as if I am living someone else’s for some time to come… I was unaware how obvious it was that I am still floored by the path my life has taken.
Perhaps all these new things in my life, and the easing in that I am doing to the realization that these things are indeed pieces of my own life, not someone else’s, are causing me to become rather nostalgic. I found myself at my rosebushes tonight—as I had mentioned earlier—really giving it to them good with my handy dandy clippers. It seemed like they had never seen a pair of clippers in their lives; but that is all beside the point. For a minute, I felt that I was in my parent’s garden at our Malibu house. I can remember the long days of weed pulling culminating with my mother watering her gigantic birds nest ferns which had been strategically placed in front of the “real” front door, to usher approaching visitors to the left and in through the sliding glass doors.
My father made the planters these ferns inhabited, and I did not realize how lucky my mother was to have someone with the ability to go to his little shop in downtown Inglewood and come home with something that would cost a fortune to buy in the store. Her garden was beautiful, so tropical, and so a part of them—together. It was established, older, well loved—it was theirs and someday I hope to have something as eclectically beautiful to call my own.
My father was not a huge fan of the actual gardening part per se, don’t get me wrong, he’d get out there on a Sunday afternoon and pull his fair share of weeds, always keeping up with the best of us, but he certainly did not revel in the task. His forte was accessorizing—dressing the garden up in a new set of stairs, making star gazers (which I wish I had a few of my own), and doing all the heavy work. I thought that I hated those times when I was younger, I mean, it was time out of my Sunday spent getting dirty, finding grotesque alien looking bugs, being pricked by thorns, and fighting with every weed that came my way. I really thought that I would not miss having to go out in the yard and pull weeds—I was wrong.
I miss the time spent bent over a plot of land pulling out milk weeds, and jumping back when a grub came out of the ground with the roots of a giant weed. I miss my mom going inside at around 1:30 in the afternoon to make sandwiches for everyone. I miss watching the sun go down off of our deck—watching it duck into the sea and listening to my dad tell tales of the Merchant Marines. I miss smelling wet dirt while my mom finished up watering and my dad told me that the green flash, although clothed in all sorts of lore and fairy tales did in fact happen every time the sun went down and that there was some kind of scientific explanation for it but he wasn’t really sure what it was. I had such a rich young life.
I hope I can give that same gift to Ocean. I want her to moan and groan about coming out into the garden with me, but I hope secretly she enjoys it. I hope that she too will look in her flower beds when she buys her first home in hopes of seeing a weed she can pull. I hope that her husband talks as fondly of her green thumb as her father does of mine. I hope she likes the smell of wet dirt, and I hope she never gets sick of hearing about her grandparents, for the older I get, the more I hope I can be like them.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Procrastination Revisited
So, it has been a while, as I’m sure the date on my last blog and the date on this current one will be more than willing to reveal. I have many excuses as I’m sure you can guess, and I will not even begin to list them; for I know that you will be sitting in your office chair nodding your head and thinking quietly to yourself, “damn, she’s got this procrastination stuff down pat.” Well, yeah, I do, so pat me on the back and tell me good job rather than scrolling back up and checking for the length of time between this entry and the last.
I’m sitting on two boxes of books at the current moment (my make shift office chair), but I am in fact in our new “office” in my gorgeous new house. OUR new house, my God, we own this. John promised me when we first started dating (a month before we were engaged), that he would get me a garden some day—In fact, John’s very first gift to me was a little pot of African Violets, and a handwritten card detailing how eventually, the day would come that I would have my own garden in my own house with my very own white picket fence. True to his word, only a few weeks past the two year anniversary of the ending of my old life and the beginning of this wondrous one, he’s given me all those things.
I knew he had good intentions, but I just didn’t know that things could pan out exactly how we had imagined it on those leisurely afternoons lying in his bed in his mother’s house while we stared out the window and dreamed of our future lives. Somehow the stars aligned, making this a possibility and with the incredible amount of support and love we’ve received from every member of both of our families we were able to make things happen. I never knew people could be so insanely generous—I’ll just leave it at that.
As far as procrastination goes… I’m counting my blessings in that department as we speak. I have a whole house to unpack and a ton of homework to catch up on. Plus a plethora of other things that I really don’t feel like doing at this particular moment so it would seem like now is the perfect time to catch up on some much needed blogging—impressive isn’t it, my use of procrastination for my benefit is masterful, yes I know it.
I really don’t have much to say, mainly because I am at a point in my life where so much is taking place so quickly that I simply can’t pick just one thing that I should write about. I don’t know where to start so I just figure I’ll let it all simmer, you know, things get better with age and eventually I’ll pull out a little tidbit here or there and share some three month old news with you.
I had a Dr.’s appointment on the first, and John was able to make it to this one—Actually, I should rephrase that, he’s made it to every single one except for the one before this last one, and has been happy about going to each and every one of them. The Dr. had me lay back on the examination table which is standard procedure to prepare for listening to the heartbeat. I lifted my shirt so I could get some of that lovely ultrasound jelly squirted on my belly and John looked at me and said, “Oh my God, I can see your bump now, you actually have a baby belly!” I kind of laughed and said, “well yeah, I’ve had your daughter growing in there for the past eight months, I would hope I have something to show for it!”
We got to hear Ocean’s heartbeat as is standard at these appointments and John said something that I’ll never forget: “Every time I hear that, it’s just like hearing it for the first time.” I smiled to myself and reminded myself how very fortunate I am to have such a strong loving person by my side. Later on that night, amidst a sea of boxes John stopped packing and took both of my arms in his hands. He looked into my eyes and asked me if he had missed anything. I wasn’t sure what he meant, and when I asked him for clarification he said that at the Doctor’s office he realized that he hadn’t even noticed that I had a bump and that he was concerned that maybe he hadn’t been paying enough attention to me, or that he’d been spending too much time away at work or asleep (he works long shifts), to really see what was happening. He was also concerned that he would miss some of Ocean’s growing up just like he missed my growing belly, and the worry in his voice was heart wrenching.
I feel that with just the simple fact that he is so deeply aware of the speed at which life comes at you, hence the quickness it can pass you by means that he will never let such things happen between him and his daughter. I couldn’t ask for more and I can’t wait to see his face when he gets to hold Ocean in his arms for the very first time.
I’m sitting on two boxes of books at the current moment (my make shift office chair), but I am in fact in our new “office” in my gorgeous new house. OUR new house, my God, we own this. John promised me when we first started dating (a month before we were engaged), that he would get me a garden some day—In fact, John’s very first gift to me was a little pot of African Violets, and a handwritten card detailing how eventually, the day would come that I would have my own garden in my own house with my very own white picket fence. True to his word, only a few weeks past the two year anniversary of the ending of my old life and the beginning of this wondrous one, he’s given me all those things.
I knew he had good intentions, but I just didn’t know that things could pan out exactly how we had imagined it on those leisurely afternoons lying in his bed in his mother’s house while we stared out the window and dreamed of our future lives. Somehow the stars aligned, making this a possibility and with the incredible amount of support and love we’ve received from every member of both of our families we were able to make things happen. I never knew people could be so insanely generous—I’ll just leave it at that.
As far as procrastination goes… I’m counting my blessings in that department as we speak. I have a whole house to unpack and a ton of homework to catch up on. Plus a plethora of other things that I really don’t feel like doing at this particular moment so it would seem like now is the perfect time to catch up on some much needed blogging—impressive isn’t it, my use of procrastination for my benefit is masterful, yes I know it.
I really don’t have much to say, mainly because I am at a point in my life where so much is taking place so quickly that I simply can’t pick just one thing that I should write about. I don’t know where to start so I just figure I’ll let it all simmer, you know, things get better with age and eventually I’ll pull out a little tidbit here or there and share some three month old news with you.
I had a Dr.’s appointment on the first, and John was able to make it to this one—Actually, I should rephrase that, he’s made it to every single one except for the one before this last one, and has been happy about going to each and every one of them. The Dr. had me lay back on the examination table which is standard procedure to prepare for listening to the heartbeat. I lifted my shirt so I could get some of that lovely ultrasound jelly squirted on my belly and John looked at me and said, “Oh my God, I can see your bump now, you actually have a baby belly!” I kind of laughed and said, “well yeah, I’ve had your daughter growing in there for the past eight months, I would hope I have something to show for it!”
We got to hear Ocean’s heartbeat as is standard at these appointments and John said something that I’ll never forget: “Every time I hear that, it’s just like hearing it for the first time.” I smiled to myself and reminded myself how very fortunate I am to have such a strong loving person by my side. Later on that night, amidst a sea of boxes John stopped packing and took both of my arms in his hands. He looked into my eyes and asked me if he had missed anything. I wasn’t sure what he meant, and when I asked him for clarification he said that at the Doctor’s office he realized that he hadn’t even noticed that I had a bump and that he was concerned that maybe he hadn’t been paying enough attention to me, or that he’d been spending too much time away at work or asleep (he works long shifts), to really see what was happening. He was also concerned that he would miss some of Ocean’s growing up just like he missed my growing belly, and the worry in his voice was heart wrenching.
I feel that with just the simple fact that he is so deeply aware of the speed at which life comes at you, hence the quickness it can pass you by means that he will never let such things happen between him and his daughter. I couldn’t ask for more and I can’t wait to see his face when he gets to hold Ocean in his arms for the very first time.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
What Wrong Side?
That whole “wrong side of the bed” saying is catchy… I mean, really, it seems like a feasible explanation for being cranky and such. Sometimes I wonder if there’s an equally efficient description for the feeling that one went to sleep and woke up the next morning in a twilight zone. I’m sure there has to be. I mean, I know that I am not the only one who has decided halfway through the day that it would be a good idea to go back home, get back in bed and try the whole waking up thing again—hoping, nay praying for a different experience.
Nothing life shattering, earth shaking or absolutely tremendous happened today, I just figure that maybe everyone else woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, thus sending me into the twilight zone. As if residing in Southern Georgia is not odd enough—I already feel like I’m in another country, I awoke to a whole new set of different weirdness.
I’m currently looking for a new place to live, (not part of my complaining for the most part today), I’ll keep this explanation to a minimum… You ready? My landlord is an idiot and got swept up in that whole let’s buy fifty houses phase about two years ago and now he’s stuck. The best part is his fabulous solution: “I can’t charge my current tenants any more for rent because I’ve already royally screwed them over, so I’m going to kick them out and see if I can rent my dilapidated house out for three times what it’s worth.” Uh, yeah, more power to you Andy, good luck with that one. Bitter? Me? Nah, I have a month before my due date to find a new house, I’m all good, pffft.
So, house hunting for the past four days? Not so great when seven dogs are relying on a good find, I think it’s time to buy. I’ve resigned to the fact that things are not going to be easy for the next three months, so once again, this particular fact did not contribute to my feelings of being off upon awakening on this beautiful Tuesday. Instead, I awoke twenty minutes before my alarm went off to some fantastic squealing based in the back yard. Halea (the Pit), and Karma (the Rott) were having themselves a little squabble and being rather loud in the process, Chance, (the Dobie) was sounding his war cry (he’s still a little too young to do much else quite yet). I figured twenty minutes wasn’t so bad, so I dragged myself out of bed and proceeded to doll myself up (I expected a long day, so I figured I might as well look decent for it).
Upon my morning trek through the house, I happened to glance at the front door. A realization dawned on me, the key to the house was in John’s car, and John’s car was with John in Moultrie doing police stuff. This wouldn’t have been so bad if I could have opened the front door and just left it unlocked, no, I have a deadbolt key lock on both sides of the door, so using the front door to exit was out.
I sat down in the Captains Chair (A gift from my father to John, which I have since inhabited and reclaimed as my very own), with my cup of microwaved coffee, bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats and flipped on the “News.” Yeah, I’m not even going to begin to rant about the TV and that whole set of ridiculousness. I won my morning Online Spades Game and began scheming for the coming day… Planning my exits and entrances to the house which would now involve scaling a chain link fence into and out of the back yard, all while wearing absolutely adorable white sandals, a cute little sundress and freshly manicured nails. Again, not so bad—Factor in the being six months pregnant and the Great Dane who insisted on helping me over the fence every time by standing on his hind legs, looking me in the eye and blocking my path.
I can’t blame the dogs for being a little ornery, they didn’t get fed at normal feeding time today, we ran out of kibble last night, and second on my list of things to do today (after work of course) was hit up the Good ‘Ol Tractor Supply and replace my dwindled Eukanuba Supply. With seven hungry pairs of eyes tracking my progress, I made it out to the car to begin my day… The phone rang… My medical insurance won’t come in for another three months. Uh, uh, uh, panic! I lost it. It was just too much for me to handle today.
I called work, told my boss I needed to take a personal day, and focused my attention on not losing my mind—I should have stuck with a more reasonable task. My phone rang three more times, my boss asking me if I was sure that I couldn’t come into work, and if maybe I could just take a personal half day, and then finally, that he thought maybe it would be better if I came into work after all, I mean, how bad can it really be? Really bad dammit!
Off to find alternate means of health care…. Back to the house, back over the fence, back to staring at Ethiopian starving dogs, and hearing grumblings as they wasted away in the back yard from mal-nourishment (I was three hours late in feeding them at this point). On the computer and the phone for some insight… Yeah, I found out there’s no insight to be had, I’m kind of screwed. One choice for me, head down to DFCS and see if I qualify for some assistance until my insurance comes back in to play. So, pretty shoes, cute sundress, and primped hair headed back over the fence and to the bad part of town, you know the part where all the government buildings are? Not a place for a dolled up white girl to go all by her lonesome.
I had an altercation right outside the front door of said building with two hicks whose idea of a come one line was: “Damn, you sho’ is perty, you married?” To which I responding by waggling my diamond adorned ring finger at them and proceeding towards the entrance… “Well how’s ‘bout just fo’ one night den?” I brought some bad Karma my way by responding with a very civil and oh so ladylike, “How’s ‘bout you and your buddy suck each other off so you can shut your mouth before anything worse comes out of it and you can leave me the hell alone.” Sigh, I couldn’t help myself.
Left the building, dark cloud and all, back to the house to research more options and to let the little dogs out to use the bathroom. Hauled my pregnant butt back over the fence and was greeted with groans of disapproval since it was obvious I had no kibble in hand. I reassured my withering pups that I would indeed be back, although I was unsure of how I would get the kibble into their bowls for John has made me solemnly swear to not lift the bag by myself… (I’m fragile and I guess that bags of dog kibble vary greatly from weights at the gym).
Anyway, off to register at school for my final semester, thank goodness. I pulled into the parking lot at 12:30 and walked in the bright sun (new sandals shining in the light), to where I was supposed to be, only to be informed that I would have to return at 3:00, registration was closed for a TWO AND A HALF HOUR LUNCH BREAK. Huh, imagine that.
Super mom to the rescue, the time had definitely come to be the provider and bring the forbidden fruit, er, unmovable kibble home. I pulled into Tractor Supply rearing to go (Just sounds right when you’re referring to a store called TRACTOR SUPPLY). Anyway, I grabbed a cart and figured that I would cheat a little, John would never know that I pulled the kibble off the shelf and put it into the cart—I had it all figured out—After I checked out I would just smile really big and get one of them good ‘ol cowboys to load my newly acquired bag of doggy sustenance into the back of my truck, er, SUV and be good to go.
Cart squealing around the corner and my heart brimming with excitement at the joys of doing something which turned out right and good on this odd day, I turned the fateful corner to the Aisle of Eukanuba. What is this? Where is my brand? How can this be happening? I stared, willing the empty spot on the shelves to fill with the only thing that would stop my dogs from despising me when I walked through the door, I mean, when I scaled the fence.
After the shock faded, I wheeled my cart to the front register, and with the sweetest smile I could conjure asked “Debbie” if there was perhaps any Eukanuba Adult Large Breed Active Kibble lying around in the back? She looked at me from her perch behind the counter and proceeded to shake her head in disgust. She muttered in my general direction that she simply could not understand some people. Unsure of where this line of conversation was coming from, I scrunched my eyebrows together, frowned and said, “Pardon?” She proceeded to voice her opinion about tattooed folks and how she could not understand such people. More bad Karma was heaped upon my plate…. “Uh, well, to be honest, I don’t understand where a fat, middle aged, toothless, unkempt woman working in the TRACTOR SUPPLY gets off telling me that she does not understand my tattoos. Furthermore, I’m six months PREGNANT, what’s your excuse for looking like you’re about to give birth? Take care of yourself and when you’ve got a perfect body then you can worry about what I’m doing with mine.”
My poor cart wheels screeching a protest I headed back to the desolate Eukanuba Aisle, loaded up Eukanuba Medium Breed Weight Control and proceeded back to “Debbie’s” register to check out. Huffing, she scanned my compromise and spat out my total which happened to be twice the amount it was supposed to be. I informed her that there was only one bag of dog food in my cart and that if it now cost $80.00 I was going to have an ungodly fit in the middle of the store, new sandals, sundress, primped hair and all. She decided that she must have made a mistake, and in fact my purchase totaled somewhere a little over $45.00. Yeah, I decided it was probably not in my best interest to wait for a good ‘ol cowboy to carry my prize to the SUV for me after all.
I faced the wrath of John when he got home from work and questioned me about my Eukanuba strong woman lifting, and I told him that I had in fact had no choice in the matter as to whether or not I would hoist said bag all on my lonesome. I solemnly explained the circumstances surrounded my miraculous lifting feat and John decided that perhaps I was justified just this once in risking it and taking it upon myself to load my own bag of incorrect dog food into the back of my car.
I informed him that if I was healthy enough to vault over the chain link fence in spectacular shoes and a pretty dress that I could probably handle a bag or two of dog food… We decided to leave well enough alone and I made my way out to his truck, retrieving my house key. Tomorrow will be better, I will not have to hoist my pretty self over any fences and I plan on waking up on the right side of the bed and hope that everyone else does as well.
Nothing life shattering, earth shaking or absolutely tremendous happened today, I just figure that maybe everyone else woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, thus sending me into the twilight zone. As if residing in Southern Georgia is not odd enough—I already feel like I’m in another country, I awoke to a whole new set of different weirdness.
I’m currently looking for a new place to live, (not part of my complaining for the most part today), I’ll keep this explanation to a minimum… You ready? My landlord is an idiot and got swept up in that whole let’s buy fifty houses phase about two years ago and now he’s stuck. The best part is his fabulous solution: “I can’t charge my current tenants any more for rent because I’ve already royally screwed them over, so I’m going to kick them out and see if I can rent my dilapidated house out for three times what it’s worth.” Uh, yeah, more power to you Andy, good luck with that one. Bitter? Me? Nah, I have a month before my due date to find a new house, I’m all good, pffft.
So, house hunting for the past four days? Not so great when seven dogs are relying on a good find, I think it’s time to buy. I’ve resigned to the fact that things are not going to be easy for the next three months, so once again, this particular fact did not contribute to my feelings of being off upon awakening on this beautiful Tuesday. Instead, I awoke twenty minutes before my alarm went off to some fantastic squealing based in the back yard. Halea (the Pit), and Karma (the Rott) were having themselves a little squabble and being rather loud in the process, Chance, (the Dobie) was sounding his war cry (he’s still a little too young to do much else quite yet). I figured twenty minutes wasn’t so bad, so I dragged myself out of bed and proceeded to doll myself up (I expected a long day, so I figured I might as well look decent for it).
Upon my morning trek through the house, I happened to glance at the front door. A realization dawned on me, the key to the house was in John’s car, and John’s car was with John in Moultrie doing police stuff. This wouldn’t have been so bad if I could have opened the front door and just left it unlocked, no, I have a deadbolt key lock on both sides of the door, so using the front door to exit was out.
I sat down in the Captains Chair (A gift from my father to John, which I have since inhabited and reclaimed as my very own), with my cup of microwaved coffee, bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats and flipped on the “News.” Yeah, I’m not even going to begin to rant about the TV and that whole set of ridiculousness. I won my morning Online Spades Game and began scheming for the coming day… Planning my exits and entrances to the house which would now involve scaling a chain link fence into and out of the back yard, all while wearing absolutely adorable white sandals, a cute little sundress and freshly manicured nails. Again, not so bad—Factor in the being six months pregnant and the Great Dane who insisted on helping me over the fence every time by standing on his hind legs, looking me in the eye and blocking my path.
I can’t blame the dogs for being a little ornery, they didn’t get fed at normal feeding time today, we ran out of kibble last night, and second on my list of things to do today (after work of course) was hit up the Good ‘Ol Tractor Supply and replace my dwindled Eukanuba Supply. With seven hungry pairs of eyes tracking my progress, I made it out to the car to begin my day… The phone rang… My medical insurance won’t come in for another three months. Uh, uh, uh, panic! I lost it. It was just too much for me to handle today.
I called work, told my boss I needed to take a personal day, and focused my attention on not losing my mind—I should have stuck with a more reasonable task. My phone rang three more times, my boss asking me if I was sure that I couldn’t come into work, and if maybe I could just take a personal half day, and then finally, that he thought maybe it would be better if I came into work after all, I mean, how bad can it really be? Really bad dammit!
Off to find alternate means of health care…. Back to the house, back over the fence, back to staring at Ethiopian starving dogs, and hearing grumblings as they wasted away in the back yard from mal-nourishment (I was three hours late in feeding them at this point). On the computer and the phone for some insight… Yeah, I found out there’s no insight to be had, I’m kind of screwed. One choice for me, head down to DFCS and see if I qualify for some assistance until my insurance comes back in to play. So, pretty shoes, cute sundress, and primped hair headed back over the fence and to the bad part of town, you know the part where all the government buildings are? Not a place for a dolled up white girl to go all by her lonesome.
I had an altercation right outside the front door of said building with two hicks whose idea of a come one line was: “Damn, you sho’ is perty, you married?” To which I responding by waggling my diamond adorned ring finger at them and proceeding towards the entrance… “Well how’s ‘bout just fo’ one night den?” I brought some bad Karma my way by responding with a very civil and oh so ladylike, “How’s ‘bout you and your buddy suck each other off so you can shut your mouth before anything worse comes out of it and you can leave me the hell alone.” Sigh, I couldn’t help myself.
Left the building, dark cloud and all, back to the house to research more options and to let the little dogs out to use the bathroom. Hauled my pregnant butt back over the fence and was greeted with groans of disapproval since it was obvious I had no kibble in hand. I reassured my withering pups that I would indeed be back, although I was unsure of how I would get the kibble into their bowls for John has made me solemnly swear to not lift the bag by myself… (I’m fragile and I guess that bags of dog kibble vary greatly from weights at the gym).
Anyway, off to register at school for my final semester, thank goodness. I pulled into the parking lot at 12:30 and walked in the bright sun (new sandals shining in the light), to where I was supposed to be, only to be informed that I would have to return at 3:00, registration was closed for a TWO AND A HALF HOUR LUNCH BREAK. Huh, imagine that.
Super mom to the rescue, the time had definitely come to be the provider and bring the forbidden fruit, er, unmovable kibble home. I pulled into Tractor Supply rearing to go (Just sounds right when you’re referring to a store called TRACTOR SUPPLY). Anyway, I grabbed a cart and figured that I would cheat a little, John would never know that I pulled the kibble off the shelf and put it into the cart—I had it all figured out—After I checked out I would just smile really big and get one of them good ‘ol cowboys to load my newly acquired bag of doggy sustenance into the back of my truck, er, SUV and be good to go.
Cart squealing around the corner and my heart brimming with excitement at the joys of doing something which turned out right and good on this odd day, I turned the fateful corner to the Aisle of Eukanuba. What is this? Where is my brand? How can this be happening? I stared, willing the empty spot on the shelves to fill with the only thing that would stop my dogs from despising me when I walked through the door, I mean, when I scaled the fence.
After the shock faded, I wheeled my cart to the front register, and with the sweetest smile I could conjure asked “Debbie” if there was perhaps any Eukanuba Adult Large Breed Active Kibble lying around in the back? She looked at me from her perch behind the counter and proceeded to shake her head in disgust. She muttered in my general direction that she simply could not understand some people. Unsure of where this line of conversation was coming from, I scrunched my eyebrows together, frowned and said, “Pardon?” She proceeded to voice her opinion about tattooed folks and how she could not understand such people. More bad Karma was heaped upon my plate…. “Uh, well, to be honest, I don’t understand where a fat, middle aged, toothless, unkempt woman working in the TRACTOR SUPPLY gets off telling me that she does not understand my tattoos. Furthermore, I’m six months PREGNANT, what’s your excuse for looking like you’re about to give birth? Take care of yourself and when you’ve got a perfect body then you can worry about what I’m doing with mine.”
My poor cart wheels screeching a protest I headed back to the desolate Eukanuba Aisle, loaded up Eukanuba Medium Breed Weight Control and proceeded back to “Debbie’s” register to check out. Huffing, she scanned my compromise and spat out my total which happened to be twice the amount it was supposed to be. I informed her that there was only one bag of dog food in my cart and that if it now cost $80.00 I was going to have an ungodly fit in the middle of the store, new sandals, sundress, primped hair and all. She decided that she must have made a mistake, and in fact my purchase totaled somewhere a little over $45.00. Yeah, I decided it was probably not in my best interest to wait for a good ‘ol cowboy to carry my prize to the SUV for me after all.
I faced the wrath of John when he got home from work and questioned me about my Eukanuba strong woman lifting, and I told him that I had in fact had no choice in the matter as to whether or not I would hoist said bag all on my lonesome. I solemnly explained the circumstances surrounded my miraculous lifting feat and John decided that perhaps I was justified just this once in risking it and taking it upon myself to load my own bag of incorrect dog food into the back of my car.
I informed him that if I was healthy enough to vault over the chain link fence in spectacular shoes and a pretty dress that I could probably handle a bag or two of dog food… We decided to leave well enough alone and I made my way out to his truck, retrieving my house key. Tomorrow will be better, I will not have to hoist my pretty self over any fences and I plan on waking up on the right side of the bed and hope that everyone else does as well.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Home Again
I haven’t written one of these in a while. I just spent 10 glorious days on vacation, visiting family in both Washington and California, and I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect time. I was spoiled rotten, by my family once again (what else is new), and I managed to be the recipient of a giant, absolutely gorgeous baby shower thrown in my honor.
First, I must say, I don’t know how I lucked into such an incredible time in my life. Every time, I reflect on how things are going, the word charmed comes to mind. Don’t get me wrong, we have our struggles, (mainly financial struggles), but what young couple doesn’t? It just seems that every time we need help or some sort of assistance, someone is always there to catch us.
I got to spend a couple of days with my dad, which is always a highlight for me on my voyages to the homeland. We went out to dinner and spent time talking about what’s important in life, namely, teaching my daughter how to throw like a boy, and making sure that I read to her every night. My dad swears that this reading every night thing is the key to success, and believes whole heartedly that it can change the world, one introvert at a time.
Reading was and is still such an integral part of my life, one which is nurtured by my father and his presentation of books for me to read upon every meeting. Some people bring fruit cake, or a bottle of wine, my dad brings me Ray Bradbury, Ernest Hemingway and Isaac Asimov. We meet and talk of inventions; ones which I think are crazy and utterly outlandish; the same ones which my dad thinks are entirely possible, and needless to say, already in their preliminary stages of life.
I’ve always envied this outside the box thinking, for no matter how much knowledge I acquire through countless hours in classrooms and nights with my nose buried in books, the truth of the matter is that I need a pattern. A method in which to go about things, someone else who knows what they are talking about to tell me that whatever crazy idea I have is alright, and in fact has been pioneered before, and oh, just in case they might come in handy, here’s a full instruction manual and a detailed set of blue prints. Inventions, yeah right.
He scoffs at his genius, saying that it’s really not genius, but doesn’t offer any alternative… It’s just interesting work which he enjoys, something to play with. If only my toys could be that complex, if only I had the ability to look at all of life as one big puzzle which can be sorted out and made into a new picture whenever it best suited me. Nope, I’m stuck with my books, notes, and need for assurances that yes, this is the well lit, most traveled path, and that I will be safest if I just follow the arrows made out of the many moonraths running under foot. One day maybe I’ll stray a little, but for now, well, I guess coasting along works for me.
I spent the last week and a half coasting on a sea of hurried placidity. I had so many people to see and so many things to do, but I couldn’t deny the feeling of comfort and security I experienced even in my most hurried and rushed time. Things were important, but I had all the necessary players by my side. I left California feeling like I accomplished something. Friendships were reconciled and burdens were lifted off of those which should never have bared them to begin with.
Ocean’s Godmother Elizabeth should be in a circus with all of the juggling she was able to do… I’ll leave it at that, but suffice it to say that I couldn’t be happier with the time spent by her side, and I’m in awe of the gracious way she handled some not so graceful situations. The love she has for me and my family is apparent in the things she has willingly gone through just to make me comfortable. I want her to know that I realize that many sacrifices were made on her part for the ones she loves, yet she managed to not compromise a part of herself in the process. That takes tremendous inner strength, hopefully someday; I’ll have a piece of that too.
My mother and I, perpetually the best of friends (after I quit making her life a living hell), picked right up where we left off and were undeniably happy to share each other’s company. She’s such an incredible woman, one I am blessed to be able to call mom.
I cannot begin to even outline the gifts, both physical and emotional Lindy and Joe have bestowed upon me, so I will not attempt at this time. Perhaps in the next couple of days when I feel like crying from gratitude I will sit down and outline for all to see, their modern day sainthood. I’m not kidding, really, these people are unbelievable.
It’s kind of ironic, John has bouts of worry about losing the respect of my family because he’s not providing enough, or doing enough, or any other radical irrational thought which springs up in his mind, yet I have never felt more comfortable or well taken care of by any other person in my entire life. My father insists on telling me each and every time we are face to face, and other random times on the phone how lucky I am to have John and his family by my side. I don’t think that I’m capable of taking the gifts that I have received for granted, not because I’m such a gracious person, but because if I did, the sheer magnitude of them would probably rise up and knock me off my feet.
First, I must say, I don’t know how I lucked into such an incredible time in my life. Every time, I reflect on how things are going, the word charmed comes to mind. Don’t get me wrong, we have our struggles, (mainly financial struggles), but what young couple doesn’t? It just seems that every time we need help or some sort of assistance, someone is always there to catch us.
I got to spend a couple of days with my dad, which is always a highlight for me on my voyages to the homeland. We went out to dinner and spent time talking about what’s important in life, namely, teaching my daughter how to throw like a boy, and making sure that I read to her every night. My dad swears that this reading every night thing is the key to success, and believes whole heartedly that it can change the world, one introvert at a time.
Reading was and is still such an integral part of my life, one which is nurtured by my father and his presentation of books for me to read upon every meeting. Some people bring fruit cake, or a bottle of wine, my dad brings me Ray Bradbury, Ernest Hemingway and Isaac Asimov. We meet and talk of inventions; ones which I think are crazy and utterly outlandish; the same ones which my dad thinks are entirely possible, and needless to say, already in their preliminary stages of life.
I’ve always envied this outside the box thinking, for no matter how much knowledge I acquire through countless hours in classrooms and nights with my nose buried in books, the truth of the matter is that I need a pattern. A method in which to go about things, someone else who knows what they are talking about to tell me that whatever crazy idea I have is alright, and in fact has been pioneered before, and oh, just in case they might come in handy, here’s a full instruction manual and a detailed set of blue prints. Inventions, yeah right.
He scoffs at his genius, saying that it’s really not genius, but doesn’t offer any alternative… It’s just interesting work which he enjoys, something to play with. If only my toys could be that complex, if only I had the ability to look at all of life as one big puzzle which can be sorted out and made into a new picture whenever it best suited me. Nope, I’m stuck with my books, notes, and need for assurances that yes, this is the well lit, most traveled path, and that I will be safest if I just follow the arrows made out of the many moonraths running under foot. One day maybe I’ll stray a little, but for now, well, I guess coasting along works for me.
I spent the last week and a half coasting on a sea of hurried placidity. I had so many people to see and so many things to do, but I couldn’t deny the feeling of comfort and security I experienced even in my most hurried and rushed time. Things were important, but I had all the necessary players by my side. I left California feeling like I accomplished something. Friendships were reconciled and burdens were lifted off of those which should never have bared them to begin with.
Ocean’s Godmother Elizabeth should be in a circus with all of the juggling she was able to do… I’ll leave it at that, but suffice it to say that I couldn’t be happier with the time spent by her side, and I’m in awe of the gracious way she handled some not so graceful situations. The love she has for me and my family is apparent in the things she has willingly gone through just to make me comfortable. I want her to know that I realize that many sacrifices were made on her part for the ones she loves, yet she managed to not compromise a part of herself in the process. That takes tremendous inner strength, hopefully someday; I’ll have a piece of that too.
My mother and I, perpetually the best of friends (after I quit making her life a living hell), picked right up where we left off and were undeniably happy to share each other’s company. She’s such an incredible woman, one I am blessed to be able to call mom.
I cannot begin to even outline the gifts, both physical and emotional Lindy and Joe have bestowed upon me, so I will not attempt at this time. Perhaps in the next couple of days when I feel like crying from gratitude I will sit down and outline for all to see, their modern day sainthood. I’m not kidding, really, these people are unbelievable.
It’s kind of ironic, John has bouts of worry about losing the respect of my family because he’s not providing enough, or doing enough, or any other radical irrational thought which springs up in his mind, yet I have never felt more comfortable or well taken care of by any other person in my entire life. My father insists on telling me each and every time we are face to face, and other random times on the phone how lucky I am to have John and his family by my side. I don’t think that I’m capable of taking the gifts that I have received for granted, not because I’m such a gracious person, but because if I did, the sheer magnitude of them would probably rise up and knock me off my feet.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Time for Myself
I find myself putting off blog writing whenever I get excessively busy, which in all reality would be the perfect time for me to sit down and compose something. Probably not something that would be all that enlightening for others to read, but I’m sure it would be something that would help me to sort out some thoughts. I feel jumbled when I have too much going on, it’s almost like I’m constantly on the verge of forgetting to do something really important, something that would be absolutely awful if I forgot. Most of the time, I don’t have anything all that life or death happening in my life (thankfully), therefore, if I forget something, well then, I guess that I just forgot it.
I will spend a good portion of my time reminding myself that there are certain things that I have to do; writing those things down in a calendar is one of those things that I tell myself to set time aside for. For some reason, I just can’t bring myself to consistently maintain a planner, it’s almost as if my procrastination prohibits it. I tell myself that I will write that appointment down later, and of course I remind myself daily to not forget about the appointment that I should have written down, and it slowly evolves into one of the many things that I fret about forgetting. This is such a ridiculous, pathetic cycle, but one that I partake in with regularity.
Possibly one of the reasons I don’t like to write down deadlines and things that I have to do in a planner is my oppositional defiance tends to get the best of me. I find myself rebelling against things that I am supposed to do, even if they are things that I want to do, and putting them off until the last minute. Writing things down in a planner offers me the fuel for this rebellion.
I’ve come to liken my lack of planner planning to my strange issue with the mail; more specifically, my opening of the mail. I hate mail, all kinds, voice, email, and especially snail mail. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE hearing from people that I want to hear from, I just hate the gamble I take when I open that dreaded box just to be faced with bills that I cannot pay. I hate emails that have deadlines involved in them, or anything else that reminds me that I actually have to work at a certain time, doing a certain thing, for a certain someone. I don’t like listening to my voice mail unless I know who the missed call is from… It could be someone giving me bad news of an upcoming date I should be planning for that I don’t necessarily have the space in my overcrowded brain to note and fret about at the current moment.
I find myself overwhelmed by voicemails, namely because I will refuse to listen to them for days at a time, but I cannot bring myself to simply delete them… If someone wanted to talk to me bad enough that they were willing to have a conversation, albeit a short one with a recording, than I owe them my undivided attention to at least listen to their plight… Granted, this happens after I can’t take it anymore, and I have to listen to 20 something messages before I get to the one that I really want to hear, because I have been letting them pile up for far to long.
I don’t really have much of a purpose in writing this, maybe I just wanted to expose a little more of my oddness to the world, try to shed some light on it in hopes that it wouldn’t be so odd… Upon rereading of my paragraphs I find myself and my behaviors just as odd as I did, possibly more so than I did when I sat down to compose this nonsense.
Maybe writing blogs while I’m so scatterbrained isn’t such a hot idea after all. I could be onto something with my procrastination techniques. Although, this particular time spent composing this blog has offered me an opportunity to avoid switching loads of laundry and emptying the dishwasher. More importantly, I have managed to avoid yet another half an hour or so of studying for my Calculus final, now that in and of itself is worth sounding like a babbling idiot. So, I kind of apologize that you have had to sort through my mind junk, but it has served me well so far.
I will spend a good portion of my time reminding myself that there are certain things that I have to do; writing those things down in a calendar is one of those things that I tell myself to set time aside for. For some reason, I just can’t bring myself to consistently maintain a planner, it’s almost as if my procrastination prohibits it. I tell myself that I will write that appointment down later, and of course I remind myself daily to not forget about the appointment that I should have written down, and it slowly evolves into one of the many things that I fret about forgetting. This is such a ridiculous, pathetic cycle, but one that I partake in with regularity.
Possibly one of the reasons I don’t like to write down deadlines and things that I have to do in a planner is my oppositional defiance tends to get the best of me. I find myself rebelling against things that I am supposed to do, even if they are things that I want to do, and putting them off until the last minute. Writing things down in a planner offers me the fuel for this rebellion.
I’ve come to liken my lack of planner planning to my strange issue with the mail; more specifically, my opening of the mail. I hate mail, all kinds, voice, email, and especially snail mail. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE hearing from people that I want to hear from, I just hate the gamble I take when I open that dreaded box just to be faced with bills that I cannot pay. I hate emails that have deadlines involved in them, or anything else that reminds me that I actually have to work at a certain time, doing a certain thing, for a certain someone. I don’t like listening to my voice mail unless I know who the missed call is from… It could be someone giving me bad news of an upcoming date I should be planning for that I don’t necessarily have the space in my overcrowded brain to note and fret about at the current moment.
I find myself overwhelmed by voicemails, namely because I will refuse to listen to them for days at a time, but I cannot bring myself to simply delete them… If someone wanted to talk to me bad enough that they were willing to have a conversation, albeit a short one with a recording, than I owe them my undivided attention to at least listen to their plight… Granted, this happens after I can’t take it anymore, and I have to listen to 20 something messages before I get to the one that I really want to hear, because I have been letting them pile up for far to long.
I don’t really have much of a purpose in writing this, maybe I just wanted to expose a little more of my oddness to the world, try to shed some light on it in hopes that it wouldn’t be so odd… Upon rereading of my paragraphs I find myself and my behaviors just as odd as I did, possibly more so than I did when I sat down to compose this nonsense.
Maybe writing blogs while I’m so scatterbrained isn’t such a hot idea after all. I could be onto something with my procrastination techniques. Although, this particular time spent composing this blog has offered me an opportunity to avoid switching loads of laundry and emptying the dishwasher. More importantly, I have managed to avoid yet another half an hour or so of studying for my Calculus final, now that in and of itself is worth sounding like a babbling idiot. So, I kind of apologize that you have had to sort through my mind junk, but it has served me well so far.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Ocean Views
I spent the first six years of my life, the part that I like to refer to as the “first half” of my childhood in a small house on Highland Boulevard, in Santa Monica California. Those walls housed my life as an only child up until I was six years old and I noticed that my mother’s stomach was expanding at an interesting rate… I mean, nothing for me to be all that concerned about, because after all she was my mom, and I didn’t really see her as anything else, besides just a mom—not a lady who looked pretty in her sundress with the yellow Sunflowers on it, or the woman who’s eyes sparkled with the charms of youth while harboring a glimmer of sophistication gained from a life lived long in a short time.
My days were spent refining my first found talent in life; being a daddy’s girl. I was incredibly good at this, but I have come to realize that perhaps this may not have been all my doing. My mother informed me later in life, (I was probably around 14 or so), that when my dad and her found out she was pregnant with my sister, they made a deal with each other—My dad would make sure that after lil sis was born, I would still get plenty of attention from him so that I wouldn’t feel like I had been abandoned.
Looking back upon my youth, I still cannot decipher whether or not his behavior was indicative of this agreement, or if he simply continued along on the same path he was initially on. All this theorizing aside, the point of the matter is: My father gave me a phenomenal gift—a childhood marked with seemingly insignificant firsts, and a start in life with a full understanding of the basics.
I “helped” him build the second story for the deck in the backyard. We were a block away from the beach, but had no ocean view, so my father, never being one to bow to circumstances decided that we would have our ocean view even if it meant walking up a flight of stairs to get it. This deck must have taken a massive amount of planning to build, not to mention, a natural talent for construction (he built and designed it himself), but to me, it was just one more thing that my dad did… Didn’t all dads build things around the house? For all I knew, he could’ve built us a new house at the drop of a hat.
My dad assured me that my “helping” was responsible for the bulk of the work being completed… After all, in the twilight hours, we would sit up on the second floor, and he would provide me with a plank of wood, and some nails, he would let me know that my hammering those nails in would be the turning point for the work of the day… So while I labored on my nails, next to my father we would finish our work on the deck just as the sun was finishing its work in the sky.
I tasted gum for the first time on one of these sunset curtained nights. My dad chewed it while he was working, and I decided that I needed to be involved in this aspect of our project as well. My gum came with the standard explanation; “Now Hana, just chew it, don’t swallow it, you’re supposed to keep on chewing it.” “OK dad, I can do that.” It was delicious, spearmint, a bright green ball of flavor (I know this because when I took it out of my mouth to examine it, my dad added an addendum to his prior instructions: “You don’t play with it, you keep it in your mouth, or else you’ll get junk in it and then it’s not worth chewing anymore.”).
Back in my mouth it went, and as I sat on the deck watching the sun go down, my dad told me that I should watch closely for the green flash. He said that when he was a merchant marine, you could see the green flash every sunset, but now, on dry land, he was lucky to see it once in a while. “Everything is bigger and brighter in the sky when you’re on the water Hana. I swear there were times that I thought if I reached out far enough from the bough of the ship I would be able to take a piece of the moon home with me.” The night was dawning, and our time outside was winding down, he looked at me and noticed that I wasn’t chewing anymore. He chuckled saying, “You swallowed it, didn’t you?” “Well, I didn’t know how long I was supposed to chew it for, and I didn’t know what to do with it when I was done, and well, I was done.” Thus ended my day as deck construction worker extraordinaire and gum chewer novice.
Time to head inside, to the dinner table where the family all gathered after their respective days out changing the world to talk about exactly what kind of impact we had made, and what else we could do with the world tomorrow. My mother always had dinner ready when my father and I would come inside from our long days toiling on our ocean view, and while we ate, the plates were cleaned and our lives were shared. “I chewed some gum today.” “She swallowed some gum today.” “Kent, you let her swallow it?!” “Well, I couldn’t exactly stop her… I wasn’t about to stick my finger down her throat and pull it out.” “It tasted good, I wanted some more.”
Mom would tell me how proud she was of all the work I was doing, with helping out dad and all, the job couldn’t be done without my assistance. I would inform her that after the deck was completed, dad had promised to teach me how to “throw like a boy.” This first half of my childhood will be forever remembered for these firsts.
My days were spent refining my first found talent in life; being a daddy’s girl. I was incredibly good at this, but I have come to realize that perhaps this may not have been all my doing. My mother informed me later in life, (I was probably around 14 or so), that when my dad and her found out she was pregnant with my sister, they made a deal with each other—My dad would make sure that after lil sis was born, I would still get plenty of attention from him so that I wouldn’t feel like I had been abandoned.
Looking back upon my youth, I still cannot decipher whether or not his behavior was indicative of this agreement, or if he simply continued along on the same path he was initially on. All this theorizing aside, the point of the matter is: My father gave me a phenomenal gift—a childhood marked with seemingly insignificant firsts, and a start in life with a full understanding of the basics.
I “helped” him build the second story for the deck in the backyard. We were a block away from the beach, but had no ocean view, so my father, never being one to bow to circumstances decided that we would have our ocean view even if it meant walking up a flight of stairs to get it. This deck must have taken a massive amount of planning to build, not to mention, a natural talent for construction (he built and designed it himself), but to me, it was just one more thing that my dad did… Didn’t all dads build things around the house? For all I knew, he could’ve built us a new house at the drop of a hat.
My dad assured me that my “helping” was responsible for the bulk of the work being completed… After all, in the twilight hours, we would sit up on the second floor, and he would provide me with a plank of wood, and some nails, he would let me know that my hammering those nails in would be the turning point for the work of the day… So while I labored on my nails, next to my father we would finish our work on the deck just as the sun was finishing its work in the sky.
I tasted gum for the first time on one of these sunset curtained nights. My dad chewed it while he was working, and I decided that I needed to be involved in this aspect of our project as well. My gum came with the standard explanation; “Now Hana, just chew it, don’t swallow it, you’re supposed to keep on chewing it.” “OK dad, I can do that.” It was delicious, spearmint, a bright green ball of flavor (I know this because when I took it out of my mouth to examine it, my dad added an addendum to his prior instructions: “You don’t play with it, you keep it in your mouth, or else you’ll get junk in it and then it’s not worth chewing anymore.”).
Back in my mouth it went, and as I sat on the deck watching the sun go down, my dad told me that I should watch closely for the green flash. He said that when he was a merchant marine, you could see the green flash every sunset, but now, on dry land, he was lucky to see it once in a while. “Everything is bigger and brighter in the sky when you’re on the water Hana. I swear there were times that I thought if I reached out far enough from the bough of the ship I would be able to take a piece of the moon home with me.” The night was dawning, and our time outside was winding down, he looked at me and noticed that I wasn’t chewing anymore. He chuckled saying, “You swallowed it, didn’t you?” “Well, I didn’t know how long I was supposed to chew it for, and I didn’t know what to do with it when I was done, and well, I was done.” Thus ended my day as deck construction worker extraordinaire and gum chewer novice.
Time to head inside, to the dinner table where the family all gathered after their respective days out changing the world to talk about exactly what kind of impact we had made, and what else we could do with the world tomorrow. My mother always had dinner ready when my father and I would come inside from our long days toiling on our ocean view, and while we ate, the plates were cleaned and our lives were shared. “I chewed some gum today.” “She swallowed some gum today.” “Kent, you let her swallow it?!” “Well, I couldn’t exactly stop her… I wasn’t about to stick my finger down her throat and pull it out.” “It tasted good, I wanted some more.”
Mom would tell me how proud she was of all the work I was doing, with helping out dad and all, the job couldn’t be done without my assistance. I would inform her that after the deck was completed, dad had promised to teach me how to “throw like a boy.” This first half of my childhood will be forever remembered for these firsts.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Time Flies
I’m right around five months pregnant, and I can’t believe how quickly this time has gone by. I think that this has to be the fastest five months of my life, which is kind of disconcerting seeing as how I’m a little more than half way to the big day. I’m sure that things will continue to go at warp speed, for it always seems that there is never a slowing down time, simply a lets pick it up and move even faster time.
I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on how my life is going, and where I am at in it. My priorities have changed, and I have noticed that my will power is not so great anymore. I’ve always been an avid reader, but since I started taking heavy class loads and working, I’ve cut back and actually eliminated most of the reading for fun that I used to do. This past two weeks I’ve seriously rebelled against this new me and read three books back to back in two days that I WANTED to read, simply for the sake of reading them.
I stumbled across a collection of Non-Fiction short stories called In Fact which offers some very poignant advice to fledgling writers like me in its introduction. I found myself nodding and smiling along to most of this advice as I indulged this old habit until I came upon this particular jewel: “You will have time to read whatever you want after you finish college.” At 1:30 in the morning with John breathing softly next to me I got that eerie feeling that someone was watching me. I put the book down on my lap and whispered, “Alright, I get it” under my breath.
I’ve been feeling rather guilty for my rediscovered reading zealot and it took one of my treasured books to let me know, “Hey, stop slacking and do some Calculus homework rather than sit here and read me into the wee hours of the morning, I’ll still be here when your finals are over.” So, with that terrible revelation, I once again have vowed to lay my hobby to rest, well mostly to rest, I’ll still always have a book in my purse, another in my car, and one in John’s car just in case traffic gets really bad, my class starts late, or someone takes too long at the drive through window at the bank.
I don’t know what caused this sudden rebellious attitude, and why I chose to indulge my procrastinatory streak with such an old comfortable friend, but for some reason I did. I’ve been feeling kind of out of sorts lately, it’s probably hormonal, but who knows. I feel almost as if my body is on lease to me right now. It’s doing all sorts of things that it’s never done before and it certainly isn’t listening to me one way or another. I’m even getting kicked from the inside out, and I feel like I’m constantly questioning everything in my life to make sure that it is a good decision for both my baby and I.
I suppose maybe my desire to slip into old behaviors is a testament to my wish for that comfort that used to belong to me when I would sit for hours on end without a care in the world, reading for as long as I wanted, or until my mom caught me not doing what I was supposed to be doing and grounding me from my books for a period of time. I’ve been so incredibly home sick the past week or two, that it’s been difficult to watch even the stupid California Tourism commercials, you know the ones with Arnold Schwarzenegger talking about how nice visiting that state can be.
I guess maybe I’m desiring some familiarity, and stability, I’m in uncharted waters now with my life and my body making me want to withdraw and participate in old behaviors all over again. Thank goodness I have such an understanding guy, who will roll over in the early morning time to remind me that I have school in a few hours, and that maybe I should get some sleep. Someone who tells me that he knows that I can handle anything, and most of all that I am beautiful, even more so now that I have his baby in my belly.
I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on how my life is going, and where I am at in it. My priorities have changed, and I have noticed that my will power is not so great anymore. I’ve always been an avid reader, but since I started taking heavy class loads and working, I’ve cut back and actually eliminated most of the reading for fun that I used to do. This past two weeks I’ve seriously rebelled against this new me and read three books back to back in two days that I WANTED to read, simply for the sake of reading them.
I stumbled across a collection of Non-Fiction short stories called In Fact which offers some very poignant advice to fledgling writers like me in its introduction. I found myself nodding and smiling along to most of this advice as I indulged this old habit until I came upon this particular jewel: “You will have time to read whatever you want after you finish college.” At 1:30 in the morning with John breathing softly next to me I got that eerie feeling that someone was watching me. I put the book down on my lap and whispered, “Alright, I get it” under my breath.
I’ve been feeling rather guilty for my rediscovered reading zealot and it took one of my treasured books to let me know, “Hey, stop slacking and do some Calculus homework rather than sit here and read me into the wee hours of the morning, I’ll still be here when your finals are over.” So, with that terrible revelation, I once again have vowed to lay my hobby to rest, well mostly to rest, I’ll still always have a book in my purse, another in my car, and one in John’s car just in case traffic gets really bad, my class starts late, or someone takes too long at the drive through window at the bank.
I don’t know what caused this sudden rebellious attitude, and why I chose to indulge my procrastinatory streak with such an old comfortable friend, but for some reason I did. I’ve been feeling kind of out of sorts lately, it’s probably hormonal, but who knows. I feel almost as if my body is on lease to me right now. It’s doing all sorts of things that it’s never done before and it certainly isn’t listening to me one way or another. I’m even getting kicked from the inside out, and I feel like I’m constantly questioning everything in my life to make sure that it is a good decision for both my baby and I.
I suppose maybe my desire to slip into old behaviors is a testament to my wish for that comfort that used to belong to me when I would sit for hours on end without a care in the world, reading for as long as I wanted, or until my mom caught me not doing what I was supposed to be doing and grounding me from my books for a period of time. I’ve been so incredibly home sick the past week or two, that it’s been difficult to watch even the stupid California Tourism commercials, you know the ones with Arnold Schwarzenegger talking about how nice visiting that state can be.
I guess maybe I’m desiring some familiarity, and stability, I’m in uncharted waters now with my life and my body making me want to withdraw and participate in old behaviors all over again. Thank goodness I have such an understanding guy, who will roll over in the early morning time to remind me that I have school in a few hours, and that maybe I should get some sleep. Someone who tells me that he knows that I can handle anything, and most of all that I am beautiful, even more so now that I have his baby in my belly.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Reclusive
I’ve spent the last week being kind of reclusive. Well, I guess maybe reclusive isn’t the appropriate word, but I’ve just been laying low. I didn’t necessarily mean to be so introverted over the last week, but something told me to pull all my feelers in and just hang at home with John for the time being. I wasn’t moping in my room with the lights off and sad songs on the radio or anything, I just didn’t feel like being out and about much.
On Friday John and I went out to breakfast and then hit up Wal-Mart, which made me remember exactly why it is that I didn’t want to go out in the first place. Wal-Mart has to be one of the most difficult places to walk into and out of with a smile on your face. There’s just too many people, too many crying babies, and the lines, my goodness, I don’t understand how there can be so many people checking out all at the same time.
We made our Wal-Mart excursion because I had said something about wanting to buy a planter and a couple of flowers to plant outside on our porch, so, John being the good sport that he is walked through the Hell Hole known as Wal-Mart with me. We managed to find the pot that I was looking for, but the flower selection was minimal… So, rather than John telling me that we’d go home and I could go out to this other nursery I had been eyeing for a long time, but had yet to work up the nerve to walk through the door—John looked over at me and said, “Let’s go to that nursery together, I like seeing you happy and I know that this is something that you love to do.”
I could have cried, I love plant shopping, and my past has been peppered with insults from my ex every time I wanted to step foot in a nursery. John not only walked through the doors with me, but enthusiastically helped me pick out some beautiful planters, and made a list of things that we eventually needed to come back for. I couldn’t believe my luck, I was actually walking around this gorgeous nursery with the man of my dreams and he was pointing out the same things that I was looking at saying, “We need to buy this, we’re going to get this today…”
That Friday was perfect… We got back to the house; I planted my lavender and succulents, and played with the puppies outside in the gorgeous sun. Something about gardening is truly therapeutic (possibly more so than writing?), and I felt my mood elevating as the potting soil temporarily stained my fingertips and accumulated under my nails.
My mom used to make me garden with her on Sunday afternoons when I was younger, and I could not have begrudged any activity more than I did those sunny Sundays spent pulling weeds. One Sunday when I found myself out in the back yard stooped over pulling weeds, I related some trouble that I had been having with a particularly obnoxious girl in my class. My mom offered me a tool very similar to the ever famous hitting a pillow with a tennis racquet routine—“Why don’t you imagine that the weeds are the heads of people you’re angry with, and you just pull them right out of the ground and toss them away.” Yes I know, rather morbid, and it sounds awful, but boy did it work.
My Sunday’s following this anger management breakthrough actually became days that I began to enjoy, and at times look forward to. I sometimes would even find myself out in the yard weeding a patch of garden simply because I needed to think about something. My mother gave me the gift of gardening as therapy and I still use it to this day.
John jokes every now and again when there’s a larger weed in the yard that needs to be pulled… Something like, “Damn I guess I’m going to have to get you good and mad soon, so that you’ll go rip that sucker outta the ground.” Will come rolling off of his tongue. He patently accepts my un-orthodox methods of coping with things, and sometimes will sit outside with me in the sun while I weed a flower patch, just so I have someone to keep me company while I think.
I found it rather insightful that John was so aware of my weeding for therapy tendencies… And when I asked him about his knowledge of my coping strategies he mentioned that around winter time when it gets cold, my strategies skip from being outward bound to deep cleaning a room in the house. He knows just how angry or upset I am by how many weeds are in the garden, and how clean the bathrooms or hall closets are. This being able to read me like a book stuff is kind of scary in a way, fortunately for me, he has yet to use it against me in any form, in fact, he rarely comments on the behavior when it’s happening.
On Friday John and I went out to breakfast and then hit up Wal-Mart, which made me remember exactly why it is that I didn’t want to go out in the first place. Wal-Mart has to be one of the most difficult places to walk into and out of with a smile on your face. There’s just too many people, too many crying babies, and the lines, my goodness, I don’t understand how there can be so many people checking out all at the same time.
We made our Wal-Mart excursion because I had said something about wanting to buy a planter and a couple of flowers to plant outside on our porch, so, John being the good sport that he is walked through the Hell Hole known as Wal-Mart with me. We managed to find the pot that I was looking for, but the flower selection was minimal… So, rather than John telling me that we’d go home and I could go out to this other nursery I had been eyeing for a long time, but had yet to work up the nerve to walk through the door—John looked over at me and said, “Let’s go to that nursery together, I like seeing you happy and I know that this is something that you love to do.”
I could have cried, I love plant shopping, and my past has been peppered with insults from my ex every time I wanted to step foot in a nursery. John not only walked through the doors with me, but enthusiastically helped me pick out some beautiful planters, and made a list of things that we eventually needed to come back for. I couldn’t believe my luck, I was actually walking around this gorgeous nursery with the man of my dreams and he was pointing out the same things that I was looking at saying, “We need to buy this, we’re going to get this today…”
That Friday was perfect… We got back to the house; I planted my lavender and succulents, and played with the puppies outside in the gorgeous sun. Something about gardening is truly therapeutic (possibly more so than writing?), and I felt my mood elevating as the potting soil temporarily stained my fingertips and accumulated under my nails.
My mom used to make me garden with her on Sunday afternoons when I was younger, and I could not have begrudged any activity more than I did those sunny Sundays spent pulling weeds. One Sunday when I found myself out in the back yard stooped over pulling weeds, I related some trouble that I had been having with a particularly obnoxious girl in my class. My mom offered me a tool very similar to the ever famous hitting a pillow with a tennis racquet routine—“Why don’t you imagine that the weeds are the heads of people you’re angry with, and you just pull them right out of the ground and toss them away.” Yes I know, rather morbid, and it sounds awful, but boy did it work.
My Sunday’s following this anger management breakthrough actually became days that I began to enjoy, and at times look forward to. I sometimes would even find myself out in the yard weeding a patch of garden simply because I needed to think about something. My mother gave me the gift of gardening as therapy and I still use it to this day.
John jokes every now and again when there’s a larger weed in the yard that needs to be pulled… Something like, “Damn I guess I’m going to have to get you good and mad soon, so that you’ll go rip that sucker outta the ground.” Will come rolling off of his tongue. He patently accepts my un-orthodox methods of coping with things, and sometimes will sit outside with me in the sun while I weed a flower patch, just so I have someone to keep me company while I think.
I found it rather insightful that John was so aware of my weeding for therapy tendencies… And when I asked him about his knowledge of my coping strategies he mentioned that around winter time when it gets cold, my strategies skip from being outward bound to deep cleaning a room in the house. He knows just how angry or upset I am by how many weeds are in the garden, and how clean the bathrooms or hall closets are. This being able to read me like a book stuff is kind of scary in a way, fortunately for me, he has yet to use it against me in any form, in fact, he rarely comments on the behavior when it’s happening.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Therapy?
I’ve heard numerous times of the benefits of writing being highlighted as one of the quintessential forms of self-help therapy available to every literate individual of this day and age. I’ve even touted said benefits to friends and family members who are going through difficult times, saying such things as, “why don’t you write about it? It might make you feel better to put it all down on paper.” I’ve been reflecting on this method of handling stress and wondering if it’s actually something that I have incorporated into my own life… You see, I’ve had a sneaking suspicion for a while now that I may not be practicing as I’m preaching..
I’ve come to realize that I tend to internalize, i.e. agonize over things for an extended amount of time, applying all of my coping methods and problem solving skills to a problem that I absolutely refuse to write down—when finally I’ll reach some sort of peace somewhere way down the road, and then, only then will I write about it. I mean, it took me two years to even write about my ex husband murdering my dog, talk about a delayed reaction. I suppose that I use this writing down of events as a sort of closure, or memorializing technique… I guess that I figure once they’re out on paper, then they are really there, and permanent, with all events, actions and feelings recorded.
So, with all this in mind, I have decided that I am a hypocrite. I give advice and believe that it’s good, “oh yeah, write about it it’ll make you feel better,” then, refuse to follow my own advice. I believe Alice in Wonderland realized the same thing part way through Lewis Carroll’s drug induced childhood fairy tale…
I give myself very good advice
But I very seldom follow it
Will I ever learn to do the things I should?
I found myself pondering this very situation on April 8th. John had bought me a Great Dane puppy as our anniversary present. We took the pup in to have his ears cropped and on this horrible day, the vet called us back and informed us that the puppy had died coming out of anesthesia. John and I were beside ourselves. I took Wednesday off from school, and we spent the day trying to deal with the range of emotions that comes from losing a family member.
I vowed to myself that I would blog about it, for I was having tremendous difficulty sorting out my emotions. They were running rampant; from extreme sadness, to anger, to disbelief, and back again in no particular order, and I told myself that writing about it might actually help me to deal with, or at least nail down one particular thing to feel at a time. Well, I stalled. I played my hypocritical card, and told myself that this was not worthy blog material, for I should be writing about one coherent idea, which is a load of rubbish—as I’m sure you can discern if you’ve read any of my past entries.
So I’m writing about it now… Actually, I guess that I’m writing about my lack of writing about it, maybe my advice isn’t so grand after all. Maybe I’m too vain to write about problems that I’m having in the here and now, because every time I try, I feel like they need to be polished out a little more, have their rough edges smoothed so they can fit into a neat little package. I’ve determined that I am not a raw material writer; I have to spend a good deal of time thinking about what I’m going to say before I actually say it.
John says that I’m introverted, and that I don’t talk much. He says that I manage to communicate how I’m feeling and what needs to be said with surprisingly few spoken words, so maybe that’s why I take so long to build my pearl around whatever grain of sand has gotten under my skin. Not that I’m a woman of few written words, I mean, obviously I tend to ramble on about various subjects when I’m writing—more so, maybe I’m a woman of tremendous effort to make my brain slow down for a moment so it’s not as chaotic as it normally is, and I can figure out exactly what it is I intend to write about. I find it kind of disheartening that it takes me anywhere between two weeks and two years to actually organize my thoughts enough to write about them, but I guess that I’m going to have to settle for being a retrospective writer.
With that said, I’m off to ponder my current situation, which I’m sure you will hear about sometime in the future (give me a month or so). I have no doubt that I can polish this pearl up and make it infinitely more palatable if I continue to not follow mine and countless therapists advice to write about it in the here and now… Festering is the word that comes to mind… I shall let this wound fester, and when it finally scars up a little more and my gaping, bloody cut is simply a shiny line with a story of long ago attached to it, I might have organized myself enough to tell you all about it.
I’ve come to realize that I tend to internalize, i.e. agonize over things for an extended amount of time, applying all of my coping methods and problem solving skills to a problem that I absolutely refuse to write down—when finally I’ll reach some sort of peace somewhere way down the road, and then, only then will I write about it. I mean, it took me two years to even write about my ex husband murdering my dog, talk about a delayed reaction. I suppose that I use this writing down of events as a sort of closure, or memorializing technique… I guess that I figure once they’re out on paper, then they are really there, and permanent, with all events, actions and feelings recorded.
So, with all this in mind, I have decided that I am a hypocrite. I give advice and believe that it’s good, “oh yeah, write about it it’ll make you feel better,” then, refuse to follow my own advice. I believe Alice in Wonderland realized the same thing part way through Lewis Carroll’s drug induced childhood fairy tale…
I give myself very good advice
But I very seldom follow it
Will I ever learn to do the things I should?
I found myself pondering this very situation on April 8th. John had bought me a Great Dane puppy as our anniversary present. We took the pup in to have his ears cropped and on this horrible day, the vet called us back and informed us that the puppy had died coming out of anesthesia. John and I were beside ourselves. I took Wednesday off from school, and we spent the day trying to deal with the range of emotions that comes from losing a family member.
I vowed to myself that I would blog about it, for I was having tremendous difficulty sorting out my emotions. They were running rampant; from extreme sadness, to anger, to disbelief, and back again in no particular order, and I told myself that writing about it might actually help me to deal with, or at least nail down one particular thing to feel at a time. Well, I stalled. I played my hypocritical card, and told myself that this was not worthy blog material, for I should be writing about one coherent idea, which is a load of rubbish—as I’m sure you can discern if you’ve read any of my past entries.
So I’m writing about it now… Actually, I guess that I’m writing about my lack of writing about it, maybe my advice isn’t so grand after all. Maybe I’m too vain to write about problems that I’m having in the here and now, because every time I try, I feel like they need to be polished out a little more, have their rough edges smoothed so they can fit into a neat little package. I’ve determined that I am not a raw material writer; I have to spend a good deal of time thinking about what I’m going to say before I actually say it.
John says that I’m introverted, and that I don’t talk much. He says that I manage to communicate how I’m feeling and what needs to be said with surprisingly few spoken words, so maybe that’s why I take so long to build my pearl around whatever grain of sand has gotten under my skin. Not that I’m a woman of few written words, I mean, obviously I tend to ramble on about various subjects when I’m writing—more so, maybe I’m a woman of tremendous effort to make my brain slow down for a moment so it’s not as chaotic as it normally is, and I can figure out exactly what it is I intend to write about. I find it kind of disheartening that it takes me anywhere between two weeks and two years to actually organize my thoughts enough to write about them, but I guess that I’m going to have to settle for being a retrospective writer.
With that said, I’m off to ponder my current situation, which I’m sure you will hear about sometime in the future (give me a month or so). I have no doubt that I can polish this pearl up and make it infinitely more palatable if I continue to not follow mine and countless therapists advice to write about it in the here and now… Festering is the word that comes to mind… I shall let this wound fester, and when it finally scars up a little more and my gaping, bloody cut is simply a shiny line with a story of long ago attached to it, I might have organized myself enough to tell you all about it.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
John Was Right
I made it through another week, I’m sure that there was much doubt and speculation as to the likelihood of that not happening, but I have proven all of my critics wrong once again! Seriously though, this has been a tremendously difficult week, and I was unsure of whether or not Friday would ever come—once a spark of promise for the inevitable Friday showed up I began to fret about the upcoming week even more… So I guess you could say that I was a little more stressed than usual.
My DEAR friend Bob didn’t hesitate to point out the fact that I would most likely remain in a state of constant stress for the remainder of my life for it seems that that is simply how I function best. Isn’t that sweet? I could just feel the faith he had in my stress management capabilities emanating from his voice through my cell phone on that lovely drive back home from Tallahassee. It’s good to have so many people in my life who really do believe in me. ::cough::
I suppose I had a similar analysis coming my way though, I should give him some credit. He did come to this revelation in the midst of my worrying about the fact that I would not make it back to school on time for my 7:30 Calculus class. It was just not a possibility, so I spent a good portion of my drive biting my nails, fretting about missing my class and arguing with Bob about just how not stressed I was.
I think that Bob might be on to something though, because John is consistently telling me to mellow out and not stress so much about school, so it would seem that I am the common factor here and if there is to be a decision regarding stress and whether or not I cope with it well, I’m going to have to admit that the people around me are probably correct… But I will have the last laugh, because I will simply fail to mention that I wrote any such thing to John, and at least he won’t know that I came right out and admitted that he was right.
Onto bigger and better things… I managed to finally put stalker boy in his rightful place… I’m not to exactly sure where that rightful place is, but at least it’s somewhere away from me. He now resides there, holding a grudge and I’m sure thinking that I am the bitchiest person in the world. Sigh, such is life when you’re young, and well, dumb.
It was bound to happen sooner or later; he just managed to bring the whole situation to a breaking point when he continually texted and IM’d me over the entire Spring Break. Now, this behavior would have been understandable, or at least explainable if he hadn’t gone about it in such a stalkeresque fashion. For clarification, (since I’m sure stalkeresque cannot be found in a dictionary), I will define it: The act in which one person, namely the stalker, continues to attempt to make contact with another, the stalkeree, with no regard to the lack of joint communication.
Basically, he continued to blow up my cell phone and computer, receiving no response from me, until I changed my number and finally IM’d him back asking simply: “Why do you keep writing to me?” I could practically see his fingers stuttering over the keyboard as he searched for an appropriate, yet cool response. Uh, uh, uh, “I just wanted to say hey and see how your break was going.” “Oh yeah, I also wanted to see if I could get some help with _____________ (subject).” Mind you, we were on Spring break, and the subject he was looking for help with had concluded with a test the day of our break, so, no new material had been covered. “OK, you need to stop writing me; I thought that my lack of response for the last month or so would make it clear that I didn’t have much to say to you… But apparently you need something a little more definitive. I don’t have anything to say to you.”
As if this wasn’t clear enough, he began making even more of a mockery of himself—typing still more IM’s to me asking what it was that he had done, and why I didn’t feel comfortable around him? And why I wouldn’t talk to him anymore, and oh my God Chicken Little the sky is falling!!!! No really though, it was a much needed blow to his ego, because once again, John was right, he wasn’t going to stop until I obliterated any semblance of an ego he may have been harboring. Damn I hate this John being right stuff.
I’m sure that you all, my faithful blog readers feel much better now, knowing that I am officially stalker-free, and my first day back in class with my ex-stalker went smoothly aside from him embarrassing himself in front of the class by scoffing at an answer I provided to a question, proclaiming, “Wow, I can see someone didn’t study over the break…” He was about to continue with this informal assassination of my skills until he was informed that I was indeed correct. It’s the little things in life that make me smile, and trust me, this provided ammo for quite a smile. The chapter in my life of being the stalkeree has officially ended, ah, the freedom.
My DEAR friend Bob didn’t hesitate to point out the fact that I would most likely remain in a state of constant stress for the remainder of my life for it seems that that is simply how I function best. Isn’t that sweet? I could just feel the faith he had in my stress management capabilities emanating from his voice through my cell phone on that lovely drive back home from Tallahassee. It’s good to have so many people in my life who really do believe in me. ::cough::
I suppose I had a similar analysis coming my way though, I should give him some credit. He did come to this revelation in the midst of my worrying about the fact that I would not make it back to school on time for my 7:30 Calculus class. It was just not a possibility, so I spent a good portion of my drive biting my nails, fretting about missing my class and arguing with Bob about just how not stressed I was.
I think that Bob might be on to something though, because John is consistently telling me to mellow out and not stress so much about school, so it would seem that I am the common factor here and if there is to be a decision regarding stress and whether or not I cope with it well, I’m going to have to admit that the people around me are probably correct… But I will have the last laugh, because I will simply fail to mention that I wrote any such thing to John, and at least he won’t know that I came right out and admitted that he was right.
Onto bigger and better things… I managed to finally put stalker boy in his rightful place… I’m not to exactly sure where that rightful place is, but at least it’s somewhere away from me. He now resides there, holding a grudge and I’m sure thinking that I am the bitchiest person in the world. Sigh, such is life when you’re young, and well, dumb.
It was bound to happen sooner or later; he just managed to bring the whole situation to a breaking point when he continually texted and IM’d me over the entire Spring Break. Now, this behavior would have been understandable, or at least explainable if he hadn’t gone about it in such a stalkeresque fashion. For clarification, (since I’m sure stalkeresque cannot be found in a dictionary), I will define it: The act in which one person, namely the stalker, continues to attempt to make contact with another, the stalkeree, with no regard to the lack of joint communication.
Basically, he continued to blow up my cell phone and computer, receiving no response from me, until I changed my number and finally IM’d him back asking simply: “Why do you keep writing to me?” I could practically see his fingers stuttering over the keyboard as he searched for an appropriate, yet cool response. Uh, uh, uh, “I just wanted to say hey and see how your break was going.” “Oh yeah, I also wanted to see if I could get some help with _____________ (subject).” Mind you, we were on Spring break, and the subject he was looking for help with had concluded with a test the day of our break, so, no new material had been covered. “OK, you need to stop writing me; I thought that my lack of response for the last month or so would make it clear that I didn’t have much to say to you… But apparently you need something a little more definitive. I don’t have anything to say to you.”
As if this wasn’t clear enough, he began making even more of a mockery of himself—typing still more IM’s to me asking what it was that he had done, and why I didn’t feel comfortable around him? And why I wouldn’t talk to him anymore, and oh my God Chicken Little the sky is falling!!!! No really though, it was a much needed blow to his ego, because once again, John was right, he wasn’t going to stop until I obliterated any semblance of an ego he may have been harboring. Damn I hate this John being right stuff.
I’m sure that you all, my faithful blog readers feel much better now, knowing that I am officially stalker-free, and my first day back in class with my ex-stalker went smoothly aside from him embarrassing himself in front of the class by scoffing at an answer I provided to a question, proclaiming, “Wow, I can see someone didn’t study over the break…” He was about to continue with this informal assassination of my skills until he was informed that I was indeed correct. It’s the little things in life that make me smile, and trust me, this provided ammo for quite a smile. The chapter in my life of being the stalkeree has officially ended, ah, the freedom.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Spotless
This past week went by in a whirlwind. It always seems to, whenever Lindy is in the house—although, unlike any other whirlwind I have ever encountered, she manages to clean everything in her wake rather than destroy it. I don’t know of anyone else that is actually capable of keeping a washing machine going damn near 24 hours a day for 8 days straight. She made me chuckle, when by the third day, she was walking through the house looking slightly perturbed. I asked her what was the matter, and her response was that she couldn’t find anything else to wash.
Such occurrences are the norm when Lindy graces a household. The dishwasher is always running, although I don’t really know how necessary such appliances are when she is at the helm of such duties, because all dishes are cleaned and sanitized thoroughly before even being placed in the dishwasher for their high pressure, high heat sanitization. She cleans in preparation to clean; it really is something else, something the likes of which I’ve never seen.
She bought us a Roomba (one of those robot vacuum cleaners), for Christmas, and I was so stoked—it really is one of my favorite things in our entire house. I figured that with the Roomba going, at least Lindy wouldn’t feel so obligated to vacuum the floors compulsively as well, but I was mistaken. She set the Roomba off on its little mission one morning, and I was thrilled to hear its quiet hum instead of the big vacuum’s growl… Within five minutes, both the vacuum and the Roomba were running, and I emerged from my room to check out what the commotion was all about. Lindy was actually following behind the Roomba with the big vacuum “Just in case it misses something!”
I was rather entertained, although it is painful to watch someone in the throes of their compulsions, for it seems almost as if she cleans not because she wants to but because something inside her tells her that she has to. I don’t know, maybe I’m reading more into it then there really is, but I can’t quite wrap my brain around what would make someone exclaim, “I love laundry!” and really mean it.
Aside from Lindy’s strenuous cleaning schedule, she managed to spend ungodly amounts of money on us, (once again, something that she insists on doing), and spoiled us rotten for the 8 days she graced our presence. I began to dread going inside any store with her, because she would inevitably walk out with at least a $250.00 receipt to add to her checkbook, a big smile plastered across her face, and the words, “I’m just getting you some of the things you need,” flowing from her mouth. I was unaware that all the things we needed could be found and piled into multiple shopping carts, but wonder woman Lindy proved me wrong time and time again.
My cleaning closet has never been so full. If we were forced to stay inside for the next five years straight, I think that I would have enough Clorox spray, Bleach, Toilet Bowl cleaner, and Multi-surface cleaners to disinfect my house on a daily basis with ease. My pantry is bursting at its hinges with treats and goodies, and my refrigerator is practically being held shut through the grace of some unknown force, for it is housing more fruit than the average produce stand, (the end result of me saying that I was craving a piece of fruit).
I count my blessings, I really do… I could have had a horrible mother in law, and I don’t know how I ended up with a Lindy. My dad and I were chatting about such things as I was driving home from the Tallahassee Airport after I dropped Lindy off for her flight home. He will never rub my nose in the fact that I almost threw this kind of opportunity away by marrying a monster like my ex, but he will tell me that I am incredibly lucky to have found such a good man, with such a loving family.
My father is not the most outspoken of people, and to most he seems somewhat quiet and standoffish. John admired him from the start and knew upon first meeting him that he was extremely intelligent. It seemed that there was a mutual respect from the get go of John and my relationship between him and my father, for there was never any of those uncomfortable moments usually associated with a guy meeting his girlfriend’s parents for the first time.
If such moments had actually existed at one point or another, they are long past now. On our last trip out to California, not so long ago, our families were all able to go out to dinner together. The end of the night brought with it one of my most cherished memories—my father had given me my hug goodnight, and was saying goodnight to everyone else. Standing a little distance away from the crowd, he looked John in the eye, shook his hand, and said “You are the best thing that has ever happened to my daughter.” His words carried clearly across the night air to my ears, and at that point in time, under the Southern California stars, I finally felt that I had begun to make good decisions in my life. I can see the relief on the faces of those that loved me and thought for so long that my life would be filled with the torturous ramifications of bad decisions past. The departure I have made from my purgatory has released those I hold near to my heart, for they are no longer holding their breath and hoping that I will survive, instead they are simply rejoicing in my happiness.
Such occurrences are the norm when Lindy graces a household. The dishwasher is always running, although I don’t really know how necessary such appliances are when she is at the helm of such duties, because all dishes are cleaned and sanitized thoroughly before even being placed in the dishwasher for their high pressure, high heat sanitization. She cleans in preparation to clean; it really is something else, something the likes of which I’ve never seen.
She bought us a Roomba (one of those robot vacuum cleaners), for Christmas, and I was so stoked—it really is one of my favorite things in our entire house. I figured that with the Roomba going, at least Lindy wouldn’t feel so obligated to vacuum the floors compulsively as well, but I was mistaken. She set the Roomba off on its little mission one morning, and I was thrilled to hear its quiet hum instead of the big vacuum’s growl… Within five minutes, both the vacuum and the Roomba were running, and I emerged from my room to check out what the commotion was all about. Lindy was actually following behind the Roomba with the big vacuum “Just in case it misses something!”
I was rather entertained, although it is painful to watch someone in the throes of their compulsions, for it seems almost as if she cleans not because she wants to but because something inside her tells her that she has to. I don’t know, maybe I’m reading more into it then there really is, but I can’t quite wrap my brain around what would make someone exclaim, “I love laundry!” and really mean it.
Aside from Lindy’s strenuous cleaning schedule, she managed to spend ungodly amounts of money on us, (once again, something that she insists on doing), and spoiled us rotten for the 8 days she graced our presence. I began to dread going inside any store with her, because she would inevitably walk out with at least a $250.00 receipt to add to her checkbook, a big smile plastered across her face, and the words, “I’m just getting you some of the things you need,” flowing from her mouth. I was unaware that all the things we needed could be found and piled into multiple shopping carts, but wonder woman Lindy proved me wrong time and time again.
My cleaning closet has never been so full. If we were forced to stay inside for the next five years straight, I think that I would have enough Clorox spray, Bleach, Toilet Bowl cleaner, and Multi-surface cleaners to disinfect my house on a daily basis with ease. My pantry is bursting at its hinges with treats and goodies, and my refrigerator is practically being held shut through the grace of some unknown force, for it is housing more fruit than the average produce stand, (the end result of me saying that I was craving a piece of fruit).
I count my blessings, I really do… I could have had a horrible mother in law, and I don’t know how I ended up with a Lindy. My dad and I were chatting about such things as I was driving home from the Tallahassee Airport after I dropped Lindy off for her flight home. He will never rub my nose in the fact that I almost threw this kind of opportunity away by marrying a monster like my ex, but he will tell me that I am incredibly lucky to have found such a good man, with such a loving family.
My father is not the most outspoken of people, and to most he seems somewhat quiet and standoffish. John admired him from the start and knew upon first meeting him that he was extremely intelligent. It seemed that there was a mutual respect from the get go of John and my relationship between him and my father, for there was never any of those uncomfortable moments usually associated with a guy meeting his girlfriend’s parents for the first time.
If such moments had actually existed at one point or another, they are long past now. On our last trip out to California, not so long ago, our families were all able to go out to dinner together. The end of the night brought with it one of my most cherished memories—my father had given me my hug goodnight, and was saying goodnight to everyone else. Standing a little distance away from the crowd, he looked John in the eye, shook his hand, and said “You are the best thing that has ever happened to my daughter.” His words carried clearly across the night air to my ears, and at that point in time, under the Southern California stars, I finally felt that I had begun to make good decisions in my life. I can see the relief on the faces of those that loved me and thought for so long that my life would be filled with the torturous ramifications of bad decisions past. The departure I have made from my purgatory has released those I hold near to my heart, for they are no longer holding their breath and hoping that I will survive, instead they are simply rejoicing in my happiness.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Growing Pains
Much has happened this week; I can’t even begin to categorize the events that have taken place. My mother in law is in town, so my floors are immaculate, and my laundry has never been so done. I believe that she has actually almost mastered the art of training the laundry to run into the washer and begin washing itself. I wrote a profile on this woman, for she is quite a profound being. I’ve never met anyone like her and I am absolutely sure my future holds no duplicates either.
One of the suggestions that were made to me to improve an early stage of this profile is to include some negativity in it. I kind of chuckled inwardly at this notion because in all reality, this is completely viable and would apply to anyone else, aside from Lindy. I’m one hundred percent sure that she will eventually make a couple of miracles happen, thus earning her a well deserved sainthood.
With my floors sparkling, and my clothes freshly laundered, John, Lindy and I headed off to the Doctor for my monthly checkup. We had decided that we would do our best to guilt the doc into performing an ultrasound—I had a good reason, I really did. Now, this is going to sound a little irrational, and I’m not sure if it is or not, but it most likely was a hormone induced form of paranoia. So, anyway, I’m becoming more and more concerned as the days go by. I’m 15 weeks pregnant right now, and I’m not showing. Not only am I not showing, but I haven’t gained ANY weight. Not a single pound.
This maintaining pre-pregnancy weight stuff is cool for a month or two, but by now, my uterus is the size of a lemon, and I have a baby in there who has all their fingers and toes, and is moving around doing dances and such when I’m relaxed. So here comes the irrational part… I started to worry about whether or not I actually was pregnant still or if for some reason I was much earlier along then previously hypothesized—it just didn’t seem possible that I could be almost four months along and not look pregnant yet.
Needless to say, John took the high ground, and assured me over and over again that he was absolutely positive that everything was OK, but he would do his best to partake in the guilt laying process thus clenching our spot in the ultrasound room. He performed amazingly well, and with nothing more than a bat of his ridiculously long eyelashes, and a well spoken, “Doctor, would it be possible to get an ultrasound? I mean my wife and I are a little concerned about her lack of weight gain, and we just want to make sure everything’s all right.” We were off and running to catch a black and white shadowy glimpse of our baby.
It was amazing. My baby was doing flips in there, was posing, showing off all of its fingers and toes, and turning every which way. The one thing the little sucker refused to do was give us a glimpse of the goods, so we will have to wait yet another month to find out what we’re having. Aside from the suspense, everyone went home with a party favor; Grandma got her very own picture, I got some relief, and John got to finally hear the end of me constantly asking him if he thinks that everything is OK.
The ultrasound room was crowded—although I was thinking of some of the other people who I know would love to be able to catch a glimpse of this little shadow creature. My sister by choice, and the baby’s fairy god mother (one and the same), Ms. Beth would have been ecstatic. This revelation was coupled with a strong feeling of anguish, for Beth needs me right now and I’m so far away.
She is an incredibly strong girl and I know that she will pull through this rough time, and the tremendous pain that the loss of a loved one will bring, but I so wish that I could be there to listen to her tell me tales of her grandfather and the times that they shared. She has been tasked with delivering his eulogy, and as much of an honor as this heavy job is, it also weighs on the soul. I have no doubt that her days are filled with thoughts of him, and silent films played in her mind of her most cherished memories.
These memories may seem insignificant to many, but to someone who shares such a close bond with another human being, tranquility and order can be harvested from a simple glimpse, or the sound of your loved ones laugh. I’m preaching to the choir here, for we all will be, or have all been in a similar situation, yet it gets no easier with time. No words of wisdom can soothe this hurt, and nothing but time can dull its sting. I feel helpless to do much aside from offering a listening ear and a loving heart from across the country in her time of need.
Such events have weighed heavily on my mind, brining a much needed perspective back to its rightful place. I will not go into depth at this moment, (and I apologize if you have read this far only to feel cheated by surface statements), I just feel too tired to fully express my intended meaning. My friend Bob let me know that he could tell I was stressed by reading my blogs… I apologize for this, as it is not their intended purpose. I have yet to find out exactly what their purpose is, but I am sure eventually I will deduce something that makes a semblance of sense.
I feel profoundly lucky to have people in my life that can sense my mood through my written words, or that can make me realize that while there is nothing that I can do to alleviate their pain, I am needed for other things. I have people in my life who know that I will make something of myself and follow me blindly—even when there is no clue offered as to what that something may be. Such tremendous support and pride is thrown my way and I have never felt so nurtured even in a time of intense stress and painful growth. I know that everything will turn out OK in the end, and for that I am deeply thankful.
One of the suggestions that were made to me to improve an early stage of this profile is to include some negativity in it. I kind of chuckled inwardly at this notion because in all reality, this is completely viable and would apply to anyone else, aside from Lindy. I’m one hundred percent sure that she will eventually make a couple of miracles happen, thus earning her a well deserved sainthood.
With my floors sparkling, and my clothes freshly laundered, John, Lindy and I headed off to the Doctor for my monthly checkup. We had decided that we would do our best to guilt the doc into performing an ultrasound—I had a good reason, I really did. Now, this is going to sound a little irrational, and I’m not sure if it is or not, but it most likely was a hormone induced form of paranoia. So, anyway, I’m becoming more and more concerned as the days go by. I’m 15 weeks pregnant right now, and I’m not showing. Not only am I not showing, but I haven’t gained ANY weight. Not a single pound.
This maintaining pre-pregnancy weight stuff is cool for a month or two, but by now, my uterus is the size of a lemon, and I have a baby in there who has all their fingers and toes, and is moving around doing dances and such when I’m relaxed. So here comes the irrational part… I started to worry about whether or not I actually was pregnant still or if for some reason I was much earlier along then previously hypothesized—it just didn’t seem possible that I could be almost four months along and not look pregnant yet.
Needless to say, John took the high ground, and assured me over and over again that he was absolutely positive that everything was OK, but he would do his best to partake in the guilt laying process thus clenching our spot in the ultrasound room. He performed amazingly well, and with nothing more than a bat of his ridiculously long eyelashes, and a well spoken, “Doctor, would it be possible to get an ultrasound? I mean my wife and I are a little concerned about her lack of weight gain, and we just want to make sure everything’s all right.” We were off and running to catch a black and white shadowy glimpse of our baby.
It was amazing. My baby was doing flips in there, was posing, showing off all of its fingers and toes, and turning every which way. The one thing the little sucker refused to do was give us a glimpse of the goods, so we will have to wait yet another month to find out what we’re having. Aside from the suspense, everyone went home with a party favor; Grandma got her very own picture, I got some relief, and John got to finally hear the end of me constantly asking him if he thinks that everything is OK.
The ultrasound room was crowded—although I was thinking of some of the other people who I know would love to be able to catch a glimpse of this little shadow creature. My sister by choice, and the baby’s fairy god mother (one and the same), Ms. Beth would have been ecstatic. This revelation was coupled with a strong feeling of anguish, for Beth needs me right now and I’m so far away.
She is an incredibly strong girl and I know that she will pull through this rough time, and the tremendous pain that the loss of a loved one will bring, but I so wish that I could be there to listen to her tell me tales of her grandfather and the times that they shared. She has been tasked with delivering his eulogy, and as much of an honor as this heavy job is, it also weighs on the soul. I have no doubt that her days are filled with thoughts of him, and silent films played in her mind of her most cherished memories.
These memories may seem insignificant to many, but to someone who shares such a close bond with another human being, tranquility and order can be harvested from a simple glimpse, or the sound of your loved ones laugh. I’m preaching to the choir here, for we all will be, or have all been in a similar situation, yet it gets no easier with time. No words of wisdom can soothe this hurt, and nothing but time can dull its sting. I feel helpless to do much aside from offering a listening ear and a loving heart from across the country in her time of need.
Such events have weighed heavily on my mind, brining a much needed perspective back to its rightful place. I will not go into depth at this moment, (and I apologize if you have read this far only to feel cheated by surface statements), I just feel too tired to fully express my intended meaning. My friend Bob let me know that he could tell I was stressed by reading my blogs… I apologize for this, as it is not their intended purpose. I have yet to find out exactly what their purpose is, but I am sure eventually I will deduce something that makes a semblance of sense.
I feel profoundly lucky to have people in my life that can sense my mood through my written words, or that can make me realize that while there is nothing that I can do to alleviate their pain, I am needed for other things. I have people in my life who know that I will make something of myself and follow me blindly—even when there is no clue offered as to what that something may be. Such tremendous support and pride is thrown my way and I have never felt so nurtured even in a time of intense stress and painful growth. I know that everything will turn out OK in the end, and for that I am deeply thankful.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Dork
My brain feels like mush. I literally hurt it this past week. I was so stressed out that I’ve had a headache for a little over a week now. All I can say is, thank God it’s Spring Break. I felt like I was an asthmatic who left their inhaler on the bed side table, but found myself running the last leg of a marathon on a smoggy day anyway. In case that description didn’t illustrate quite how overwhelmed I was feeling, I’ll just say this… I don’t know how I made it.
I had a Calculus test last night, what a nightmare that was. I keep finding myself sitting in that class and pondering the reasons why I’m there in the first place… Why exactly was it again? Oh yeah, stupid Mr. Siehl… That, and at least one day I’ll be able to tell my kids that I took Calculus in college, and actually passed it… I don’t think that will gain me any cool points with them though; in fact, John seems to think that every single one of us in that class is a dork, including myself.
I suppose that I am quite a dork, I really can’t deny it. I’d rather have my nose in a book then be parked in front of the TV. This proved to be somewhat of an issue when I was younger… I can vividly remember being GROUNDED FROM READING when I was 13 or so. Now, before you get all up in arms, I have to interject a few words in my parent’s defense here. Apparently I had come home from school and gone straight to my room (which was not unusual on days that I didn’t have any other extracurricular activities occurring). I informed my mother that I had a ton of homework to do (which was the truth), and that I intended to finish all of it immediately (which was quite a lie).
Anyone who knows me or even anyone who’s read some of my previous blogs will be able to tell you that I am a well established, extremely proficient procrastinator. This does not mean that I will sit on my bed and stare at the ceiling and do nothing, no… I will simply find TONS of other things to do to fill my time. Homework was not on the list that particular evening. My mom allowed me plenty of time (about six hours worth of it), completely uninterrupted to finish up my school work. I spent the entire six hours behind closed doors finishing up one book and starting another.
She walked in half way through my indulgence. No knocking, so I couldn’t even hide my indiscretions. She caught me, red handed. Book clasped tightly in my fists and nose buried firmly within the pages. My backpack sitting unmolested at the foot of my bed told the story of just how little homework I had completed that night. Her hands went to her hips, and she narrowed her eyes at me, “Have you been reading this whole time?” “Uh, um, well, I lost track of time, how long has it been?” “Six HOURS!” She turned on her heels calling over her shoulder that dinner was ready, and she expected me at the table minus the book.
That fateful night, I was grounded from reading. Well, not completely, I could still read, I just had to show proof that my homework had been completed before hand. I guess, that story goes to filling out my dork card a little more completely, but what is to be expected when my reward for being good, or getting good grades was my mom taking me out to the bookstore and letting me buy whatever I wanted. I was spoiled when I came to Barnes and Noble, God I love that place.
My father didn’t help either when it came to firmly affixing my dork label. Every night he would come into my room to tuck me in and we would read together. We read Robinson Crusoe together from cover to cover before I was six years old, and that was just the start.
I feel so fortunate to have grown up in a family which had a fully stocked bookshelf in the house. Wandering through the living room was like being lost in an aisle of Barnes and Noble for me, because I could spend hours shopping for my next read. As if it wasn’t enough having floor to ceiling bookshelves in the living room, I also had my own bookshelves in my bedroom, and sometimes, my mom would let me grab a book or two from my parents bookshelf in their room.
It seems that all families have their quirks, and most share at least one passion together, be it playing tennis, or watching college football. My family's just so happened to be reading, and furthering their careers in dorkdum. So yeah, I guess I kinda belong in calculus class.
I had a Calculus test last night, what a nightmare that was. I keep finding myself sitting in that class and pondering the reasons why I’m there in the first place… Why exactly was it again? Oh yeah, stupid Mr. Siehl… That, and at least one day I’ll be able to tell my kids that I took Calculus in college, and actually passed it… I don’t think that will gain me any cool points with them though; in fact, John seems to think that every single one of us in that class is a dork, including myself.
I suppose that I am quite a dork, I really can’t deny it. I’d rather have my nose in a book then be parked in front of the TV. This proved to be somewhat of an issue when I was younger… I can vividly remember being GROUNDED FROM READING when I was 13 or so. Now, before you get all up in arms, I have to interject a few words in my parent’s defense here. Apparently I had come home from school and gone straight to my room (which was not unusual on days that I didn’t have any other extracurricular activities occurring). I informed my mother that I had a ton of homework to do (which was the truth), and that I intended to finish all of it immediately (which was quite a lie).
Anyone who knows me or even anyone who’s read some of my previous blogs will be able to tell you that I am a well established, extremely proficient procrastinator. This does not mean that I will sit on my bed and stare at the ceiling and do nothing, no… I will simply find TONS of other things to do to fill my time. Homework was not on the list that particular evening. My mom allowed me plenty of time (about six hours worth of it), completely uninterrupted to finish up my school work. I spent the entire six hours behind closed doors finishing up one book and starting another.
She walked in half way through my indulgence. No knocking, so I couldn’t even hide my indiscretions. She caught me, red handed. Book clasped tightly in my fists and nose buried firmly within the pages. My backpack sitting unmolested at the foot of my bed told the story of just how little homework I had completed that night. Her hands went to her hips, and she narrowed her eyes at me, “Have you been reading this whole time?” “Uh, um, well, I lost track of time, how long has it been?” “Six HOURS!” She turned on her heels calling over her shoulder that dinner was ready, and she expected me at the table minus the book.
That fateful night, I was grounded from reading. Well, not completely, I could still read, I just had to show proof that my homework had been completed before hand. I guess, that story goes to filling out my dork card a little more completely, but what is to be expected when my reward for being good, or getting good grades was my mom taking me out to the bookstore and letting me buy whatever I wanted. I was spoiled when I came to Barnes and Noble, God I love that place.
My father didn’t help either when it came to firmly affixing my dork label. Every night he would come into my room to tuck me in and we would read together. We read Robinson Crusoe together from cover to cover before I was six years old, and that was just the start.
I feel so fortunate to have grown up in a family which had a fully stocked bookshelf in the house. Wandering through the living room was like being lost in an aisle of Barnes and Noble for me, because I could spend hours shopping for my next read. As if it wasn’t enough having floor to ceiling bookshelves in the living room, I also had my own bookshelves in my bedroom, and sometimes, my mom would let me grab a book or two from my parents bookshelf in their room.
It seems that all families have their quirks, and most share at least one passion together, be it playing tennis, or watching college football. My family's just so happened to be reading, and furthering their careers in dorkdum. So yeah, I guess I kinda belong in calculus class.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Poetry
I have to say that this long weekend has been incredibly short. So much has been done, yet I feel like so little has really been accomplished. I’m ready for Spring Break… In fact, who’s idea was it to tease us with staff development days on Thursday and Friday the week before Spring Break begins anyway? It sounds like a fantastic idea upon first pondering of the possibilities, yet as I find myself bidding farewell to the weekend, I can no longer feel the love.
I owe this distaste to nothing more than the fact that this upcoming week will be quite simply, the week from hell. If it wasn’t for the fact that school will be out for a whole week (gasp) starting on Friday, it wouldn’t be so bad. As it stands now, all of my classes have at least one BIG project due before break. Trust me, I would not be moaning about these extra days off if they weren’t spent writing 7 page research papers, studying for a Calculus test, a Chemistry test, typing two Chemistry labs, and polishing up an essay or two. I suppose that I should look on the bright side of things though… At least when Spring Break finally gets here, (if it ever does), I will have much more free time, because I’m so overwhelmed at the moment with this giant load of crap, ahem, school work.
I can’t say that my entire weekend was awful though, in fact, much to my delight, John had the weekend off and we spent a good portion of the time that I wasn’t studying, together. We took a drive about an hour or so away at lunch time on Friday and picked up a sandwich at a little Deli in Moultrie. From there, we headed home, sandwiches in hand, keeping a keen eye on the side of the road for a good place to pull over to have us a “hillbilly picnic.”
We found us a spot, down a dirt road, bordered by a field to the right and a little pond to the left. Backing the truck off the road, we were able to frame our view of the pond, and sit on the tail gate to enjoy our lunch in the sun. It was so peaceful, that it made me wonder why I ever eat a meal inside when we have a perfectly good pickup truck in the driveway.
Conversation that gorgeous afternoon touched many a topic, but for the most part, it stayed firmly grounded on how important moments like these were in our lives together. We’re coming up on our first wedding anniversary, and I swear we’re more in love today than we have ever been before. I never thought that I could be this lucky. He told me he was a hopeless romantic—but really, what guy doesn’t when he’s trying to win a date or two? I know now, that he’s an honest man, for his romantic streak has not faded in the slightest.
We’ve been craving a drive lately… It’s kind of a ritual for the two of us. I guess you could say that we’re boring, but the bulk of our free time together in California was spent driving down Kanan Dume, with its view of the ocean, and taking a left at PCH. Keeping the ocean to the right, we’d head South until we’d get to Topanga Canyon and then take the twisty Canyon, the long way back home. Music would always be playing in the car, evoking cherished memories, some new, and some much older.
One gorgeous day when we decided it was time for a Malibu drive, we loaded up in John’s trusty pickup (may she rest in peace) and after a couple tunes on the ipod played through, Jimmy Buffet’s Cheeseburger in Paradise made its way to our ears. I was taken back to when I was maybe 12 or 13…
You see, my father and I did not share all the same tastes in music, (he threw my brand new Beastie Boys Licensed to Ill CD right out the window one sunny afternoon, claiming that he “wasn’t sure what that was, but it certainly wasn’t music.”). Upon this declaration, my dad turned the volume up on the stereo in an effort to school me on what REAL MUSIC was.
Fast forwarding over Jimmy Buffet’s Let’s Get Drunk and Screw (apparently too inappropriate for my young ears), we came upon my father’s favorite song, you guessed it, Cheeseburger in Paradise. This song prompted stories to come pouring from his grinning lips of his days as a Merchant Marine, back when he couldn’t wait to get to port to have himself a gigantic cheeseburger, for wherever port was, was certainly paradise if there was a good cheeseburger to be had.
Ejecting the Jimmy Buffet Cassette (remember those?), in went “one of the greatest poets of all time” Mr. Bob Dylan. He told me to “listen carefully, because even though his voice sounds a little odd, he tells such a good story.” He showed me just how unnecessary paper is for poetry. We’d turn the Volvo station wagon into a makeshift convertible—rolling down all the windows and opening the sun roof, so that we too, could enjoy our drive down PCH headed back home to our house on a hill, with the ocean to our left, the sun to our right, and poetry blaring on the stereo. Amazing how good music, gorgeous scenery and perfect company can create a memory which only grows stronger with time.
When I get homesick now, which happens occasionally, or when I simply need to remember some good times, my iPod has provided me with ultimate comfort, for it carries quite a stockpile of Bob Dylan and Jimmy Buffet tunes, all ready and waiting, for me to catch up on my poetry.
I owe this distaste to nothing more than the fact that this upcoming week will be quite simply, the week from hell. If it wasn’t for the fact that school will be out for a whole week (gasp) starting on Friday, it wouldn’t be so bad. As it stands now, all of my classes have at least one BIG project due before break. Trust me, I would not be moaning about these extra days off if they weren’t spent writing 7 page research papers, studying for a Calculus test, a Chemistry test, typing two Chemistry labs, and polishing up an essay or two. I suppose that I should look on the bright side of things though… At least when Spring Break finally gets here, (if it ever does), I will have much more free time, because I’m so overwhelmed at the moment with this giant load of crap, ahem, school work.
I can’t say that my entire weekend was awful though, in fact, much to my delight, John had the weekend off and we spent a good portion of the time that I wasn’t studying, together. We took a drive about an hour or so away at lunch time on Friday and picked up a sandwich at a little Deli in Moultrie. From there, we headed home, sandwiches in hand, keeping a keen eye on the side of the road for a good place to pull over to have us a “hillbilly picnic.”
We found us a spot, down a dirt road, bordered by a field to the right and a little pond to the left. Backing the truck off the road, we were able to frame our view of the pond, and sit on the tail gate to enjoy our lunch in the sun. It was so peaceful, that it made me wonder why I ever eat a meal inside when we have a perfectly good pickup truck in the driveway.
Conversation that gorgeous afternoon touched many a topic, but for the most part, it stayed firmly grounded on how important moments like these were in our lives together. We’re coming up on our first wedding anniversary, and I swear we’re more in love today than we have ever been before. I never thought that I could be this lucky. He told me he was a hopeless romantic—but really, what guy doesn’t when he’s trying to win a date or two? I know now, that he’s an honest man, for his romantic streak has not faded in the slightest.
We’ve been craving a drive lately… It’s kind of a ritual for the two of us. I guess you could say that we’re boring, but the bulk of our free time together in California was spent driving down Kanan Dume, with its view of the ocean, and taking a left at PCH. Keeping the ocean to the right, we’d head South until we’d get to Topanga Canyon and then take the twisty Canyon, the long way back home. Music would always be playing in the car, evoking cherished memories, some new, and some much older.
One gorgeous day when we decided it was time for a Malibu drive, we loaded up in John’s trusty pickup (may she rest in peace) and after a couple tunes on the ipod played through, Jimmy Buffet’s Cheeseburger in Paradise made its way to our ears. I was taken back to when I was maybe 12 or 13…
You see, my father and I did not share all the same tastes in music, (he threw my brand new Beastie Boys Licensed to Ill CD right out the window one sunny afternoon, claiming that he “wasn’t sure what that was, but it certainly wasn’t music.”). Upon this declaration, my dad turned the volume up on the stereo in an effort to school me on what REAL MUSIC was.
Fast forwarding over Jimmy Buffet’s Let’s Get Drunk and Screw (apparently too inappropriate for my young ears), we came upon my father’s favorite song, you guessed it, Cheeseburger in Paradise. This song prompted stories to come pouring from his grinning lips of his days as a Merchant Marine, back when he couldn’t wait to get to port to have himself a gigantic cheeseburger, for wherever port was, was certainly paradise if there was a good cheeseburger to be had.
Ejecting the Jimmy Buffet Cassette (remember those?), in went “one of the greatest poets of all time” Mr. Bob Dylan. He told me to “listen carefully, because even though his voice sounds a little odd, he tells such a good story.” He showed me just how unnecessary paper is for poetry. We’d turn the Volvo station wagon into a makeshift convertible—rolling down all the windows and opening the sun roof, so that we too, could enjoy our drive down PCH headed back home to our house on a hill, with the ocean to our left, the sun to our right, and poetry blaring on the stereo. Amazing how good music, gorgeous scenery and perfect company can create a memory which only grows stronger with time.
When I get homesick now, which happens occasionally, or when I simply need to remember some good times, my iPod has provided me with ultimate comfort, for it carries quite a stockpile of Bob Dylan and Jimmy Buffet tunes, all ready and waiting, for me to catch up on my poetry.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Mortality and Morality
I’ve spent much of the last couple of months focusing on the excitement of the prospect of bringing another member into mine and my family’s loving arms. This new life, new person, new member focus has been an uplifting testament to the true belief in innocence and good in the world. Much of my home life and personal discussion time with my family and close friends revolves around this topic and the expectation of good things in the future. I’m thankful for this positivity, for as all of this occurs, much of my scholarly life has not proven to be on such a positive level.
I’m currently doing research for my American Government Topic Statement, which could eventually evolve into a thesis statement for a dissertation at a much later date; and in all honesty I’m becoming more and more disenchanted with the notion of the good in all people. I have been spending much of my time researching the Eighth and Fourteenth Amendments and how their applications to state laws have affected the implementation of capital punishment. Much of the argument against the death penalty has been incited by extreme social abhorrence for the very principle of putting someone to death.
The Supreme Court actually ruled that the death penalty was unconstitutional in the case of Furman v. Georgia (1972) citing for their reasons an extreme shift of the opinions of society as to the “cruel and unusual” aspect of the amendment. Basically, all five concurring Justices were of the belief that the death penalty was “incompatible with the evolving standards of decency in a contemporary society.” Public opinion polls were used as tools to bolster this ruling, and in an unusually rare occurrence, public opinion swayed, nay, altered the general understanding of the 8th and 14th amendments entirely.
Here’s where my morals start coming under fire… As much as I’d like to say that my support for the death penalty has dwindled in the past years because I too am a compassionate human being and I do not find it to be an acceptable method to humanely carry out justice, I cannot admit to such sentiments. While in fact, I believe that there should be a moratorium placed on the death penalty once again, it is not because I care so much for the rights of the condemned.
I feel absolutely horrible saying this, but my issue is on a much more personal, selfish level. “Nationally, during a 23-year study period, the overall rate of prejudicial error in the American capital punishment system was 68%.” This intolerable number boils down to this even more insufferable idea… “[C]ourts found serious, reversible error in nearly 7 of every 10 of the thousands of capital sentences that were fully reviewed during the period.” (Broken System: Error Rates in Capital Cases, 1973-1995) Such deplorable numbers have not swayed my consciousness completely from one side to another for any other reason than the simple self preservation notion.
It seems that it would be horrible Karma for me to continue blindly supporting a method which has such a high rate of proven error involved in it. What if I somehow ended up finding myself as an innocent facing the possibility of capital punishment? I can’t even imagine how helpless one must feel in such a situation—unfortunately for many; this has proven to be a reality. It is unacceptable that my conditional support or lack of support of the death penalty is deeply rooted in my own personal irrational fears. My thinking is clouded and I find myself becoming very emotional over this topic.
I am not going soft, for there are many people out there who I not only feel deserve to die, but deserve to die with a tortuous end to their existence. There is one such man living half a mile away from me. He was convicted of aggravated child molestation which is defined under section 16-6-4 of Georgia Law as: “A person commits the offense of aggravated child molestation when such person commits an offense of child molestation which act physically injures the child or involves an act of sodomy.” I am of the belief that this particular breed of monster should experience tremendous pain before they receive a slow dispatch from this life into their afterlife which if there is any justice will be spent in infinite pain for all eternity.
You see, I’m a hypocrite, one of the worst kinds. It would be so easy for me to jump on the humane train and tout my reasoning for the evolution of my beliefs as one which falls within the “humane” argument, and the fact that I’m tempted to do so attests to my hypocrisy. If only it weren’t for the simple fact that I wish the imposition of such a permanent and irrevocable punishment on a whole new faction of society, my abilities to ride away into the sunset upon my new found vehicle would be possible—but alas, I’m stuck here, in reality, fully aware that I have not become more evolved, I have simply become pickier in my bloodlust.
I’m currently doing research for my American Government Topic Statement, which could eventually evolve into a thesis statement for a dissertation at a much later date; and in all honesty I’m becoming more and more disenchanted with the notion of the good in all people. I have been spending much of my time researching the Eighth and Fourteenth Amendments and how their applications to state laws have affected the implementation of capital punishment. Much of the argument against the death penalty has been incited by extreme social abhorrence for the very principle of putting someone to death.
The Supreme Court actually ruled that the death penalty was unconstitutional in the case of Furman v. Georgia (1972) citing for their reasons an extreme shift of the opinions of society as to the “cruel and unusual” aspect of the amendment. Basically, all five concurring Justices were of the belief that the death penalty was “incompatible with the evolving standards of decency in a contemporary society.” Public opinion polls were used as tools to bolster this ruling, and in an unusually rare occurrence, public opinion swayed, nay, altered the general understanding of the 8th and 14th amendments entirely.
Here’s where my morals start coming under fire… As much as I’d like to say that my support for the death penalty has dwindled in the past years because I too am a compassionate human being and I do not find it to be an acceptable method to humanely carry out justice, I cannot admit to such sentiments. While in fact, I believe that there should be a moratorium placed on the death penalty once again, it is not because I care so much for the rights of the condemned.
I feel absolutely horrible saying this, but my issue is on a much more personal, selfish level. “Nationally, during a 23-year study period, the overall rate of prejudicial error in the American capital punishment system was 68%.” This intolerable number boils down to this even more insufferable idea… “[C]ourts found serious, reversible error in nearly 7 of every 10 of the thousands of capital sentences that were fully reviewed during the period.” (Broken System: Error Rates in Capital Cases, 1973-1995) Such deplorable numbers have not swayed my consciousness completely from one side to another for any other reason than the simple self preservation notion.
It seems that it would be horrible Karma for me to continue blindly supporting a method which has such a high rate of proven error involved in it. What if I somehow ended up finding myself as an innocent facing the possibility of capital punishment? I can’t even imagine how helpless one must feel in such a situation—unfortunately for many; this has proven to be a reality. It is unacceptable that my conditional support or lack of support of the death penalty is deeply rooted in my own personal irrational fears. My thinking is clouded and I find myself becoming very emotional over this topic.
I am not going soft, for there are many people out there who I not only feel deserve to die, but deserve to die with a tortuous end to their existence. There is one such man living half a mile away from me. He was convicted of aggravated child molestation which is defined under section 16-6-4 of Georgia Law as: “A person commits the offense of aggravated child molestation when such person commits an offense of child molestation which act physically injures the child or involves an act of sodomy.” I am of the belief that this particular breed of monster should experience tremendous pain before they receive a slow dispatch from this life into their afterlife which if there is any justice will be spent in infinite pain for all eternity.
You see, I’m a hypocrite, one of the worst kinds. It would be so easy for me to jump on the humane train and tout my reasoning for the evolution of my beliefs as one which falls within the “humane” argument, and the fact that I’m tempted to do so attests to my hypocrisy. If only it weren’t for the simple fact that I wish the imposition of such a permanent and irrevocable punishment on a whole new faction of society, my abilities to ride away into the sunset upon my new found vehicle would be possible—but alas, I’m stuck here, in reality, fully aware that I have not become more evolved, I have simply become pickier in my bloodlust.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Headaches
I have spent this entire weekend and most of Friday with a pounding headache. Excuses have been delivered my way with regularity by people who really care and are trying to help, and they normally fall along the lines of: “Oh yeah, that’s just a hormonal headache… I remember when I got those when I was pregnant, they sucked.” Now as generous as these people are for attempting to diagnose my ailments and the causes of, I still can’t shake that feeling of “I don’t care what the hell is causing them, because they still hurt.”
I guess that my patience level for this kind of pain has worn down with time. I’ve had migraines for a good portion of my life and they have killed many a day, and at times week for me. I feel totally unable to accomplish the things that I set out to do, for I am not only hurting but physically tired because I’m fighting it all day.
I awoke this morning with a much milder headache than I went to sleep with last night, which was a pleasant surprise. It’s still there, I can feel it trying to make a comeback in the back of my skull and right behind my right eye ball, but I am attempting to hold it at bay with HAPPY THOUGHTS! No, I haven’t gone crazy, I’ve just gone desperate. The weather outside is absolutely beautiful and that in and of itself makes me not want to be a reclusive vampire today, nursing a stupid headache in the relative darkness of my room. So, first thing I did upon waking this morning? I stepped out into the bright sunshine, inhaled deeply, and cringed, for the sun is so damn bright and the birds are intolerably loud and my head began to pound with the assault of my senses.
I know, I sound like a grump, but I’m trying, I really really am. I think maybe I need some ice cream, then I might stop whining a little bit. That sounds like a really good plan, which should be the highlight of my evening tonight. I feel bad for the people around me when I’m dealing with one of these ridiculous phenomena’s. John knows that it’s best to kind of keep his distance, and to by no means ask me what’s wrong, or if I’m feeling better. Sometimes he comes over and pets my head while I lay in bed, reminding me of yet another reason I love him so much.
I’m hoping that this thing will subside by later today, for I look forward to the weekend so much because I call my dad at least once during it. Not that I don’t get to talk to him at all throughout the week, because, of course I do, but I like the feeling of both of us relaxing a little bit when I’m on the phone with him.
I normally call him around noon or so his time, and I can always picture him and Vicky (his girlfriend—Yeah, my dad’s a stud) sitting out on the deck reading their favorite books and waiting for the Blue Jays to swoop down and steal the couple of peanuts that they have lined up along the railing. My father started “taming” the Blue Jays with me when I was much younger. He and I would sit out on the deck at our house in Malibu and shake the peanuts in their shells so that they would make a rattling noise. He would tell me that the Jay’s could hear this rattle from far away, and likened it to a dinner bell. I was unsure of this knowledge at first, but, my dad was the person telling me such things, so it had to be true right?
Anyway, we would shake these peanuts and then lay them out on the railing about five feet from where we were sitting, and sit ever so still, watching and waiting. At first, the waiting part took quite a while, it felt like hours, but I’m sure it was probably more like five or ten minutes. After some time had elapsed, a Jay would alight on the railing, looking at us like “What the hell is this all about?” “Is this some kind of trap?” It would hop around, looking at the peanuts and wanting ever so badly to grab one. Normally it would fly off and watch from a tree a few feet away, and then fly back when its belly could stand it no longer and grab the peanut as quickly as possible.
After this initial pass, things got much easier… Jay’s are brazen birds, very sure of their abilities to kick some butt if need be. With this bigger than life attitude, they were rather easy to “tame” and before long, they would swoop down and steal peanuts from our fingertips. I remember sitting at our dining room table, which had a big window looking out onto the deck, or more accurately called: The Blue Jay Feeding Trough, and eating lunch one afternoon with the family. We were just finishing up our midday snack, when a Jay landed on the sill and rather angrily began pecking at the glass. I suppose that we had been late in our afternoon feeding for if he had hands to put on his hips and a foot that he could tap at us impatiently, I am positive such actions would have been taken.
I believe my father’s lessons in Jay taming are much of where I got my patience from. I’m willing to wait for things now, and I don’t mind sitting quietly, knowing that if I give it long enough, that Jay will be showing up any second ready for lunch. Thank you dad for your non-traditional teaching methods for they are lessons I will never forget.
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