It was only a dream...

And so it goes.

2011-01-01T22:24:00.003-06:00

I'm not terribly proud of my behavior lately. It's as if everything has just been too hard, and I haven't been able to keep my head up. I've spent the last week in my apartment, hiding from the world. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to do anything. I don't want to go anywhere. I just...don't want to engage.

Generally speaking, if you give me a crisis, I can deal with it. Anything you want to throw at me. I'm up to the challenge. I'll take charge, find a way to get everyone through it, and do it with a determination that borders on fanatical.

One challenge. I'm golden.

But when there are multiple fronts on which I need to fight, I break down. I can't focus. I bleed energy like a gunshot victim. I start to close in on myself, and withdraw from everything. Instead of fighting the good fight, I collapse into a quivering mess.

The gnawing worry for over a year has been trying to sell my house. There is nothing I can do to make it move, and so I have tried not to let it bother me. It's there, though. Every time I walk into this apartment, every time Alec and I go to sleep in the same bedroom, every time I make a second monthly payment, every time I look for something and remember that it's packed in a box out in Cary, it's there. I stomp it down. I tell it to be quiet. I tell it that I will win eventually.

Then came the cyst. At first, it didn't seem like such a big deal...have surgery, get it removed. But every day it grows, and every day it pushes against parts of my insides that aren't used to being pushed. It hurts when I sit, it hurts when I stand. It hurts when I lay on my back. It hurts when....well, it always hurts. I have not had a day without pain in almost a month. This is harder to ignore than the housing issue, because it's always screaming for attention. I swear I have tried to ignore it. But it scares me. I'm afraid that surgery will not be as easy as I hope. I'm afraid that maybe there's something else going on that I don't know about that is causing all of the pain. Again, there is nothing I can do but wait. And try not to be afraid.

I am burned out at work. This I can deal with, because it's such a necessary evil. But it doesn't bring the challenge it used to. It's not something that I can say, "Well, at least I have a great job!" It's just a dull ache.

All of this was enough. I was managing. I was hanging in there, and doing okay as long as I reminded myself to be happy with all of the anticipated fruits of the last few years' labor. I was hanging in there.

And then I was slowly, messily dumped. I hadn't really realized how much I'd been relying on this man's smile to get me through. He was safe. He was constant. He made me happy every time we were together. It had been so long since I'd let my guard down and just enjoyed someone's company that I failed to see the danger that lay within. And all of a sudden, without warning, he panicked. Out of nowhere came, "I don't know what I want." That gradually turned into, "I need some time". Then came the death knell of, "you deserve better".

And again, there is nothing I can do about it.

Throw in the agony of Christmas, Alec being gone to his dad's for a week and a half, and then compound it with the stomach flu.

I am worthless right now. I don't know where to turn. I can't think.

I'm not answering the phone. I'm not going out. I've cried every day.

It hurts to breathe.

I wish someone could come in and make it all better, but I know how foolish of a wish that really is.

Things will get better. Until then, though, I just want to cry a little more.

Vignette

2010-10-24T14:57:00.006-05:00

We're getting to be regulars at Al's Diner on weekend mornings. "Our usual counter seats?" he asked as we walked in. He was still holding the dog leashes in his hand. I smiled as I took them and put them in my purse.

"Of course," I said. We made our way around to the counter, where the same old waitress with the gravelly voice took our order. I asked for a cup of coffee and complained that he needed to stop feeding me so much. "Eating out for breakfast all the time is a terrible habit to get into, you know." He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "No, it's not! What are you talking about? It's a great habit!"

I stopped to think for a moment. Come to think of it, it really is pretty cool.

I fiddled with my coffee, and asked the question I'd been contemplating for the last few minutes. "So, a while back you mentioned that you had a feeling this was going to be a year of big change in your life. Any thoughts on how that's going to play out?"

He thought for a moment. "Well, maybe the change has already happened."

I glanced at him."How so?"

Sometimes I'm still caught off guard by the fact that he always uses such an offhand, matter-of-fact tone of voice when saying things that make my heart stop.

"You know, before I met you, I wasn't very happy. I was turning into an old curmudgeon. But now, it's like I'm a different person. I'm enjoying everything so much more. I love what I do. I love playing my horn, and I'm just a whole lot happier in general. As a matter of fact, I'm happier now than I've been in ten years."

I set the coffee cup down, turned to him, and kissed him on the cheek.

"That's a good thing," I said quietly.

"Isn't it, though?" He grinned.

In that moment, I realized that there was nothing that could make me any happier, and nothing else needed to be said...so I just drank my coffee and smiled.

I'm not sure, but I think that's the way it's supposed to be.

2010-06-09T14:37:00.003-05:00

I've started this post so many times, I should already have a novel.

This time, I'm just going to write. It will have to sort itself out in the end.

I've been so careful in relationships for so long, I had almost forgotten just how much fun it is to jump in with both feet and let the current take me where I need to go. I've let myself worry about the end from the very beginning, and I've kept a part of myself in reserve, afraid of what would happen if I didn't keep distance and perspective. Not wanting to lose myself, I've refused to allow myself the freedom to dream.

That may possibly be changing.

I've met someone who has unknowingly given me permission to feel free again. He makes my heart smile, and my crunchy exterior crack. His simple, straightforward approach to me is refreshing, honest, and endearing. He makes me laugh, and he makes me want to give of myself.

I'm not hesitating. I'm not worrying about the circumstances (which are unique and a bit of a challenge, but not unreasonable or impossible). I'm opening, and feeling.........well........sweet :)

Perhaps it will not work. Perhaps he will move on to something else. Perhaps he is not for me. But until I have reason to believe otherwise, I'm going to believe that there is a possibility for great things.

If nothing else, this is beautiful just because of that.

Rules to Live By

2010-06-09T14:08:00.008-05:00

Listen to your head, then follow your heart.

Take the risk! You won't regret it.

Believe in the power of naps.

Hope for more than you expect.

Be silly with children.

Forgive yourself.

Have an occasional glass of wine in the dark.

Make wishes.

Watch fireflies.

Stop worrying!

Indulge in things you shouldn't.

Focus on the bigger picture.

Allow yourself a cookie.

Love your grandparents.

Never waste whipped cream.

If it's worth doing, do it passionately! Otherwise, don't do it at all.

Stay up too late talking.

Walk in the rain.

Use big words whenever possible.

Allow yourself to giggle.

Smile more.

Invest in the perfect bed pillow.

Trust your friends.

Splurge!

Sing in the shower. And in the car.

Love your mother.

Feel pretty. Or handsome. Whichever fits.

Let it go.

Laugh often.

Trust yourself.

Listen to birds.

Raise your face to the sun, close your eyes, put your arms out, and sigh happily.

Pet dogs enthusiastically.

Tell people how you feel.

Wear good shoes.

Listen carefully. But be selective in what you believe.

Love your life.

Love the world.

Love yourself.

Dream.

Looking back

2010-05-27T12:17:00.002-05:00

I was reading through old blog entries this morning, and wondering why so many of them were so very angsty. I also wondered why I have written so little over the last couple of years.

The truth, I think, is that I was never as dark as my blog would make you believe. It was just that there were moments when I needed to sort out the things that would fly through my head at speeds too quick to catch. I was learning to think smarter. I was identifying the tough moments (that everyone has, to be honest), and finding a way to exorcise them. I was evolving into someone with perspective.

Since I started writing, I've learned a lot about myself. I've learned that a lot of the drama that happens in your head is normal, and finding a healthy, private method of expressing it is good. You can't bottle up experiences like illness, death, breakups, or financial sector meltdowns. You also can't let them rule your life. You can talk about them, write about them, work through them...whatever it takes to move on from them. But you have to move on, and you have to let them go. Writing did that for me for a long time.

So why don't I write much now?

Because I don't have to.

Maybe I'll write some things that I want to. I have a few things wiggling around in my head at the moment that could use a good examination, but nothing that is battling to get out. I feel clean, and I feel healthy. I feel happy.

I was told this morning that I am someone who 'gets it', and almost laughed out loud at the concept. Not because it's not true, but because I never really imagined I'd make it this far.
I am still kinda goofy, but only in a way that makes me smile.

Thank you, blog, for providing years of free therapy. I <3 U.

A work in progress

2010-02-03T21:25:00.005-06:00

A is at his dad's house tonight, and I have the house to myself. It is quiet, and there is nothing that has to be done before I go to bed.

It is amazing how just one evening of nothingness can recharge my soul.

I've been starting to burn out again, and I don't like it one bit. Why is it that I always have to push myself until I can't take anymore before I remember how to focus and put everything back in perspective? It's a vicious cycle that I need to break. I like the calm me. I enjoy the girl who takes things in stride and remembers to laugh every day. I want to spend more time with the quieter, more centered person who enjoys the small, beautiful things in life.

I know that a lot the problems right now stem from the bleakness of winter. The cold, dark days do nothing for me. The smell of grass, the warmth of rain, and the evenings filled with bird song and fireflies sustain me in subtle ways. I miss green. I long for lilacs. I pray for spring.

Bad things happen. Work takes over your mind, and people make you crazy. Errands pile up, and money becomes scarce. The house gets messy. Friends die.

How does one persevere and learn not to let these things take over? How do you maintain a sense of peace when all of those things drop into your lap when you're not looking?

I've gotten better over the years, God knows. Moments like tonight are more frequent than they used to be. I only wish I could find a way to stay in this place more often than not.

I guess all I can do is keep trying. I owe that to the girl who makes me smile...

Not hard to find, but nearly impossible to hold for long

2010-01-26T19:38:00.005-06:00

Last night, I dreamed of the forest. Clear streams winding through ancient trees, with happy children laughing on the banks. My uncle Chester fished in the shallows as I looked on smiling. I was wishing that I could have allowed my son to spend his entire childhood there, oblivious to the troubles of civilized life.

I awoke to the sound of my alarm clock, well-rested. I'd slept through the night without awakening for the first time in weeks, and the vaguely frenetic fog that tends to follow me when I'm tired had lifted. I knew that I had too many things to focus on today, and that I wouldn't be any less frantic today than yesterday. But I could think clearly. I could start my day with a quiet mind. And I was grateful.

My life is a good one. I am fortunate in ways I can't even begin to count. But sometimes, it takes a simple, delicate moment - like waking up from a peaceful dream - to put all of the peripheral noise in perspective so that I can be appropriately grateful.

Perspective. It's like the sound of laughter in the wind, sometimes.

It's that time again...

2010-01-24T14:49:00.003-06:00

I do believe it's time for another edition of What Have we Learned?

Life happens every day, whether or not you're watching. Death ensures that you watch.
Cute shoes and handbags are worth it, every time.
Be grateful if your thirteen year-old has little interest in Facebook. Also, be warned if you log into his account when he's not home - seeing nineteen friend invitations from girls who look twenty can be quite disconcerting.
Salsa dancing is way super fun, even if you are convinced that you're the most uncoordinated person on the planet. Sometimes you can surprise yourself if you are encouraged to push beyond your comfort zone.
If someone invents nail polish that dries completely in ten minutes or less, they can become the richest person in the world. I will personally see to it that this happens.
Thirty-something is a lot less angsty than twenty-something. That still doesn't make forty-something sound any more appealing.
It's important to visit your grandpa. Excuses will only sound lame later.
I am fun, damn it.
Hot Single Guy Night at the Grocery Store does not exist at Super Wal-Mart.
I still can't shop at Aldi. Sorry.
It's important to have Hope for the Flowers.
Sometimes you need to try harder. Other times, you need to not try so hard. Figuring out which situation is which is the hard part.
Keep moving forward. Sometimes, that means leaving people behind. Other times, it means carrying them with you. And every now and then, it means letting yourself be carried.
My generally quiet life is very good for me.
Charlie the Unicorn will always be funny, and Starfish will always love you.
Yes, I have Europe's "The Final Countdown" on vinyl. Yes, I realize this makes me old. But it also makes me awesome.
A has been waiting his entire life to be told, "I am not at liberty to divulge that information," by a government employee. You never know what sort of odd little dreams your kids may have.
Spring will always come back eventually.
Men are a lot more fun to have around when you've figured out that you don't really need them to be happy.
Patience really is a virtue.

Make it stop.

2010-01-19T18:59:00.003-06:00

A friend of mine from work committed suicide Saturday night.

He drove his car into a canal in Lemont.

How do we know it was suicide?

"Churulo said tracks found through the snow and mud indicated the man attempted at least two or three times to drive over a hill into the canal because his vehicle most likely became stuck before forwarding and reversing multiple times."

Also, a client of mine passed away last week.

Also also, P's mother passed away last week.

Spend time with the people you love.

I think I'm going to go visit my grandpa.

Death

2010-01-03T12:15:00.003-06:00

I learned today that M has been diagnosed with ALS.

I am so angry that I could scream.

When my friend E died in October, it hurt on a level I'd never experienced. Sitting in the ICU, holding his wife's hand, and watching the nurses with hushed voices go about their business, there was a sense of desolation. Eighteen months of fighting leukemia seemed deserving of a more dignified end. Knowing that his family and friends had been with him every step of the way was small consolation, I thought at the time. The unfairness of death seemed to outweigh everything else. We had done everything we could, and it still was not enough.

But I took care of things. I made the phone calls that his wife could not make. I made funeral arrangements, and I made food. I picked relatives up at the airport, and I helped clean up his things. I stayed busy. I was useful. I fought the sense of helplessness by doing something - anything - to make things easier. I was okay because I was making a difference, no matter how small it was.

Now this.

I instantly realized that M's situation will be dramatically different. ALS has no cure, so the only hope is to slow its progress. I don't know how long it will take. I don't know how it will end; he may choose to end it himself before the disease becomes unbearable. I don't know what he's thinking, and I don't know how he will manage.

What I do know is that he will do as much of this alone as possible. He will not let me help, and he will not rely on family or friends except when absolutely necessary. He believes that accepting support is a weakness, and that asking for help is unforgivable. He will insist on preserving what he sees as his own dignity.

This is his prerogative, of course. But I hate it.

I hate it so much that I could throw up just thinking about it.

I know that we never could have made our relationship work forever. I realize that despite how much we've always cared for each other, our differences were too great to allow any permanence. I made peace with that long ago, and I won't kid either of us by pretending otherwise.

But it hurts desperately. I now realize how fortunate E was to have the people he loved at his side through everything, and how important it was to not have to fight alone. I see his family take solace in the fact that they did everything they could for him, and find some semblance of peace in the connection they felt with him as the end neared. I see the difference it made.

M will never allow himself to rely on me. He will begrudgingly accept some level of help from his sons, but most of the basic needs, I expect, will be met by strangers. Financial compensation is much easier to dole out than thanks, no?

I grieve already. I am horrified by the thought of him slowly dying alone. I can't comprehend the level of misery he will experience, or how it will be compounded by his stubborn refusal to let people love him. It screams of wrongness, and it rages at my sensibilities.

Maybe it makes me so angry because I know that I am so much like him, if on a much more subdued scale. Or because there are so few people in my life that I would be willing to ask for help if I desperately needed it, and I can't bear to lose one of them. Or because there are so many opportunities that have been lost.

I will say, though, that the saddest part of all is that I don't think the ALS will kill him. I think his pride will take him first.

And that is something I can not reconcile.

Perspective

2010-01-02T21:19:00.003-06:00

Strength, by itself, is overrated. We all admire the person who survives a tragedy, or overcomes an obstacle. The problem is that human nature demands such of us. Often, we have no choice but to do what needs to be done when the situation arises. Adrenaline and instinct are more responsible for our success than we are.

More admirable is stamina - choosing to fight the unsung battles, the quiet wars that are waged beneath the surface. Perseverance is a recognition that sometimes, there is no victory, but only an ephemeral prevention of defeat. It is choosing to push forward when no one is watching, and consciously refusing to allow hopelessness to gain a foothold.

At night, when all but the mind is quiet, it is that stamina, that resilience, that brings peace. It is its own courage. It is the knowledge that tomorrow, there will be more hope.

Strength is only an attribute when it is ingrained in character. Alone, it is a fluke - a moment that passes as quickly as any other, and might perhaps be captured and framed for future melancholy reminiscence.

Strength of character, though, requires a bravery that burns like a pilot light in the soul. While the body sleeps, time creeps past, and the world's attention wanders, its glows quietly, creating its own company.

Today, I choose to persevere.

Tomorrow?

I'll need to make a choice again.

Home, sweet...

2009-12-28T18:24:00.005-06:00

I've been thinking a lot about the concept of home lately. Since I'm planning to sell my house and relocate into the city within the next year, it's something that quietly nags at the back of my mind from time to time. By the time I leave, I will have been in this house longer than any other; all of my life, I've been on the move. The last seven years have been a respite. So much has changed in that time, but this place has been a constant. I've done so much work to make it mine that it feels like an extension of self - my own shell, in which I feel safe and protected. It's a bit unnerving to think of leaving.

So what, I ask myself, makes a home? Everyone has their own definition, and each is meaningful. It always seems to have its own feeling, though. Something can smell like home, or sound like home. It can look homey, and it can invoke memories of home. But it always feels the same.

For many years, I thought of my grandparents' house as the closest thing I had to a home. We'd moved so often when I was younger that a lot of the places we lived just felt like houses after a while. My grandparents' house, though, was different. It smelled of Rose Milk hand lotion and fruit flavored Certs candies. The flocked wallpaper along the staircase never changed, and the faux black-bearskin bedspread in the bedroom where I slept always felt softer than green grass in the springtime. The chimes of the antique clock, the mystery of the laundry chute (from which Santa's voice would magically boom as Christmas approached), and the closet shelf filled with playing cards, dominoes, and a plastic bowling set were all so much a part of that sense of peace. I simply knew that at Grandma and Grandpa's house, there was happiness.

It's been a long time now since my grandma passed away. Nine years, which have been long and painful for my grandpa. The house is sad now, and he struggles a bit more every day to make it feel like more than a house. I still feel loved the moment I walk in the door, though. The memories are still there.

So again, I look at this house, which I have made into a new home. The bookshelves in the living room are packed with poetry and pictures, and the kitchen smells of cookies and spices. The clutter of A's childhood fills corners which are lit with sunlight filtered through wooden shutters. My big warm bed welcomes me in every night. Here, we have memories of our own, of good times and bad. We have laughed here, and we have cried. We have loved, and we have lost. We have done what needed to be done, and reaped the rewards of our efforts.

Finally, after so many years of searching for a home of my own, I now realize that it's not something you find - it is something you make. This house, in which we have lived for so many years, has been the first place that I've felt strong enough to pull together all of the pieces of my life and build something beautiful of them.

I have built a home.

And I can take it with me now, no matter where I go.

Bad Girl. No Donut.

2009-12-28T09:32:00.003-06:00

It's been so long since I've written that I'm almost afraid to start again. Time passes, life happens, and we settle into the grooves of existence. Writing seems less important - the need to create shape from thought becomes more of a curiosity, and all of those little moments that seem so poignant at the time just slip off into oblivion before they can be captured.

I want to write again. Not for you, my friend - for myself. It's amazing how much I enjoy reliving those moments that have been so neatly filed away in past entries. Having a record of the past ups and downs helps maintain perspective on the present, and...well, it just makes me smile.

I like smiling. Let's see if I can get this going again.

It's all good...

2009-07-21T21:35:00.004-05:00

It was getting late as I sat outside on the patio. Finishing my second glass of wine, I closed my eyes and listened to the last of the birds wishing each other good night. The fireflies were out, blinking across the back yard. Everything was peaceful.

Catching up after vacation has been a challenge, and I'd stopped for dinner with friends after work. The quiet moment was blissfully sweet, and much needed. Inside the back door, the cat meowed quietly. I'm watching him while M & A are out of town, and I knew he wished he could come sit with me and feel the breeze in his face. I quieted him with a gentle word, and looked up at the darkening sky.

A single drop of rain fell upon my cheek. I smiled and took another sip of wine.

Gradually, the rain began to fall in earnest. I turned my face upward, and felt the cool drops as they landed. The warmth of the evening made them a welcome gift, and I sat for a long moment simply wishing that life could always be so simple.

Night fell, and the fireflies continued their lazy paths around me, through the falling rain. After a while, I stood to come inside. My wine glass was empty, and the breeze was getting cooler. I lifted the glass to the darkness, and silently thanked mother nature for the brief respite.

Stepping inside, I set my glass on the counter and picked up the cat. He purred happily, and settled in to be petted.

Never forget to take moments for yourself. Life is too beautiful to let it pass you by.

No, tell me what you really think...

2009-07-20T18:46:00.002-05:00

As always, our camping trip was delightful. Hours of sitting by the campfire roasting things, lots of wild blueberries (which made for yummy pancakes over the camp stove in the morning), another canoeing trip I'll never forget (I might have to do a separate entry on that one), and all around total relaxation.

On the way home, we stopped at my parents' house for a barbecue. While we were there, my dad proudly announced that I had to take a look at the great DVD he had made of all of the family pictures. He'd categorized them all by person, and set them to music.

I knew this was going to be like watching slides from someone's cruise to Belize, but I humored him. After all, how bad can it be, right? Besides, I know he spent a lot of time putting it together.

So he popped it in, and selected my photos. They started with my wedding, and went on from there. About thirty seconds into it, I scrunched my brows and looked over at him.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"That music. Is that....'Candle in the Wind'?"

"Good catch! I knew you'd like that song."

Hm. My life, in all of its glory, reduced to Elton John in midi format.

"Let's go to A...." I said after a moment.

I hit the menu button, selected A, and pulled him up.

Again, a few seconds in....

"Dad!"

"What?!"

"'Tears in Heaven'? Really?!"

"What?! It's a great song! Alec loves Eric Clapton!"

I looked at A.

"So let me get this straight...I'm a dead drug addict?"

A piped up, "And I'm the dead son of a drug addict! That's perfect!"

My mother, bless her heart, immediately laughed whiskey and coke out of her nose.

"You guys!" my dad huffed. "You have no appreciation for good music!"

He stomped away. I looked at my mother forlornly, and shrugged.

"Aren't you glad you paid for all of those years of music education?"

My mom, still wiping her drink off of her face, simply said, "It could be worse. Your sister is the 'Dancing Queen'".

Get Off!!

2009-07-11T20:07:00.002-05:00

It was supposed to be easy.

Don't all tragedies start that way?

But it really, really was. Supposed to be easy, that is. All I wanted to do was pick up some of those new little Off Clip-On Insect Repellent thingies. We're spending four days in the woods. How nice would it be, I thought, to not have to smell like bug spray the whole time? I could just grab us a few of those, and see how they work.

That was two weeks ago. I stopped at Target to grab them on my way home one night, but they were out. Huh, I mused. Must be popular.

The next day at work, I mentioned off-hand to one of my friends that I was relatively eager to try these magical mosquito stoppers. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "My mom is in Florida, and she just picked up a few of those! She said they're amazing!"

Hmph.

Now I really had to get them.

I tried another Target. No luck. I asked the tired-looking old lady with the red shirt and the blue eyeshadow. "Good luck," she groused. "They're flying off the shelves!"

Then I ran to the local Jewel/Osco. They claimed not to have seen any in over a week.

What is there, a conspiracy? How good can these things possibly be?! I mean, really.

Really.

Something told me they were that good. Or more specifically, someone. The teenaged twit at Walgreens this evening, to be more specific. "Oh, man. I wish I'd gotten those while they were here! We can't keep them on the shelves. They're awesome!"

At this point, I gave A a knowing look. He nodded. We were on a mission.

Two more Walgreens and a CVS later, we were still at a loss. Ace hardware, Home Depot. No luck.

I was demoralized. "Maybe.....maybe we should just pick up some Deep Woods Off and be done with it," I sighed.

"No! We can't give up now!" A was vehement. "We're not going home until we find them!"

Pulling out of the parking lot, some cocksucker in a vette cut me off.

"Get out of my way, you stupid cocksucker..." I sneered.

"Mom." A was getting to be a problem.

"What?" I snapped.

"Mouth."

I turned around and gave him the Billy Idol snarl. "Drop it. I'm just calling it as I see it."

A sighed.

Sports Authority, K-Mart. At Menards, they told us that even Johnson & Johnson was out of them. Nobody had them anywhere. We had no chance.

"Hey, how about Wal-Mart?" A asked.

I considered for a moment. If anybody would have them, it would be Wal-Mart, right?

"Okay. But if they don't have any, I'm going home. I'm tired, my feet hurt, and I still have a lot to do tonight before we leave. We've been out shopping for these stupid things for an hour and a half! This is ridiculous!"

Just then, another dickhead cut me off.

"You're a dickhead!" I screamed.

"Mom!"

"Shut up! I ought to run him off the road!"

"That depends. Does he have any Off clip-ons in there?"

I laughed. I hate it when he makes me laugh when I'm really mad. It takes all of the wind out of my belligerent little sails.

So we went to Wal-Mart. In the corner of the store, over by lawn & garden, where they keep the insect repellent, there was....

...an empty shelf where the Off clip-ons used to be.

What? You expected a happy ending?!

I picked up a bottle of Deep Woods Off, two bags of ice, and stomped to the register. A looked at me, smiled a beatific smile, and cooed, "You're so pretty when you're angry!"

I didn't kick him in Wal-Mart, I swear. Neither did I tell him to bite me. Because at that point, I knew I was beaten.

On the way home, I was cut off yet again. From the back seat, under his breath, I heard A mutter, "You stupid jerk."

Maybe I won't feed him to the mosquitoes after all.

We're leaving in the morning for our annual camping trip. Catch you when we get back :)

Yeah, it's like that.

2009-07-04T12:54:00.003-05:00

As I was standing outside this afternoon, watering my flowers in the rain with mashed potatoes between my toes, I smiled.

It appears that I've survived the last year (see past wailing and gnashing re: working in the financial sector during this recession), and things are better. For me, at least.

I'm fairly certain that I'm back where I want to be. I may even be stronger than ever.

This makes me happy, like mashed potatoes and rain.

Happy Birthday

2009-06-28T09:58:00.005-05:00

Today is my son's thirteenth birthday.

Does it sound like a cliché if I admit that the time has flown by more quickly than I can fathom?

Yesterday, Mark and I took A and his best friend down to US Cellular Field to see the Crosstown Classic - Cubs vs. Sox in all of their collective glory. Halfway through the fifth inning, the boys wandered off to get something to eat, and after about 15 minutes, I was starting to worry. What if they were lost? What if someone robbed them, beat them, took them? What if....?

Mark laughed at me, and pointed out that we hadn't told them when to be back. "They're two teenage boys at the ballpark. Let them be."

Sure enough, they came back, having eaten a couple of hot dogs and explored half of the park. They were glowing - and enjoying a perfect day.

In my mind, they are still little boys. Look at these faces...

They stand on the verge of changing into men, and yet when I look at them, I still see the innocence of childhood. I remember taking A to the blueberry farm, and watching him set aside his little basket to eat as many blueberries as he could directly off of the bushes. I recall him begging to water the garden, and then spraying the hose into the dining room windows, soaking half the house. I see the worried face of a kid who was terrified of taking the training wheels off of his bike, in case he came across an unexpected hill.

This is the boy who still has the god-awful ugly stuffed bear I gave him as a baby, and was recently delighted when my mother sewed a new nose and mouth onto him - so much so that he took a picture with his cell phone and sent it to me.

This is the boy who used to finger paint in the pool, and make up his own words to songs...making me laugh until I fell over.

(I couldn't embed - grr. Click, and then hit 'play')

My little boy. My baby. Now a teenager.

Every day I love him more, and every day he gets a little closer to independence. Little by little, I'm learning to let him be his own little man, no matter how difficult it is to do so.

Happy birthday, little bug, and thank you for being the joy of my life.

So funny. And yet so wrong. Just the way I like it.

2009-06-26T08:47:00.001-05:00

From Pictures for Sad Children.

Nothing is as sweet...

2009-06-26T08:45:00.001-05:00

...as a hug from a friend who says,

"You feel like home."

I had a wonderful time this past weekend. I'm so very lucky.

Leavin' on a jet plane...

2009-06-19T07:41:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow morning marks the beginning of the Summer of Christine.

I'll be flying out to DC to visit the glorious Ms Whirledpeas, where we will likely eat, drink, and be ridiculous :) I've been desperately looking forward to it for weeks...I so need to get away and relax for a while.

Throughout the summer, we'll have baseball games, camping (yay!), festivals, and maybe even a trip to Vegas. I'm going to have fun this summer if it kills me :)

Have fun while I'm gone. There's beer in the fridge, and chips in the basket. Just remember to leave a light on for me.

Surely, you can't be serious.

2009-06-15T20:04:00.002-05:00

This afternoon, as I sat in my office, minding my own business - working, even - my phone rang.

It was my mother.

She and I had a bit of a tiff last week (Don't get me started on the GM bankruptcy. Please.) and things have been a bit strained. But she was laughing wholeheartedly as she said hello.

Giggling, even.

I knew I was in trouble.

A is at their house visiting, and they went to the beach today. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that she'd figured out a way to eke out some horrible revenge upon my household.

I think the woman hates me. With the passionate heat of a thousand suns.

Between the hysterical gasps, I made out only this - "Here, talk to your son."

The phone fumbled on its way to his ear.

"Mom! Guess what!"

Really, could the anticipation get any worse?

I cringed.

"What, baby?"

"We went to the beach, and I brought home a pet!"

This is the point at which I should remind you how difficult it is to render me speechless.

But...yeah.

"A....a pet? Exactly what sort of pet?" There was a knock on my door. It was unbridled panic, looking for an excuse to come in.

He giggled like a four year-old girl. "It's a clam! I named him Sheldon!"

A clam?

"A clam?"

"Yeah, and he's really cute! He's about the size of a quarter. We made him a tank where he can live."

I was already googling "lifespan of freshwater clams" and starting to sweat. I remembered the gerbil, the mice, and the fish tanks. I thought we'd made it past the 'pain in the ass pet' phase of life. I couldn't believe this was happening.

My mother is a crafty wench, it seems.

"So, um, tell me about this tank. How long do you think he'll live?" I pictured a mason jar filled with murky lake water. No oxygen infusion, ammonia levels through the roof....it'll be gone in a matter of hours, right?

"Oh, mom. It's the coolest thing. Grammy and I went on the internet and learned everything we needed to know. His tank has to be the right pH, so I added a few drops of vinegar to the bottled water. He's a filter feeder - do you know what filter feeders are?"

I frowned. "Yes, I know what filter feeders are."

"Okay, just checking. They eat plankton and stuff! But we didn't have plankton, so we found a website that said yeast and baking soda would do just fine. I fed him right away so he wouldn't get hungry."

I refrained from asking if he would like to add a bit of lemon juice and tabasco, because I'm not all about scarring my child for life (unlike MY mom).

"And we're rigging up a motor, so that I can give him a current!"

Okay, so maybe I can't help but scar him just a little. A tiny giggle escaped.

"A current...? With a motor? Like.....in the water?"

"Mom!"

Then it hit me.

"Sheldon? You named him Sheldon?" I got it. Shell. Don. He's a clam. Oh, wow.

"You're going to love him, mom! He's so adorable!"

"I love you, sweetheart. Let's see how Sheldon does over the next few days, and then we'll talk. Okay?"

"Okay. You're the best, Mom!"

Now please excuse me. I have to go buy my mother a rabid wolverine.

A Story...

2009-06-14T19:05:00.004-05:00

...to be taken in any context you would like.

A diabetic goes to visit the doctor. The doctor tells the diabetic to cut back on the indulgences, to exercise often, and get regular checkups.

The diabetic scoffs, then continues laying on the couch, eating cookies, and neglecting those checkups.

After a while, the diabetic doesn't feel so great. Extremities start turning strange colors, time mysteriously disappears, and the diabetic is eventually rushed to the hospital in a coma.

The doctor shakes his head sadly. Amputation is unavoidable, as is an insulin pump. A life is saved, but at an incredible expense (both physically and monetarily).

How does the story end?

Does the diabetic sue the doctor for taking his limbs? Is the doctor publicly chastised as a butcher who ruined the diabetic's life?

Does the diabetic learn to change unhealthy habits, becoming a more healthy individual, who has learned lessons the hard way?

Is the diabetic found dead in a gutter months later?

We shall see, my friends.

We shall see.

Yet another edition of, "What Have We Learned (or remembered)?"

2009-06-09T18:43:00.003-05:00

Sometimes, it's okay to stop and re-evaluate everything. In fact, it's often a good idea.
If you can't do everything, then just do what you can do well.
Every twelve year-old in the world should be named Sybil.
Breathe.
You must keep your perspective. Without it, everything else falls apart.
You don't owe anyone anything. But giving freely where you can is what it's all about.
Keep breathing.
Hot Single Guy Night at the grocery store has been moved from Sunday to Monday. Please make a note of it.
Home is where you feel at home. This isn't as obvious as it sounds.
I have attachment issues. I can admit this.
You really can hate someone, and love them at the same time. Especially when they are almost thirteen.
Saying, "I don't need anyone" doesn't necessarily make your life a defiantly melancholic Simon & Garfunkel tune.
I don't belong in the suburbs, but living here for a while longer is good for everyone involved.
The auto industry will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever learn.
Ever.
There are some things I will never learn, either.
Breathe more.
Keep evolving. Every day. A step backwards now and then is okay, but never stop pushing forward.
How to catch a polar bear: Cut a hole in the ice. Place peas all around the hole. When the polar bear goes to take a pea, kick him in the ice hole.
Never leave A alone with pizza.
Do what you love. Every day.
Love what you do. Every day.
Just love more.

Happy summer. Keep smiling :)

And now, for something completely different...

2009-04-20T18:47:00.003-05:00

I'm taking a blogging sabbatical.

I'll be back when things get slightly less insane. In the meantime, do a whole lot of stuff I wouldn't do, k?

Have fun storming the castle.

omgwtfbbq

2009-04-18T10:55:00.006-05:00

Call me easily amused, but the bbq cracks me up every time :)

I'm doing something totally out of the ordinary today. I'm having a barbecue. With friends over.

Like, at my house even. Maybe up to ten of them. That's a lot for me.

And I made a lot of food.

Not quite sure what I'm going to do with that many people in my space, but it will probably involve consuming a lot of alcohol. Maybe we'll even break out some cards or games at some point...nobody knows, anything could happen.

It's 70 degrees, sunny, and beautiful outside. My flowers are coming up, the grass is getting green, and I've got a kitchen full of food. A lot of it.

It's a good day to turn 29 again. :) I've done that a lot of times now.

Happy Spring, and feel free to stop by if you're in the area!

Did I mention I have a lot of food?

I keep writing...

2009-03-31T20:30:00.002-05:00

...entries that are really angry.

They're saved as drafts. I'm sparing you....you can thank me later :)

Instead, I'll keep up the funny.

You see, I got my hair cut on Saturday. I walked in, looked at Dina, and said, "I'm SICK of it! Do something. I don't care what. Just something."

She's never steered me wrong before.

As a bit of background, it's been getting harder and harder to keep up the sleek, straight look lately. All of those curls that plagued me when I was younger have decided to start making a comeback, and it had gotten to the point where I was spending 20 minutes on my hair every morning.

We all know that is not something that could ever make me happy.

And it still wouldn't come out straight.

Hence the plea for change.

So she cut my hair. Not terribly much off the length, but she added layers. Lots and lots of layers.

And now, all of a sudden, I have big hair again.

1988 called. It wants its hair back.

This is going to take some getting used to.

Oh, and the worst part?

Stephan, my salon eye-candy boytoy, got fired. No more porn-shampoos for our dear heroine.

Boo.

Okay, maybe I had too much time on my hands tonight.

2009-03-29T19:44:00.001-05:00

Elevator Fail

2009-03-24T18:37:00.003-05:00

The Union Station Parking Garage Elevator Lobby*

*Luckily, only one of the two elevators was working.

Never a Dull Moment.

2009-03-17T17:47:00.003-05:00

Comic relief has been necessary as of late, don't you think? Just in case you haven't had enough, I'll share mine with you. I've been compensating for the times by being really, really funny, just so you know. I'm sure you won't find that terribly surprising....I'm funny, damn it! (at least that's what I keep telling myself)

This morning, as I was driving into South Bend, Indiana, it occurred to me that something smelled really good. As a matter of fact, it smelled downright tasty - like someone was cooking delicious sausage. I looked around to see where the savory aroma could be coming from...and saw it was the hospital. I honked and waved.
Our junior high school does special classes on the trimester - A had Home Ec for the first session, and just finished the second, which was music. The teacher's name was Mr. Schmidt. My understanding is that he's an odd gay man in his late 40's who often used phrases like, "You kids know what frosts my cookies?!" Now that they are out of his class, I'm finding out more than I wanted to know. Like..."I am so glad we don't have to go to that piece of Schmidt's class anymore!" or, "Holy Schmidt, that class sucked." I don't know whether to smack him or give him a high five.
Yesterday was a bad day at work (not a shock) so I came home and drank a lot of rum (slightly more shocking). As I tried to go to bed around 8:30, A came in to my room in a more-chatty-than-normal mood. For some reason, the night's lecture involved my dear old teddy bear, Herman. "You know, Herman is a koala bear," he said. "Technically speaking koalas aren't bears. They are marsupials." I stared blankly at the boy, having heard this speech repeatedly in the past. "You should also know that Herman is obviously not a girl bear, because he has no pouch. All female marsupials have pouches." It was at this point that my rum kicked in. I replied, "Well, yeah. But he doesn't have any boy parts, either. I think he's technically androgenous." A had the nerve to look shocked, and hold Herman up to my face in a piteous way. "Herman, did you hear that? She just called you a he-she!" I started to laugh. First it was a slow giggle, but it built into hysterical sobs as I choked out the words. "I most certainly did not call him a he-she. I called him a Her-man!" A left.
Tonight is the school band concert. A dressed up all nice in his black pants, white button-down shirt, green sweater, black socks, and the dreaded black dress shoes. He just came down the stairs complaining about how his shoes hurt his feet, because the tongue keeps getting stuck. I looked up at him and said, "I Hae whe dat happas!" He stopped, looked at me in a perplexed fashion, frowned, and then got it. He hung his head and headed back upstairs. I suppose I should go get him now so we can leave :)

A Mystery

2009-03-15T18:32:00.004-05:00

The house was quiet this evening. A was in the basement with friends, working on a school project. I was restless.

I found myself turning on every light in the living room, hoping to ward off the threatening dusk. Spring can't come soon enough to take away the chill that still lingers in the corners and creeps under the doors, it seems. My obsessive search for green things poking up in the flower beds remains fruitless, but today's warm afternoon was enough to sprout a semblance of hope.

Still I paced, like a beast too long caged.

After straightening the coasters on the end table, adjusting the lamp shades, and wiping the thin layer of dust from the television screen, I stood staring at the bookshelves for far longer than could be considered rational. Concentration has been difficult lately, and I needed something both simple, but absorbing to hold my attention.

As so often is the case, I found myself standing before the shelf of poetry. Over the years, so many of those books have become old friends. Dog-eared and well loved, a few contain secrets that will never be told. Others followed passing fashions and simply look more impressive than I honestly believe them to be. Each, though, has its place.

I buy poetry when I crave connection. Vivid pictures crafted from perfect metaphors are sometimes the only ways I can find to bridge the gaps between myself and...just about anything, really. People, events, situations - when I struggle to find where I belong in the mix, poetry lends the perspective for which I long.

Tonight, as I stood pondering the row of titles, I debated which would best settle the day's commotion. I flipped through Nikki Giovanni, Margaret Atwood, and Kahlil Gibran. Nothing was jumping out at me. Poe, Williams, Piercy, Benton.

Bah.

But then, tucked between Sandra Cisneros and Mary Oliver, was a thin brown paperback with white letters on the binding too small to read without my glasses. Puzzled, I pulled it out.

I swear to God, I have never seen this book before in my life. I have no idea where it came from, or when it found its way onto my shelf. Exchanging Lives, poems and translations, by Susan Bassnett and Alejandra Pizarnik - the back cover said it cost £7.99, and it looked s if it had never even been opened.

Was it a gift? Did I grab it randomly at a corner bookstore with the forgotten intent to peruse it later?

Where?

When?

I opened to a random page, and read the first passage I saw.

Salta con la camisa en llamas
de estralla a estralla
de sombra en sombre.
Muere de muerte lejana
la que ama al viento.

_______

Leaping with her shirt in flames
from star to star
from shadow to shadow.
Dying a distant death
the woman in love with the wind.

Surely I'd not have set this idly on a shelf without a second thought.

I bent the corner and flipped to a new page.

"Shapes"

I don't know if I'm bird or cage
or murderous hand
a young woman dead amid candles
an amazon panting in the great dark gorge
a silent woman
but who sometimes flows with language
sometimes entertains
or a princess in the highest tower

Another bent corner.

And another.

And another.

It seems that out of mystery, I've made an unexpected new friend.

And spring is coming.

dawn strikes in the flowers
leaving me drunk with nothingness and lilac light
drunk with stillness and with certainty

Maybe tomorrow I'll check the garden again...

What are you passionate about?

2009-03-12T19:32:00.002-05:00

Me? Well....

my son
love
music
diversity, in the fact that we all have our own priorities, and that is a GOOD thing. If we were all worried about the same shit, the world wouldn't really work right, would it?
beauty
humor
character
peace
striving towards perfection wherever possible
giving back
gaining perspective
personal evolution
naps
did I mention love?
maximizing strengths, and minimizing weaknesses
acceptance
grace
knowing when to speak up for what one believes in
knowing when to keep one's mouth shut
humanity
giving kids a fair shot
giving adults a break now and then
not giving anyone too many breaks
occasional solitude
ice cream
friendship

Here's the thing (a somewhat related, but also tangential topic).

Life is too short to spend a lot of time criticizing others. Lead by example. Teach by doing what is right. Change what you can, in a positive manner where possible. Recognize what you can not change, and don't obsess over it.

I will not be cowed into believing that I am stupid or weak because I have values that are different from someone else's, whether it's professional or personal. I will choose not to fight battles that can't be won against people who refuse to consider any picture but their own. Choosing not to fight does not automatically make a person a loser. Unless you thing Gandhi was a puss, in which case you need serious help.

Life is hard enough, don't you think? Be compassionate. Have empathy. (These qualities are very different from pity and weakness)

I'm exhausted, and I'm hurting right now. My bet is that you there, reading this? You are, too. So do what you love. I'll try to do the same.

Doesn't that make the world a tiny bit better, in and of itself?

Maybe...just maybe...

2009-03-11T20:59:00.002-05:00

...people like me who are so easily influenced by their environment shouldn't be allowed to read "The Bell Jar" on the nearly two hour train commute home from a job at a bank during a financial meltdown on a freezing, dreary windy day at the end of a very long winter.

I'm just sayin'.

When Good Purses Go Bad

2009-02-24T19:54:00.005-06:00

Sign on the inside of the door of the bathroom stall at the Ogilvie Transportation Center, Chicago...

As if I didn't have enough to worry about while peeing at the train station. What are they going to do, recruit my shoes to join their gang?

Yeah, so I'm a braggart.

2009-02-19T19:32:00.003-06:00

My kid rocks, just so you know.

The boy, who is currently a mere 12 years old, just scored a 24 on the ACT test. That's in the 77th percentile of graduating seniors in the state of Illinois.

Please let this mean I'm not going to have to pay for very much when it comes to college....

I'm thinking about sending him out on the street in a suit to see if he can get a job. Maybe he can fix the banking system or something.

We got rained on in the rainforest...

2009-02-18T18:33:00.003-06:00

...and I spent three days with my hair in pigtails. Need I say more?

We're home and happy, but I'm too tired to remember everything I wanted to write. In the meantime, I uploaded photos.

Heck, even I'm jealous looking at them.

See you next week...

2009-02-12T20:25:00.002-06:00

...and hopefully I'll be much nicer when I get back :)

Have a great long weekend. Happy Lincoln/Washington/Darwin and all of that to you!

I am the Meanest. Person. Ever.

2009-02-09T18:32:00.003-06:00

And my son will never let me forget it.

When I got home from work tonight, A wasn't feeling well - and I didn't feel like cooking. So we popped over to Boston Market for some comfort food. As we pulled into the parking lot, A started to giggle.

"What?" I asked.

"I'll never forget the last time we were here!" he said.

"Huh?"

He laughed even harder. "YOU remember. The woman...?"

Then I remembered.

She was large. And not just large, but like....Large Marge. And she didn't just have camel toe going on. You could hear the camel screaming in agony from a mile away. Her pants looked as if they could 'splode at any second.

Me - "Wow. She's like The Grinch."

A - "Huh?"

Me - "Her pants. They're two sizes...."

*hysterical laughter*

Me - "You think if we gave her some roast beast, it would take care of the problem?"

A - "I think she already tried that. And, well.....FAIL."

*more laughter*

Me - "I am so burning in hell."

A - "I'll send you care packages of roast beast."

Taking the left at Albuquerque

2009-02-08T18:10:00.010-06:00

For the last month or so, I've often found myself longing for the annual summer camping trip. The peace and quiet, the warmth of the sun, and the complete freedom from the everyday worries are just what I need to bring me back into focus. No phone, no computer, no bills to pay, and no work to do - just the ability to relax and enjoy each moment.

I've also been thinking that this may finally be the year that I take A on the long-awaited trip to Costa Rica - but it's become more and more obvious that right now is not the time for someone in the financial industry to take a $5,000 vacation. Call me crazy, but I figure it's probably best not to spend a ton of money - for all I know, I may not even have a job at this time next year.

So Thursday morning, as I was sitting in my office looking out over the mounds of gray snow that covered the city, I made a realization.

I don't have to go to Costa Rica, but I do have to get away. I need sun. I need warmth. I need a break from the daily suicide watch over our stock price, and I need to stop worrying about what the markets and economy are doing to my psyche (and that of my clients).

I'm not rich by any means, but I have a little bit of money. I can splurge just a little. I can afford....something.

That something is a deal on a Travelocity last minute weekend trip to Puerto Rico. I'm going with P & A, and we're leaving this coming Saturday morning. Three full days and nights in Isla Verde, complete with hammocks on the beach, palm trees, a rain forest tour, and moonlit kayaking through the bioluminescent lagoons.

I will not be bringing my blackberry.

My laptop will be staying home, feeling abandoned.

I will bring my phone, but will only turn it on if I fall into a well and find myself haunted by the ghost of Ponce de Leon.

I am packing two decks of cards, a crossword puzzle book, my camera, and enough sunscreen to prevent A from spontaneously combusting.

I will drink rum.

I will nap on the beach.

I will follow the guys to whatever stupid-ass historical sites they want to visit when I'd rather be drinking rum (hey, I'm a giver.)

I will find a place to sit outside one night and listen to live music under the stars.

I will buy fruit I've never heard of, and wear a very silly straw hat.

I will learn to snorkel, and I will not drown. *

I will swim in a pool beneath a waterfall in the rainforest.

I will get ripped off buying trinkets in the Rio Piedras market.

I will come home sunburned and miserably happy about the fact.

I will fill you in when I get back. **

*hopefully
**I promise

I can not tell a....oh, never mind.

2009-01-29T19:32:00.005-06:00

One fine Christmas morning nearly thirty years ago, my parents bestowed upon me a gift which, in all of its popular glory, would eventually try my patience more than almost any other item known to man.

It was, in fact, a simple Rubik's Cube.

I hated that damn thing. Just like every other eight year-old on the planet, I was convinced that if I tried hard enough, long enough, unfailingly enough, I could figure it out. First, I solved one side. Then I figured out how to get two. After that...

...I was done.

There was no way in hell I could make that stupid cube come together the way it was supposed to. The harder I tried, the more frustrated I became. For God's sake, I was eight years old! Why couldn't I make it work?!

Then it hit me. Maybe, just maybe, if I turned it just so...and then twisted it a little bit here, and nudged it that way a bit.....

Bingo.

The entire thing fell apart into pieces in my hand. All I had to do was make sure no one was looking, and I could reassemble the cube into an orderly slate of perfect colors. No one would ever know.

Unfortunately for me at the time, my family was not composed of idiots. They were immediately skeptical, and demanded I do it again while they watched. Unable to do so, I retreated to my bedroom where - magically - I figured out how to solve it again! I brought it back out to the family room, triumphant. My sister was the first to notice that the mechanics of the cube seemed somehow...looser than before.

"Did you take it apart and put it back together?" She demanded.

"NO!" I insisted. I was belligerent. How could she accuse me of such a thing? Why didn't she believe me? Wasn't I smart enough to solve a Rubik's Cube? What gave her the right to call me a cheater?

I pouted. I stomped. I huffed and puffed, and then went to sulk in my room.

If only I had known that I was a terrible liar, it all would have worked out much differently. The red face, stammering speech, and inability to look people in the eye while making up ridiculous stories was, it turns out, a dead giveaway. Who'd have thunk it?

Anyway, shortly thereafter, I became aware that people could always tell when I was lying. I would never make a decent spy, and I'd have to give up my lifelong dream of being a professional poker player (okay, I made that part up. how did you know?) It turned out that I just wasn't the kind of person who could create a credible fabrication to save my life. I learned my lesson.

There I was, at the ripe old age of nine, with a broken Rubik's cube, the eternal scorn of an older sister, and a healthy sense of respect for puzzles that were smarter than I was.

So my question to you, my friends, is this.

When do I get to be governor?

'Cuz they're made by pequeños Keebleros...

2009-01-27T18:51:00.006-06:00

Ms. peas' blog is so funny it damn near killed me. Is it any wonder why I love this woman?

Now somebody go get me a cookie.

Why you don't argue with a 12 year-old

2009-01-26T20:33:00.005-06:00

A - "Hey, Mom."

Me - "Yeah."

A - "You know what I love about you?"

Me - "What's that?"

A - "You're not retarded."

*copious laughter*

Me - "That's the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day."

A - "That's because they're all retarded."

Me - "You know that's horribly mean to the developmentally challenged population."

A - "You know what I mean. Not real retarded. Just retarded-retarded."

Me - "I know. Just don't talk like that at school, okay?"

A - "Yeah. Because then they'd be like, 'Wow. He's retarded.'"

*more laughter*

Me - "My brain just 'sploded."

A - "My work here is done."

Dream, little girl...dream.

2009-01-22T19:10:00.006-06:00

I have been listening to this album, Ma Fleur, almost constantly lately.

This song haunts me.

This and that...

2009-01-20T13:51:00.002-06:00

Wow, it's been a while. Hard to believe I haven't found the time to write over the last month, but here I am. It's probably time to catch up a bit.

Christmas was much as it always is, with a few exceptions. A and I both ended up with strep throat, which we (luckily) didn't pass on to anyone else. P's birthday coincided with the holidays, and the joke was, "Happy Birthday! You might want to call your doctor and ask for some antibiotics..."

I made it in and out of Michigan in less than 36 hours, which may be a record for me. I was delighted to spend time with my grandpa, took my sister's girls out shopping for 'girl things' (shoes, crafts, and such), and somehow managed to tolerate my brother-in-law's insistence on watching football while we opened presents. The roads were horrendous around the lake and we were both fighting to stay a step ahead of the strep, but we made it home in one piece. Whew.

After the holidays, it was time to start settling in to my new office, which is really quite nice (with the exception of the commute of over an hour and a half each way). I have a 34th floor view of the city, a real door that I can close, and plenty of space to spread out all of my chotchkies (I wasn't sure how to spell that...can you believe the firefox spell-check suggested crotchless? Hmm.) I just have to somehow get used to standing out on the train platform at 6:45 AM in the below-zero weather every morning. That might take me a while.

Also on the work front, it's getting scarier every day to work for a bank. We've been informed that there will be no raises this year, no long-term incentive compensation, and our sales goals have tripled.

Because yeah, everyone is looking to rock the boat in their investment portfolios right now.

Other than that, I've just not felt like writing lately. Between car problems, the mind-numbing cold, some frustrating financial issues, and trying to keep up with the seventeen schedules I have to follow, writing just hasn't been on the priority list. Now the guilt is catching up with me, though, so I'll try to be better.

On a lighter note, A is now playing his guitar in a rock band. It's a program through the local guitar shop where they put a bunch of kids together for rehearsals twice a week for twelve weeks, then throw them up on stage at a local bar (closed and alcohol-free for the event) for everyone to go see. His best friend is playing in the band with him, and they're having an absolute riot. I can't wait for the concert.

Also, P and I are doing well. He continues to make me smile. And have I mentioned that he's hot?

Just checking.

If you haven't heard from me and feel you should have, just call me. If I don't call you back, send a messenger with poisoned darts. That will get my attention, most likely. If you know me at all, though, you know that I tend to hibernate in the winter, and I don't get out much. This doesn't mean I don't love you...it just means I am very busy getting mentally poised for spring.

More soon...

I can quit any time I want...

2008-12-16T20:48:00.002-06:00

For the last week or so, I've been fighting a sore throat. It still hasn't materialized into a full-blown yuck, but I've been a bit crunchy and tired since it began. Yesterday, though, A started to feel as if he'd been hit by a truck. Scratchy throat, body aches, chills, the whole nine yards. I kept him home from school today, and brought him to the doctor just to make sure it's not strep or something equally craptastic.

While we were there, I told our (incredibly hot) doctor the whole story. He asked why I hadn't come in myself, and I explained I didn't feel as bad as A....blah blah blah. He looked at me knowingly, frowned rather sympathetically, and nodded.

At least it looked like sympathy. Maybe empathy. Or understanding.

Yeah, no.

Turns out he thinks I'm a crack whore. Or an alcoholic. Or at least some kind of hopeless addict.

The nice doctor said he was going to prescribe A some cough medicine with codeine, just in case. I thought, "Sweet! Codeine! That's always a good thing to have around the house. You know, just in case."

I picked it up from Walgreens, threw it on the kitchen table, and didn't think of it again until just now. As I was straightening up the house before bed, I grabbed the bottle to bring upstairs. Just out of curiosity, I read the label...and was horrified. I swear to God, it says:

Give "A" 2 teaspoonsful by mouth every 4 to 6 hours as needed for cough. No refills. Do not drink alcoholic beverages while taking this medication.

Yes, his name was in quotes. I'm guessing there was some winking and nudging involved too, but I can't be certain. Suddenly, I'm thinking about pulling an Elaine Benes and demanding to see what he has written on my chart.

Hell, what do I care? I have codeine. See you in January, suckers...

My heart-shaped, professionally wrapped, strategically placed, Black (except in a recessionary year) Friday-discounted box is two sizes too small.

2008-12-11T20:30:00.006-06:00

I really, really, really, hate this soul-numbing season commonly referred to as the holidays. The over-commercialized, plastic-coated, well-lit, synthetic representation of genuine, imitation Christmas-flavored product is enough to give me hives.

I'm sorry. I know that as a human being, I'm not allowed to say that. So maybe today, I'll be a wallaby.

It's not about the gifts. It's not about the decorations, the music, the time off work, or even the cookies.

It's about...

...

...

...yeah.

March to the beat of your own little drummer boy. Have the guts to step away from the crowd and just love the people that matter to you this Christmas.

Not an over-commercialized, plastic-coated, well-lit, synthetic representation of genuine, imitation love, either. Spend the few extra bucks of emotional capital for the real thing, despite the mounting evidence of spiritual recession.

Save the Christmas spirit, one corner of the world at a time.

Hell, I'll even spring for a bigger box.

Cookie Day!

2008-12-01T20:40:00.005-06:00

Below is the text of an e-mail I sent to this year's cookie day ~~victims~~ participants. I think it says it all, really...

I just wanted to drop everyone an e-mail and firm up a few details on cookie day. As usual, I'm pretty excited. I can't wait to see all of you!

I have sixty two pounds of dough ready to go. There are ten kinds this year -

Sugar cookies
Spritz
Gingerbread men
Snickerdoodles
Chocolate cinnamon
Thumbprints
Peanut butter kisses
Oatmeal almond blueberry
Rum balls
Chocolate-chocolate chip

I'm taking a vacation day on Friday, and should have a good head start before everyone arrives on Saturday. I plan to have the majority of the sugar cookies and gingerbread men cut and baked Friday. This should lead to an easier process on Saturday, with just the decorating left to be done.

Wear sensible shoes. The floor in my kitchen is porcelain tile, and can be hard on your back if you're standing for too long in your socks or shoes that don't have much cushion. Ask Angela. She still has a limp from last year.

If you'd like to bring any Christmas music, feel free. We just started listening to mine yesterday as we put up the Christmas tree, and A is already sick of it. He wanted to put on the Frank Sinatra Christmas album. I drew the line. A 'friendly' discussion ensued. (We all love Frank. But have you heard his Christmas album?)

I'm making meatball subs for lunch, and they'll be hanging out in the crock pot whenever you get hungry. If you wish to bring anything snacky to accompany them, go ahead. Don't feel obligated, though. It's not as if anyone could possibly starve to death in a room with that many cookies.

I'm anticipating 5-7 adults, and 4-5 kids. This means that we'll have plenty of people, and everyone should be able to take breaks as needed. Odds are I won't work you to death this year. Unless that's what you're looking for. Then bring it on.

I'll be in the kitchen and working by about 8:00 AM. I fully intend to be finished by 4:00 PM. Feel free to arrive and depart whenever it's convenient for you. The front door will be unlocked, so let yourself in. I may not hear the doorbell over the Frank Sinatra Christmas Album.

I have several tins that someone from work threw my way. They aren't the cutest things in the world, but they will do. I also bought a bunch of really cute boxes. You can feel free to just take the tins with you if you'd like, but I would ask that if you want the boxes, you buy them. I still can't believe I couldn't find cute holiday boxes for less than $3-$4 each, but I suppose that expensive crap is the spirit of the season these days.

My neighbor is having a surprise birthday party for her husband that same day. I'm hoping parking won't be an issue, but you may have to park down the street a bit. Unfortunately, unlike my aunt Bernie, I can't fit twelve cars in my driveway (inside joke. Sorry.) Just don't block the mailbox, or the mailman will come and personally kick my butt.

If you have any other questions, let me know. Otherwise, I'll plan to see you on Saturday!

Warning

2008-12-01T20:36:00.002-06:00

This is another installment of, "Hopefully, when this situation happens to you, you'll have learned through my misfortune and can avoid waking up in a puddle of your own vomit."

Seriously. If you have young sons, don't forget this one. It could save your ______ (insert important thing here).

If your twelve year-old ever (EVER) calls from the other room, "Oh, yuck! That is awesome!"

Run. Don't walk. You don't want to hear the rest of the conversation.

Especially if the next thing out of his mouth is, "Remember when I dropped that trailer hitch on my big toe and it turned purple under the nail? You gotta see this!"

Flashback

2008-11-16T19:31:00.002-06:00

When I was a kid, I had this great little record player. It was in a square box, with a flip-top lid, and was painted to look like a pair of blue jeans. I would sit for hours, listening to my book and record sets. Remember those? Every time you were supposed to turn the page, they would ring a little bell or make some other cool noise. You couldn't go wrong with the books and records.

I still remember so many of those records - one was Puss 'n Boots, which had an even better b side -it was the story of a goat that couldn't stop eating his master's stuff. He would sing, "Baaaa! Baaaa! I'm a naughty little goat. I ate up my master's pretty, pretty coat!" Then one day, he ran away because he felt so guilty. Of course his master came to find him (because who doesn't love their goat?), and everyone lived happily ever after.

The best record ever, though, was a gift from my godmother. It was the Bert and Ernie Singalong. I listened to it so many times that I knew it by heart, and was always prepared to put a penny on top of the needle in the spot where it would skip if I wasn't careful.

For those of you who aren't familiar, Bert is in the bathtub. Ernie invites everyone on Sesame Street over for a singalong, and they cram into the bathroom for an hour or so to have a little musical party (while Bert gets more and more agitated in his quest to have someone hand him a towel!!)

The other day, the subject came up in a conversation with P. And somehow (I think he used magic), he came up with this link. I highly recommend Bats in the Belfry and The Limerick Song.

Thanks, P. This is the coolest thing ever.

Oooh, I'm special!

2008-11-10T15:40:00.002-06:00

Or so says Ms. Pointlessly Hypertechnical, who has one of the best blogs I know. She's funny, smart, and has a great writing style. Don't be fooled by the misspelling of the word creative, either - she can, after all, spell hypertechnical. I think she might even be one of those people who looks things up when she's not sure. Yes, apparently they still exist.

Anyway, by getting blinged with this award, I now have to play along with the game.

Yes, I know it's not a real award. I also realize I never play these games. But my ego is also sufficiently large to say, "Yay! I won an award!" So now you're stuck watching me preen. Sorry.

Here are the rules, as I understand them:

(1) List six things that make you happy
(2) Pass the award on to 6 more kreativ bloggers
(3) Link back to the person who gave you the award
(4) Link to the people you are passing it on to and leave them a comment to let them know.
(5) Request scantily clad photos of your blogger friends of the opposite sex.

Alas, here we go.

Six things that make me happy:

My son.
Baking and sharing yummy treats with my friends. I'm still working off of the premise that if I feed enough to sweets to everyone else I know, it will ultimately make me look thinner. We're still in the process here. It may take a long time. Stick with me, and keep the faith.
Great live music. Symphony, rock concert, musical theater, I don't care. Just give me the thrill of listening to it unfold, and I'm happy as a clam. The kind that's not being eaten.
Spring. Oh God, do I love spring. Not only does it mean that winter is over, but it is also just breathtakingly beautiful. And it means that winter is over.
Quiet evenings with people I love. Also quiet mornings. And quiet afternoons. Okay, just get rid of the noise and commotion of everyday life, and let me enjoy some peaceful conversation (or not) with one of the few people on the planet that really make me smile :)
Our annual camping trip to northern Michigan. Eating wild blueberries, canoeing, roasting a myriad of tasty things over the campfire, and falling asleep listening to the whippoorwills and wind in the pine trees. Nothing quite beats the feeling of leaving everything behind and becoming a part of nature for a few days.

Now, as for six awesome, creative bloggers to pass this on to...

Hm. That's a challenge. Lemme think. Most of my friends hate this stuff more than I do, but let's give it a shot. Maybe winning an award (from me, no less!) will be enough to make it happen. I'll just keep telling myself that and pretend that someone will run with it.

My favorites, that I read regularly:

Ahl Things Considered - Back in college, we used to call him Mr. One out of Ten. Why, you ask? Because one out of every ten things he says will be the funniest thing you've heard all day. He's still got it.
Walk in Brain - When I can't take any more right-wing politics from my friends in the financial world, I go read this. It balances everything out. Plus, he has the driest sense of humor ever. And is my oldest friend in the world.
Looking for Something - Always thoughtful and kind, J is one of those people I have always looked up to for his quiet wisdom. I'm so glad he showed back up on the face of the planet a little while back :)
whirledpeas deleted her entire blog, but maybe this will prompt her to start up again. I doubt it, but it's worth a shot.
The Rollercoaster Express - M may kill me for this. I'm just sayin'.
My sister - I'm still not linking to her blog. Consider yourself spared :)

Rule #5?

Well, if I haven't seen you naked by now, let's just keep it that way, mkay?

Oh, and happy Veterans' Day. Go out and hug a vet today. Find five if you can. They deserve it.

Distance

2008-11-06T19:31:00.003-06:00

I spent much of the day today feeling as if I was living apart from the world around me. On the train this morning, I spent an hour finishing a great book, which I closed with a smile as we pulled into the station. Stepping out onto the platform downtown, it seemed as if the entire city was moving just a little faster than I was.

It wasn't a bad feeling, mind you - it was more like a pleasant, yet unnatural calm had descended in a cloud around me for the day. As I made my way down the sidewalk through a swirling sea of fallen leaves, I wrapped myself in the quietness of my thoughts. Knowing it may be the last warm morning of the season, I lifted my face to the sky and inhaled the crisp scent of fall.

As I stood on the corner, waiting to cross the street to reach the office, I was startled out of the sense of solitude by a voice beside me. "Hey, Christine. How's it going?"

I looked up, and was suddenly disoriented. There was K standing there in front of me. Only it wasn't. It was Brian from Treasury Management, who looks uncannily like him. It took me a few seconds to realize I hadn't replied, and I said, "Has anyone ever told you that you have a twin that used to work for us? I think you're a body snatcher."

Brian laughed, and told me not to reveal his secret. I smiled, disconcerted, and hurried into the building, where I found an empty office and closed the door. It was a day for solitude and focus, not for chatting.

The morning passed quickly - I only opened the door for a few short restroom breaks, and managed to hold on to the inexplicable serenity until lunchtime. I packed my things, decided that I'd work from home for the afternoon, and slipped out to have a bite to eat with P before catching the train. Even in the bustling Thai restaurant, I felt very still. I said little, and P commented that I seemed a bit off. I explained, thinking of just how strange it all sounded as I spoke. Neither up nor down, but simply quiet, I smiled and hugged him. Sometimes that's the most appropriate way to convey things that don't translate well into words.

On the way home, I watched the world fly by through the window of the train. A twenty-something girl across the aisle was flirting with the married man next to her. A woman and her young daughter, fresh from the American Girl store, spoke quietly of dresses and tea parties. The conductor punched my ticket without a word, and I rested my forehead against the cool glass while the man beside me slept. As I drove home from the station, it occurred to me that I'd hardly spoken all day. It was a pleasant change from the hectic pace I've been keeping for the last few months.

Shortly after I arrived home, the spell was broken. My friend Angela called with news on her husband's leukemia. It has spread into his lymph nodes, spleen, and liver. On Monday, they are starting yet another round of chemo to try to hold the disease back long enough to do a stem cell transplant.

Suddenly, everything became very real again.

I really wish it hadn't.

Well, hell.

2008-11-03T18:55:00.002-06:00

I was in a car accident on my way home from work today. Blah.

No injuries (except for the fact that my back is now killing me), and only minor damage to the vehicles, but it was enough to really shake me up. The worst part was having to call A and tell him that I was going to be late because I was in an accident. After I told him that everyone was okay, he felt a bit better, but I knew he was sitting home worrying about me for the next hour until I walked in the door. He's very attentive tonight, and trying to take care of me (even though there's nothing really to be done). I love that kid.

Even before that happened, I have to say that this was not a good day.

To whomever is in charge, I would like a do-over, please.

Another edition of...

2008-10-30T15:57:00.002-05:00

"...What Have We Learned?"

Sunday night will always be Hot Single Guy Night at the grocery store.
I will never remember this before leaving the house for the grocery store on Sunday night.
Karma dictates that if you even think about calling someone stupid, you will immediately do something monstrously inane, thereby making the other person look like a frickin' genius.
Algebra really doesn't stick in your head for 20 years. You may have breezed through it in high school, gotten a solid A, and proclaimed yourself a mathematical hero. But you don't remember it as well as you thought you would. You will look like an idiot trying to help your kid simplify equations. Deal with it.
Being on a diet always sucks worse than you remember.
Seeing a gorgeous sunrise is always way cooler than you remember.
Making improvements to your home is a dangerous addiction. It's always just one more thing. Maybe two. Then I'll be done, I swear. Right now, I'm promising myself that after I get new carpeting and doors, I'll quit. Oh, except for the lighting and shelving in the kitchen. And maybe new seating at the dining table. Or an organizational system for the garage.
Children are meant to be seen, and not heard. Just like financial markets are meant to be boring. Both work well as concepts on paper, but neither actually applies in real life.
If you've been on a diet for weeks, and have been eating mostly healthy things the entire time, do NOT splurge on a Chipotle burrito (complete with hot salsa) and a bottle of beer. Just trust me on this one.
Twelve year-olds are a lot more fun than they're cracked up to be.
Presidential politics will, eventually, be the end of us all. We have two choices - 1.shorten the amount of time in which they are allowed to campaign, or 2. shoot ourselves in the head and get it over with. I don't care which it is at this point. Just make it stop.
Linens and Things is going out of business. I need to figure out how to get banned from their stores until they are completely gone, so as to avoid having to file for personal bankruptcy after snatching up every deal on every useful thing I find there on sale.
Pie is way underrated.
Sugar cookies are way underrated.
Ice cream is way, way underrated.
Did I mention I've been on a diet? I've lost nine pounds. Unfortunately, unless I start to really exercise a lot, it's just like the home improvements thing. Maybe if I just lose 20 more pounds, my tummy will be flat. Or maybe 50. Okay, 100, and that's my final offer!
I would kill you for a donut. Don't lull yourself into thinking I like your company enough that I wouldn't do it.
Okay, I love you. Now give me a frickin' donut.

Walking in Memphis

2008-10-29T18:58:00.002-05:00

Sometimes at night, when my head is too full of thoughts that refuse to stop spinning, I have been known to just get out and walk the quiet, dimly lit streets of the city.

Darkness makes the world a different place - it's as if each block you pass has been left to you by the faces that had claimed it during the day. The glow of the street lamps, the whispering of the wind in the trees, and the occasional passing vehicle only punctuate the surrounding stillness that is your own, small universe.

It began for me as a young adult. The summer after my freshman year in college, I stayed with my parents (who had just moved back to upstate New York after living in Indiana for four years). I would find myself awake at odd hours - sometimes 4am, with nothing but a buzzing energy inside of me. I would leave the house, walk down the hill, and wander into the playground of my old elementary school. There, they had the best kind of swings - long chains attached to a rectangular rubbery seat a few feet off the ground. I was grateful for the lack of squeaking as I pumped my legs, swinging higher and higher over the grass until I felt I could touch the sky. With a smile on my face and the wind at my back, I would watch the sun peek over the edge of the schoolyard. As the night became day, the buzz would begin to quiet. I would eventually climb back up the hill to the house, slip silently up the stairs, and settle back into sleep.

Later in my college years, I developed the bad habit of walking across campus by myself at night. Without a roommate or anyone watching the doors, it was easy to come and go unnoticed. The tiny little lake down the street from my dorm was the usual destination - and regardless of how laughably small it was, it still held the power to reflect the stars in a touchingly quaint way. Now that I look back on it, of course, I was probably fairly lucky that I never once found any trouble on those evenings. I didn't care at the time, though. I just needed to be out.

Later, when I was married and living in Joliet, I was fortunate enough to live in the most lovely walking neighborhood I've ever found - it was the heart of the historic district, and our street was lined with huge old oaks, Victorian streetlamps, and a boulevard lit with Italian lights. Gorgeous old homes with wraparound porches stood like sentinels behind their manicured lawns, and the churches still rang their bells throughout the evening.

Some nights, when I couldn't sleep, I would find myself walking quietly to the Cathedral. Down the sidewalk, along the covered walkway, and through meticulously carved arches, there was a small garden. In the center was a statue of the Virgin Mary, surrounded by the loveliest roses. I never saw anyone else there after dark...it was its own tiny world, removed from the city. Once, after a particularly difficult evening, I found myself curled up in the grass beside the roses, watching the stars. My mind began to drift, and the peace I had so desperately prayed for slowly came.

When I awoke, the sun was rising. I was covered in dew. I picked myself up, walked home, and crawled into bed smelling of roses and night air. I slept in that morning, finally content.

One of my poorer choices of adventure came in Memphis, Tennessee. I was there on business with K, and we were in a crowded piano bar on Beale Street. I had been drinking, and found myself in the mindset of the angsty drunk. The bar was too loud, the people too close. I had no choice but to leave.

I decided, on a complete whim, to walk back to the hotel. Downtown Memphis isn't exactly a cornerstone of culture and niceties at 1am, but I didn't care. The city was mine. I strolled confidently down the street, humming a song to myself with my head thrown back in the breeze. No one approached me during that mile-long trek, and at the time I felt it was because I was invicible. My mind cleared, the city slept, and by the time I reached the hotel, I was both sober and relaxed. It was worth the reproving looks and short lecture in the morning.

I wish I knew why the night air is so centering. Somehow, it brings both a sense of solitude and a connection to the universe as a whole. Everything is cleaner and more precise. Light dances through leaves with a shimmering beauty all its own, and the smells are always sweeter; more delicate. It's a reaffirmation of individuality, and a reminder that every moment is precious.

This past summer, I was with P one evening, and the restlessness set in. It was late, and I felt the old, familiar buzzing in my head. I was restless, and knew that sleep would not come without a fight. When I told him that I was going to go out and walk, he looked at me as if I'd sprouted horns. Chicago at night, after all, is probably a lot less safe than Memphis. After a moment, he realized I was serious. He grabbed for his shoes and announced he was coming with me.

At first, it was odd, walking with someone at night. I wasn't sure if I could find what I was looking for if I had to share my sidewalk with someone else. How could I find the solitude of the night if there was another person on my heels?

But somehow, it worked. We strolled through quiet, residential streets, and he stood back to let me stop and marvel at the rustling leaves in the singular glow of the streetlamps. We strayed into hidden gardens, searched (to no avail) for an accessible swingset, and ventured into dead-end darkened alleys to see what we could see.

At the Church of the Transfiguration, we paused to reflect on the statue of Jesus that stood in front. It was an old statue, and Jesus' fingers had either worn or been chipped away over the years. In its own way, it was a hauntingly sad, beautiful piece. We said a prayer to the Broken Fingered Jesus, and went on our way.

That night, as all the otherson which I walked, I slept.

It seems that peace really is out there. It's just that sometimes, it's hiding in a dark place...and you have to be willing to go looking for it if you truly want it.

I can't be the only one...

2008-10-07T20:13:00.002-05:00

...that doesn't find this surprising.

It's heartbreaking, but true - I've seen so many dear artistic friends struggle with depression, substance abuse, and mood disorders that it frightens me. Creativity has its price, and I continue to hold those that follow that path in the highest esteem.

Some days I think I'm lucky I survived my years in music. Some of you will remember just how impossible I was back in the days when my life was focused in that direction, and I'm sure will agree that I'm much better off in today's structured setting.

Those of you that are still bringing beauty to the world?

My hat is off to you.

You know...

2008-10-01T20:36:00.002-05:00

...you've been working too many hours in the financial sector and not sleeping nearly enough when you find yourself watching the Senate vote on the bailout live on cnn.com (and you're nearly in tears hoping that it passes).

Now we need the House to make things right.

It's that important, people.

Is there a 12-step program for that?

2008-09-29T20:49:00.002-05:00

I have a new addiction.

A while back, I was on my way home from the city, and desperately needed something to drink. Spotting a friendly, neighborhood 7-11 on the corner, I popped in for some icy-cold refreshment.

And there, in the back corner of the store, I discovered what will surely be my downfall.

The Crystal Light, sugar-free tangerine-lime slurpee.

Friends, this comes from the girl who swore off the slurpee 25 years ago. Remember back then? You generally had two flavor choices - Coke or cherry. You could buy twizzlers at the same time, use them as straws, and eat the nasty half-frozen sugary candy by-product afterward.

Then you'd fight off the sugar rush and nausea for hours.

But this...this is different.

It is sugar-free.

And it is tangerine-lime. (sounds gross on the surface, doesn't it? Don't be fooled. It's magically delicious.)

It is guilt-free dessert.

So this past Friday, on an ill-fated road-trip to Mount Prospect, I dragged poor P into every 7-11 in a three-county area to see who carries them.

Alas, we only found the cherry lime-aid flavor. Still tasty, but not nearly as yum. We'll call it the methadone variety.

To date, I have only found two locations that carry the tangerine-lime. One at Foster & Northwest Highway, and one in Elgin on Randall Road. Both are a hike from my home and office, but I wil find more, I swear.

They are out there, and they are taunting me with their freezy goodness.

And when I do find them close to home, I swear I will spend all of A's college savings on them.

Isn't that how a good addiction works?

Or might I be able to buy a slurpee machine and supplies on eBay?

If I stop showing up to work and social events, please wait a few weeks before holding an intervention. I'll just have one more, I swear.

Because I love you...

2008-09-23T20:09:00.000-05:00

I will do this for you.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

:)

Yes, every once in a while, I'm that girl.

2008-09-22T19:59:00.002-05:00

As I've made my way through adult life, I've tried my best to become an open, honest communicator. When I was younger, I was horrible about such things. I come from a family that would rather gouge its eyes out with shrimp forks than tell someone they had hurt your feelings. I also grew up thinking that when you tell someone that you care about them (regardless of the context), the most likely outcome will be shunning and public ridicule.

A lot of that I've gotten past. I have spent years forcing myself to say those very difficult things, whether good or bad. Regardless of the cold sweat and racing heart, I do my best to get things out in the open when necessary. It may be with a hundred caveats, and painstakingly slow, but I find a way to say it.

I'll manage not to pass out when I say, "I think you're a wonderful person, and I'm glad you're in my life." I'll fight back the nausea to mention, "This situation made me uncomfortable, and I think we should work together to fix it." Dear God, but I do try.

Right now, though, I'm struggling. My feelings are hurt, and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to tell a friend how disappointed I am in his behavior. I'm afraid that either way, the friendship is permanently damaged.

The story is very long, and I won't go into all of the details. What it comes down to, though, is that he and I went through a period where things were tense. He stopped calling, and when we did manage to talk, it was around an unacknowledged elephant. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable, even though he would never talk about the situation. I brought it up, I asked the questions, and tried to find out how to fix it. Nothing worked. (If, at this point, you feel like interjecting, "Duh, he's a guy..." please don't. I expect more from this one. I also expect quite a bit from myself, and won't play innocent. I made my share of mistakes, and take responsibility for them.)

Until I started dating P. All of a sudden, it was like a switch had been thrown. I guess I was safe again, and everything was supposed to go back to the light, frolicking banter of the old days. He called, he wrote, and acted as if nothing had ever happened. The silent sigh of relief was palpable.

It feels like I'm fifteen again, and my mom is saying, "Ssshhh. It's over, and he's happy now. Don't make him talk about it, or it is just going to cause a fuss."

Yes, this is more on the melodramatic girl side than I usually blog, and I'm sorry about that. My question, though, is this:

Is the fuss worth it? *

Because I honestly don't know anymore.

*This is a rhetorical question. I am not looking for your answers, as I know you don't have enough facts to address it. I'm simply wondering out loud. Or in print. However you want to say it.

Through the fog

2008-09-22T18:56:00.003-05:00

The fog was so dense that I could almost pretend it was an early spring morning. Visibility was only a few feet, and the air was completely still as I was leaving the house at 6:15 this morning. I had to be downtown for an early meeting, and the sun was still contemplating whether or not it was going to come up.

The air smelled of fall, though, and the few yellow leaves that were scattered on my driveway left no doubt that spring was quite a long way off. Suburban winter lay between us like a snarling beast, and it was intent on making the journey as difficult as possible.

I pretended anyway.

The world was quiet. The small crowd gathered on the platform at the train station was relatively subdued. Several men stood with their ties still hanging loosely around their necks, and many women crowded into the small shelters where it was warm. As the train approached, we climbed silently inside, finding corners into which we could curl up and watch the world pass.

Crossing the river was nearly surreal - plumes of white fog rose like campfire smoke toward the bridge as the sun began its subtle attempts to push the mist back from where it came. The intercom was startlingly loud as the recorded voice announced that we were now approaching the next station. People stared emptily out the windows. I wondered if this was a function of the fog, or merely the fact that this was one of the earliest trains of the day. For me, it was a combination of both, and I just couldn't seem to make the morning seem real.

When I stepped off the train and into the city, everything immediately changed. Cabs flew around corners as swarms of people moved with a determined purpose. The air was crisp and clear.

Everything was humming.

It struck me how much I love this city, and how alive it makes me feel. Every time I venture in from the suburbs, it hits me all over again. And I smile.

When the time is right, I will make the move in. Every day will begin with the motion of the city, and I will become a part of the vibrancy that is Chicago. Even with its warts, its costs, and its hectic pace, I have fallen in love with it. Who would have thought, even ten years ago, that I would come to such a place?

Not me. But then again, we're never sure where it is that our evolution will take us.

Why I still love The Electric Company

2008-09-18T19:26:00.004-05:00

Enough!

2008-09-18T19:26:00.003-05:00

The panic in the markets is just about enough to send me over the edge.

Morgan Stanley and Goldman Sachs reported better than expected earnings, and their stock prices dropped about 30%.

Some money market funds broke the buck this week because of Lehman and AIG inestments - this isn't a first, keep in mind. It happened a few years ago, and people took it relatively in stride. This time, investors are so convinced that the world is ending that they are flying to the safety of short-term treasuries like there is no tomorrow. They are so crazy, in fact, that today a billion dollars of them traded at negative yields. Yes, people purposely lost money in T-bills. This hasn't happened since 1940. We (along with several other big houses) had to close our treasury money market fund to new purchases last night in order to protect the yield for existing holders.

Imagine the fury.

The rollercoaster of the major markets is enough to make you throw up, even intra-day (150 points up, 150 points down, 410 points up. Pass the pepto, please).

My clients are calling in tears, and all I want to do is politely tell them that it's that kind of panic that has made this mess into a catastrophe.

Here's the thing. If the market goes down, keeps going down, and never recovers?

Yeah, you're not going to give two shits about your investment portfolio. You won't have a job, a home, an economy, or a government. And if you think that's going to happen, then you really shouldn't be investing at all, anyway.

Panic breeds failure. The media, the bears, and the fear-mongers have dug us a hole so deep that getting out is getting harder and harder every day.

Please just stop. Let logic prevail again. We'll get through this, and everything is going to be okay again. I promise. Stop making this so much worse than it really has to be.

Please?

You're killing me.

Blog Commentary

2008-09-16T18:33:00.002-05:00

This is absurdly funny.

This is enough to make me swear off any more political discussions until mid-November. Don't even try - I won't be sucked in.

This gives me nightmares.

This is still my favorite blog entry ever. If you can even call it just a blog.

If I ever recreate my blogging style, it's going to look something like this.

Life is too short. Eat more cookies.

Resume, hut!

2008-09-11T19:27:00.003-05:00

A came home from school today and informed me that he needs a lyre and a flip folder before next Tuesday.

If that leaves you saying, "Huh?" then you may want to just quit here.

If it hits you that on Tuesday, the junior high band is going to start marching in practice for a parade, then I'm sure you'll understand just how blown away I am. The next generation is starting to march. (Jonathan, you were right. You were so, so right.)

I remember being in the Leary Junior High Band in Massena, New York, and trying to get the hang of marching through the streets of my neighborhood for the first time. Mr Rotunde, the band director, had this obnoxious whistle, which he would use to mark time and get us going. Two long whistles on one and three, and then four short counts of a full measure. Then we were off, tripping and stumbling, trying to figure out which foot we were supposed to be on. We played the national anthem and the high school fight song. Kinda. At least slightly reasonable facsimiles thereof. If you listened closely.

Old people and women with little kids would stand in their driveways and watch us march by. My mom could hear us from our house - sometimes she would walk a few blocks to see me play (all hunched over and trying to keep an eye on both the person in front of me and my feet). She would wave, smile, and sometimes cry just a little bit...I never could figure out why. It didn't seem like it was such a big deal.

Now I know. It's a rite of passage. One more sign that my baby, well...isn't a baby anymore. His first parade is on the 20th, and his dad and I will stand on the curb watching just like our parents did. I'll probably cry a little bit too, and A won't understand why.

He'll be too busy trying not to crash into the kid in front of him.

Miles to go...

2008-09-07T20:13:00.003-05:00

For the next two weeks, my house is going to have one extra inhabitant - A and I are kittysitting for Mark's (formerly my) cat, Miles.

At 13, he's a bit of a crotchety old bugger, but I have to admit that it's nice to have him around the house. He seems to be settling in nicely, and has even found himself a favorite spot on the back of the couch (right behind my head, where he purrs like a old diesel for hours on end).

I have made a list of resolutions for this two week period, and I thought I should probably write them down so I don't forget any of them.

I will take some sort of allergy medicine every day. I will avoid the sneezing even before it even starts.
My bedroom door will remain closed, creating a dander-free zone. I will not forget to close it, ever.
I will make sure A brushes him at least every other day.
I will not take him to the groomer and have him shaved (lest he eat my face off in my sleep.)
I will not take him to the groomer and have him shaved (lest he eat my face off in my sleep.)
If he throws up on my carpeting, I will not kill him.
I will not use barfed-on carpeting as an excuse to call 1-800-588-2300.
I will spoil him with Fancy Feast and Iams, so that he's impossible to live with when I send him home. I'll be like the cool grandma. But younger.
I will not take him to the groomer and have him shaved (lest he eat my face off in my sleep.)
I will not decide to develop a full-blown claritin addiction and go out to buy myself a new cat.
I will not let A talk me into buying a new cat.
I will pet him and pat him and hug him and squeeze him and call him George (after which, he may eat my face off in my sleep).
I won't even take him to the groomer and have him bathed. I am kind of attached to my face.
I will give him plenty of love and attention while he is here. Every time I do so, though, I will wash my hands and remember not to touch my face (the aforementioned one to which I am attached).
I will not let A talk me into buying a new cat.
I will not fall asleep anywhere except behind the closed bedroom door, just to be safe.
We won't even say the word groomer in his presence. Just to be safer.

If I go missing and stop answering the phone, please come see if you can find my face somewhere. I hear there are doctors (at least in France) that can sew them back on.

kthnx.

Brown helicopters

2008-09-01T19:43:00.002-05:00

I was sitting outside this evening, waiting for the fireflies to come out. They seem to already be past their peak, as I don't see nearly as many now as I did a month ago.

Fall is coming. As if I needed further testament, I looked up into the trees that surround my patio. All of the little helicopters hanging from the branches have turned a golden brown...a precursor to the leaves that will soon follow suit and fall to the ground. I should know what kind of trees the helicopters hang from, but I don't. I just remember being a little girl and throwing them into the air, blowing them higher, and watching them spin slowly to the ground. Perhaps if I had felt a remnant of that innocence tonight, I would have done so again.

Instead, I tried to slow my racing thoughts and listen to the birds chirp sleepily as they settled in for the night. I'm a bit muddled this evening, as tomorrow is going to be an incredibly stressful day - I'm testifying in my babysitter's divorce trial in the afternoon, and it has me genuinely spooked. I won't go into all of the details, but I will say that I'm not terribly thrilled about telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about what I've witnessed from her soon-to-be-ex-husband. It's the right thing to do, and I will share my story willingly, but the guy seriously creeps me out. I don't like the thought of making a psycho enemy of someone who lives just a few blocks away from me.

_________

I haven't been blogging lately because I've not been sure exactly what to write. Life has been very good to me, and I have no complaints - I'm dating a great guy, I've been promoted and given a decent raise at work, and A is home, back in school, and very happy. It just seems like if I write too much about it, not only will I sound like a total sap, but I'll also jinx my chances at staying happy.

Silly? Of course.

But I've never claimed to be the world's most rational person.

So tonight, as I sat outside and lamented the missing fireflies and little brown helicopters, I did something I haven't done in a long time.

I prayed.

I asked that I get through tomorrow with dignity and grace. I asked that I find a way to hold on to this new-found, refreshing happiness. And I asked God to let me find a way to still my restless mind and stop waiting for the other shoe to drop, bringing me back to the angst-filled status quo.

I'll do my best to blog more often. It's good for me, and I've missed it. Thanks for hanging in there while I've been gone :)

Home, tired, and happy...

2008-07-27T22:32:00.002-05:00

More to come throughout the next few days, but I thought I'd stop in and drop a line or two saying that life is pretty darn good.

A week of vacation is great for the soul...especially when it involves camping, canoeing, and realizing once again that northern Michigan is truly a place to remember why we've been put on this earth.

Nothing brings me back to center quite like peace, quiet, and fresh air. And the rest of the good things that happened over the last week or so.

But for now, I'm going to go to bed and smile myself to sleep.

Life is good :)

The Stone Temple Pilots concert....

2008-07-05T09:52:00.002-05:00

...was unbelievable.

It was a beautiful night at Summerfest in Milwaukee, and they came on about 9:00. Mark and I stopped on the way into the park to buy a couple of beers and a pack of clove cigarettes (yeah, I know. We're too old to act 20. Shoot me.) Our seats were great. The crowd was alive. I was beyond excited.

In an appropriate Independence Day tribute, Scott Weiland (who somehow manages to be simultaneously too hot for words and totally fucking skanky) came out on stage wrapped in a huge American flag. Add big shades and a big, black fedora, and he looked the part of the consummate rock star.

They opened with Big Empty, and all the fears I'd picked up from the media were gone. Rumors have been flying that he's fallen back off the wagon - he's had a few bad shows on this tour, from what I've heard.

Last night, he was on.

They played every single song that I love, and as time passed, he removed the hat, the glasses, the flag, a leather jacket, white silk vest, scarves in red, white and blue, a red linen shirt, and a blue tee shirt.

Yeah, he must have been roasting for the first few tunes.

But what a showman! Crouched at the edge of the stage in black leather pants and white boots moaning through Plush, he proved just why fans keep coming back to see him. Standing in the aisle, sipping a beer, and smoking the world's sweetest cigarettes, I closed my eyes and drank it all in like a woman who had been starving for a much-needed fix of good, solid rock.

The entire band was phenomenal. I sang and whooped until my throat was raw, and by the time we left, I couldn't hear a thing.

We didn't even stop to listen to Seether on the way out. I was flying so high that I didn't want to pollute the wave with a band that was just plain good. Plus, Mark was running on two hours of sleep, and I didn't want to make him stand there any more :)

I got home after one, and was shocked at how fast I sank into sleep. As I drifted off, I decided it didn't matter how many cooties Scott Weiland has. He can jump me in a dark alley any time - I'll just have to make sure to carry a full body condom with me whenever I leave the house.

yum

My gift to you...

2008-07-04T07:40:00.002-05:00

I have never been able to find this online before today. Imagine my delight when I came across it! Settle in and enjoy. This is truly the very best of the best of the best.

Darkness and light

2008-07-02T20:18:00.002-05:00

I sat in my office this afternoon, gazing out the wall of windows as the storm clouds blew in from the northwest. The sky was ominously dark over the forest preserve, and my boss walked by with his bag over his shoulder. "It's looking pretty dark out there," he said. "Better get out before the rain hits."

I looked at the clock. It was 4:22. Really too early to leave, but I packed up and followed him out anyway. Scattered, angry drops were already starting to fall as I made my way to my car - I hurried to beat the onslaught. Seconds after I closed the door behind me, the skies opened up. It was an immediate torrential downpour.

Stoplights were out, fire trucks passed by, screaming toward accidents, and the drive seemed to take forever. When I arrived home, the house was dark. I decided not to turn on the lights as I ate some leftover pasta and read through the day's news.

When the rain let up, I opened all of the windows and let in the smell of the rain. The house was still dark. I talked with a friend for a while, cleaned up the dinner dishes, and stepped out the back door.

The chairs were wet, and the trees continued to toss fat drops across the patio. The clouds loomed forbiddingly overhead, yet the leaves fairly glowed with that fresh, lush shimmer that storms always seem to leave in their wake. I wiped down one of the chairs, curled up into it, and closed my eyes. The smell of green things filled my head. I sat for a few minutes, thinking about all of the interesting things on my plate right now. My life seems to be turning in a few new directions, each of which deserves a certain level of contemplation.

I must have drifted off for a bit, because when I opened my eyes, the sky was much darker. The fireflies had come out; they were meandering across the yard, blinking at each other in a language I wasn't meant to understand. The silence of their journey added a level of mystery to the evening...dozens of them floated, seemingly aimlessly, as I watched. Long moments passed. I sat without moving.

The phone rang inside, and I slowly rose to grab it. As I walked in, I looked back over my shoulder at the fireflies. They flew on, oblivious to my departure.

After I finished talking with A, I glanced out again. The rain had started back up, and the yard had gone dark.

I left the lights off as I sat on the floor to write. Maybe if I wait long enough, they will come back.

You promised me poems.

2008-06-30T20:11:00.002-05:00

The house is quiet with A gone. I can hang around in my underwear and eat ice cream for dinner if I want to.

I had pasta standing in the kitchen in shorts and a tee shirt, instead.

Afterwards, I sat in a pile of poetry books on the living room floor, wishing for inspiration. Atwood, Giovanni, Neruda, and Rilke kept me company; they are old friends with dog ears and quiet voices. Their honesty and perspective made me yearn for some semblance of creativity.

It's disjointed, this evening. My mind won't follow a path. It meanders from space to space.

So I took my flute from the shelf, and simply held it. I sat for quite a while, thinking and clicking keys. Clicking and thinking. Thinking. Clicking.

I need a focus. My life has begun to meander again.

I covered the embouchure hole with my lips and took a deep breath....remarking how much easier it is to breathe with silver in the hands. Eyes closed, thoughts slowing. Moving air.

Thinking. Clicking.

I can't write, as of late. My process has been suffering for so long. It's empty.

Clicking. Thinking.

It's reflective of my mind. I have been empty.

C minor was the easy choice. The sun was setting, and the room falling into darkness. I curled myself into a corner, turned in, and wrote you a poem.

Keep listening. It's still there.

Oooh! Oooh! Oooh!

2008-06-30T19:36:00.003-05:00

A few months back, I picked up tickets to see Stone Temple Pilots at Summerfest. They're playing Friday night on the main stage, and I've been all twitterpated about it for weeks.

Tonight?

Yeah, I found out that Seether is playing the same night. I can probably catch the last part of their show after STP is done.

I am so totally going to be deaf next week.

The big day

2008-06-28T09:43:00.002-05:00

Today, my friends, is A's twelfth birthday.

I baked the most chocolatey cake ever - it's a bittersweet chocolate/pecan meal base, frosted in a semisweet chocolate-butter glaze. Piped on top are mounds of white chocolate buttercream icing. To finish, I drizzled melted white chocolate over it.

He's having a big sleepover party at his dad's house - tons of pizza, video games, movies, and flashlight tag are in store. I'll be there, of course, because dad was terrified of having that many kids in his house without additional adult support ;) It should be a crazy night.

Personally, I'm hoping that if I can stuff enough pizza, cheetos, and cake into them in the first few hours, they'll all be in comas by midnight. Then I can get some sleep before driving A up to my parents' house tomorrow.

The best part, actually, is probably going to be watching dad freak out over all of the kids running around his house. But then again, I'm kind of a wench like that.

Forget Christmas cookies....

2008-06-24T19:50:00.000-05:00

This year, I'm switching to Nutraloaf.

You know you want it.

Yay!!

2008-06-22T16:31:00.003-05:00

After spending two and a half weeks with his grandparents in southern Illinois, A finally came home today.

My house feels like home again...for a week, at least, before he heads off to visit my parents.

This summer is a challenge, because I'm quite unhappy with the babysitter situation - A is turning 12, and he hates going to her house to hang out with the 'little kids'; and I'm not terribly happy with many of the life choices she's made recently. Truth is, I don't want him there much, either. But at his age, it seems like a futile exercise in humiliation to get him set up at a new babysitter for just a couple of months before school starts back up. He'll be in junior high this fall, and I've promised to let him stay by himself after school at that point.

So he's looking for places to go and things to do over the summer. Several weeks with each set of grandparents, a week of vacation with me, a week with dad, and as much time as he can spend with friends. Unfortunately, that means I'll see very little of him between now and the end of August. I know he enjoys traveling, and it's good for his adventurous little soul, but it's a lot harder on me than I'll publicly admit. When he is gone, my house is too quiet, and my life lacks a certain structure that only parenting can provide me.

Yeah, I'll admit it. I've spent the last two weeks living off of Jamba Juice, instant oatmeal, and Jimmy John's sandwiches. It's nothing to be proud of, but I won't be bothered to cook for just myself.

I plan on soaking up as much of him as I possible can over the next week...and then Saturday night, we're having the big birthday party at his dad's house. I tell you, I love that boy with everything that I have. Just by existing, he's given me all of the reasons I've ever needed to make something of myself and set an example for him to grow into a healthy, productive, loving adult. He's my world.

Not to mention the fact that he's the funniest person I know. We'll consider that a bonus.

A - "Mom, why do you think that Hardee's restaurants are only in the south these days? They used to be everywhere."

Me - "I dunno. Maybe they're just so unhealthy that everyone in the north that ate there died."

A - "Yeah. I bet they all had Hardeetacks."

Me - Groan.

Warning - Do NOT look under the dress!!

2008-06-19T16:23:00.002-05:00

Every Christmas, my mother plays Santa and puts together a 'stocking' for all of the kids and grandkids. I put that in quotes because it's really not a stocking - it's a gift bag that she leaves outside of the bedroom doors on the morning we're going to celebrate (which may or may not be Christmas Day). The bags contain all kinds of small household things (toothpaste, hair pretties for the girls, travel kleenex, and the like), candy, puzzle books, and toys. It's my mom's way of being...well...a mom.

This past Christmas, much to my surprise, I opened my stocking to find two boxes of -

pantyhose.

L'eggs off-black, reinforced toe, control-top pantyhose.

I didn't have the heart to tell my mom that I'd given those up like a bad crack habit years ago. I made the move to garter belt and stockings. I don't have to list the reasons why. You know them all.

Let it suffice to say that I cringe now every time I think of stuffing my crotch into something that refuses to let it breathe. The girly bits have grown accustomed to a sort of freedom, you know?

So yesterday, I had an event to attend - a cocktail party in the city for a group that works with the homeless. As I was packing a bag to bring to work so I could change on the way there, I had a novel idea. Instead of laundering my last pair of snag-free stockings or stopping to buy a spare pair, I'd wear the pantyhose. How bad could it really be, right?

Wrong. I changed in the ladies' room at the office, and was horrified at the fact that my mother seems to have forgotten that I've lost a lot of weight. She had purchased size B - which I believe is shorthand for big. I put them on, and pulled them up.

and up.

and up.

to about four inches below my bra.

I felt like the creepy, dumpy woman with cankles who wears the big brown pants and snowman sweaters to work six months out of the year. It was utterly demoralizing.

I slipped on my pretty little black dress, cute pointy shoes, and tasteful jewelry. I then proceeded to waddle out of the building like a beached manatee. I got in the car, drove into the city, and told myself over and over, "feel pretty. feel pretty. feel pretty. no one can see your control-toppy goodness. You are going home alone. just feel pretty."

It would have been amusing, had I not felt horrendously ugly.

At the event, I slunk off to the restroom approximately every 37 minutes. I had to adjust, pull up the sagging ankles, and yell at myself for leaving the pretty lace garter belt in a drawer. It just wasn't right. I could hear it crying in loneliness from 40 miles away.

Perhaps it was my strange mindset, or the death grip of the reinforced-toe monstrosities, but I found the entire evening to be a bit surreal. I suppose it didn't help when a woman from the facility, who is obviously used to dealing more with the homeless than business people, started calling everyone over for the auction.

"Hey! Everybody get down here! It's time for the auction! Move down to this end of the hall now, you hear? I want everyone down here now - no excuses!"

I chuckled quietly, but was cut short in amazement at her next proclamation.

"HEY! You people down at the other end of the room at that mashed potato bar, get the FUCK away from the mashed potatoes!"

My friend Lynn and I turned to each other, jaws dropping open. It's not often you find yourself at a cocktail fundraiser where you're told to get the fuck away from anything, really.

Alas, I left the potatoes alone. I didn't think I could handle her wrath in the befuddled state in which I was operating. Unless, that is, I removed my pantyhose and strangled her with them.

Afterwards, I meandered the few blocks back to my car. I think my crotch was squeaking. I prayed for a quick, painless death.

As soon as I got in the car, I shimmied up my dress, yanked down the off-black ugliness, and fished a pair of conveniently-located sandals out of the back seat. As I approached the gate to exit the parking lot, I tied them in about 11 knots, made a freakish ball out of them, and tossed them out the window into a garbage can. Two men jogging by looked at me as if I had just landed from Mars.

I smiled sweetly at them and drove away.

The girl bits rejoiced, and we all lived happily ever after.

The end.

Karma's a bitch.

2008-06-16T01:32:00.003-05:00

I'm trying to think of a clever, witty spin to put on all of the bad things that have happened this past week.

It's not working.

If anyone had any ideas on how to make the following things funny, throw them out there.

Carpenter ants living in my house
A flooded, mildew-stench filled basement
Cleaning out gutters on a metal stepladder at 6 am on a Sunday morning during a thunderstorm
A 14 hour day in South Bend, IN
Watching a friend with a 20% chance of surviving cancer as he naps on your couch
Having the bottom of an extension ladder upon which you're standing to paint a cathedral ceiling slide several feet across the floor, nearly hurtling you 20 feet down face-first into the ground (and considering yourself lucky that you ended up only beating the shit out of yourself against the ladder, bruised and bloody as you end up at a 45 degree hoping someone comes to hold it steady before you fall the rest of the way)
Being so sore and covered in bumps and bruises that you seriously consider canceling uber-cool plans for Monday
A kid who has been off on vacation visiting grandma that loves you very much, but is having so much fun that he's only talked to you for a grand total of 5 minutes in the last week and a half
Making (above-referenced uber-cool) plans to play hooky on Monday to do something wonderfabulsome, looking forward to it all week long like it's your last hope of sanity, and then having it fall apart at 12:30 Sunday night
Having a 400 pound gorilla sitting on your chest at 2am, not being able to sleep, and knowing that you now have to be up for work in three and a half hours because the aforementioned plans canceled

Come on, people. Help me out here. I need to make this funny. There has to be a way.

If anyone posts a comment along the lines of, "Aw, I'm sorry you had a shitty week. Hope it gets better soon!" I will come rip your arms off and beat you with them.

Funny, damn it. Make me laugh.

I need funny.

Mmmmm......donut.....

2008-06-13T21:12:00.005-05:00

I had an illicit romp with an old love this morning.

Today is my boss' birthday. I was out late last night, and hadn't had a chance to bake anything for him, so I stopped at a great little bakery in Arlington Heights on my way to work. I walked in the door, took a number, and was standing in line for my apple-cheese coffee cake when I saw him there, watching me.

He was sitting quietly behind the glass, hanging out with his friends and enjoying the warmth of the lights. He hadn't changed in years, and he looked good enough to eat.

He, of course, was a chocolate-iced cake donut.

My breath caught, and I knew that I could not resist his charms. I had to have him, then and there.

This torrid affair all started when I was a little girl. Sometimes on Saturday mornings, my uncle Tim would swing by to pick me (and/or my sister) up and take us out for a few hours. He drove a big green Ford that we nicknamed The Green Machine, and I remember sitting in the back seat, listening to Supertramp, and tooling around to all of his favorite spots. Sometimes, we would go to the Texan restaurant and order pancakes. Other times, we swung past Spatz's bakery and picked up fresh-baked bread and brought it to his house to make toast with peanut butter and jelly.

The best, though, was when we would drop in at Provenzano's grocery. It was a little corner market, complete with butcher shop and deli, on the west side of Saginaw where everyone knew Tim by name. It was a little slice of Americana that I will never forget.

Just inside the front door, in the window facing the street, Mr. Provenzano had placed a huge machine, which came to life every morning long before the store opened. This magical contraption made, much to the delight of my sister and me, the world's most perfect cake donuts.

At one end, the man who was running the cash register would place a huge pile of dough into a contraption that would cut it into rings and deposit it into a veritable river of (most likely highly saturated) fat. The young donuts would swirl around, get flipped over at just the right time, and then come out the other side to be deposited on a grated conveyor belt to cool. After a few minutes, when they were still just barely too warm to touch, a thick layer of chocolate frosting would be dripped over the entire mess...and within moments, we would have the world's best sticky warm donuts in our chubby little hands.

In the car on the way home, we would lick our fingers and proclaim Tim the best uncle that ever was. Life just didn't get any better.

Later, when I got married and moved to Joliet, we lived two blocks from what may have been the world's best donut shop. When the weather was right, you could smell the place from our big Victorian front porch. Mark and I would take A down the street in his stroller, pop in for an apple fritter, and congratulate ourselves for choosing the perfect location to settle our little family.

But alas, all good things do come to an end. Somewhere around 2002, it occurred to me that too many years of indulging in the sweet love of donuts (and other delightful treats) had taken far too great a toll on my waistline. It was time to break off the relationship. Donuts and I were through.

Like any addict, I have fallen off the wagon every now and again. When I find myself in Joliet on business, my car sometimes exercises its own free will and hijacks me to the donut shop parking lot. Of course, at that point, I have no choice but to answer the call and guiltily devour a delicious cruller. I'm only human, after all.

But as a general rule, when someone offers me one of the tasty pieces of evil, I will polite decline with, "Thanks, but I gave those up forty pounds ago." I can hear them crying as they are carted away.

This morning, though, when I saw him in his neat little case, I could not say no to him, my old flame. He called, and I answered. When my number came up on the little board, I said to the nice old lady, "I'd like an apple-cheese coffee cake and a chocolate-iced cake donut, please."

She smiled knowingly. The coffee cake was wrapped in one large wax paper bag, and the donut in another, smaller bag. I paid her $8.27, and I stepped quickly out to my car. As I slipped into the driver's seat, I pulled the beautiful boy out, looked fondly upon him, and took a huge, incredibly un-ladylike bite.

He wasn't as good as he used to be thirty years ago. Of course, neither am I. But we sat there together, enjoying the moment as only lovers can. When I was finished, I started the car and headed to the office.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I licked the last of the chocolate icing from my fingers. Then I wiped them on a napkin I found in the glove compartment, picked up my iPod, and put on some Supertramp. I sang along loudly, poorly, and with great abandon.

Later, I called my uncle. As I recounted the events of the morning, he began to laugh. "You'll never guess what I had for breakfast this morning," he said.

It turns out that even though Provenzano's is long gone, they sold the donut machine to a little place on the other side of town when they closed. Tim had gone over to the east side and gotten himself a warm chocolate-iced cake donut.

For a moment, before I tackled the catastrophe that was my desk, I was a happy, chubby six year-old with a belly full of sugary goodness.

Everyone should have a moment like that every now and again, regardless of their will to fight the addiction. Sometimes, the view from the ground beside the wagon is mighty fine.

Redemption

2008-06-08T18:24:00.012-05:00

Yesterday afternoon, as I was bringing in groceries from the car, I was startled as a little gray mouse skittered across the floor of the garage. He stopped, twitched his nose for a moment, and then scampered off to a quiet corner where I could not thwack him with a shovel if I tried.

As if I would thwack him. You know better.

I stood for a moment, contemplating what to do, when it occurred to me that I was just going to let him live a peaceful life in the corner of the garage. Stupid, you say? Ridiculously girly? I think not. I decided then and there that not only would allowing him to live help my karma, but also that enough time has passed that the trauma of the mouse incident can now be told.

You see, he (she/it) is just a little mouse. There is nothing in the garage that I worry greatly about him eating, and he deserves a safe little haven in which to live out his furry little life.

Others have not been so lucky.

There was, to be honest, the cute little mouse dude I found in the basement a few years ago. I couldn't thwack him, either, but the truth is that I was likely more afraid of him than he was of me. After several minutes of dancing around the family room area squealing and wondering what to do, I managed to scoop him up in a box and toss him out the front door. After my heart stopped racing and I started breathing again, I felt pretty good about myself for having spared his life.

But.

But.

Then came Mickey and Goofy.

When poor Stuart the gerbil died, I told A he could get a new pet. We went to Petsmart, and spent what felt like hours looking around at all of the fuzzy creatures in the cages. He decided he wanted a mouse. And since they were so small, couldn't he get two? It would be so nice for them to have a friend to hang out with when he wasn't home, blah blah blah.

I gave in. The barely post-pubescent boy working the rodent area assured us that it was a good idea - since they were all from the same litter, they would be great together and live longer for the companionship they found in each other.

Great. Just what I needed. Mice that lived longer.

But we brought them home, set them up in their cage, and A was happy. He played with them, let them crawl all over him while he was watching tv, and showed them off to his friends. Everyone was happy. Except me, because they smelled awful, but that's another story.

A few weeks later, A came to me, a bit concerned. "Goofy keeps chasing Mickey around the cage. I don't think he likes him very much." I wasn't sure what to make of this. I hoped to God that Mickey wasn't a little girl mouse, stuck in with the boys...baby mice would be enough to put me over the edge. A decided he was going to keep an eye on them and see what happened.

Well. Something happened, alright. A couple of evenings later, I heard the wail that makes every mother in the world drop whatever is in her hands and run for dear life to wherever it is that the sound is coming from. Like dolphin radar, I zoomed in on A's room and made it up the stairs in about four steps as I was hearing it.

"Mooooooooooooooooooooooooooommmm!!!"

When I arrived, A was sitting on the floor in front of the cage. A look of great horror masked his little face. "What? What's wrong?" I gasped.

"Goofy."

"Ate."

"Mickey's."

"Head."

"Off."

Time stopped for a moment. I was having difficulty comprehending the reality of the situation. I was stunned into Seinfeldian stupor.

"Ate it?"

A nodded.

"Off?"

He nodded again, tears falling down his cheeks.

"Ate?"

More nodding.

"Off."

Head dropped to chest.

"Wow."

I tiptoed over, suddenly afraid of the evil mouse monster that could show such cruelty. I peeked in the cage, where Goofy was cowering in a corner. I glanced to the other end, and sure enough, there was the headless body of Mickey, laying in a pile of bedding.

No, I didn't quite vomit.

But I had to clean it up. It was almost more than I could stand. I tentatively reached in, pulled out the murderer, and tossed him unceremoniously into the exercise ball. "Watch him." I said to A. Then I took the entire cage down to the garage, where I dumped the contents into the garbage can. Thinking quickly, I pulled a box off of the shelf, threw some of the bedding into it, and sealed it with duct tape. A could believe that I picked Mickey out and put him in there. We would have a funeral later.

For weeks, A contemplated what to do about Goofy. We considered bringing him back to Petsmart, but they claimed they would not take him back. We thought about letting him go, but after I told A that it was a natural dominant instinct that lead him to kill,he felt bad for him. He ended up staying, and A eventually forgave him for the transgression (as boys will do, I suppose).

Fast forward about two years later.

Goofy was getting old. And by old, I mean utterly disgusting. The tip of his tail was turning black, he had scratched all of the fur off of his face, and he looked like a zombie mouse creature from beyond the grave. When he started to bleed around his eyes, I decided enough was enough. It was time to send him to meet his maker. And his murdered brother.

This, of course, posed a problem. What does one do with a pet mouse that needs to die? I did what any woman would do. I called the boy's father.

"Goofy needs to die," I said.

After a long pause, he asked what the hell I was talking about. Since he was planning to come over later that evening to pick A up, I intended to drop the problem into his lap and be done with it. After all, he's a man, right?

Kind of.

"Oh, God," he said. "I still haven't recovered from the angel fish."

I rolled my eyes. I vaguely remembered back in 1995, when we took down the aquarium. There was one giant angel fish that hadn't died, and we'd done something to get rid of it. I couldn't remember what. I scoffed at him.

"Don't you remember?!" He exclaimed.

"No, what did we do?"

"We flushed it!!" he nearly squeaked.

I remembered then. It had been bad. But nothing was going to beat this.

The two of us spent about a half hour on the phone, searching the internet for humane ways to kill mice. I called a vet. I was told it would cost $90 to have them take care of it. This was simply not an option.

Since A refused to accept letting him go outside (it was about 10 degrees out there), whacking him in a pillow case (okay, I wouldn't let that happen, either), or any other easy, quick kill method, it was determined that the only way to accomplish the dirty deed with the least guilt possible was to use the method described in a website that dad found. We would create a miniature gas chamber filled with carbon dioxide by combining baking soda and vinegar, and send him off into a nice, peaceful sleep from which he would never awaken.

The bitch of it?

When dad came to pick him up, the two of them decided it was best for A not to be there when it happened. They rushed out of the house before I could protest (much), wished me luck, and disappeared into the night.

There I was. Standing in the kitchen with a box of baking soda, a bottle of vinegar, an already half-dead mouse, and a set of plastic bowls. Those bastards had completely weaseled out of everything. I was stuck.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried, you know.

I sat at the kitchen table for several minutes, wondering how I'd gotten myself into this mess. Why didn't I just force the men to take care of it? Isn't that what men do? What do I keep them around for, anyway? Why couldn't I be one of those women who can turn on the waterworks on a moment's notice in order to get her way?

I thought about just letting him go outside. I contemplated moving out of the house then and there so I didn't have to deal with it. I also thought about mailing the damn thing back to dad.

But in the end, I placed a small plastic bowl inside of the larger bowl. I set Goofy inside the larger bowl, too. I filled the small bowl with baking soda, then poured an entire bottle of vinegar into it. In a flash, I covered the big bowl with the lid.

I stood there listening. I heard tiny claws clicking against the bottom of the bowl as Goofy walked around a bit. More clicking, a bit of rustling, and then it grew quiet. I waited. Another click.

Then nothing.

I had killed the mouse.

Without opening the bowl, I gingerly picked it up, walked carefully to the garage to avoid sloshing god-knows-what around, and deposited the thing into the garbage can. There would be no funeral this time.

Then I promptly left the house to go play cards at M's house. I wasn't about to be haunted for the evening.

On my way there, I called the boys and told them the deed was done. A never asked about it again. I never brought it up. The guilt consumed me...this wasn't like squishing a spider (which is bad enough, really) or accidentally running over a little frog with my car. I had become a cold-blooded, calculated killer.

I couldn't even blog about it. That's how bad it was.

Until yesterday, when I saw the cute little guy in the garage. Knowing my house, he will die a horrible, painful death on his own...it's just a matter of time. But I will not set a trap. I will not put out poison. I will let fate hold him in its hands, and I will step away.

I will not have more mousy blood on my hands, I swear to you.

So yes, call me a murderer. Call me a heartless bitch. But know that yesterday, I let one little mouse live.

May God save my soul.

Argh.

2008-06-06T18:30:00.001-05:00

My friend isn't coming to visit this weekend, after all.

I am sad.

And on a much more humorous note...

2008-06-06T15:29:00.002-05:00

I have a little boy who wants to take me out on a date.

No, not my A.

A 19 year-old who thinks I'm "kinda hot, in an experienced kind of way."

I'm not sure if I should slap him or send him home to his mommy to be spanked and sequestered to his room full of action figures.

What kind of 19 year-old wants to go out with a 35 year-old who is...well....technically old enough to be his mom? I'm grossed out on so many levels.

Where do these people come from?!

Beyond Cooties

2008-06-06T15:06:00.002-05:00

It's been a tough last week or two...I've been pretty busy, and not feeling my best. Luckily for me, my friend (and frequent commenter here) ms whirledpeas is coming to visit for the weekend. It should be a blast :)

Last night, as I was driving A down to the middle of nowhere to spend a few weeks with his grandparents, it occurred to me that he's entering what may be the toughest time of his life. He finished sixth grade earlier this week - and is going into junior high this fall.

To be honest, I have a very strange memory. There are some important things I remember in vivid detail, and others people will bring up which I have forgotten completely. To go off on a tangent for a moment, it seems many of those forgotten moments come from the years I was married - for some reason, Mark will often mention things of which I have no memory whatsoever, and I feel almost as if I'm betraying him by staring blankly while he explains until I have enough detail to put the pieces together.

One thing I do remember, though, is that junior high sucked. I have crystal clear memories of how stupid kids are in the 12-14 age bracket. All of those hormones, the newly-discovered independence, and the struggle to manage all of the changes as they happen are enough to make you crazy. Remind me over the next couple of years when I'm on the verge of killing him, if you will, that all of this is much harder on him than it is on me.

Or send alcohol. One of the two.

Back at it

2008-06-02T07:23:00.012-05:00

Breathe.

I AM breathing.

Not like that, you stupid twat. Breathe like you mean it. Diaphragm deep.

It hurts.

I don't care. Do it.

And so I did. It was 5:48 am, and my alarm had just gone off. I awoke from the night's fitful sleep to the feeling that there was a horse standing on my chest. The pain and pressure, directly above my left breast, were excruciating. I turned to lay flat on my back, and stretched my neck and shoulders. It didn't help.

So I breathed. Slow, deep, shuddering breaths, one after the other. After twenty minutes or so, it had subsided to a dull ache. I got out of bed, took four advil, and started my day.

Secrets

2008-06-01T21:43:00.002-05:00

A friend of mine is compiling a book of short stories. The guidelines include the following:

"Undercover – confessions of our secret lives" is a collection of true stories in which people disclose something about themselves that you would never believe if you only met them casually.

I am looking for stories of between 3000 and 6000 words. But these are just numbers – don’t be constrained by them. If it only takes 1500 words to sketch a story that grips me with its honesty, you’re in the running. If it takes 7000 to paint a word picture complete with poignant details and I get lost in the flow of its candour, you’re in as well.

Think laterally. A secret or a secret life can certainly be about some hidden sexual depravity but it is just as likely not to be. Maybe it’s a hidden innocence instead – for instance, I’d love to hear from someone who has a happily sexless marriage by choice. It could be the criminal past of someone who is now totally square or a manslaughter conviction that sent a straight citizen to prison.

I have so many secrets I could write about. A few of you know some of them. I have spent the last several days trying to decide what I wanted to explore, but each seemed so empty...so ordinary. I started with the dark, horrible secrets, then moved on to the very sweet ones. In the end, I came to the decision that the only one worth writing is the one that no one knows.

It will be entitled, "November 2nd, 2014".

I'll make you a deal. If it's published, I'll post it here.

What have we learned?

2008-05-31T08:55:00.007-05:00

Yeah, I've been pretty boring here lately. Sorry about that. I've had a ton of things going on, but I haven't felt particularly inspired where any of them are concerned. It's almost as if my life is taking a deep breath, waiting for something big to happen to snap me out of this rut.

Things haven't been a total waste, though. And since it's been a long time since I've put together one of these lists, here is a sampling of what I've learned lately:

Spring really is the happiest time of the year.
The ants that live in my back yard are zombies - no matter how many times I kill them all, they always come back. I hope they don't eat my brain.
Harrison Ford is still pretty sexy for an old guy.
Sunday night is still hot single guy night at the grocery store.
I will never learn to fix my hair and do my makeup before going to the grocery store on Sunday nights
Everyone should have a whirlwind summer fling with no hope of permanency at least once in their lives. It's good for the soul.
The book was wrong - you don't need a towel everywhere you go. You need an umbrella.
Even though I spend a lot of time wishing I could go home and curl up on my couch, I'm actually much happier when I'm out and about doing stuff.
Despite this fact, there is nothing sweeter than a good nap on a Saturday afternoon.
I hate the USPS, people in mail rooms, and anything that has to do with failed cheesecake.
I need to find a few good books to read this summer. Suggestions are welcome - Non-fiction ideas will earn you much scorn, ridicule, and derision.
I'm not turning into my mother, after all.
It's really hilarious when it's your SISTER'S kid who throws his wiimote through the brand new plasma tv screen.
Every woman should have an ex-husband as cool as mine.
Never eat a jalapeño chicken sandwich and spicy vegetables immediately before going to a movie theater
I belong in the arts. I will get back there some day if it kills me.
Within the next six months, I intend to be making a shitload more cash than I do right now. This will help with the long-term arts plan.
My kid is awesome, even if he is turning 12.
I have the coolest friends in the world.

Now I'm off to go be boring for a few more hours. I think there's a nap with my name on it hiding somewhere in the couch.

A Nailbiter...

2008-05-29T20:58:00.002-05:00

So I made cheesecakes this past weekend. I was delighted with how they came out, and froze one immediately to go to K in Washington. I was determined to make sure it got there completely unscathed...I would do whatever I had to do to make it work.

After wrapping it in parchment paper, then adding a layer of plastic wrap and freezing it, I placed the springform pan gently back around it. I then placed it in a styrofoam cooler and popped over to Meijer for a pound of dry ice. I tucked everything in big, puffy packing material, and rushed over to the post office on my lunch yesterday.

The cooler was taped securely, with just a small space to allow the carbon dioxide to escape (dry ice will make the whole thing explode if you don't let it out). I paid eleventy million dollars to ship it overnight, to arrive today at K's office by noon.

And then the unthinkable happened. There was apparently no one in the mail room when the mailman arrived. He left a note telling them there was a package...and will attempt delivery again another day.

Right now, my cheesecake is sitting in the post office in Tacoma, and I have no idea what condition it is in. It may or may not still be frozen. It may or may not be melting into a puddle of cheesy custard in the cooler. It may or may not be completely ruined.

I worked so hard on this whole project, I could just cry. He has been working so hard on the MBA/CFA projects lately that I know he could scream...and I honestly believe that a little bit of homemade cheesecake, baked with a bit of Christine-y goodness, has the potential to make everything just a little bit easier. Call me naive, I don't care. It's my way of taking care of the people that mean a lot to me.

I hope they try to deliver it again tomorrow, and I pray that there is someone there to sign for it when they arrive. I then can only hold my breath and wonder if it will still be in one piece...and edible. If it doesn't arrive tomorrow, it has no chance of survival. None.

Say a little prayer to the postal gods tonight, if you would.

Please.

"For a Five Year-Old"

2008-05-27T21:36:00.002-05:00

-Fleur Adcock

A snail is climbing up the window-sill
into your room, after a night of rain.
You call me in to see, and I explain
that it would be unkind to leave it there:
it might crawl to the floor; we must take care
that no one squashes it. You understand,
and carry it outside, with careful hand,
to eat a daffodil.

I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails:
your gentleness is moulded still by words
from me, who have trapped mice and shot wild birds,
from me, who drowned your kittens, who betrayed
your closest relatives, and who purveyed
the harshest kind of truth to many another.
But that is how things are: I am your mother,
And we are kind to snails.

Trogdor!!!

2008-05-26T14:12:00.005-05:00

I had lunch with Jonathan yesterday, which was (as always) delightful. I won't give a full spoiler report, but he's in for some pretty big changes in his life. I'm really happy for him, his family, and everyone else who will be positively affected by all of the cool stuff that's happening.

Here's the thing, though. Lucky bastard was wearing the coolest shirt in the world when I picked him up - it was a white tee with a great big ol' picture of Trogdor on the front. He's awfully lucky I didn't steal it off of him and make him wear my girly sleeveless button-down home. Now I have to figure out where I can buy myself some Trogdor gear.

And by the way, am I the only person in the world whose first exposure to Trogdor was through Guitar Hero, and not through the sbemails section at homestarrunner.com?

A new holiday

2008-05-22T18:25:00.003-05:00

First, let me apologize for not drawing attention to this earlier in the week. It seems that an historic event occurred on Monday, which shall forever now be known as "Oreo Day". I'm marking it on my calendar for next year, just in case it happens to come back.

Alas, I was not witness to this moment of beauty, as I was asleep in my bed many miles north of the hallowed site. But just knowing that it happened in my area is enough to give me a happy glow of peace and wonder.

So imagine this. It's early in the morning. You're driving down I-80 between Joliet and Morris, and there is a great big truck in front of you. Our Dear Lord God Above, in his wondrous mercy, looks down upon the driver of said big rig, and places his hand upon his shoulder.

"Sleep now," he whispers to the man.

And the man does. He drifts off into a peaceful slumber, in which he dreams of green pastures, fruitful fields, and a quiet valley of heaven.

Except, of course, for the fact that it's really a sheep farm, cornfields, and a great big median. But that's beside the point.

The truck flies off the edge of the highway, into the median, and comes to a crashing halt. In the process, his truck breaks open and spills its precious cargo all over the highway.

The load?

Yeah.

Twenty thousand pounds of oreo cookies.

I shit you not.

You stop your car, fall to your knees, and thank the Creator for his sweet gifts and blessings.

Then you stuff your trunk full and beat it the hell out of there before the cops show up.

And we all live happily ever after.

The End

And Wes, this one's for you...

2008-05-22T08:06:00.002-05:00

Before I forget in the hubbub, I wanted to share a nugget that came out of a conversation I had yesterday...you, of all people, will appreciate this one.

The Greatest Name for a Band Ever -

"Mean Games With Sweet Girls"

You can thank me later.

M-

2008-05-22T07:53:00.004-05:00

Last night on the phone, you said you were pretty sure I'd blog about my evening...

...but I'm not going to.

How very unlike me, don't you think?

What I will say is this...

I woke up this morning, and stepped outside to water my flowers. The sky was clear, except for a few high, puffy clouds, and the birds were singing. My fading lilacs still filled the air with the sweetness of spring. I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sun....

It is a new day.

Thanks, I needed that!

2008-05-19T19:45:00.003-05:00

What was that commercial for? I am thinking it was either V-8 or some sort of after-shave. I'm not sure. I know, I know...big difference.

Anyway, I had a great day today. And I needed that.

So thanks to the person that made me smile. Even though the odds are that you'll never read this, I hope you know that it meant a lot to me.

And next time, I'll try a lot harder not to fracture your skull in the process.

Scout's honor.

Girls are icky.

2008-05-15T21:14:00.002-05:00

No really, I mean that. Women complain about men being pigs, but guys have nothing on the nastiness of chicks. Don't ask so surprised, either. You know it's true.

It's also a well-known fact that I'm one of those people that has to pee a lot. We can blame it on the bp meds, or on the fact that I drink a ton of fluids. It doesn't really matter...the fact is that I'm on about a once-an-hour schedule throughout the work day.

So this morning, at about 9:30, I headed for the ladies' room. I really had to go. I made a beeline for the first stall, where.......whoa. Someone had dribbled all over the seat. Gross! If you're that paranoid about catching cooties from the seat (which I am), then use the little paper cover. It's not that hard.

I made a quick turn for stall #2. Guuaaaaahhhh. Could it be?! No.....

Yes. Dingleberries. I kid you not. I'm not touching that seat with a ten foot pole.

Stall #3. Wet tp stuck to the seat.

Last chance - the handicapped job at the end. I almost dove for it, I swear.

And I am not even going to begin to tell you what was in there. I can't possibly relive it, and I'm not going to make you vomit. I'm nice like that.

So I had to do the cross-legged hobble down to the 8th floor, and start over. It took three stalls to find one that didn't have some horrifying tale to tell.

So, ladies, why? Why can't you just pee and be done with it? For the love of all that is holy, must you make my potty experience so traumatizing?

This is a call to action. Pee in the toilet. Don't leave surprises behind for your friends. And please...this part is important.....FLUSH WHEN YOU ARE DONE.

That is all. Carry on.

Love Me Dead

2008-05-15T21:11:00.001-05:00

I am so all about this song by Ludo right now- it's been stuck in my head for three days. I'd embed the video, but that function is disabled on the Youtube site.

Check it out.

Good night....

2008-05-11T22:46:00.003-05:00

I napped this afternoon, which was likely a bad idea....but it felt so nice to just curl up on the couch and close my eyes that I couldn't resist. The result of this, unfortunately, is that I am now wide awake. I do believe, however, that it's worth it.

It's chilly tonight, and the wind is still blowing. After A went to bed and I finished up some work, I put on a sweatshirt and went outside to sit for a while. The first thing that struck me was just how very dark it was. I told myself that I was being silly, because of course it's dark - it's nighttime. But then I realized that for the first time in ages, the neighbors didn't have their outside light on. And the half moon was hiding behind a thin layer of remaining clouds. It truly was darker than I'd seen in a long time...and it was wonderful.

I sat down and put my feet up on the table. Laying my head on the back of the chair, closing my eyes, I smelled the lilacs...with only about a week left to bloom, they should be savored, don't you think? It was quiet. I relaxed.

It has been a good weekend. I am happy, and relatively calm. I have so much to be grateful for, and as I sat in the dark, with the wind stirring my hair, I smiled. It was a fabulous Mother's Day. My life is good, despite its hectic pace. I am a lucky woman.

I came inside and peeked in on A, who was curled up in a mess of blankets in his room, which I affectionately call the Pit of Despair (if you saw it, you would agree). He looked small there in his bed, even though he's as big as I am now. Sleep brings a certain youth to every face, which is twice as beautiful in children. His deep, even breathing told me that he was at peace, too. I smiled again.

Happy moments, my friends. That is what life is all about. Enjoy every single one of them, and keep living for the opportunity to find them.

I love you people...those of you I have pointed here. Because you know what?

You make me smile, too.

Thanks for being a part of my life.

It's all good in the end.

2008-05-11T12:24:00.002-05:00

We were going to go to the Cubs game today for Mother's Day, but the cold, wind, and rain have changed our plans. I must say, though, that it's a pretty darn good day. A and his dad took me out for brunch at our favorite Polish restaurant, and A paid. It was the cutest thing ever.

When we got home, he gave me the sweetest gift in the world - a book of poems he wrote. I was so impressed by his sense of assembly - I know a lot of adults that couldn't compete with him. Here, for your daily "awwwwwww" factor, are a few of the poems he wrote me.

Spring - Octuplet

Spring is the time that I like best,
This season is better than all the rest,
The falling rain beats out the snow,
In a gentle happy flow,
I ride my bike to school and back,
Then I latch it to the rack,
Birds do chirp and birds do fly,
What a beautiful season, my oh my.

Mother - Triplet

For all the time I spend with my mother,
There is one thing that makes me glad,
That thought is that I don't have a brother.

Banana - Tanka

Yellow banana
Hiding a yellow spider
Ready to be picked
Picked and then the spider bites
Human jumps and runs away

Mom - Bio Poem

Christine
Smart, polite, kind, helpful
Lover of her son, baking, and computers
Who feels happy because her son is with her, infuriated because she didn't get her couch,
and frustrated because she has a really hard job
Who fears spiders because they bite, losing her job because it is how she makes money,
and old age because she likes to be youg
Who would like t be remembered as a good mom, an important figure, and a friend of many
Who would like to see Costa Rica, her grandpa, and the Eiffel Tower.

My Mom - Definition

Kind to children
Loving every day
Cheerful at most times
Caretaking to her kid
Prepares dinner on most nights
Party planner on birthdays
Advice giver when her kid is stuck
Inspiring at tough moments
Loves to bake

This is my mom.

So, am I the luckiest mother on the planet, or what? :) Happy Mother's Day to all of you other moms out there. Enjoy your day...I surely will!

Look here, monoecious....

2008-05-09T19:14:00.004-05:00

I was on the elevator at work today, innocently heading up to the ninth floor, when the little closed-circuit tv monitor pissed me off.

On the screen was the following blurb (yes, I went straight to my desk and wrote it down. sure me):

Grossly Outnumbered!

There are over 40,000 different spiders in the world. In contrast, there are only 4,000 species in the entire mammal kingdom.

Now, I'm not a rocket scientist (or a biologist, for that matter), but it only took me about a half a second to say, "Hey, wait a minute!"

There is no such thing as the mammal kingdom. I found myself channeling Mr. Reeves, my high school biology teacher, who may have been one of the oddest men I have ever met. My sister thought he was the best teacher ever - I, on the other hand, always thought he was a bit creepy. He looked a bit like the bastard love child of Grizzly Adams and Fred Flintstone. With red hair. And big coke bottle glasses.

"Look here, monoecious...." I could hear him saying. He called everyone that, as his own little nasty way of making people look shit up in order to learn while being insulted. Just to save you the trouble:

Main Entry: mon·oe·cious \mə-ˈnē-shəs, mä-\
Function: adjective

1 : having pistillate and staminate flowers on the same plant
2 : having male and female sex organs in the same individual : hermaphroditic

I know. It's lame. But that was his thing.

"Look here, monoecious. King Phillip came over from Germany Saturday, remember? There is no mammal kindgom!"

Remembering that, my eyes rolled back into my head. I struggled to pluck the information from the depths of my shriveling brain. Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species.

Kingdom - Animal
Phylum - Chordata (Vertebrate)
Class - Mammalia (Mammals)

etcetera....etcetera....etcet.....*zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*

At that point, it was too late for me. Mr. Reeves was in my head. I remembered having to pee (badly) during his class. I raised my hand.

"Mr. Reeves?"

"Yes, monoecious."

"Can I please go to the bathroom?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Tell me. Can your bladder hold twenty more drops, do you think?"

I thought about it. It sounded like a stretch. "I don't think so."

"How about ten?"

I squirmed. I could probably do ten, but what was the point? "Um, probably."

"Good!" he proclaimed. "Because there are about ten minutes left in my class. Your bladder produces, on average, one drop of urine per minute. You'll be just fine to wait until the bell."

The entire class groaned. He had struck again.

Right around that time, he would have likely scanned the floor of the classroom for loose change. He always picked up pennies, dimes, nickels, whatever he could find...and at the end of the school year, he would take his wife out for a steak dinner with all of the money he'd collected.

Did I mention he was odd?

So I was standing there on the elevator, thinking of Mr. Reeves, when it struck me. The evil bastard had actually taught me something that's been in my head for over 20 years. Why is it that I can't remember where I parked my car when I leave the office, I never have any idea where my keys are, and I can run into someone in the deli that I know I've met before, and have no clue what their name is....but I can instantly recall, as clear as a bell, being told by Mr. Reeves while dissecting an earthworm that they taste just like cockroaches?

I'm telling you. The dude was creepier than I imagined.

Awkward

2008-05-07T19:30:00.002-05:00

I had a phone interview for another job today - this one doesn't sound quite as much up my alley as the other for which I'd applied, but it is interesting. Plus I know two people that work for this company (which is one of the biggest in the business), and they've both told the hiring manager that I am the person for the job. It was a bit strange to go through an interview in that position, I must say. I've never before been a prime candidate, and it's pretty humbling.

I'm also invited to a party this Saturday night with a guess list that looks like the who's who of Chicago. One of my clients, who seems to have befriended me, really wants me to come. I told him I don't have a date, and he indicated that was no big deal, as it would be a piece of cake to pair me up with just about any of his friends.

That, in particular, was disconcerting.

So I find myself in this place where in many ways, I'm very successful - or on the verge of achieving great things. Career-wise, I've got options, all of which pay much more than I'm making now. Socially, I seem to be getting to know some influential people. And on the arts front, this board membership seems to be opening some great doors.

But, to paraphrase something Jonathan said to me a while back, success is hard. It really makes you question who you are, where you're going, and whether or not you belong in certain places. I was talking with my mom tonight, and what struck me as we spoke was the fact that I just feel....awkward.

Socially, I still feel like a misfit kid. I seem to have two modes of operation - painfully shy and quiet, or babbling like a drunken idiot. I'm not very good at small talk, unless I can follow along with a conversation primarily carried by someone else. If things are too quiet, I just start rambling about crap, and then feel like a moron afterwards. This isn't just in new situations, either - it's whenever I feel that there is something at stake. The middle ground of a comfort zone is just so elusive.

I've proven this recently in many ways, and a couple of you who are close to me can vouch for that, I'm sure. I even went for a few months not speaking to someone I care about, because I just didn't know what to say. I wanted to talk, but knew that if I did, it would come off as just trying too hard. Which it sometimes still does, I know.

I'm also afraid that if I go to this party Saturday night, I'm either going to stand in a corner nursing a beer all night or make a fool of myself flirting with a group of guys I'll never see again. Neither sounds particularly appealing, although I know that just showing up is the right thing to do.

The strange thing lately is that I'm off-balance at work now. I've always been very close with my entire group - but it's hard to be open and honest when you're out interviewing at other places. I've therefore spent a lot of time holed up in my office avoiding people, because as anyone who knows me can attest, I have no poker face.

Work has always been the stable force in my life...when everything else is shaky, I know I have that stability to fall back on. Right now I'm moving so fast that I don't really feel like I have a central, steady core to keep me balanced. I'm off-kilter.

A, of course, is about to turn twelve. There is no such thing as stability or predictability there. He's doing great, but life changes completely every time he blinks.

Many of my friends, too, are going through very tough times. I'm trying to be there, and be reliable for them, but baking cookies and helping around the house now and then only goes so far.

And this movie project is really exciting, but I feel like I'm dropping the ball a bit there, because I can't dedicate a ton of time to it.

We won't even talk about men - I've been making an idiot out of myself there, too (back to the silent vs. babbling dilemma).

And maybe if I would sleep, everything would be a lot easier.

As I told my mom on the phone tonight, I know that I really don't have anything to complain about. And to be honest, I'm not really complaining. I know that there are throngs of people who would kill to be in my position right now.

I'm just off-balance. I need to find a middle ground, and have some sort of a safe haven where I can relax and be comfortable.

Because, see.....?

I'm even babbling here, now.

Success really is hard.

Enough, now...

2008-05-06T22:19:00.003-05:00

It's going to rain tonight...big thunderstorms that light the radar up with yellow and orange bands.

Enough stressing, enough worry. Enough lying awake rehashing the day in my head.

Enough wondering where my life will take me, and what lies ahead on the path.

Again, enough lying awake.

Tonight, I'm going to lock my bedroom door and sleep naked with the window open...I don't care if the wind blows storms into my room. I don't care if tomorrow brings more questions. I don't care if I never find the answers I've been seeking. I'm going to fill my head with the scent of wet lilacs outside my window, and I'm going to sleep like a woman who has never had a care in her life.

Enough.

Because tonight...tonight, it rains....

Know your holidays.

2008-05-04T13:48:00.002-05:00

Yes, tomorrow is the famous Cinco de Mayo. But are you aware of today's significance?

May the Fourth be with you :)

(boo, hiss)