I was in my car on the way home tonight with the radio tuned to 99.1 WHFS. Alternative rock. Good station.
First band I heard: Weezer doing "Say It Ain't So".
Instant flashback to The Boy playing his guitar and stretching his vocal range to sing said song. But I didn't feel sad this time. I enjoyed the memory.
Progress!
September 30, 2004
Rainy Days and Mondays?
What is up with rainy mornings? Why does a bit of rain make it sooooo hard to get out of bed? And it's not just me who is affected. This morning our whole routine was altered because the dogs were fast asleep longer than they usually are. I got up, showered, fed the cat, and then woke up the dogs. Yes, you read that right. I had to WAKE UP our dogs this morning. They seemed surprised to see me standing there fully dressed.
Uh wait. I have no idea if the dogs notice what I'm wearing. They've never commented on it before, although they do have a special affinity for getting up-close and personal when I'm wearing my black slacks. The surprise on their faces this morning could have been something else altogether. Like not even surprise at all. Perhaps I had had the same "huh?" expression on my face when the alarm woke me up. More a "hey it's dark and wet outside, I can't possibly be expected to wake up to a morning like this!"
Yeah. I think we all looked like that.
Uh wait. I have no idea if the dogs notice what I'm wearing. They've never commented on it before, although they do have a special affinity for getting up-close and personal when I'm wearing my black slacks. The surprise on their faces this morning could have been something else altogether. Like not even surprise at all. Perhaps I had had the same "huh?" expression on my face when the alarm woke me up. More a "hey it's dark and wet outside, I can't possibly be expected to wake up to a morning like this!"
Yeah. I think we all looked like that.
September 29, 2004
Another Case of Getting What You Pay For?
Sick of it.
Sick of losing posts.
Sick of knowing I should save them off-line but being too lazy to consistently do so.
Sick of kicking myself when I lose one.
Sick of not being able to blog when I feel the urge because BlogSpot has a "technical difficulty".
Sick sick sick sick sick sick sick.
And whiny.
Sick of losing posts.
Sick of knowing I should save them off-line but being too lazy to consistently do so.
Sick of kicking myself when I lose one.
Sick of not being able to blog when I feel the urge because BlogSpot has a "technical difficulty".
Sick sick sick sick sick sick sick.
And whiny.
Dusting 'Em Off
Wendy has been digging deep into the older part of our CD collection. Way back, before she and I were even aware the other existed, we both had a thing for country music. So digging deep into our collection means she is revisiting those days of country music adoration.
Which is why she asked me to whom the Lorrie Morgan's Greatest Hits CD belonged. Was it mine or was it hers? Because we share such similar tastes, at times it is impossible to remember who brought what into the relationship. Not that it matters. Hers-mine-ours thing and all. Anyway, I remembered the Lorrie Morgan as having been mine and said so. She look surprised, shrugged and then popped it in the CD player.
She looked even more surprised when I asked if this was the CD with some song about red on it. "You like that song?" she asked suspiciously. "Why yes," I said, "I like it a lot!" Again I get the surprised look because usually the ballads "belong" to her while the up-tempo song "belong" to me. It doesn't vary much by artist either. We can listen to the same CD and invariably she'll get attached to the slow sweet songs and I'll prefer the more upbeat.
So we listened to that Lorrie Morgan CD together and agreed that she had been hot hot hot back in the day. It was fun enjoying those old songs again.
From there comes my suggestion to you. Dig back through those old CDs collecting dust on your shelves. I highly recommend an auditory trip down memory lane.
Which is why she asked me to whom the Lorrie Morgan's Greatest Hits CD belonged. Was it mine or was it hers? Because we share such similar tastes, at times it is impossible to remember who brought what into the relationship. Not that it matters. Hers-mine-ours thing and all. Anyway, I remembered the Lorrie Morgan as having been mine and said so. She look surprised, shrugged and then popped it in the CD player.
She looked even more surprised when I asked if this was the CD with some song about red on it. "You like that song?" she asked suspiciously. "Why yes," I said, "I like it a lot!" Again I get the surprised look because usually the ballads "belong" to her while the up-tempo song "belong" to me. It doesn't vary much by artist either. We can listen to the same CD and invariably she'll get attached to the slow sweet songs and I'll prefer the more upbeat.
So we listened to that Lorrie Morgan CD together and agreed that she had been hot hot hot back in the day. It was fun enjoying those old songs again.
From there comes my suggestion to you. Dig back through those old CDs collecting dust on your shelves. I highly recommend an auditory trip down memory lane.
Greenbacks
Two odd things happened with money yesterday.
First, my friend Bonnie treated me to lunch at the Village Wharf, a local restaurant. (As an aside, the food there has greatly improved since the new owners took over.) We finished our meal. She dug a $20 bill out of her purse and was holding it out quite prominently in front of her. Our server walked by and asked "Are you ready for your check?" I almost said, "No, dear, she's waving that money around in the hope of getting a lap dance from you."
Then I was in an Office Depot to buy mailing labels. The purchase totaled $10.84. I handed the cashier a $20 bill and a $1 bill. She held them up in front of her and scrutinized them closely. I could see the confusion on her face. She said "The total is only $10.84. Do you want to just give me the $20 instead?" The man in line behind me snickered. I explained why I had given her the bills I had given her. She seemed mildly offended, but I don't know if it was at me or at the snickering man in line behind me.
First, my friend Bonnie treated me to lunch at the Village Wharf, a local restaurant. (As an aside, the food there has greatly improved since the new owners took over.) We finished our meal. She dug a $20 bill out of her purse and was holding it out quite prominently in front of her. Our server walked by and asked "Are you ready for your check?" I almost said, "No, dear, she's waving that money around in the hope of getting a lap dance from you."
Then I was in an Office Depot to buy mailing labels. The purchase totaled $10.84. I handed the cashier a $20 bill and a $1 bill. She held them up in front of her and scrutinized them closely. I could see the confusion on her face. She said "The total is only $10.84. Do you want to just give me the $20 instead?" The man in line behind me snickered. I explained why I had given her the bills I had given her. She seemed mildly offended, but I don't know if it was at me or at the snickering man in line behind me.
September 28, 2004
Marauders Week 3: 0-3
Oh yes, yet another humiliating week for my fantasy football team. If I could only have a week when, say, 3/4 of my team has a decent week, then maybe I could pull off a win. But no. The way it's going right now, half my players forget how to play while the other half does their job.
Still too early to change their name, but I'm getting close.
Still too early to change their name, but I'm getting close.
Stretching
Six years ago I took my first yoga class. I recall no specifics of how or why I elected to do so, but I do recall being excited about it.
The pleasure I gained was almost sinful. After a long day of work, I'd join a quiet group in a quiet room, stretch out on a soft mat, and be instructed to "clear your mind" and "think of nothing but yourself, your body, and how you feel right here right now". For a mother who also worked outside of the home, it was heaven. Guilt-free mandatory relaxation.
After the opening relaxation period, we'd go through a bunch of stretches, deep breathing and more relaxation exercises. I'd always leave there feeling rejuvenated and fresh. I know, I know. It sounds bogus. But until you've tried it for yourself, don't be too quick to write it off.
I attended these classes for about a year. The instructor was eastern European and had a fabulous accent. He always spoke softly. He was good at what he did. There were several words he'd say often during the classes, two of which I clearly remember because of the way he pronounced them. "Nostril" sounded like "nos-TREEL" and "abdomen" became "abDOEmen".
How often does the word "nostril" get used in conversation? Not often. But he was instructing, not conversing. The word "nostril" came up extraordinarily often. Breathing and such. Whatever. Nos-TREEL. Love it.
So six years later, I decide I could use another dose of mandatory relation. I signed up with the same county park authority at the same location as before. And to my great delight, the teacher of the class is the same. I was grinning like an idiot when he walked in because I had been secretly hoping he'd still be teaching at this location and.... score! There he was.
What fascinates me is how the demographics of the class have changed over those interim years. Six years ago, the class was mainly middle-agish women with one 20-something male hippy tossed in for variety. Now, it's primarily couples in their 50s and 60s with a few single middle-agish women tossed in for variety.
So for the next 10 weeks on Wednesday evenings I'll be mandatorily relaxing for an entire hour and a half. My hand will be on my abDOEmen while I breathe deeply through my nos-TREELS. I'm one happy relaxer.
The pleasure I gained was almost sinful. After a long day of work, I'd join a quiet group in a quiet room, stretch out on a soft mat, and be instructed to "clear your mind" and "think of nothing but yourself, your body, and how you feel right here right now". For a mother who also worked outside of the home, it was heaven. Guilt-free mandatory relaxation.
After the opening relaxation period, we'd go through a bunch of stretches, deep breathing and more relaxation exercises. I'd always leave there feeling rejuvenated and fresh. I know, I know. It sounds bogus. But until you've tried it for yourself, don't be too quick to write it off.
I attended these classes for about a year. The instructor was eastern European and had a fabulous accent. He always spoke softly. He was good at what he did. There were several words he'd say often during the classes, two of which I clearly remember because of the way he pronounced them. "Nostril" sounded like "nos-TREEL" and "abdomen" became "abDOEmen".
How often does the word "nostril" get used in conversation? Not often. But he was instructing, not conversing. The word "nostril" came up extraordinarily often. Breathing and such. Whatever. Nos-TREEL. Love it.
So six years later, I decide I could use another dose of mandatory relation. I signed up with the same county park authority at the same location as before. And to my great delight, the teacher of the class is the same. I was grinning like an idiot when he walked in because I had been secretly hoping he'd still be teaching at this location and.... score! There he was.
What fascinates me is how the demographics of the class have changed over those interim years. Six years ago, the class was mainly middle-agish women with one 20-something male hippy tossed in for variety. Now, it's primarily couples in their 50s and 60s with a few single middle-agish women tossed in for variety.
So for the next 10 weeks on Wednesday evenings I'll be mandatorily relaxing for an entire hour and a half. My hand will be on my abDOEmen while I breathe deeply through my nos-TREELS. I'm one happy relaxer.
September 27, 2004
Monday Night Football
Wendy: "Why aren't John Madden's eyebrows grey like the rest of his hair?"
Me: "I don't know."
But then it got interesting.
Me: "I don't know."
But then it got interesting.
Sticker
Saw this on a car in Old Town on the way to work this morning:
'nuff said.
Regime Change 2004
'nuff said.
September 26, 2004
Inside Outside
This morning I picked up sticks, swept the driveways and raked and bagged leaves in the front yard. Meanwhile, Wendy was doing some sweeping and bagging of her own, albeit that of a different variety. Now our house is neat and clean inside and outside.
I came across another bit of suburban wildlife to share. I've seen these particular caterpillar-type creatures before, but I do not know what they are. I snapped this photo and went about my business. Checking back on him every so often, I noticed that he was burrowing into the soil. By the time I finished my work outside, there was only a pencil-eraser-sized piece of him remaining aboveground.
I came across another bit of suburban wildlife to share. I've seen these particular caterpillar-type creatures before, but I do not know what they are. I snapped this photo and went about my business. Checking back on him every so often, I noticed that he was burrowing into the soil. By the time I finished my work outside, there was only a pencil-eraser-sized piece of him remaining aboveground.
September 25, 2004
Polenta
Have you had any experience with this stuff? Polenta, that is. I'm pretty sure I had eaten it before we ate it the other night, but I know I had never before prepared it.
It came packaged like sausage. Not link sausage, the other kind. The kind that gets sliced into patties and fried. It looked like a roll of sausage. Except it was yellow with a few green flakes. And it was not in the refrigerated section of Trader Joe's. It was on the bottom shelf near my toes on the pasta and sauce aisle. The efficient packaging with the appealing shape caught my eye as I scanned the shelves.
"Polenta!" I thought as I closely scrutinized the package and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I like this stuff, don't I? I want to cook it!" So into the basket it went.
That was about six weeks ago. Ever since, this roll of basil garlic polenta has been in our kitchen cabinet awaiting it's fate. Which would be to be eaten, as soon as I remembered to plan a meal including it.
So Tuesday while I was shopping and planning meals for the week, I did remember to include the polenta. Thursday night was the night! First I sliced it into half-inch patties per the directions. It felt just a tad gelatinous and grainy at the same time. Figero was sitting over on his counter watching me, so I gave him a little chunk to taste test. He liked it. Wendy wandered in and she took a little taste too. Dud and Cosi looked a bit offended, so a little bite went to each of them also. No one raved about the taste, but no one complained either.
Next it went into a pre-heated skillet with a little olive oil. I was expecting the polenta slices to get crispy and brown, but such was not the case. The exterior did get a tiny bit crispy, but the color never changed despite me pushing up the heat. Wendy wandered in again as I was investigating the underside of one piece. She expressed pleasure that it had not gotten brown! We laughed. With some food things, she and I are quite different.
The polenta went well with the rest of dinner (london broil and steamed spinach). I'd like to learn how to use it in other ways. The taste was a little bland even with a dab of gravy on it, but the texture was nice. It all got eaten so I guess I'll be looking for other ways to incorporate it into meal plans. Supposedly it has Italian roots, but I think of it as Mexican. I have this idea to roll the polenta out flat, spreading a layer of spicy shredded beef on top, and rolling it all up jelly-roll style. Or maybe using it as a casserole layer somehow. There's potential there!
I'm getting used to cooking for two and am finally getting comfortable in our kitchen. It's only taken a year to adjust.
It came packaged like sausage. Not link sausage, the other kind. The kind that gets sliced into patties and fried. It looked like a roll of sausage. Except it was yellow with a few green flakes. And it was not in the refrigerated section of Trader Joe's. It was on the bottom shelf near my toes on the pasta and sauce aisle. The efficient packaging with the appealing shape caught my eye as I scanned the shelves.
"Polenta!" I thought as I closely scrutinized the package and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I like this stuff, don't I? I want to cook it!" So into the basket it went.
That was about six weeks ago. Ever since, this roll of basil garlic polenta has been in our kitchen cabinet awaiting it's fate. Which would be to be eaten, as soon as I remembered to plan a meal including it.
So Tuesday while I was shopping and planning meals for the week, I did remember to include the polenta. Thursday night was the night! First I sliced it into half-inch patties per the directions. It felt just a tad gelatinous and grainy at the same time. Figero was sitting over on his counter watching me, so I gave him a little chunk to taste test. He liked it. Wendy wandered in and she took a little taste too. Dud and Cosi looked a bit offended, so a little bite went to each of them also. No one raved about the taste, but no one complained either.
Next it went into a pre-heated skillet with a little olive oil. I was expecting the polenta slices to get crispy and brown, but such was not the case. The exterior did get a tiny bit crispy, but the color never changed despite me pushing up the heat. Wendy wandered in again as I was investigating the underside of one piece. She expressed pleasure that it had not gotten brown! We laughed. With some food things, she and I are quite different.
The polenta went well with the rest of dinner (london broil and steamed spinach). I'd like to learn how to use it in other ways. The taste was a little bland even with a dab of gravy on it, but the texture was nice. It all got eaten so I guess I'll be looking for other ways to incorporate it into meal plans. Supposedly it has Italian roots, but I think of it as Mexican. I have this idea to roll the polenta out flat, spreading a layer of spicy shredded beef on top, and rolling it all up jelly-roll style. Or maybe using it as a casserole layer somehow. There's potential there!
I'm getting used to cooking for two and am finally getting comfortable in our kitchen. It's only taken a year to adjust.
O's Win, Just for Us
Wendy and I were treated to a glorious night at the ballpark last evening. The weather could not have been better, mid-60s and clear.
Our seats were directly behind home plate in the upper section of the stadium. Neither of us had watched a game from that perspective before. It was a great view of the field, but hard to get a feel for the angle of balls as they were hit.
So the O's got off to a 3 run lead in the first inning, but lost it in the 5th. In the bottom of the 9th, we still trailed by one run. With two out and two on, Tejada came through with a walk-off homer to win the game.
Sweet!
Our seats were directly behind home plate in the upper section of the stadium. Neither of us had watched a game from that perspective before. It was a great view of the field, but hard to get a feel for the angle of balls as they were hit.
So the O's got off to a 3 run lead in the first inning, but lost it in the 5th. In the bottom of the 9th, we still trailed by one run. With two out and two on, Tejada came through with a walk-off homer to win the game.
Sweet!
September 24, 2004
Applesauce
I picked up some new treats for Cosine and Dudley while I was at the pet store today. The main ingredient is applesauce. After some initial suspicious sniffing and pushing around with their noses, they both ate them.
I've seen recipes for making dog treats at home but have never tried it. Maybe I should.
I've seen recipes for making dog treats at home but have never tried it. Maybe I should.
Political Bumpers?
I came across this site, where a list of automobiles and the political bumper stickers they wear is being compiled. The site owners will produce statistical analyses such as "Political Leaning by Car Type".
Seems most of the "spotters" are in the NoVa/DC area, with a few in other parts of the country. It would be interesting to have another column added to their data for what state the license tag is from. Well, interesting to me anyway. :)
Seems most of the "spotters" are in the NoVa/DC area, with a few in other parts of the country. It would be interesting to have another column added to their data for what state the license tag is from. Well, interesting to me anyway. :)
TGIF
Wendy and I are packing our hoodies and heading for Baltimore this evening! A friend from her office gave us tickets for tonight's Orioles game. Yeah, so what if they are big losers? We love them anyway. And so what if they are playing another loser of a team in a meaningless game? The crack of the bat sounds the same.
Sometimes it's all about atmosphere, you know?
Sometimes it's all about atmosphere, you know?
September 23, 2004
What's a Good Night's Sleep Worth?
It has been 35 days, give or take an hour and a few seconds, since Wendy and I quit smoking.
Wait! Hold your applause until I finish, please.
Oh never mind. Go ahead and clap. Nothing else I say here will be more worthy of applause.
So it's been 35 days. And in that time, neither Wendy nor I have had a decent night's sleep. We toss, we turn, every so often we drowse a bit, we push a dog out of the way, we re-arrange pillows, we turn, we toss. It's maddening. Criminally so. Sleepy time is no longer happy funland. It's more like cranky crappy irritationtown. The lack of sleep also is evaporating our patience when wakefulness is desired and/or required.
Last evening as we discussed our continued frustration and yearning for a good night's sleep, Wendy did what perhaps we should have done when we first started experiencing this problem. She googled for an answer. And while she didn't find a specific solution, she did find some interesting information.
Were you aware that nicotine causes caffeine to metabolize faster? Well, we were not. Upon learning that little tidbit of information, a large lightbulb turned on in my head and hope sprang forth! Bright rays of golden sunshine!
As an aside, because it's been bugging the crap out of me since I realized it was happening, I've discovered another thing about quitting smoking. A side effect I've never heard anyone even hint around about. You yourself may well be hearing it here for the first time. Quitting smoking makes you stupid. Yes, you heard me correctly: stupid. My brain has just not been functioning as well as I am used to having it function. I sincerely hope it's temporary because it's pissing me off.
Then again, maybe my mental dullness is due more to sleeplessness. I mulled over the relationship between caffeine, metabolism and nicotine.
I'm a moderate coffee drinker. Several cups in the morning and one cup in the afternoon around 3:00. I used to drink two or three cups in the afternoon. When that started messing with my sleep a few years ago, I cut back to just the one. Of late, I've been hyper almost to the point of distraction after my morning coffee. I never considered I was over-caffeinated because I was not consuming any more caffeine than usual. I attributed the frenetic feelings to my smoking cessation. Just an adjustment period, that's all.
So knowing my brain has not been as sharp as it should, I have now decided the cure for our sleeplessness is to eliminate the excess caffeine racing around in our systems that previously had been metabolized by nicotine. Our intake must be reduced.
Buh-bye to my afternoon coffee, hello to a good night's sleep? Why the hell did it take me so long to connect those particular dots? No one warned me my brain would not function as well without nicotine.
Smoking is evil.
Wait! Hold your applause until I finish, please.
Oh never mind. Go ahead and clap. Nothing else I say here will be more worthy of applause.
So it's been 35 days. And in that time, neither Wendy nor I have had a decent night's sleep. We toss, we turn, every so often we drowse a bit, we push a dog out of the way, we re-arrange pillows, we turn, we toss. It's maddening. Criminally so. Sleepy time is no longer happy funland. It's more like cranky crappy irritationtown. The lack of sleep also is evaporating our patience when wakefulness is desired and/or required.
Last evening as we discussed our continued frustration and yearning for a good night's sleep, Wendy did what perhaps we should have done when we first started experiencing this problem. She googled for an answer. And while she didn't find a specific solution, she did find some interesting information.
Were you aware that nicotine causes caffeine to metabolize faster? Well, we were not. Upon learning that little tidbit of information, a large lightbulb turned on in my head and hope sprang forth! Bright rays of golden sunshine!
As an aside, because it's been bugging the crap out of me since I realized it was happening, I've discovered another thing about quitting smoking. A side effect I've never heard anyone even hint around about. You yourself may well be hearing it here for the first time. Quitting smoking makes you stupid. Yes, you heard me correctly: stupid. My brain has just not been functioning as well as I am used to having it function. I sincerely hope it's temporary because it's pissing me off.
Then again, maybe my mental dullness is due more to sleeplessness. I mulled over the relationship between caffeine, metabolism and nicotine.
I'm a moderate coffee drinker. Several cups in the morning and one cup in the afternoon around 3:00. I used to drink two or three cups in the afternoon. When that started messing with my sleep a few years ago, I cut back to just the one. Of late, I've been hyper almost to the point of distraction after my morning coffee. I never considered I was over-caffeinated because I was not consuming any more caffeine than usual. I attributed the frenetic feelings to my smoking cessation. Just an adjustment period, that's all.
So knowing my brain has not been as sharp as it should, I have now decided the cure for our sleeplessness is to eliminate the excess caffeine racing around in our systems that previously had been metabolized by nicotine. Our intake must be reduced.
Buh-bye to my afternoon coffee, hello to a good night's sleep? Why the hell did it take me so long to connect those particular dots? No one warned me my brain would not function as well without nicotine.
Smoking is evil.
September 22, 2004
Powhite Parkway
In Richmond, right off Interstate 95, is an exit for a road with a name I usually mispronounce. On purpose. I've been to Richmond many times. But I've never taken that exit.
I used to work for a company with one office here in Alexandria and another in our state capitol: Richmond, Virginia. The job required me to travel there every so often. The 1.5 hour trip of pure highway driving followed by a jaunt through inner city blight would find me turning into the honor parking lot just off Richmond's main drag, Broad Street.
Now maybe where you are from, honor parking lots are common. Where I am from, they are not. Where I am from, parkers are not given the option of being honorable. Honor parking lots have a large bank of boxes which resemble the cluster mailboxes in suburban apartment parking lots. Each box corresponds with a numbered parking spot and has a slot. The parker is honored by the opportunity to drop the posted amount of dollars per spot per hour in the slot that corresponds with number of the space in which one's vehicle is parked.
Where I am from, parking lots in the city require a deposit of your ignition key. Your auto is then whisked away out of sight down a dark concrete maze of tunnels. When you return, you must fork over an exhorbitant amount of dollars before your vehicle is retrieved from the mysterious concrete depths.
Several blocks up Broad Street from our Richmond office, the Rehabilitation of Richmond was underway. The grand old city was (is!) getting a face lift! Looking good, looking good. But down where our office was... well... the rehab hadn't made it that far up Broad Street yet. So the honor parking lot was in the shadow of a building with boarded-up windows and graffiti on the old brick facade.
So back to this exit. The one to the road with the name I intentionally mispronouce. Powhite Parkway. The actual pronunciation is 'pow height'. But because it makes me giggle and because the parts of Richmond with which I am most familiar make it feel appropriate, I say 'po white'. As in 'poor white' with a southern cracker accent. Oh never mind, you understood that. Maybe it's only funny if one has driven through the inner city blight on the way to the more civilized sections of town. Maybe it's only funny if you're me?
I used to work for a company with one office here in Alexandria and another in our state capitol: Richmond, Virginia. The job required me to travel there every so often. The 1.5 hour trip of pure highway driving followed by a jaunt through inner city blight would find me turning into the honor parking lot just off Richmond's main drag, Broad Street.
Now maybe where you are from, honor parking lots are common. Where I am from, they are not. Where I am from, parkers are not given the option of being honorable. Honor parking lots have a large bank of boxes which resemble the cluster mailboxes in suburban apartment parking lots. Each box corresponds with a numbered parking spot and has a slot. The parker is honored by the opportunity to drop the posted amount of dollars per spot per hour in the slot that corresponds with number of the space in which one's vehicle is parked.
Where I am from, parking lots in the city require a deposit of your ignition key. Your auto is then whisked away out of sight down a dark concrete maze of tunnels. When you return, you must fork over an exhorbitant amount of dollars before your vehicle is retrieved from the mysterious concrete depths.
Several blocks up Broad Street from our Richmond office, the Rehabilitation of Richmond was underway. The grand old city was (is!) getting a face lift! Looking good, looking good. But down where our office was... well... the rehab hadn't made it that far up Broad Street yet. So the honor parking lot was in the shadow of a building with boarded-up windows and graffiti on the old brick facade.
So back to this exit. The one to the road with the name I intentionally mispronouce. Powhite Parkway. The actual pronunciation is 'pow height'. But because it makes me giggle and because the parts of Richmond with which I am most familiar make it feel appropriate, I say 'po white'. As in 'poor white' with a southern cracker accent. Oh never mind, you understood that. Maybe it's only funny if one has driven through the inner city blight on the way to the more civilized sections of town. Maybe it's only funny if you're me?
September 21, 2004
Queen of Lists
I have crowned myself the Queen of Lists, forever shall I reign in piece. Piece of paper that is. (I figured I should grab this title for myself before it occurs to my friend Tina to snatch it. Now there's a woman who can make some lists!)
My mother could be another candidate for Queen of Lists had I not already claimed the title. She maintains the Mega Mother of All Lists. It's a list of books, both that she has read and that she would like to read. When she finds a new author she enjoys, she looks up everything they have ever written and lists them on her list. The titles are coded. She has one symbol for books she's read, another for books she has on hand but has not yet read, and books with no symbol alert her to keep an eye out for them. Comes in right handy at the semi-annual book sale held at her local library. I covet that list of hers.
But it's all about me here. And my lists. Which are wonderful lists indeed. At least to me they are.
I am very excited with a new purchase. It's a bound notebook, about 5"x7" and fits into my purse. The cover is green. The pages are lined. It cost $1.27 at Wal-Mart. Oh yes, it's the simple things. Now I can keep my lists all together instead of attempting to keep track of several lists on different pieces of paper of differing colors, sizes and shapes. Those separate lists get lost far too easily. Then weeks later when they are found, sometimes mangled and barely legible, they are out of date and useless. And worst of all, the things on those lost lists may or may not have ever been taken care of! Oh the things that slip through the cracks when lists get lost! It's best to not to speak of such things.
I've been making notes and adding to my lists in my new bound notebook for several days now, ever since I got it. One page may hold several different lists. The lists vary in content. Some are things to do while others are things to get. Some are things I just don't want to forget. Those are the lists that rarely have anything scratched off.
Today I scratched a plethora of items off both my "get" and "do" lists. Today I was the model of productivity, thanks in a large part to my lists. And in part, of course, to my new notebook which keeps my lists neat and orderly. I was so efficient I got things done that hadn't even made it to a list yet.
Hence my new title. I feel I've earned it.
My mother could be another candidate for Queen of Lists had I not already claimed the title. She maintains the Mega Mother of All Lists. It's a list of books, both that she has read and that she would like to read. When she finds a new author she enjoys, she looks up everything they have ever written and lists them on her list. The titles are coded. She has one symbol for books she's read, another for books she has on hand but has not yet read, and books with no symbol alert her to keep an eye out for them. Comes in right handy at the semi-annual book sale held at her local library. I covet that list of hers.
But it's all about me here. And my lists. Which are wonderful lists indeed. At least to me they are.
I am very excited with a new purchase. It's a bound notebook, about 5"x7" and fits into my purse. The cover is green. The pages are lined. It cost $1.27 at Wal-Mart. Oh yes, it's the simple things. Now I can keep my lists all together instead of attempting to keep track of several lists on different pieces of paper of differing colors, sizes and shapes. Those separate lists get lost far too easily. Then weeks later when they are found, sometimes mangled and barely legible, they are out of date and useless. And worst of all, the things on those lost lists may or may not have ever been taken care of! Oh the things that slip through the cracks when lists get lost! It's best to not to speak of such things.
I've been making notes and adding to my lists in my new bound notebook for several days now, ever since I got it. One page may hold several different lists. The lists vary in content. Some are things to do while others are things to get. Some are things I just don't want to forget. Those are the lists that rarely have anything scratched off.
Today I scratched a plethora of items off both my "get" and "do" lists. Today I was the model of productivity, thanks in a large part to my lists. And in part, of course, to my new notebook which keeps my lists neat and orderly. I was so efficient I got things done that hadn't even made it to a list yet.
Hence my new title. I feel I've earned it.
Insistent
The cat is insisting on sitting in my lap this morning. He never asks to sit in my lap in the morning. Sitting in my lap has exclusively been an evening activity for as long as he has shown interest in sitting in my lap.
What's up with that?
What's up with that?
Marauders Week 2: 0-2
Another loss for my team. I am sad. But not surprised. We did, however, have a better showing. We weren't as pathetic as last week. But it is still a loss.
I have got to do something about my receivers. With three receivers active each week, they truly are the heart of the team. This is where all the player movement over the off season gets to me. A wide receiver who was a fantasy stud last year but moved to a different team with a different quarterback and different offensive line could well be a complete dud this year. Then there's the risk of picking up a no-name player who has had good points so far this year but who may not touch the ball in another game. It's a crapshoot. What fun?
I'll take mild satisfaction in having scored more points than five other teams in my league. Mild isn't bad when it's all one has.
I have got to do something about my receivers. With three receivers active each week, they truly are the heart of the team. This is where all the player movement over the off season gets to me. A wide receiver who was a fantasy stud last year but moved to a different team with a different quarterback and different offensive line could well be a complete dud this year. Then there's the risk of picking up a no-name player who has had good points so far this year but who may not touch the ball in another game. It's a crapshoot. What fun?
I'll take mild satisfaction in having scored more points than five other teams in my league. Mild isn't bad when it's all one has.
September 20, 2004
Tasty!
You know how sometimes when you take a trip, everything starts going wrong from the get-go and never ever gets on the right track? Wendy and I have been on trips like that before.
But our trip this past weekend was not like that.
It was smooth as silk.
Sweet as honey.
Tangy as a fresh tangerine.
The trip was smooth, sweet and tangy?
Do tell!
Capiche?
I knew you would.
But our trip this past weekend was not like that.
It was smooth as silk.
Sweet as honey.
Tangy as a fresh tangerine.
The trip was smooth, sweet and tangy?
Do tell!
- Smooth as in Friday travel + school day + mid-morning departure = zero traffic.
- Sweet as in not running into torrential rain until 20 miles from our destination when we had expected to drive in it for the entire 279 miles and shortly thereafter having said rain pretty much dry up and go away.
- Tangy as in hanging out and conversing with The Boy and his friends, listening to their "inside scoop" and gossip on the who what where how and why.
- Smooth as in commenting on "artistic nature" of the poster of Einstein with a naked woman on his forehead and hearing someone say "my mom would FREAK if she saw that poster".
- Sweet as in getting hello hugs from The Boy's suitemates.
- Tangy as in getting to see and hear The Boy and his friends do their thing on stage.
- Smooth as in being familiar enough with their upcoming production to ask intelligent questions and understand the responses.
- Sweet as in sitting in the balcony for the second show and getting a few pics that are actually worth keeping.
- Tangy as in quiet meals with The Boy catching us up on all things and vice versa.
Capiche?
I knew you would.
September 19, 2004
One Plus One Minus?
You know what's really cool? Needing new batteries for the remote control, knowing exactly where to look for them, and actually finding them where they should be.
You know what really sucks? Needing the garlic press, knowing exactly where to look for it, and, after not finding it where it is supposed to be, not being able to find it anywhere at all in the kitchen.
My nifty Pampered Chef garlic press has gone AWOL. That's behavior I usually expect from my AA batteries, not my kitchen utensils.
You know what really sucks? Needing the garlic press, knowing exactly where to look for it, and, after not finding it where it is supposed to be, not being able to find it anywhere at all in the kitchen.
My nifty Pampered Chef garlic press has gone AWOL. That's behavior I usually expect from my AA batteries, not my kitchen utensils.
Hoodies!
Oh yes. I'm sitting here snuggled in one of my favorite hoodies gleefully reveling in the crisp fresh cool fall air streaming in through the open doors and windows.
That's right. I've opened all the doors and windows I can possibly open. While all of our doors open just fine, such is not the case for all our windows. If you've ever lived in an older house with old windows you understand the situation without further explanation required. But there's one window in our house that slides open with the lightest of touches from just one finger. That's my favorite window in the whole house.
Dudley is in high watchdog alert mode. Opening the front door gives him a whole new perspective. Now he can stand up on the arm of the couch and not only survey the part of his domain visible through the front window, but also by turning his head just a tad he can now keep an eye on the rest of the front yard and street. He has sounded the alarm several times this morning. Enough times that Wendy is threatening to close the front door if he doesn't settle down. But oh, how I am enjoying the fresh air flowing in. I'm also enjoying Dudley's boo-wooing. Everything feels so alive today.
I'd forgotten how much a little cool air perks me up. The trees haven't really started turning yet but, as I noticed on our trip this weekend, they are not as intense a green as they were three weeks ago. For now I will ignore the harsh implication of what the leaves about to turn really means. Thoughts of raking the blankets of leaves which will soon cover our yard can wait for another day.
Each fall when it comes time to rake the leaves, I think of my father's motto: "What god puts down, god will take away." Yeah, but will those leaves be gone before the grass suffocates and dies? Not without human interference. But I don't have to think about that today.
Today is exclusively for enjoying cool crisp air, a favorite hooded sweatshirt, and football. Today it's good to be me.
That's right. I've opened all the doors and windows I can possibly open. While all of our doors open just fine, such is not the case for all our windows. If you've ever lived in an older house with old windows you understand the situation without further explanation required. But there's one window in our house that slides open with the lightest of touches from just one finger. That's my favorite window in the whole house.
Dudley is in high watchdog alert mode. Opening the front door gives him a whole new perspective. Now he can stand up on the arm of the couch and not only survey the part of his domain visible through the front window, but also by turning his head just a tad he can now keep an eye on the rest of the front yard and street. He has sounded the alarm several times this morning. Enough times that Wendy is threatening to close the front door if he doesn't settle down. But oh, how I am enjoying the fresh air flowing in. I'm also enjoying Dudley's boo-wooing. Everything feels so alive today.
I'd forgotten how much a little cool air perks me up. The trees haven't really started turning yet but, as I noticed on our trip this weekend, they are not as intense a green as they were three weeks ago. For now I will ignore the harsh implication of what the leaves about to turn really means. Thoughts of raking the blankets of leaves which will soon cover our yard can wait for another day.
Each fall when it comes time to rake the leaves, I think of my father's motto: "What god puts down, god will take away." Yeah, but will those leaves be gone before the grass suffocates and dies? Not without human interference. But I don't have to think about that today.
Today is exclusively for enjoying cool crisp air, a favorite hooded sweatshirt, and football. Today it's good to be me.
September 17, 2004
On the Road... Again
Oh yes! It's that time again. Family Three-Day-Weekend at The Boy's college. While I am thrilled to have an excuse visit, I'm not thrilled about hitting the road to travel south on this particular weekend. Predictions call for rain for the entire southeastern portion of the United States. Rain always makes highway travel so much more.... interesting. No, what I really mean is stressful and exhausting and slow and dangerous and tedious and much less fun.
But! Wendy and I put new windshield wipers on the car yesterday. At least we'll be able to see the road, always a plus. My car has needed new wiper blades for quite a while. We actually had new ones in the closet ready to install but just hadn't gotten around to it. It's one of those things I only think about when I'm driving in the rain. By the time I park, get out of the car, unlock the door, enter the house and greet the animals, I've forgotten all about needing to put those new wiper blades on.
So! All our bags are packed. We're ready to go. We're standing here outside the door. Okay not really. We're not leaving on a jet plane at all. That's next month.
However! My hair has been cut. The brownies are baked. The hotel was reserved weeks ago. Camera batteries are charged. Our bags are almost packed. The pet sitter has been reminded. Our fantasy lineups have been set and picks made for the pick 'em pool. We're all set.
So! We're off!
But! Wendy and I put new windshield wipers on the car yesterday. At least we'll be able to see the road, always a plus. My car has needed new wiper blades for quite a while. We actually had new ones in the closet ready to install but just hadn't gotten around to it. It's one of those things I only think about when I'm driving in the rain. By the time I park, get out of the car, unlock the door, enter the house and greet the animals, I've forgotten all about needing to put those new wiper blades on.
So! All our bags are packed. We're ready to go. We're standing here outside the door. Okay not really. We're not leaving on a jet plane at all. That's next month.
However! My hair has been cut. The brownies are baked. The hotel was reserved weeks ago. Camera batteries are charged. Our bags are almost packed. The pet sitter has been reminded. Our fantasy lineups have been set and picks made for the pick 'em pool. We're all set.
So! We're off!
September 16, 2004
When I Turned 30
My office has a policy of celebrating everyone's birthday in a very traditional manner. We buy a cake, stick a random number of candles into it, and "surprise" the individual having the birthday with a rousing rendition of the "Happy Birthday" song. I put "surprise" in quotations because it's rarely a surprise. (As a complete aside, finding fire to light the candles has become a challenge since I quit smoking.)
When I turned 30, my friend Kerry baked me a very special cake. I was in an odd place in my life when I turned 30. It was 1992. The Boy was six years old. We lived in Woodbridge. George H. Bush was President. Smoking in public places, such as offices, was rapidly being outlawed. (I clearly recall being relegated to smoking in the hall outside the ladies room instead of in the office at my desk. The hallway was okay, but the office proper was not. It would not matter to me now because I do not smoke. It did not matter to me much back then either even though I did.) I had one of the best jobs I'd ever had, to this day. The office had a wonderful dynamic and terrific people. Which really helped because my personal life was a fucking mess. I experienced my mid-life crisis at 30 instead of waiting for actual mid-life. I've always been advanced, except when I'm slow.
My friend Kerry is very creative. At least she was back then and I must assume she still is now because such creativity doesn't get used up. (Does it?) She was the one who knew me best back then. We'd gone to high school together and then years later worked for the same company. In the accounting department. Heck, the two of us were the accounting department! There used to be others but by the time I turned 30, we were the sole survivors.
So she knew I was feeling down about my birthday. To me it felt like "oh crap I'm so freaking old and my life is over and it's all downhill from here!" Laughable now, looking back. How was I to know then that life after 30 would be so fine? And I certainly had no inkling that life after 40 would be even better!
The cake she baked for my 30th birthday was in the shape of a coffin. Yes, the very thing in which people are laid to rest after their time on earth is done. With a lovely shade of gray for the icing. White cake (my favorite!) inside. A coffin-shaped cake. Creativity gone wild? It was just the ticket. Oh how we celebrated that year. Good times, good times. I miss Kerry.
I could get all philosophical about how that coffin-shaped cake was symbolic of my rebirth at age 30. Because life got so much more interesting and fulfilling after that.
But if I did that, I'd then have to go puke because it's so far over the top it would even make my super sappy mom sick. And that's saying alot.
When I turned 30, my friend Kerry baked me a very special cake. I was in an odd place in my life when I turned 30. It was 1992. The Boy was six years old. We lived in Woodbridge. George H. Bush was President. Smoking in public places, such as offices, was rapidly being outlawed. (I clearly recall being relegated to smoking in the hall outside the ladies room instead of in the office at my desk. The hallway was okay, but the office proper was not. It would not matter to me now because I do not smoke. It did not matter to me much back then either even though I did.) I had one of the best jobs I'd ever had, to this day. The office had a wonderful dynamic and terrific people. Which really helped because my personal life was a fucking mess. I experienced my mid-life crisis at 30 instead of waiting for actual mid-life. I've always been advanced, except when I'm slow.
My friend Kerry is very creative. At least she was back then and I must assume she still is now because such creativity doesn't get used up. (Does it?) She was the one who knew me best back then. We'd gone to high school together and then years later worked for the same company. In the accounting department. Heck, the two of us were the accounting department! There used to be others but by the time I turned 30, we were the sole survivors.
So she knew I was feeling down about my birthday. To me it felt like "oh crap I'm so freaking old and my life is over and it's all downhill from here!" Laughable now, looking back. How was I to know then that life after 30 would be so fine? And I certainly had no inkling that life after 40 would be even better!
The cake she baked for my 30th birthday was in the shape of a coffin. Yes, the very thing in which people are laid to rest after their time on earth is done. With a lovely shade of gray for the icing. White cake (my favorite!) inside. A coffin-shaped cake. Creativity gone wild? It was just the ticket. Oh how we celebrated that year. Good times, good times. I miss Kerry.
I could get all philosophical about how that coffin-shaped cake was symbolic of my rebirth at age 30. Because life got so much more interesting and fulfilling after that.
But if I did that, I'd then have to go puke because it's so far over the top it would even make my super sappy mom sick. And that's saying alot.
September 15, 2004
Marauders' Week 1: 0-1
The first week of fantasy football competition already has me contemplating changing the name of my team. I am baffled by their lackluster performance. I'm in last place, a full 21 points behind the next-to-the-worst team and 97 points behind the league leader. Oh the ignominy.
The wide receiver I was truly excited about having on my team BROKE HIS LEG during Monday night's game. I feel empathy for him and realize he didn't do it on purpose, yet I'm VERY unhappy with his fragile bones. And to the Packer who tacked him from behind: screw you!
Okay then. I really should be perusing the free agents looking for a replacement. It's not over 'til it's over.
The wide receiver I was truly excited about having on my team BROKE HIS LEG during Monday night's game. I feel empathy for him and realize he didn't do it on purpose, yet I'm VERY unhappy with his fragile bones. And to the Packer who tacked him from behind: screw you!
Okay then. I really should be perusing the free agents looking for a replacement. It's not over 'til it's over.
Food-ish
I made a spinach feta quiche for dinner last night. Spinach has become one of my favorite vegetables of all time. When I was a kid, I wouldn't eat it. Now I can't get enough.
For the quiche I used frozen spinach. Other meals, I usually sautee fresh spinach in a little e-v-o-o for a quick tasty side. (Anyone catch my Rachael-Ray-speak? I could almost hear her voice when I typed it. Blech.) While I never have eaten spinach from a can, I have seen it and smelled it and it is an altogether unappetizing maloderous glob of green nastiness. I pity the child who is only exposed to canned spinach while growing up. That kid would be like me with pork chops.
When I was growing up, pork chops were always cooked until they resembled shoe leather. Or worse they were smothered in stewed tomatoes and onions, then baked. (That smothered pork chop recipe is one of my mom's favorites but the rest of us can't stand it.) The first time someone served me pork chops outside of my parent's home, I was flabbergasted. Couldn't believe they could be so juicy and flavorful. We eat a lot of pork chops now.
The Boy has always been a good eater. Takes after his dad in that regard. He'll try anything once. And likes most of it enough to try it again.
For the quiche I used frozen spinach. Other meals, I usually sautee fresh spinach in a little e-v-o-o for a quick tasty side. (Anyone catch my Rachael-Ray-speak? I could almost hear her voice when I typed it. Blech.) While I never have eaten spinach from a can, I have seen it and smelled it and it is an altogether unappetizing maloderous glob of green nastiness. I pity the child who is only exposed to canned spinach while growing up. That kid would be like me with pork chops.
When I was growing up, pork chops were always cooked until they resembled shoe leather. Or worse they were smothered in stewed tomatoes and onions, then baked. (That smothered pork chop recipe is one of my mom's favorites but the rest of us can't stand it.) The first time someone served me pork chops outside of my parent's home, I was flabbergasted. Couldn't believe they could be so juicy and flavorful. We eat a lot of pork chops now.
The Boy has always been a good eater. Takes after his dad in that regard. He'll try anything once. And likes most of it enough to try it again.
September 14, 2004
Witness This, Asshat
Last Friday I snapped at a teenager. Not even my own teenager. It was some other teenager with whom I'm barely acquainted. I think I've spoken to that particular teenager on maybe three separate occasions prior to when I snapped at him. Oh such a proud moment it was for me. Yeesh.
The entire interaction started out wrong. He began talking about The Boy. My Boy. And how much he disliked him. Despite the fact that they have never met face to face. He knows of The Boy through mutual friends, but that's about it. He thought nothing of sharing with me his unfounded intense dislike of my son. Interesting choice, but hey, everyone is entitled to their own opinion.
I didn't snap at him about that. Although no parent likes to hear their child disparaged. Even if their child has earned it, it can be hard to stomach. And The Boy hasn't earned it. That teenager's willingness, perhaps eagerness even, to share unsolicited such dislike merely made me question his maturity.
This particular teenager is a southern baptist. He displays religious icons around his neck and on other parts of his apparel. The conversation shifted to those icons, with him stating he wears them so others will ask about them thereby giving him the opportunity to witness his faith. Okay great. Religion can provide a wonderful structure for people, old and young alike. I respect that. I didn't even put him on the spot by asking how his hateful feelings toward The Boy meshed with his faith.
He continued by expressing curiosity about The Boy's faith. He gave me a sly glance as he said that and I began to question his motivation. I raised an eyebrow, wondering silently again about his odd fascination with my son, and told him he would need to talk to The Boy about that. He then attempted to shift the conversation to MY faith.
And that's when I snapped at him.
To me, religious beliefs are quite personal. About on par with asking me how much I weigh or when the last time I had an orgasm was. It's just not something I share casually with strangers. Heck, I rarely discuss my beliefs with friends or family.
I could have calmly explained that to him while declining to answer his questions. Instead, fueled by his dislike of The Boy and my own irritation at his lack of respect for personal boundaries, I peevishly told him to mind his own business.
I'll admit my sexuality contributes additional reluctance to discuss religion in general with people I don't know well. My being gay adds another potentially volatile element to conversations about faith. Such a discussion with a smug, opinionated teenager who enjoys proselytizing and has previously demonstrated a lack of insight, sensitivity and maturity is not high on my list of things to do.
Part of me wants to apologize to him for the abrupt termination of the conversation and perhaps even to explain to him why I found his question offensive. But that would merely open the topic again and I won't do that. Teaching that teenager manners and boundaries is a job better suited for his parents. Perhaps I'm the only one who feels that part of his education is lacking.
While I didn't do it and am glad I didn't do it, I could almost see myself standing up, saluting that teenager with my middle finger while saying "Witness this, asshat!" Which is how this post got it's title.
Oh yeah, I'm the model of maturity.
The entire interaction started out wrong. He began talking about The Boy. My Boy. And how much he disliked him. Despite the fact that they have never met face to face. He knows of The Boy through mutual friends, but that's about it. He thought nothing of sharing with me his unfounded intense dislike of my son. Interesting choice, but hey, everyone is entitled to their own opinion.
I didn't snap at him about that. Although no parent likes to hear their child disparaged. Even if their child has earned it, it can be hard to stomach. And The Boy hasn't earned it. That teenager's willingness, perhaps eagerness even, to share unsolicited such dislike merely made me question his maturity.
This particular teenager is a southern baptist. He displays religious icons around his neck and on other parts of his apparel. The conversation shifted to those icons, with him stating he wears them so others will ask about them thereby giving him the opportunity to witness his faith. Okay great. Religion can provide a wonderful structure for people, old and young alike. I respect that. I didn't even put him on the spot by asking how his hateful feelings toward The Boy meshed with his faith.
He continued by expressing curiosity about The Boy's faith. He gave me a sly glance as he said that and I began to question his motivation. I raised an eyebrow, wondering silently again about his odd fascination with my son, and told him he would need to talk to The Boy about that. He then attempted to shift the conversation to MY faith.
And that's when I snapped at him.
To me, religious beliefs are quite personal. About on par with asking me how much I weigh or when the last time I had an orgasm was. It's just not something I share casually with strangers. Heck, I rarely discuss my beliefs with friends or family.
I could have calmly explained that to him while declining to answer his questions. Instead, fueled by his dislike of The Boy and my own irritation at his lack of respect for personal boundaries, I peevishly told him to mind his own business.
I'll admit my sexuality contributes additional reluctance to discuss religion in general with people I don't know well. My being gay adds another potentially volatile element to conversations about faith. Such a discussion with a smug, opinionated teenager who enjoys proselytizing and has previously demonstrated a lack of insight, sensitivity and maturity is not high on my list of things to do.
Part of me wants to apologize to him for the abrupt termination of the conversation and perhaps even to explain to him why I found his question offensive. But that would merely open the topic again and I won't do that. Teaching that teenager manners and boundaries is a job better suited for his parents. Perhaps I'm the only one who feels that part of his education is lacking.
While I didn't do it and am glad I didn't do it, I could almost see myself standing up, saluting that teenager with my middle finger while saying "Witness this, asshat!" Which is how this post got it's title.
Oh yeah, I'm the model of maturity.
'Dis Joint is Disjointed
So The Boy was cast in his school's fall production of the musical Jekyll & Hyde. He's going to be Utterson, Jekyll's best friend. He's excited. So are we. It's the little things.
Have you ever been doing something fun and interesting, then begun to have the feeling you've created a monster? Sort of like the revelation Dr. Frankenstein should have had. Or maybe like Dr. Jekyll becoming Mr. Hyde.
I've been in serious Mr. Hyde mode. Hopefully no one has noticed besides me, but that's probably not the case. I'm fairly transparent.
I think it comes from reading too much news.
I've also been frustrated with the "monster" that is our house. Not that our house is a monster or at all monstrous. I love our house. We do, however, have on-going renovations that can, at times, be monstrous. Every so often I have to give myself a mental pep talk for inspiration and motivation. I'm overdue for a pep talk.
My body is feeling monstrous of late. The whole quit-smoking-gain-weight phenomenon. Last week I could get by blaming it on PMS, but I can only kid myself so long. I need to get off my ass and move around more.
I was listening to NPR at work yesterday and there was a piece on how sex ed curriculums should include more about homosexual sex. My boss walked in just as it started and I didn't get to (have to?) listen to it. The part I did hear was regarding a kindergarten curriculum. I was like "Huh? Sex ed as part of the kindergarten curriculum!?" Surely I heard it wrong. I think I made a noise like one of the grunts in Warcraft II because my boss looked at me funny and asked "Are you okay?"
See, that's the kind of thing that I imagine totally turns off the general population from letting their minds even touch on the idea of accepting homosexuality. I mean, it turned me off and I am a homosexual. Quit messing with the children already! Let's educate the adults first. Yeesh. Or do I have it backward? In actuality I'm probably more freaked by folks thinking it's necessary for schools to teach sex ed to kindergarteners in the first place. I've always felt sex ed is more the responsibility of parents. Am I missing something?
My thought processes are crabby and disjointed. I started out thinking about Jekyll & Hyde because of The Boy. And then I started thinking my behavior of late has been monstrous. Which it has. In a cranky kind of way though, not a murderous kind of way. I'll blame it on adjusting to no nicotine.
I sure could use a good night's sleep.
Have you ever been doing something fun and interesting, then begun to have the feeling you've created a monster? Sort of like the revelation Dr. Frankenstein should have had. Or maybe like Dr. Jekyll becoming Mr. Hyde.
I've been in serious Mr. Hyde mode. Hopefully no one has noticed besides me, but that's probably not the case. I'm fairly transparent.
I think it comes from reading too much news.
I've also been frustrated with the "monster" that is our house. Not that our house is a monster or at all monstrous. I love our house. We do, however, have on-going renovations that can, at times, be monstrous. Every so often I have to give myself a mental pep talk for inspiration and motivation. I'm overdue for a pep talk.
My body is feeling monstrous of late. The whole quit-smoking-gain-weight phenomenon. Last week I could get by blaming it on PMS, but I can only kid myself so long. I need to get off my ass and move around more.
I was listening to NPR at work yesterday and there was a piece on how sex ed curriculums should include more about homosexual sex. My boss walked in just as it started and I didn't get to (have to?) listen to it. The part I did hear was regarding a kindergarten curriculum. I was like "Huh? Sex ed as part of the kindergarten curriculum!?" Surely I heard it wrong. I think I made a noise like one of the grunts in Warcraft II because my boss looked at me funny and asked "Are you okay?"
See, that's the kind of thing that I imagine totally turns off the general population from letting their minds even touch on the idea of accepting homosexuality. I mean, it turned me off and I am a homosexual. Quit messing with the children already! Let's educate the adults first. Yeesh. Or do I have it backward? In actuality I'm probably more freaked by folks thinking it's necessary for schools to teach sex ed to kindergarteners in the first place. I've always felt sex ed is more the responsibility of parents. Am I missing something?
My thought processes are crabby and disjointed. I started out thinking about Jekyll & Hyde because of The Boy. And then I started thinking my behavior of late has been monstrous. Which it has. In a cranky kind of way though, not a murderous kind of way. I'll blame it on adjusting to no nicotine.
I sure could use a good night's sleep.
September 13, 2004
1,000 Faces and Names
Take a moment to appreciate them.
From the NY Times (simple registration may be required to view).
From the NY Times (simple registration may be required to view).
Running Out of Gas
Literally, not figuratively. I've got this thing about keeping my tank full of gas. I'm one of those nervous types who hightails it to the gas station whenever the gauge reads around one quarter full. Heaven forbid the level ever get low enough for the little gas-pump-shaped warning light to turn on!
I ran out of gas once. Once was enough for me to know I never ever ever wanted to do it again. It was back when The Boy was around three years old. He and I commuted from Woodbridge to Alexandria work each day. Our home was about 10 miles from his day care provider who lived a few miles from where I worked. The morning we ran out of gas was during the winter. It was raining. A cold, wet, miserable winter morning. The kind of day when one wishes one could just stay at home. And it was back when I used to get dressed up for work: high heels, stockings, the whole nine yards. I distinctly remember what I was wearing that day. Because walking for a mile in high heels while carrying a three-year-old makes a real impression on a body.
We were inching along in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Route One. My low gas light had been on for a while, but back then I didn't pay too much attention to such things. I figured I'd fill up at the Mobil near Dottie's house. Unfortunately, we ran out of gas about five miles from there. We were also about two miles from the nearest gas station. So as the horrible realization that we were out of gas dawned, I used the last of our momentum to roll off to the side of the road. This was well before the age of cell phones and even if I'd had one, who would I call? Shouldering my purse, I grabbed The Boy out of his car seat, locked the car and set off teetering down the gravelly shoulder of the road juggling the umbrella and my purse. The Boy was perched on my hip with his arms around my neck.
Walking on gravel in high heels is a bad idea. Doing so in the winter when it's raining is even a worse idea. Juggling an umbrella and my purse while carrying a toddler made it even more challenging. The bulkiness of our winter outerwear added to the thrill. Oh happy Monday indeed! The knowledge our predicament was exclusively due to my own carelessness also added to my delight.
I struggled along for a ways, actually making faster progress than the traffic. The rain started coming down harder. We were on a rather flat section of road and I could see the sign for the gas station far ahead above the trees. The Boy was patient and didn't squirm too much. Conversation was light. I just didn't have anything to say, and for once, neither did The Boy. I was concentrating on not falling down and he was concentrating on holding on.
Then a gold Volvo sedan pulled on to the shoulder just ahead of us. As I approached, a window on the passenger side rolled down and a voice called out to us. "Would you like a ride?" Hmmm. Who were these people? And was I deparate enough to chance a ride with strangers? I peered into their vehicle, noting a well-dressed black couple who appeared to be in their mid-forties. I threw caution to the wind and The Boy and I climbed into their backseat gratefully. After all, the traffic was moving so slowly we could, if need be, jump out again. Couldn't we? Thankfully we did not need to find out. This couple was quite kind and did not mock my irresponsibility in running out of gas. Instead, they welcomed two wet strangers into their warm dry car. They took us to the gas station and waited as I borrowed a gas can and filled it up. Then they toted me, The Boy, and the gas can back to our car.
Wendy doesn't mind driving around with her gas light on. She is in tune with how many miles she gets from a tank of gas. When we are traveling together, I quash my need to pull into the gas station when the tank is a quarter full. I keep hoping her calm assurance will rub off on me but it hasn't yet.
I ran out of gas once. Once was enough for me to know I never ever ever wanted to do it again. It was back when The Boy was around three years old. He and I commuted from Woodbridge to Alexandria work each day. Our home was about 10 miles from his day care provider who lived a few miles from where I worked. The morning we ran out of gas was during the winter. It was raining. A cold, wet, miserable winter morning. The kind of day when one wishes one could just stay at home. And it was back when I used to get dressed up for work: high heels, stockings, the whole nine yards. I distinctly remember what I was wearing that day. Because walking for a mile in high heels while carrying a three-year-old makes a real impression on a body.
We were inching along in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Route One. My low gas light had been on for a while, but back then I didn't pay too much attention to such things. I figured I'd fill up at the Mobil near Dottie's house. Unfortunately, we ran out of gas about five miles from there. We were also about two miles from the nearest gas station. So as the horrible realization that we were out of gas dawned, I used the last of our momentum to roll off to the side of the road. This was well before the age of cell phones and even if I'd had one, who would I call? Shouldering my purse, I grabbed The Boy out of his car seat, locked the car and set off teetering down the gravelly shoulder of the road juggling the umbrella and my purse. The Boy was perched on my hip with his arms around my neck.
Walking on gravel in high heels is a bad idea. Doing so in the winter when it's raining is even a worse idea. Juggling an umbrella and my purse while carrying a toddler made it even more challenging. The bulkiness of our winter outerwear added to the thrill. Oh happy Monday indeed! The knowledge our predicament was exclusively due to my own carelessness also added to my delight.
I struggled along for a ways, actually making faster progress than the traffic. The rain started coming down harder. We were on a rather flat section of road and I could see the sign for the gas station far ahead above the trees. The Boy was patient and didn't squirm too much. Conversation was light. I just didn't have anything to say, and for once, neither did The Boy. I was concentrating on not falling down and he was concentrating on holding on.
Then a gold Volvo sedan pulled on to the shoulder just ahead of us. As I approached, a window on the passenger side rolled down and a voice called out to us. "Would you like a ride?" Hmmm. Who were these people? And was I deparate enough to chance a ride with strangers? I peered into their vehicle, noting a well-dressed black couple who appeared to be in their mid-forties. I threw caution to the wind and The Boy and I climbed into their backseat gratefully. After all, the traffic was moving so slowly we could, if need be, jump out again. Couldn't we? Thankfully we did not need to find out. This couple was quite kind and did not mock my irresponsibility in running out of gas. Instead, they welcomed two wet strangers into their warm dry car. They took us to the gas station and waited as I borrowed a gas can and filled it up. Then they toted me, The Boy, and the gas can back to our car.
Wendy doesn't mind driving around with her gas light on. She is in tune with how many miles she gets from a tank of gas. When we are traveling together, I quash my need to pull into the gas station when the tank is a quarter full. I keep hoping her calm assurance will rub off on me but it hasn't yet.
September 12, 2004
How I Earned the Label "Older Than Dirt"
I don't recall exactly how the subject came up. Or when it came up. Or why it came up. But it did come up. As such things inevitably do. And my chin hit the floor as I attempted to absorb a little piece of information so contrary to what I had ever conceived of as reality.
I've known my friend Tina peripherally since The Boy started school. She worked at his school. Actually it is more appropriate to call it her school rather than his, because she attended it while growing up and then as an adult returned as a teacher. Full circle of sorts. And while our friendship is no longer of the peripheral variety, we didn't really get to know each other well until our children were in high school together.
Anyway. It's not her school I'm talking about here. Or how we met. Or, as some people found surprising, that she and I became friends at all. It's her age. Chronological age, that is. I'm certain she'll be pleased to have it discussed.
Tina's family is the consumate definition of suburban: husband, wife, four kids, house on a cul-de-sac, minivan in the driveway. I, on the other hand, while in my mind defining myself as suburban, do not have many qualities others would classify as such. My family and Tina's family have little in common on the surface. Other than The Boy being chronologically one year younger than her oldest child and one year older than her next oldest child. And also that our children are into theatre. Those were the thin little threads we have since woven into what is today our warm and cozy friendship.
But back to the dirt. I had always assumed Tina was older than me. She has four children for pete's sake! She drives a mini-van! And despite her tendency to dress in themed attire (another story for another day perhaps), she has an air of maturity about her. (Please don't ask me what I mean by that "maturity" statement. Just accept it as a certainty, okay?) Did I mention she has FOUR children? And her firstborn is older than my firstborn? Therefore logic decreed she must be older than me. Not necessarily too much older, but definitely older.
I was so certain. Certain beyond any doubt (not just a reasonable doubt). Certain to the point I would have bet real money on it. So certain that the certainty became my reality and there was absolutely no possible way it wasn't true. It was as certain as the sun rising in the east. Such a certainty I never entertained any concept other than that one, the one of which I was so certain. It just was: Tina was older than me.
Turns out my logic was invalid. Because one day in the now quite distant past I found out that Tina is actually five months younger than me. I've never gotten over that certainty of mine being shattered in the face of an alternate absolute fact. I've seen her driver's license. It's true. There's no disputing it. I don't think I've ever really accepted it, however. Because I spent so many years believing otherwise.
She thinks it's funny. She has since labeled herself "dirt" and me "older than dirt". She thinks that's funny too. And it is. Hrumph.
I think it's funny that I had stereotypically conceived of her as older based on her life circumstance. Me, the one who battles stereotypes based on my life circumstance on a daily basis. Food for thought, it is. With room for improvement.
I've known my friend Tina peripherally since The Boy started school. She worked at his school. Actually it is more appropriate to call it her school rather than his, because she attended it while growing up and then as an adult returned as a teacher. Full circle of sorts. And while our friendship is no longer of the peripheral variety, we didn't really get to know each other well until our children were in high school together.
Anyway. It's not her school I'm talking about here. Or how we met. Or, as some people found surprising, that she and I became friends at all. It's her age. Chronological age, that is. I'm certain she'll be pleased to have it discussed.
Tina's family is the consumate definition of suburban: husband, wife, four kids, house on a cul-de-sac, minivan in the driveway. I, on the other hand, while in my mind defining myself as suburban, do not have many qualities others would classify as such. My family and Tina's family have little in common on the surface. Other than The Boy being chronologically one year younger than her oldest child and one year older than her next oldest child. And also that our children are into theatre. Those were the thin little threads we have since woven into what is today our warm and cozy friendship.
But back to the dirt. I had always assumed Tina was older than me. She has four children for pete's sake! She drives a mini-van! And despite her tendency to dress in themed attire (another story for another day perhaps), she has an air of maturity about her. (Please don't ask me what I mean by that "maturity" statement. Just accept it as a certainty, okay?) Did I mention she has FOUR children? And her firstborn is older than my firstborn? Therefore logic decreed she must be older than me. Not necessarily too much older, but definitely older.
I was so certain. Certain beyond any doubt (not just a reasonable doubt). Certain to the point I would have bet real money on it. So certain that the certainty became my reality and there was absolutely no possible way it wasn't true. It was as certain as the sun rising in the east. Such a certainty I never entertained any concept other than that one, the one of which I was so certain. It just was: Tina was older than me.
Turns out my logic was invalid. Because one day in the now quite distant past I found out that Tina is actually five months younger than me. I've never gotten over that certainty of mine being shattered in the face of an alternate absolute fact. I've seen her driver's license. It's true. There's no disputing it. I don't think I've ever really accepted it, however. Because I spent so many years believing otherwise.
She thinks it's funny. She has since labeled herself "dirt" and me "older than dirt". She thinks that's funny too. And it is. Hrumph.
I think it's funny that I had stereotypically conceived of her as older based on her life circumstance. Me, the one who battles stereotypes based on my life circumstance on a daily basis. Food for thought, it is. With room for improvement.
September 11, 2004
Sanctity of Sleeping In
Our cat woke me up this morning. Actually the cat got me out of bed. The dog woke me up.
I cracked my eyes open just a tad. And saw Fig sleeping right by my head. On the sheets. Next to my pillow. Crap. I had to get up in self defense. Or I'd be an irritated allergy ridden bitch all morning. At least I'd have a reason, hmm?
I thought "but it's Saturday dammit." Actually I'm pretty sure I said that outloud. But I used a nice sweet tone of voice, even if I was whining, so the animals didn't get their little feelings hurt. They don't mind it when I whine, it's the stern I-mean-business voice that gets to them. Meanwhile I seethed inside. It's Saturday dammit. We should all be sleeping in. I think there is a law about it. If not, there should be.
Do our sweet little furry muffins wake me up on the weekdays when sometimes I could really use some help waking up? Why no, they don't. They peacefully snooze at the foot of the bed. On weekdays I have to wake them up.
And don't even try to rationalize that on Saturdays, because we are sleeping in, they are waking me up later than I usually get up. That is just not the case. "Later" to me would mean at least an hour. Preferably two. If I were really really really lucky, three. (Well actually if I were really lucky, they'd wake Wendy up instead of me!) But we are talking 30 minutes here. One teeny tiny half of an hour. 30 measley minutes. These pets are waking me up a mere 30 minutes past when my snooze bar time usually runs out. On Saturday. Oh the injustice!
The irony of these animals waking me up before I'm ready to be awake is the fact that it is happening at all. The Boy was trained to respect the sanctity of sleeping in, even before he embraced the joy himself. He learned very early to take care of certain things himself so that Mommy could enjoy some extra sleep on weekend mornings.
My mom has a story she likes to tell about The Boy's morning self-sufficiency. He was about four years old at the time. The grandparents were in town for some reason or another. The house we lived in was rather small and we had no guest room. So guests were relegated to the fold-out couch in the living room. Primitive I know. The upside was it kept guests to a minimum and no one stayed long. Worked out just fine.
One Saturday morning when my mom and stepfather were slumbering peacefully if not comfortably on the fold-out couch, she was awakened by the aroma of food. The Boy had turned on Saturday morning cartoons, grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the 'fridge, and climbed in bed next to her to enjoy his breakfast. His typical Saturday routine was uninterrupted by guests. Consequently neither was mine.
And that, my friends, clearly shows the benefit of good training.
Now if I could only get the animals to be as civilized.
I cracked my eyes open just a tad. And saw Fig sleeping right by my head. On the sheets. Next to my pillow. Crap. I had to get up in self defense. Or I'd be an irritated allergy ridden bitch all morning. At least I'd have a reason, hmm?
I thought "but it's Saturday dammit." Actually I'm pretty sure I said that outloud. But I used a nice sweet tone of voice, even if I was whining, so the animals didn't get their little feelings hurt. They don't mind it when I whine, it's the stern I-mean-business voice that gets to them. Meanwhile I seethed inside. It's Saturday dammit. We should all be sleeping in. I think there is a law about it. If not, there should be.
Do our sweet little furry muffins wake me up on the weekdays when sometimes I could really use some help waking up? Why no, they don't. They peacefully snooze at the foot of the bed. On weekdays I have to wake them up.
And don't even try to rationalize that on Saturdays, because we are sleeping in, they are waking me up later than I usually get up. That is just not the case. "Later" to me would mean at least an hour. Preferably two. If I were really really really lucky, three. (Well actually if I were really lucky, they'd wake Wendy up instead of me!) But we are talking 30 minutes here. One teeny tiny half of an hour. 30 measley minutes. These pets are waking me up a mere 30 minutes past when my snooze bar time usually runs out. On Saturday. Oh the injustice!
The irony of these animals waking me up before I'm ready to be awake is the fact that it is happening at all. The Boy was trained to respect the sanctity of sleeping in, even before he embraced the joy himself. He learned very early to take care of certain things himself so that Mommy could enjoy some extra sleep on weekend mornings.
My mom has a story she likes to tell about The Boy's morning self-sufficiency. He was about four years old at the time. The grandparents were in town for some reason or another. The house we lived in was rather small and we had no guest room. So guests were relegated to the fold-out couch in the living room. Primitive I know. The upside was it kept guests to a minimum and no one stayed long. Worked out just fine.
One Saturday morning when my mom and stepfather were slumbering peacefully if not comfortably on the fold-out couch, she was awakened by the aroma of food. The Boy had turned on Saturday morning cartoons, grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the 'fridge, and climbed in bed next to her to enjoy his breakfast. His typical Saturday routine was uninterrupted by guests. Consequently neither was mine.
And that, my friends, clearly shows the benefit of good training.
Now if I could only get the animals to be as civilized.
September 10, 2004
Finding My Glow
Year Two is underway. I wonder when I’ll stop choking up when I least expect it. You would think someone had died or something. But no one died. He just grew up.
Last year dropping The Boy off at college was a completely different experience than this year. Not different better or different worse. Just different.
Last year, since it was his first year, we all had a day of orientation. I remember being excited and highly interested in being oriented, but the only part of it I clearly remember now is The Reading of the Letters.
Oh? There was reading involved? Why yes there was! We, the parents, were read to, actually. By our student's Advisor. Individually, yet in a group: The Reading of the Letters. Parents, I must say you should consider yourselves extraordinarily fortunate if, when you attend your child's college orientation, you, too, are regaled with The Reading of the Letters.
A portion of the orientation activity was conducted with the parents separated from their student. The students went one way as the parents were led in a different direction for different activities. As mentioned previously, I don't recall any of those activities in great detail with the exception of the one I'm writing about. (And I was paying attention. Really.) The last activity before we were reunited with our children had us gathered in a classroom, sitting at desks all facing front. In walked The Advisor. Who began a very thoughtful lecture on the process of Letting Your Children Go.
We parents nervously punctuated his lecture with laughs in appropriate places. We guiltily looked down at our hands when he hit on something we knew we had done even though we knew when we were doing it we shouldn't be doing it at all. I wasn't the only one sweating over the enormity of what we were about to do and what could happen if we hadn't done it right when we started doing whatever we had been doing that brought us to this place to begin with. The business of raising a child is fraught with peril. Overall, it was an emotion-invoking lecture. I really wanted to reach over and hold Wendy's hand, but couldn't bring myself to do it.
It was what I considered a typical group of parents, varied ages although not particularly racially diverse. Outside of Wendy and me, the parents who were paired were paired heterosexually. And as a lesbian couple in a primarily heterosexual world, sometimes it is just better not to draw attention to ourselves by holding hands or such in public. Some days I'm brave enough to grab my own bit of freedom and embrace it fully. But on that particular day at that particular time, I just wasn't. The day was hard enough already.
The Advisor, as he lectured, held a bunch of papers in his hand. He announced that what he was holding were letters from our students. Advice from our children. Advice on how to let them go.
And the twist: The Advisor was just going to read them aloud without saying who wrote them. We parents were supposed to figure out which letter was written by our student. He started reading. And what I thought had been an emotional day so far became even more so. The touching tribute written by a daughter to the father who had raised her alone. The humorous list of all the things one fellow was sure his family was going to miss about having him around. Another with specific, very specific, instructions on how to care for the family pet. The obvious amount of love this group of parents had given to their children spoke clearly through these letters.
Sometimes parents would be thinking a particular letter came from their student when in fact it was from another. There were exclamations of "That one is mine! Definitely mine!" when a positive identification was made. The one that began "Dear Old Folks" garnered mild gasps of dismay. Wendy and I didn't gasp and weren't dismayed. Because we knew that was the one from The Boy. And that's when I did grab Wendy's hand. It was involuntary and just had to be. So it was.
By the time all the letters were read and claimed, there was not a dry eye in the house. We all got to keep them. Those letters. That advice. What a prize indeed.
During his last year of high school we were so busy I could easily postpone considering what life would be like without The Boy around every day. I knew I'd have plenty of time to experience it after he left. Sure, I'd seen other parents go through it. Most seemed fine, professing to miss their little darlings while luxuriating in their Glow of Newfound Freedom.
It wasn’t long before I was wondering, “Where is MY glow?” My overall sense of purpose had been crumpled up like a piece of scrap paper and launched toward the trash can in a perfect three-point arc. I was a balloon with no air. A train off the track. A ship with no destination. A puppy left behind at the pound. For 18 years, every decision I made had been influenced by my parental responsibilities. Now I could do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted to do it. Well, within reason, of course. If only I knew what it was I wanted to do.
For months, I floundered as I anxiously awaited delivery of My Glow of Newfound Freedom. I was certain with My Glow would come My New Purpose. Then it dawned on me perhaps I should be seeking it out. Or kindling it from scratch. Instead of sitting back waiting for it to find me. Doh.
Since that realization, I’ve dug deep and found a spark. And fanned it gently into a Glow of My Own. I’ve savored my first joyful bites of Life After the Child Has Grown. Of late, it tastes pretty good. I’ve not got it all figured out yet, but progress has been made.
Yes, I still miss The Boy. And I still fight the lump that forms in my throat at times (like now). Yet as I rediscover myself and explore who I am and who I want to be beyond being a mother, I can exalt in the fine young man The Boy has become. It sure doesn’t hurt when a quick cell phone conversation wraps up with him saying “Love you, Mom!”
I love you too, sweetheart. Talk soon.
Last year dropping The Boy off at college was a completely different experience than this year. Not different better or different worse. Just different.
Last year, since it was his first year, we all had a day of orientation. I remember being excited and highly interested in being oriented, but the only part of it I clearly remember now is The Reading of the Letters.
Oh? There was reading involved? Why yes there was! We, the parents, were read to, actually. By our student's Advisor. Individually, yet in a group: The Reading of the Letters. Parents, I must say you should consider yourselves extraordinarily fortunate if, when you attend your child's college orientation, you, too, are regaled with The Reading of the Letters.
A portion of the orientation activity was conducted with the parents separated from their student. The students went one way as the parents were led in a different direction for different activities. As mentioned previously, I don't recall any of those activities in great detail with the exception of the one I'm writing about. (And I was paying attention. Really.) The last activity before we were reunited with our children had us gathered in a classroom, sitting at desks all facing front. In walked The Advisor. Who began a very thoughtful lecture on the process of Letting Your Children Go.
We parents nervously punctuated his lecture with laughs in appropriate places. We guiltily looked down at our hands when he hit on something we knew we had done even though we knew when we were doing it we shouldn't be doing it at all. I wasn't the only one sweating over the enormity of what we were about to do and what could happen if we hadn't done it right when we started doing whatever we had been doing that brought us to this place to begin with. The business of raising a child is fraught with peril. Overall, it was an emotion-invoking lecture. I really wanted to reach over and hold Wendy's hand, but couldn't bring myself to do it.
It was what I considered a typical group of parents, varied ages although not particularly racially diverse. Outside of Wendy and me, the parents who were paired were paired heterosexually. And as a lesbian couple in a primarily heterosexual world, sometimes it is just better not to draw attention to ourselves by holding hands or such in public. Some days I'm brave enough to grab my own bit of freedom and embrace it fully. But on that particular day at that particular time, I just wasn't. The day was hard enough already.
The Advisor, as he lectured, held a bunch of papers in his hand. He announced that what he was holding were letters from our students. Advice from our children. Advice on how to let them go.
And the twist: The Advisor was just going to read them aloud without saying who wrote them. We parents were supposed to figure out which letter was written by our student. He started reading. And what I thought had been an emotional day so far became even more so. The touching tribute written by a daughter to the father who had raised her alone. The humorous list of all the things one fellow was sure his family was going to miss about having him around. Another with specific, very specific, instructions on how to care for the family pet. The obvious amount of love this group of parents had given to their children spoke clearly through these letters.
Sometimes parents would be thinking a particular letter came from their student when in fact it was from another. There were exclamations of "That one is mine! Definitely mine!" when a positive identification was made. The one that began "Dear Old Folks" garnered mild gasps of dismay. Wendy and I didn't gasp and weren't dismayed. Because we knew that was the one from The Boy. And that's when I did grab Wendy's hand. It was involuntary and just had to be. So it was.
By the time all the letters were read and claimed, there was not a dry eye in the house. We all got to keep them. Those letters. That advice. What a prize indeed.
During his last year of high school we were so busy I could easily postpone considering what life would be like without The Boy around every day. I knew I'd have plenty of time to experience it after he left. Sure, I'd seen other parents go through it. Most seemed fine, professing to miss their little darlings while luxuriating in their Glow of Newfound Freedom.
It wasn’t long before I was wondering, “Where is MY glow?” My overall sense of purpose had been crumpled up like a piece of scrap paper and launched toward the trash can in a perfect three-point arc. I was a balloon with no air. A train off the track. A ship with no destination. A puppy left behind at the pound. For 18 years, every decision I made had been influenced by my parental responsibilities. Now I could do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted to do it. Well, within reason, of course. If only I knew what it was I wanted to do.
For months, I floundered as I anxiously awaited delivery of My Glow of Newfound Freedom. I was certain with My Glow would come My New Purpose. Then it dawned on me perhaps I should be seeking it out. Or kindling it from scratch. Instead of sitting back waiting for it to find me. Doh.
Since that realization, I’ve dug deep and found a spark. And fanned it gently into a Glow of My Own. I’ve savored my first joyful bites of Life After the Child Has Grown. Of late, it tastes pretty good. I’ve not got it all figured out yet, but progress has been made.
Yes, I still miss The Boy. And I still fight the lump that forms in my throat at times (like now). Yet as I rediscover myself and explore who I am and who I want to be beyond being a mother, I can exalt in the fine young man The Boy has become. It sure doesn’t hurt when a quick cell phone conversation wraps up with him saying “Love you, Mom!”
I love you too, sweetheart. Talk soon.
September 9, 2004
September 8, 2004
Bonnie and That Fly
Wendy and I took our fruit salad to a Labor Day celebratory picnic. It was a neighborhood party, but not in our neighborhood. It was our friends Bonnie & Rose's neighborhood. They live on the other side of the highway. Which is how locations are defined here in Mount Vernon. "Which side of the highway are you on? Oh okay. I'm from the other side near the river."
They live in one of those townhouse communities cozied up around a man-made lake with jogging paths and ducks and other delights of surburbia. Bonnie & Rose, along with their neighbors, tote tables, coolers, chairs, barbeques and the like out to the common area behind their homes. Lakeside. One lady even brought her mosquito zapper. Everyone brought food. Oh, and music. There was definitely music. And a few children. And interloping friends, like us.
So we ate, drank, chit-chatted with strangers and the few familiar faces we knew. One thing Wendy and I found amazing was the number of lesbians there. What, was this a whole cul-de-sac full of lesbians? A hidden suburban enclave? Have we been living on the heterosexual side of the highway for all these years? But there was a fair representation of traditional folks too. It was a nice blend and everyone got along famously. But wow. We obviously need to get out more.
Wendy and I found ourselves standing with Melinda (another interloper from the other side of the highway) in the screened tent in Bonnie and Rose's back yard. They leave it up all summer as they like to sit outside and drink wine without feeding the mosquitos. But because folks were coming and going that day, the doors were wide open and bugs were coming and going also.
So as we stood there in the shade of the screened tent, something behind Melinda's head caught my eye. I instantly identified it as a fly. But it was not just any fly. Not fruit fly, nor house fly, nor deer fly, nor horse fly, nor dragon fly, nor any other type of fly I had ever seen before in my life. And I've seen my fair share of flies. Sure, it looked like a house fly. BUT IT WAS AS BIG AS MY THUMB! (And I have freakishly large hands!!!)
It was obviously some breed of mutant fly only found on that side of the highway. (Which must be true because I've lived on the river side of the highway for nigh on 35 years and I've NEVER seen anything like That Fly!) It was also (thankfully!) a very lazy fly, because instead of zipping around and dive bombing us to greedily rip huge chunks of flesh from our faces and other exposed areas, it was merely resting peacefully on the inside of the tent.
It may have been the horrified look on my face. Or maybe it was the gasp of distress which inadvertently escaped my lips. Whatever it was, both Wendy and Melinda turned and followed my riveted gaze to the spot on the tent. Where That Fly Rested.
Wendy caught my eye and I watched the color drain from her face. "OMFG!" she mouthed silently. "Is that a fly?" she wondered outloud, sounding remarkably unconcerned considering the circumstance.
Suddenly there was a broom in Melinda's hand. Where that broom came from, I have no clue. It hadn't been there a moment prior. Wendy and I looked at each other in horror. Was this woman going to challenge that creature armed only with a broom?!?!? While we were all still standing in the tent!!?!?! Had she lost her mind?!?!!
My first impulse was to the wrestle the broom away from her and toss it into the lake. But manners precluded that action. Wendy and I eyed the exit, each doing a mental calculation as to how fast we could make it out the door if that broom got any where near That Fly. We each took a step toward the door, slowly distancing ourselves from Melinda, the broom and That Fly. Because flies, you know, fly! Once she disturbed its peaceful nap, who knew what hell would break loose!
She swiped at it and missed. Still That Fly didn't move, didn't even flex a wing. Wendy and I crept closer to the exit, wondering how the hell she missed. She was swinging a broom at a humongous target, for pete's sake! Melinda assumed a different stance, her feet set widely apart while holding the broom as one would hold a lance during a joust. She was about to let loose and joust That Fly when Bonnie entered the tent. "What's going on, y'all?" she inquired.
We all pointed at That Fly.
And that's when she did it. Bonnie, that is. Without hestitation, in the blink of an eye, before we could even process what was about to happen, she whipped a napkin out of her pocket. Got up on her tippy-toes. Held that napkin in her bare hand and wrapped it around That Fly. Then bent over and tucked the napkin, in which That Fly was now wrapped, partially under one of her feet. As she straightened up, she planted her other foot on the napkin and started doing The Twist, grinding that napkin and That Fly (om mani padme hung) into oblivion.
The three of us just stared at her with our mouths hanging open. Had we just seen what we thought we just saw? Little Bonnie is a fearless bug smasher! Who knew?
I never did see That Fly fly.
And I'll never look at Bonnie the same again.
They live in one of those townhouse communities cozied up around a man-made lake with jogging paths and ducks and other delights of surburbia. Bonnie & Rose, along with their neighbors, tote tables, coolers, chairs, barbeques and the like out to the common area behind their homes. Lakeside. One lady even brought her mosquito zapper. Everyone brought food. Oh, and music. There was definitely music. And a few children. And interloping friends, like us.
So we ate, drank, chit-chatted with strangers and the few familiar faces we knew. One thing Wendy and I found amazing was the number of lesbians there. What, was this a whole cul-de-sac full of lesbians? A hidden suburban enclave? Have we been living on the heterosexual side of the highway for all these years? But there was a fair representation of traditional folks too. It was a nice blend and everyone got along famously. But wow. We obviously need to get out more.
Wendy and I found ourselves standing with Melinda (another interloper from the other side of the highway) in the screened tent in Bonnie and Rose's back yard. They leave it up all summer as they like to sit outside and drink wine without feeding the mosquitos. But because folks were coming and going that day, the doors were wide open and bugs were coming and going also.
So as we stood there in the shade of the screened tent, something behind Melinda's head caught my eye. I instantly identified it as a fly. But it was not just any fly. Not fruit fly, nor house fly, nor deer fly, nor horse fly, nor dragon fly, nor any other type of fly I had ever seen before in my life. And I've seen my fair share of flies. Sure, it looked like a house fly. BUT IT WAS AS BIG AS MY THUMB! (And I have freakishly large hands!!!)
It was obviously some breed of mutant fly only found on that side of the highway. (Which must be true because I've lived on the river side of the highway for nigh on 35 years and I've NEVER seen anything like That Fly!) It was also (thankfully!) a very lazy fly, because instead of zipping around and dive bombing us to greedily rip huge chunks of flesh from our faces and other exposed areas, it was merely resting peacefully on the inside of the tent.
It may have been the horrified look on my face. Or maybe it was the gasp of distress which inadvertently escaped my lips. Whatever it was, both Wendy and Melinda turned and followed my riveted gaze to the spot on the tent. Where That Fly Rested.
Wendy caught my eye and I watched the color drain from her face. "OMFG!" she mouthed silently. "Is that a fly?" she wondered outloud, sounding remarkably unconcerned considering the circumstance.
Suddenly there was a broom in Melinda's hand. Where that broom came from, I have no clue. It hadn't been there a moment prior. Wendy and I looked at each other in horror. Was this woman going to challenge that creature armed only with a broom?!?!? While we were all still standing in the tent!!?!?! Had she lost her mind?!?!!
My first impulse was to the wrestle the broom away from her and toss it into the lake. But manners precluded that action. Wendy and I eyed the exit, each doing a mental calculation as to how fast we could make it out the door if that broom got any where near That Fly. We each took a step toward the door, slowly distancing ourselves from Melinda, the broom and That Fly. Because flies, you know, fly! Once she disturbed its peaceful nap, who knew what hell would break loose!
She swiped at it and missed. Still That Fly didn't move, didn't even flex a wing. Wendy and I crept closer to the exit, wondering how the hell she missed. She was swinging a broom at a humongous target, for pete's sake! Melinda assumed a different stance, her feet set widely apart while holding the broom as one would hold a lance during a joust. She was about to let loose and joust That Fly when Bonnie entered the tent. "What's going on, y'all?" she inquired.
We all pointed at That Fly.
And that's when she did it. Bonnie, that is. Without hestitation, in the blink of an eye, before we could even process what was about to happen, she whipped a napkin out of her pocket. Got up on her tippy-toes. Held that napkin in her bare hand and wrapped it around That Fly. Then bent over and tucked the napkin, in which That Fly was now wrapped, partially under one of her feet. As she straightened up, she planted her other foot on the napkin and started doing The Twist, grinding that napkin and That Fly (om mani padme hung) into oblivion.
The three of us just stared at her with our mouths hanging open. Had we just seen what we thought we just saw? Little Bonnie is a fearless bug smasher! Who knew?
I never did see That Fly fly.
And I'll never look at Bonnie the same again.
September 7, 2004
Personal Watermelon
Oh wow. We were BUSY this weekend. Busy busy busy. Busier than one-armed paperhangers. Busier than bees. Busier than .... well, just BUSY. Too busy to think of ways to describe how busy we were.
What does that have to do with watermelon? Well not much. But in the SFW there was a humongous pile of them. Labeled "personal". Since when are watermelons "personal"? Our busy-ness didn't revolve around watermelons, but we did have up-close contact with a personal watermelon this weekend. And let me tell you, if you haven't had such contact----seek it out immediately! It was well worth the $2.50 at SFW. Yet there's really nothing personal about it. It's plenty large enough to share with friends. At least the one that came home with me from SFW was. And no seeds! A bonus! Unless you are planning a seed-spitting contest. But we weren't, so it was all good.
I personally put that watermelon in a bowl. A bowl that's really not a bowl, but does a good impression of one. It's really the top part of a cake holder. I've owned that cake holder for about 20 years and I don't think it's ever held a cake. In fact I'm not even sure where the bottom part of it is. But the top part makes an excellent bowl. Especially if one if preparing a large volume of fruit salad for a picnic. That cake holder top has held many fruit salads over those 20 years.
I like to layer fruit salads in that bowl. It is clear, made from lucite or some other such transparent plastic material. Sturdy. Large. Layerable. And the layers look quite attractive through the clear plastic sides. Colorful. Festive. Appetizing. Fruity.
This fruit salad had six layers in this order from the bottom up: watermelon, honeydew melon, cantaloupe, red seedless grapes, blueberries, kiwi fruit slices. The melons were chunked into pieces, a bit larger than one-bite size but a bit smaller than two-bite size. Nice sized chunks that wouldn't get mushy while they awaited their fate. It turned out very pretty. And delicious.
So about 30 minutes of our busy weekend were spent preparing that fruit salad. Which we took to an end of the summer Labor Day gathering. That gathering ate up about five hours of our busy weekend. The rest of the weekend was spent laboring. Because isn't that what Labor Day weekend is all about? It is in our house. While we labored, we had background entertainment with the TV tuned into college football, baseball and/or the Law & Order marathon. We didn't really see all of anything. Because we were laboring and such.
I barely touched the keyboard all weekend. I don't think it missed me much.
What does that have to do with watermelon? Well not much. But in the SFW there was a humongous pile of them. Labeled "personal". Since when are watermelons "personal"? Our busy-ness didn't revolve around watermelons, but we did have up-close contact with a personal watermelon this weekend. And let me tell you, if you haven't had such contact----seek it out immediately! It was well worth the $2.50 at SFW. Yet there's really nothing personal about it. It's plenty large enough to share with friends. At least the one that came home with me from SFW was. And no seeds! A bonus! Unless you are planning a seed-spitting contest. But we weren't, so it was all good.
I personally put that watermelon in a bowl. A bowl that's really not a bowl, but does a good impression of one. It's really the top part of a cake holder. I've owned that cake holder for about 20 years and I don't think it's ever held a cake. In fact I'm not even sure where the bottom part of it is. But the top part makes an excellent bowl. Especially if one if preparing a large volume of fruit salad for a picnic. That cake holder top has held many fruit salads over those 20 years.
I like to layer fruit salads in that bowl. It is clear, made from lucite or some other such transparent plastic material. Sturdy. Large. Layerable. And the layers look quite attractive through the clear plastic sides. Colorful. Festive. Appetizing. Fruity.
This fruit salad had six layers in this order from the bottom up: watermelon, honeydew melon, cantaloupe, red seedless grapes, blueberries, kiwi fruit slices. The melons were chunked into pieces, a bit larger than one-bite size but a bit smaller than two-bite size. Nice sized chunks that wouldn't get mushy while they awaited their fate. It turned out very pretty. And delicious.
So about 30 minutes of our busy weekend were spent preparing that fruit salad. Which we took to an end of the summer Labor Day gathering. That gathering ate up about five hours of our busy weekend. The rest of the weekend was spent laboring. Because isn't that what Labor Day weekend is all about? It is in our house. While we labored, we had background entertainment with the TV tuned into college football, baseball and/or the Law & Order marathon. We didn't really see all of anything. Because we were laboring and such.
I barely touched the keyboard all weekend. I don't think it missed me much.
September 5, 2004
Pet Train
When I get up and head downstairs, the pets presume I am going to the kitchen. They all get up and follow me, like a train follows an engine down the track. I, of course, am the engine. Cosine is typically the caboose, as she is older and moves more carefully than the others. They follow me because they are under the misguided delusion that the only reason I could possibly be going downstairs would be to visit the kitchen to give them food, or a treat, or the best of all worlds: a human food treat.
But it's not always the case. I'm not always going to the kitchen to give them a treat. If I gave them a treat every time I went downstairs they'd be fatter than they already are. And if I went to the kitchen for food every time I descended the stairs, I personally would be larger than the house. Sometimes I go downstairs and don't even go to the kitchen. Sometimes I don't go near the kitchen at all. Or I'll merely breeze through the kitchen to retrieve whatever it was that sent me downstairs to begin with. This leaves the pets looking at me accusatorily, like "doh, aren't you forgetting something?" Yet still they follow me.
I'll admit. I've gotten into the habit of dispensing doggie treats rather frequently. Which is what has caused this lemming-like behavior.
When Wendy gets up and heads downstairs, the pets don't follow her. Unless she calls them. Then they all go running.
Who's got who trained, anyway?
But it's not always the case. I'm not always going to the kitchen to give them a treat. If I gave them a treat every time I went downstairs they'd be fatter than they already are. And if I went to the kitchen for food every time I descended the stairs, I personally would be larger than the house. Sometimes I go downstairs and don't even go to the kitchen. Sometimes I don't go near the kitchen at all. Or I'll merely breeze through the kitchen to retrieve whatever it was that sent me downstairs to begin with. This leaves the pets looking at me accusatorily, like "doh, aren't you forgetting something?" Yet still they follow me.
I'll admit. I've gotten into the habit of dispensing doggie treats rather frequently. Which is what has caused this lemming-like behavior.
When Wendy gets up and heads downstairs, the pets don't follow her. Unless she calls them. Then they all go running.
Who's got who trained, anyway?
September 3, 2004
All the Fields Are Filled With Fresh Boys Playing Football
For the past few weeks, as I've passed the high school three mornings a week on my way to my wonderful exciting uplifting satisfying stimulating job, the fields have been filled with fresh boys playing football. Although I'd not be referring to them as fields filled with fresh boys playing football if I hadn't been listening to the most recent Indigo Girls CD in my car. If I didn't have their song "Something Real" stuck in my head, I'd merely be saying the high schoolers have been practicing football.
It's hot around here in August. Even in the early morning. Although this year has not been as oppressive as usual. But still. Running football drills in full uniform looks exhausting. And hot. When I pass them working so hard, I turn up the air conditioning in my car.
We love football. Love love love love love love LOVE! I've always had a dream about being a football player. Even just for one play. I think I'd like to be a wide receiver making a game winning catch for a touchdown. Or maybe a defensive back with a key quarterback sack. Or how about a safety snagging an interception and running it back for a touchdown? The closest I've ever come to playing football was when The Boy and I used to play together. We'd play catch and simulate games. I would be the announcer and he would be the "star" making the key plays. Good times, good times.
Our fantasy football draft this past Saturday was an interesting experience. In previous years, our league has always just set our draft rosters and let the computer do the work. This year we decided a live in-person draft would be fun.
Some folks brought snacks to share. Snacks make everything more fun, don't they? I'm so freaking simple. MariSusan and Paul always make the coolest snacks, creations to suit the occasion. For the draft, they made rice crispy treats in the shape of footballs. Miniature footballs, of course. With laces of icing. (My favorite of all MariSusan and Paul themed snacks was at a holiday party. They brought fudge they had carefully shaped and decorated as replicas of Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo, a character from an hilarious Southpark episode. Too. Much. Fun.)
During the season, we occasionally get together and watch the games. Food is involved in those gatherings too. And beer. And fantasy-score monitoring. And gloating. Or pouting. As the situation merits.
My team this year is named the "Marauders". I used the same name last year. But half-way through last year's season I was compelled by forces outside of my control to change my team's name. Their new name was "Couldn't Suck More". I hope the Marauders fare a bit better this season.
It's hot around here in August. Even in the early morning. Although this year has not been as oppressive as usual. But still. Running football drills in full uniform looks exhausting. And hot. When I pass them working so hard, I turn up the air conditioning in my car.
We love football. Love love love love love love LOVE! I've always had a dream about being a football player. Even just for one play. I think I'd like to be a wide receiver making a game winning catch for a touchdown. Or maybe a defensive back with a key quarterback sack. Or how about a safety snagging an interception and running it back for a touchdown? The closest I've ever come to playing football was when The Boy and I used to play together. We'd play catch and simulate games. I would be the announcer and he would be the "star" making the key plays. Good times, good times.
Our fantasy football draft this past Saturday was an interesting experience. In previous years, our league has always just set our draft rosters and let the computer do the work. This year we decided a live in-person draft would be fun.
Some folks brought snacks to share. Snacks make everything more fun, don't they? I'm so freaking simple. MariSusan and Paul always make the coolest snacks, creations to suit the occasion. For the draft, they made rice crispy treats in the shape of footballs. Miniature footballs, of course. With laces of icing. (My favorite of all MariSusan and Paul themed snacks was at a holiday party. They brought fudge they had carefully shaped and decorated as replicas of Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo, a character from an hilarious Southpark episode. Too. Much. Fun.)
During the season, we occasionally get together and watch the games. Food is involved in those gatherings too. And beer. And fantasy-score monitoring. And gloating. Or pouting. As the situation merits.
My team this year is named the "Marauders". I used the same name last year. But half-way through last year's season I was compelled by forces outside of my control to change my team's name. Their new name was "Couldn't Suck More". I hope the Marauders fare a bit better this season.
September 2, 2004
Letting Go
Last year dropping The Boy off at college was a completely different experience than this year. Not different better or different worse. Just different.
Last year, since it was his first year, we all had a day of orientation. I remember being excited and highly interested in being oriented, but the only part of it I clearly remember now is The Reading of the Letters.
Oh? There was reading involved? Why yes there was! We, the parents, were read to. By our student's advisor. Individually, yet in a group: The Reading of the Letters. Parents, I must say you should consider yourself extraordinarily fortunate if, when you attend your child's college orientation, you, too, are regaled with The Reading of the Letters.
A portion of the orientation activity was conducted with the parents separated from their student. The students went one way as the parents were led in a different direction for different activities. As mentioned previously, I don't recall any of those activities in great detail with the exception of the one I'm writing about. (And I was paying attention. Really.) The last activity before we were reunited with our children had us gathered in a classroom, sitting in desks all facing front. In walked The Advisor. Who began a very thoughtful lecture on the process of Letting Your Children Go.
We parents nervously punctuated his lecture with laughs in appropriate places. We guiltily looked down at our hands when he hit on something we knew we had done even though we knew when we were doing it we shouldn't. I wasn't the only one sweating over the enormity of what we were about to do and what could happen if we hadn't done it right when we started doing whatever we had been doing that brought us to this place to begin with. The business of raising a child is fraught with peril. Overall, it was an emotion-invoking lecture. I really wanted to reach over and hold Wendy's hand, but couldn't bring myself to do it.
It was what I considered a typical group of parents, varied ages although not particularly racially diverse. Outside of Wendy and me, the parents who were paired were paired off heterosexually. And as a lesbian couple in a primarily heterosexual world, sometimes it is just better not to draw attention to ourselves by holding hands or such in public. (I hope you heteros appreciate the freedom you have. Some days I'm brave enough to grab my own bit of freedom and embrace it fully. But on that particular day at that particular time, I just wasn't. The day was hard enough already.)
Anyway, back to The Reading of the Letters. The Advisor, as he lectured, held a bunch of papers in his hand. There was a brief question and answer period. Most of the questions came from parents of athletes. Wendy and I didn't ask any questions. Then he announced, as he held out the papers, that what he was holding in his hand were letters from our students. Advice from our children. Advice on how to let them go.
Then came the twist. The Advisor was just going to read them aloud without saying who wrote them. We parents were supposed to figure out which letter was written by our student. He started reading. And what I thought had been an emotional day so far became even more so. The touching tribute written by a daughter to the father who had raised her alone. The humorous list of all the things one fellow was sure his family was going to miss about having him around. Another with specific, very specific, instructions on how to care for the family pet. The obvious amount of love this group of parents had given to their children spoke clearly through these letters.
Sometimes parents would be thinking a particular letter came from their student when in fact it was from another. There were exclamations of "That one is mine! Definitely mine!" when a positive identification was made. The one that began "Dear Old Folks" garnered mild gasps of dismay as folks glanced sideways at one couple who were obviously older than the rest of us. Wendy and I didn't gasp. Because we knew that was the one from The Boy. And that's when I did grab Wendy's hand. It was involuntary and just had to be. So it was.
By the time all the letters were read and claimed, there was not a dry eye in the house. We all got to keep them. Those letters. That advice. What a prize indeed.
Now how's this for a bizarre random thought? After Wendy and I die, that letter is one of the things The Boy will find among our possessions. Without a doubt. Think he'll remember writing it? Or be surprised to find it?
For hoots: freshman and sophomore Drop Off Day Memorial Snapshots!
He hasn't changed much at all in a year!
Ha! Only as much as we all have.
Last year, since it was his first year, we all had a day of orientation. I remember being excited and highly interested in being oriented, but the only part of it I clearly remember now is The Reading of the Letters.
Oh? There was reading involved? Why yes there was! We, the parents, were read to. By our student's advisor. Individually, yet in a group: The Reading of the Letters. Parents, I must say you should consider yourself extraordinarily fortunate if, when you attend your child's college orientation, you, too, are regaled with The Reading of the Letters.
A portion of the orientation activity was conducted with the parents separated from their student. The students went one way as the parents were led in a different direction for different activities. As mentioned previously, I don't recall any of those activities in great detail with the exception of the one I'm writing about. (And I was paying attention. Really.) The last activity before we were reunited with our children had us gathered in a classroom, sitting in desks all facing front. In walked The Advisor. Who began a very thoughtful lecture on the process of Letting Your Children Go.
We parents nervously punctuated his lecture with laughs in appropriate places. We guiltily looked down at our hands when he hit on something we knew we had done even though we knew when we were doing it we shouldn't. I wasn't the only one sweating over the enormity of what we were about to do and what could happen if we hadn't done it right when we started doing whatever we had been doing that brought us to this place to begin with. The business of raising a child is fraught with peril. Overall, it was an emotion-invoking lecture. I really wanted to reach over and hold Wendy's hand, but couldn't bring myself to do it.
It was what I considered a typical group of parents, varied ages although not particularly racially diverse. Outside of Wendy and me, the parents who were paired were paired off heterosexually. And as a lesbian couple in a primarily heterosexual world, sometimes it is just better not to draw attention to ourselves by holding hands or such in public. (I hope you heteros appreciate the freedom you have. Some days I'm brave enough to grab my own bit of freedom and embrace it fully. But on that particular day at that particular time, I just wasn't. The day was hard enough already.)
Anyway, back to The Reading of the Letters. The Advisor, as he lectured, held a bunch of papers in his hand. There was a brief question and answer period. Most of the questions came from parents of athletes. Wendy and I didn't ask any questions. Then he announced, as he held out the papers, that what he was holding in his hand were letters from our students. Advice from our children. Advice on how to let them go.
Then came the twist. The Advisor was just going to read them aloud without saying who wrote them. We parents were supposed to figure out which letter was written by our student. He started reading. And what I thought had been an emotional day so far became even more so. The touching tribute written by a daughter to the father who had raised her alone. The humorous list of all the things one fellow was sure his family was going to miss about having him around. Another with specific, very specific, instructions on how to care for the family pet. The obvious amount of love this group of parents had given to their children spoke clearly through these letters.
Sometimes parents would be thinking a particular letter came from their student when in fact it was from another. There were exclamations of "That one is mine! Definitely mine!" when a positive identification was made. The one that began "Dear Old Folks" garnered mild gasps of dismay as folks glanced sideways at one couple who were obviously older than the rest of us. Wendy and I didn't gasp. Because we knew that was the one from The Boy. And that's when I did grab Wendy's hand. It was involuntary and just had to be. So it was.
By the time all the letters were read and claimed, there was not a dry eye in the house. We all got to keep them. Those letters. That advice. What a prize indeed.
Now how's this for a bizarre random thought? After Wendy and I die, that letter is one of the things The Boy will find among our possessions. Without a doubt. Think he'll remember writing it? Or be surprised to find it?
For hoots: freshman and sophomore Drop Off Day Memorial Snapshots!
He hasn't changed much at all in a year!
Ha! Only as much as we all have.
September 1, 2004
Tidbits
I have, for the sake of my ever-so-delicate mental health, studiously avoided listening to, reading about, or being exposed in any way shape or form to current events in NYC. This has not been easy. However, my best avoidance techniques netted me a few tidbits to share.
This one is here exclusively for the "cringe" factor. Man's best friend? Egad!
Boo fucking hoo. I'll play my tiniest of violins for you, you bastard. You made your bed, now lie down and shut the hell up. Prick. (Yes yes, I know. While I usually try to exhibit some level of compassion even for the most heinous of people, this guy terrorized our region for months. Please, perhaps one of you can offer compassion in my stead? Thank you in advance.)
Keep your eyes open when shopping at the mall. This fellow and his lady friend may be riding the escalator with you. The witnesses were alarmed. Imagine.
Ah, the symphony of the city! Our neighbors are quiet. Very very quiet. We love the suburbs.
This one is here exclusively for the "cringe" factor. Man's best friend? Egad!
Boo fucking hoo. I'll play my tiniest of violins for you, you bastard. You made your bed, now lie down and shut the hell up. Prick. (Yes yes, I know. While I usually try to exhibit some level of compassion even for the most heinous of people, this guy terrorized our region for months. Please, perhaps one of you can offer compassion in my stead? Thank you in advance.)
Keep your eyes open when shopping at the mall. This fellow and his lady friend may be riding the escalator with you. The witnesses were alarmed. Imagine.
Ah, the symphony of the city! Our neighbors are quiet. Very very quiet. We love the suburbs.
I Don't Get It...
26 ounces of regular iodized Salt: $0.49
11 ounces of Salt Substitute: $4.99
I ask you.
What's up with that?
11 ounces of Salt Substitute: $4.99
I ask you.
What's up with that?
Link Etiquette
I was having some thoughts about links. Not sausage links. Internet links. Specifically blogroll links. Is there such a thing as link etiquette? Or do things work the way I think they work, which is "anything goes"?
There are several blogs I have on my blogroll that also link back to this site via their own blogrolls. Some list this site as I have entitled it: Suburban Lesbian. Others modify the title so it reads differently on their blogroll. In one instance, I understand why the name has been changed, as in The Original Suzanne. That one is easy. I've changed the name of her blog on my blogroll also (but that is also because I don't understand the name she has given her blog... I keep meaning to ask what it means but never remember to do so).
It's the others that confuse me. Why would anyone feel the need to change the title of my blog? Is the word "lesbian" hard for some people to use on their own website? Is it that they don't want to be associated with anything gay? Or do they think that merely displaying the word "lesbian" may lead people to believe the site displaying the word has a gay author or theme? Or do they feel "lesbian" in general is too controversial? Or they don't want to have their own readers think they are associated with anything "lesbian"? Or have they modified my blog name on their blogroll for reasons unrelated to the word "lesbian", leaving me to overthink and overanalyze something that is really nothing? And are there people who visit here regularly and keep a blogroll but omit this site from it because it has "lesbian" in the title? Or do they omit it because, while they may visit regularly, it's not something they wish to share with others?
I'm thinking far too much about a subject that really doesn't deserve such deep thought. This is nothing new.
There are several blogs I have on my blogroll that also link back to this site via their own blogrolls. Some list this site as I have entitled it: Suburban Lesbian. Others modify the title so it reads differently on their blogroll. In one instance, I understand why the name has been changed, as in The Original Suzanne. That one is easy. I've changed the name of her blog on my blogroll also (but that is also because I don't understand the name she has given her blog... I keep meaning to ask what it means but never remember to do so).
It's the others that confuse me. Why would anyone feel the need to change the title of my blog? Is the word "lesbian" hard for some people to use on their own website? Is it that they don't want to be associated with anything gay? Or do they think that merely displaying the word "lesbian" may lead people to believe the site displaying the word has a gay author or theme? Or do they feel "lesbian" in general is too controversial? Or they don't want to have their own readers think they are associated with anything "lesbian"? Or have they modified my blog name on their blogroll for reasons unrelated to the word "lesbian", leaving me to overthink and overanalyze something that is really nothing? And are there people who visit here regularly and keep a blogroll but omit this site from it because it has "lesbian" in the title? Or do they omit it because, while they may visit regularly, it's not something they wish to share with others?
I'm thinking far too much about a subject that really doesn't deserve such deep thought. This is nothing new.
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