I feel I’ve been letting my legions of fans down this week. It seems like a ton is going on, but none of it is interesting enough to blog about, really. I found myself typing merrily away a few days ago, drawing a correlation between the amount of rain in western Washington state and the number of serial killers from that area, and I had a rare moment of wise awareness that sometimes, silence is preferable. (the thought was provoked by how unsettled and fussy D.C.-area people get when we receive a little sprinkling of rain, if you were curious.
It just feels like a lot of loose ends are getting tied up, or worked, on. Mostly wedding stuff; financial stuff; a project or two of Matt’s; etc. And my parents are coming this weekend, which I’m really looking forward to. They’re going to meet Matt’s mom for the first time. Heh. At this point, I shall refrain from comment, though please don’t misinterpret that as any slam on my parents. Hm, yep. That’s already saying too much.
One not-totally-uninteresting thing we did this week: On Wednesday night, we raced to Manassas to slide into Jiffy Lube just before 7 p.m., forcing them to stay a little bit late to change our oil. I feel really guilty pulling behind the bay at about 6:52, but they always assure me that if they’re open, they’re raring to go! They’re very kind guys there at the Manassas Jiffy Lube. So we got all lubed up. Then, since it was already about 7:15, we thought we’d try to grab some dinner out. All too often, since we moved to Manassas a bit more than a year ago, we’ve eaten out – probably about once a week, if I’m being honest. (I picked that one up from Simon Cowell. Heh. To be read in English accent.) Where we erred previously, though, was not in the act of eating out, but in the manner in which we did it. We’d go to a ‘sit-down restaurant’ – say, Ruby Tuesday’s or Hops or someplace – and, again, if I’m being honest, I dreaded these occasions because Lizzy just doesn’t want to be contained in a booth for as long as it takes to decide on, order and eat dinner. She is not a sit-in-one-place kind of kid (are any of them?). A few of you no doubt remember the infamous Burger King bawling session and "I'm waiting for you, Big Boy!” outburst, but I am happy to say, she has since mastered the art of climbing up those dumb ‘stairs’ in your typical fast-food Play Place. So now we’re good to go on the fast food. Fortunately for our ever-expanding waistlines, there are some semi-healthy selections on the menus these days.
So I steered us from the suggested Mandarin something-or-other to a fast-food joint where Lizzy could work off her energy in between chicken nuggets. I believe we chose Chick-fil-A merely out of convenience of proximity. – I have avoided it for nearly four years because my one experience there was going to lunch after I had started going into labor, and … well… you really don’t want to know any more than that.
I knew it was (I assume) Christian-owned; Matt and I have discussed the fact that it’s closed on Sundays, and we’ve seen Veggie Tales merchandise offered in the kids’ meals before. But I didn’t realize how strongly that came across in the restaurants themselves. They were actually playing Christian music! I was shocked, but pleasantly so. Not that Christian music, for the most part, is all that, but what a refreshing change. The place was almost empty, as well – one of the employees told me that Thursday (the following night) was their biggie as far as kids were concerned, because a clown comes and entertains. On this night, we had this peaceful oasis to ourselves. Lizzy made a little friend in the play area, which was clean, small enough to monitor our kid (unlike McDonald’s, where they practically aren’t within shouting distance any more if they go far enough), and had some inventive touches. Matt was blown away by the xylophone-like music contraption with notes written on the wall and everything. I seriously doubt any kid has ever fully taken advantage of the complexity of it, but I didn’t want to throw cold water on his discovery.
And the chicken nuggets were downright tasty!
I think we’re definitely “converting” to Chick-fil-A from now on whenever possible.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
Have we found a wedding site?
I'm going to cheat and slap on a response to my dear friend Erin, who kindly inquired -- after I canceled our fairly long-planned day to hang out in order to find a wedding/reception site -- if we had succeeded.
I feel a little bit bad about posting this, because now these comments will come up when other feverish brides-to-be Google these sites. My attempts at non-specificity are being subjugated here. Eh. *shrug*
Aha! We surely did!!! I'm very excited about it. So now we have a date, too!! Unfortunately (though we knew this would be the case), it's after you move. Sept. 30.
We went to three places -- Inn at Vint Hill (Warrenton-ish), The Black Horse Inn (Warrenton countryside), and The Ashby Inn (Paris). Vint Hill was a big big manor house -- very lovely inside, but unfortunately co-opted by the military at some point along the line, and thus surrounded by bunkers and ugly stuff. The ride out there makes you wonder if you're being led out to be gassed. But, not a bad price, they do the food there, and no time limit. And pleasant contact person/house owner.
The second place, Black Horse Inn, is SUCH a beautiful joint. It's a horse-riding deal, as well. The owner has three horses. The B&B part -- the main house -- is so lovely. If I could afford $300-a-night rooms, I'd go there just for fun, no wedding involved, sometime. But it was really expensive (compared to what we'd been looking at). The woman whipped us up a cost estimate that was in the upper $8,000 range, and that was before you add in food. That was just site rental, chair rental, dish/glass rental, staff charges. That didn't even include alcohol -- we'd need to bring that ourselves. Also, although the main house and grounds were very lovely, the actual reception hall was fairly new -- five years old -- and fancy, but I'm picturing something with a bit more of an intimate feel. Not a big open room. Nothing wrong with that, I guess -- most receptions are that way, and probably for a reason -- but I'd rather have a building with more history; more alive.
(an aside: Matt and I debate this sometimes as we drive around. He loves the massive McMansion look, though will concede that, with not much yard and often no old-growth trees, it's a bit silly. I love houses that have been around since the 1970s. They've been lived in, and have more of a sense of permanence and soul to them. And the neighborhood doesn't look like it was just a tract of farmland last year, before the backhoe got to it.)
The last was the best, as I suspected it might be. Ashby Inn was recommended to us by one Mrs. Dawn Luecke. She had taken friends there for lunch one day. It's also a B&B-type place. It's in this teeny town of 47 people, but it actually is a town, if you can believe it. Basically one little street, an antique shop, this two-building inn, a church, and some lovely, Victorian-style homes. Like renting a town for the night, as Matt said. They've got four or five eating rooms, in restaurant style. Maybe not optimal for a reception, as I said, but there's a biggish patio area and lawn where people could gather for toasts and first dances and the like. There's a bit of slightly raised patio area for a band, which Matt eagerly pointed out. And it's gorgeous hills and country all around. The kicker was -- they had a fairly affordable rate worked out, and it turned out to be more economical, in a sense, to do an evening affair, if you were interested in getting rooms also.
So we reserved it for Sept. 30. That works for my brother and fam to come from out of town, and that was the biggest date requirement.
I somehow feel more 'legitimate.' Now, when people ask if we have set a date and look skeptical when I have to respond 'not yet' will get some actual information!! Yessss. My mind feels a bit more at peace.
Now... on to the next stage of planning! Whatever that may be.
I feel a little bit bad about posting this, because now these comments will come up when other feverish brides-to-be Google these sites. My attempts at non-specificity are being subjugated here. Eh. *shrug*
Aha! We surely did!!! I'm very excited about it. So now we have a date, too!! Unfortunately (though we knew this would be the case), it's after you move. Sept. 30.
We went to three places -- Inn at Vint Hill (Warrenton-ish), The Black Horse Inn (Warrenton countryside), and The Ashby Inn (Paris). Vint Hill was a big big manor house -- very lovely inside, but unfortunately co-opted by the military at some point along the line, and thus surrounded by bunkers and ugly stuff. The ride out there makes you wonder if you're being led out to be gassed. But, not a bad price, they do the food there, and no time limit. And pleasant contact person/house owner.
The second place, Black Horse Inn, is SUCH a beautiful joint. It's a horse-riding deal, as well. The owner has three horses. The B&B part -- the main house -- is so lovely. If I could afford $300-a-night rooms, I'd go there just for fun, no wedding involved, sometime. But it was really expensive (compared to what we'd been looking at). The woman whipped us up a cost estimate that was in the upper $8,000 range, and that was before you add in food. That was just site rental, chair rental, dish/glass rental, staff charges. That didn't even include alcohol -- we'd need to bring that ourselves. Also, although the main house and grounds were very lovely, the actual reception hall was fairly new -- five years old -- and fancy, but I'm picturing something with a bit more of an intimate feel. Not a big open room. Nothing wrong with that, I guess -- most receptions are that way, and probably for a reason -- but I'd rather have a building with more history; more alive.
(an aside: Matt and I debate this sometimes as we drive around. He loves the massive McMansion look, though will concede that, with not much yard and often no old-growth trees, it's a bit silly. I love houses that have been around since the 1970s. They've been lived in, and have more of a sense of permanence and soul to them. And the neighborhood doesn't look like it was just a tract of farmland last year, before the backhoe got to it.)
The last was the best, as I suspected it might be. Ashby Inn was recommended to us by one Mrs. Dawn Luecke. She had taken friends there for lunch one day. It's also a B&B-type place. It's in this teeny town of 47 people, but it actually is a town, if you can believe it. Basically one little street, an antique shop, this two-building inn, a church, and some lovely, Victorian-style homes. Like renting a town for the night, as Matt said. They've got four or five eating rooms, in restaurant style. Maybe not optimal for a reception, as I said, but there's a biggish patio area and lawn where people could gather for toasts and first dances and the like. There's a bit of slightly raised patio area for a band, which Matt eagerly pointed out. And it's gorgeous hills and country all around. The kicker was -- they had a fairly affordable rate worked out, and it turned out to be more economical, in a sense, to do an evening affair, if you were interested in getting rooms also.
So we reserved it for Sept. 30. That works for my brother and fam to come from out of town, and that was the biggest date requirement.
I somehow feel more 'legitimate.' Now, when people ask if we have set a date and look skeptical when I have to respond 'not yet' will get some actual information!! Yessss. My mind feels a bit more at peace.
Now... on to the next stage of planning! Whatever that may be.
Jarhead
Matt and I watched “Jarhead” late last night. We finished up at about 12:45, so it was all too fresh in my head all night and this morning.
Upon further reflection, I think the movie was actually done pretty well. The perspective was of one on the ground, who doesn’t know much more than what he can see. From what I’ve heard, it reflected pretty accurately how things went down over there during Desert Storm for your standard troop, who was sitting around, waiting for action and going not-so-slowly insane. More American casualties from accidentally dropping a grenade that someone was juggling out of boredom than from actual combat, as I recall. Those were the days.
However… I try to avoid war movies. They appeal to, and speak for, a segment of the population of which I, frankly, am afraid – the out-of-control male. In a sense, I suppose, they’re VERY controlled at times of combat in the military, but then again, they’re bred to fight and kill and conquer, and those elements of manhood frighten me very much indeed. The raw, guttural, grunting male who would prefer to drag a woman home by her hair and … well, yuk, than to make pleasant conversation. You get my drift. (?) Scenes of, ahem, males gratifying themselves (* see note below) are among the hardest for me to watch. I simply Do Not Get It. And again, *coughcough,* I think I’ll leave it at that. Not sure if that says more about me being a woman, or being simply me.
So, I was left with some fairly unpleasant impressions from the movie, though, as I say, it was done fairly well. And it wasn’t that gratuitous, really. Not that much HAPPENED – that was sort of the point. That, and, what any engagement** does to a person. Does to (in this case) his life. … these guys were trained to kill throughout – to live and die for that one great shot (these were, specifically, snipers, these two) – and toward the end, two of the guys have it. That shot, in their sights. The order to shoot to kill confirmed. One doesn’t seem to be quite up to it, and the other goes absolutely ape when a commander shows up and orders them to stand down because they’re about to do an airstrike, after all. The guy who flips out just wants his one chance to kill someone. Don’t take away his chance! He just wants that One Kill. I guess that would justify, or make some sense of, all the crap he’s gone through over the past year. Or maybe he really has totally lost it.
I feel a bit odd expressing all this because, as my boss reiterated when we were discussing the movie this morning, “these are our readers!” Or rather, these are the coveted 18- to 27-year-olds whom we would love to have as readers. But they’re too busy playing video games, reading the Internet, or, uh… whatever it is they do all day.
All in all: Thank God I’m a woman. Seriously. Thank God. I just don’t want to deal with some of the stuff that men deal with.
And also, in fairness, thank God for the sorts of men who are nice people to be around. Who don’t wear their emotions, or urges, on their sleeves.
The movie did take care of one nagging thing for me – I now have another impression of Jake Gyllenhaal aside from gay cowboy (shepherd, actually). HOO-ah.
* I am not pro this behavior; I am not anti this behavior. I simply do not ever want to see it, hear it discussed, or know anything about it.
** at first, I typed simply "what any engagement does to a person. Does to one's life." Har! But, really, I meant military engagement...
Friday, March 24, 2006
half-baked couch potatoes
Last night, when Matt and I picked up the Lizzard from day care, her dial was turned to "fussy and uncooperative." Not at first, but clearly, by the time she got into the car, it was not going to be a pleasant ride home. To the extent that we had to threaten her to get her to stop crying -- I'm not sure this is a good parental policy, but sometimes, in enclosed spaces for extended periods, "ideal" does not show up. So, silencio was had.
After a couple of minutes of uninterrupted conversation with the fiance, I had to check the rear-view mirror to see if our child had fallen out of the car, or what. (I shouldn't joke about that; it happened to me once. But we have a two-door, and she's obviously in the back seat, so it's not a strong possibility.) And she was ASLEEP. Oops. Visions of her awake 'til midnight danced in my head, but, shrug, I guess she missed her nap or something. So we let her go.
We carried her in the house (she's a sound sleeper), laid her on the couch, and she slept on and on and on. I picked her up and carried her to bed when we retired, at 11. Got her some milk at that point, but she slept ... until 6:15 a.m.! Totally weird. Has never happened before. And she doesn't appear to be sick today, or anything.
Matt and I enjoyed the most luxurious evening, despite paranoia that she would wake at any moment, of uninterrupted coupledom! What did we do, you ask? Did we clean? Did we make an extravagant dinner? Did we do -- well, anything else? We did NOTHING. We camped on the couch and watched NBC's Thursday night lineup, right through e.r.
And it was heaven.
P.S. -- I don't advocate this sort of behavior every night, for those who are able -- TV is crap, and one does need to move around a bit and stimulate one's brain and body from time to time -- but just this once, it was like someone on a forced diet, enjoying a guilt-free sundae, I guess. Sheer bliss.
On the agenda tonight: Watching Chicken Little! And no, I don't mean the kid from American Idol. We bought the movie Wednesday night. Haven't seen it yet. Tonight is Lizzy's turn to rule the remote control.
After a couple of minutes of uninterrupted conversation with the fiance, I had to check the rear-view mirror to see if our child had fallen out of the car, or what. (I shouldn't joke about that; it happened to me once. But we have a two-door, and she's obviously in the back seat, so it's not a strong possibility.) And she was ASLEEP. Oops. Visions of her awake 'til midnight danced in my head, but, shrug, I guess she missed her nap or something. So we let her go.
We carried her in the house (she's a sound sleeper), laid her on the couch, and she slept on and on and on. I picked her up and carried her to bed when we retired, at 11. Got her some milk at that point, but she slept ... until 6:15 a.m.! Totally weird. Has never happened before. And she doesn't appear to be sick today, or anything.
Matt and I enjoyed the most luxurious evening, despite paranoia that she would wake at any moment, of uninterrupted coupledom! What did we do, you ask? Did we clean? Did we make an extravagant dinner? Did we do -- well, anything else? We did NOTHING. We camped on the couch and watched NBC's Thursday night lineup, right through e.r.
And it was heaven.
P.S. -- I don't advocate this sort of behavior every night, for those who are able -- TV is crap, and one does need to move around a bit and stimulate one's brain and body from time to time -- but just this once, it was like someone on a forced diet, enjoying a guilt-free sundae, I guess. Sheer bliss.
On the agenda tonight: Watching Chicken Little! And no, I don't mean the kid from American Idol. We bought the movie Wednesday night. Haven't seen it yet. Tonight is Lizzy's turn to rule the remote control.
profanity, part II
This morning, when I dropped Lizzy off at day care, she settled into coloring, like she usually does at that time of day. (they have certain activities that the kids can do at certain times. Others are "closed," a term that has cropped up at home when Lizzy doesn't feel like playing, say, Go Fish with us right then. "No!" she'll wail. "Games are closed!")
I admired her friend Henry's Woody doll, a character from Toy Story. No, he corrects me, it's not a doll! It's a TOY. Well, then. Sorry about that, Henry! We wouldn't want to suggest that a manly 3-year-old boy might play with DOLLS. So I'm pulling the cord on the back, and he says various things, such as "There's a snake in my boot!", "Howdy, Partner!", etc.
I put down the doll -- er, toy -- and another little friend, Sean, says, "He also says 'Shut up!' ", with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, as if by pointing this out he's being slightly daring. I feigned a bit of shock, and said, "Oh, that's not very nice, is it!"
Then Lizzy's little friend Delaney breaks in. "My daddy, sometimes when he's driving, he will say, 'Damn it!' at the other cars. Sometimes, he'll say, 'Damn it!', she repeats, and then repeats it again another time or two. My eyes are darting nervously over to Lizzy, who's merrily coloring away a couple of kids over from her, and sort of monitoring the conversation, but not actively taking part. "Oh," I say, racing for a way to divert this line of conversation. Delaney soldiers on. "And sometimes," she says, "He says, 'GO! GO!' at the other cars."
Ahhh, public education. Or, private education, actually. Yippee.
Another note, along the lines of the kiddo drop-off and pick-up: It's such a wonderful feeling when Lizzy says, "That's my mom!" with awe and wonder and joy in her voice when I pop in unexpectedly. It is clearly a high point in her day.
I notice this with the other kids and their parents, too. If I stick around for a few minutes, for some reason, I am nearly mobbed by a cluster of kids wanting to show or tell me something. It's like we're celebrities of a sort. Visiting parents! Cool!!
I'm soaking it all up for that time when it will be the opposite. Ohhh, the stories we'll tell of when Lizzy was a wee one. I can't wait to see the mortified looks on her adolescent face.
I admired her friend Henry's Woody doll, a character from Toy Story. No, he corrects me, it's not a doll! It's a TOY. Well, then. Sorry about that, Henry! We wouldn't want to suggest that a manly 3-year-old boy might play with DOLLS. So I'm pulling the cord on the back, and he says various things, such as "There's a snake in my boot!", "Howdy, Partner!", etc.
I put down the doll -- er, toy -- and another little friend, Sean, says, "He also says 'Shut up!' ", with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, as if by pointing this out he's being slightly daring. I feigned a bit of shock, and said, "Oh, that's not very nice, is it!"
Then Lizzy's little friend Delaney breaks in. "My daddy, sometimes when he's driving, he will say, 'Damn it!' at the other cars. Sometimes, he'll say, 'Damn it!', she repeats, and then repeats it again another time or two. My eyes are darting nervously over to Lizzy, who's merrily coloring away a couple of kids over from her, and sort of monitoring the conversation, but not actively taking part. "Oh," I say, racing for a way to divert this line of conversation. Delaney soldiers on. "And sometimes," she says, "He says, 'GO! GO!' at the other cars."
Ahhh, public education. Or, private education, actually. Yippee.
Another note, along the lines of the kiddo drop-off and pick-up: It's such a wonderful feeling when Lizzy says, "That's my mom!" with awe and wonder and joy in her voice when I pop in unexpectedly. It is clearly a high point in her day.
I notice this with the other kids and their parents, too. If I stick around for a few minutes, for some reason, I am nearly mobbed by a cluster of kids wanting to show or tell me something. It's like we're celebrities of a sort. Visiting parents! Cool!!
I'm soaking it all up for that time when it will be the opposite. Ohhh, the stories we'll tell of when Lizzy was a wee one. I can't wait to see the mortified looks on her adolescent face.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
the seduction of technology
Yesterday, when I came in to work, I had a new computer. Okay, I knew that would be happening. I expected to have to replace all the passwords on the Web sites I go to (for work purposes, mostly), and reconfigure my desktop organization. But what stopped me was the keyboard. My white, sleek ergonomic keyboard (keys divided into two halves, slightly tilted) had been replaced by a black, boxy model – without the ergonomic arrangement. Crisis!!! I had enough trouble training my typing fingers to work with the other arrangement years ago. And now, I had to switch back? I’m getting too old for these types of things.
All day, my brain was reeling from knowing what I had to do – my hands, for instance, itched to simply click on a photo to open it in Photoshop, but I needed to fish around and find out how to re-set the shortcut in order to make that happen, and sort of never found the time. Or, even worse, the 'insert' and 'delete' buttons on my new keyboard are were the 'home' and 'end' buttons used to be. It felt like one of my arms had been cut off, and I was trying to do everything right-handed. Very disconcerting.
I could, I suppose, e-mail the techie types and ask if they have another ergo keyboard that's compatible with the new hard drive. (do you suppose it's a plug-in thing? Or maybe it just came with it, so they passed along the goods?) But, here’s the rub – this new model has (sweet!) quick keys. The loving tap of one button will bring up an Internet explorer window! No more minimizing what’s on my screen, then finding the Internet explorer shortcut on my desktop! Heck, I don’t even have to touch my mouse AT ALL (for that purpose). Same for sending an e-mail. Or adjusting the volume on my headset! (though I haven’t quite figured out how to make that work. But, in theory, it COULD…) Oh, the blessed convenience!
Nope, there’s just no going back. My hands will simply have to remember how to deal with the cramped, linear typing keys. I’m addicted to convenience.
All day, my brain was reeling from knowing what I had to do – my hands, for instance, itched to simply click on a photo to open it in Photoshop, but I needed to fish around and find out how to re-set the shortcut in order to make that happen, and sort of never found the time. Or, even worse, the 'insert' and 'delete' buttons on my new keyboard are were the 'home' and 'end' buttons used to be. It felt like one of my arms had been cut off, and I was trying to do everything right-handed. Very disconcerting.I could, I suppose, e-mail the techie types and ask if they have another ergo keyboard that's compatible with the new hard drive. (do you suppose it's a plug-in thing? Or maybe it just came with it, so they passed along the goods?) But, here’s the rub – this new model has (sweet!) quick keys. The loving tap of one button will bring up an Internet explorer window! No more minimizing what’s on my screen, then finding the Internet explorer shortcut on my desktop! Heck, I don’t even have to touch my mouse AT ALL (for that purpose). Same for sending an e-mail. Or adjusting the volume on my headset! (though I haven’t quite figured out how to make that work. But, in theory, it COULD…) Oh, the blessed convenience!
Nope, there’s just no going back. My hands will simply have to remember how to deal with the cramped, linear typing keys. I’m addicted to convenience.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
who cares?
Sometimes I wonder if the things I care about are worth caring about.
I’m not talking about things that are, clearly, essential: Peace (on whatever level you care to define that), justice (ditto), the fact that hitting and killing people isn’t a very productive way to live, etc. I’m talking about the more minor things. They might still be moral issues, or they might not. But – are they still things that are important to hang onto?
The two examples that come to mind are swearing, and spelling/grammar. It wears on me, you see, in my attempts to be, uh, “pure” on those fronts. It’s hard to care! It takes energy! I don’t usually have any to spare.
The swearing one is such a slippery slope, as well: When I was growing up, we couldn’t say all the biggies; not a surprise. ‘Crap,’ however, was acceptable – or at least, my parents said it. I don’t really recall if we were allowed to say it or not. ‘Butt’ was not acceptable. I probably still try to avoid it, I think. Lizzy trotted it out the other day, and I suggested a better word. So maybe I’m also not allowing it. Who knew!
I’ve added a couple other words since then – words that don’t seem that offensive in general, but perhaps are to some. But recently – whose blog was that on, anyway? Sonja’s? – some friends and acquaintances of mine had a rousing discussion about cursing. Whether it was something God likely objected to.
I bring this up because I often tire of feeling like the only person in the world who doesn’t use certain words. They wear on me when I hear them, because they cause a “yikes!” reaction in my head. What is one to do then? Decide they’re okay? But then I feel like I’m giving in somehow. Being what I don’t want to be. At what point do we decide that something’s so widespread in our culture that we just don’t care anymore? It used to be rude, but, well – now it’s just how things are? Occasionally, an older relative will say something to me like, “The world’s just a different place these days, I guess.” And I agree, but I always take it as a bit of an insult. Because I think what they mean is, “We’ve lost our moral compass,” or “we used to do things better.” Maybe I’m being too defensive. And, more likely – they’re probably right.
Okay, this started out as more of a joking-around entry, and has turned into something not so fun. So I’ll skip to the next example:
Spelling and grammar. A few people – I think they knew I was a copy editor – have said to me, “Why do we even care? If you know what I mean, who cares if I misspell something or use an apostrophe when it’s merely a plural word?” (I shudder just typing that.) I mean, yes. That is unlikely to kill anyone.
Maybe I have some German in me. I don’t know of any, but I could be wrong. When I was in Germany, one of the phrases of satisfaction they’d utter from time to time was, “Alles in Ordnung.” All is in order. Everything has a certain way to be, and we are happy and at rest if it is so. I think that’s how I feel about grammar, spelling, etc. But it sure feels like a losing battle.
(DISCLAIMER: I don’t much care, for the record, if I get an e-mail or see a blog entry with mistakes. It’s not important. But if you’re a business, and you’re making a sign, or writing something on a board for public display, etc., for pity’s sake, PLEASE do yourself the trouble of getting it right.)
I think the height of disturbing is when I see misspellings at my daughter’s day care. Signs on the wall, usually. This morning, I saw a cute display of photos of the toddler room making a “Ceasar Salad.” Awww! And then, ugh.
Or awhile back, when Lizzy’s class had a display of the various American bills on the wall. (George Washington is on the one-dollar bill; etc. I won’t continue and expose the fact that I would have to check to make sure who they actually are.) Which one is Ben Franklin on, anyway? Oddly enough, misplaced facts like these don’t trouble me so much. Just spell them right! So there goes my credibility.
But back to Ben Franklin – he was described as an American president. Ahem. The worst part was, Matt had to point out the error to me. I didn’t even notice.
I’m not talking about things that are, clearly, essential: Peace (on whatever level you care to define that), justice (ditto), the fact that hitting and killing people isn’t a very productive way to live, etc. I’m talking about the more minor things. They might still be moral issues, or they might not. But – are they still things that are important to hang onto?
The two examples that come to mind are swearing, and spelling/grammar. It wears on me, you see, in my attempts to be, uh, “pure” on those fronts. It’s hard to care! It takes energy! I don’t usually have any to spare.
The swearing one is such a slippery slope, as well: When I was growing up, we couldn’t say all the biggies; not a surprise. ‘Crap,’ however, was acceptable – or at least, my parents said it. I don’t really recall if we were allowed to say it or not. ‘Butt’ was not acceptable. I probably still try to avoid it, I think. Lizzy trotted it out the other day, and I suggested a better word. So maybe I’m also not allowing it. Who knew!
I’ve added a couple other words since then – words that don’t seem that offensive in general, but perhaps are to some. But recently – whose blog was that on, anyway? Sonja’s? – some friends and acquaintances of mine had a rousing discussion about cursing. Whether it was something God likely objected to.
I bring this up because I often tire of feeling like the only person in the world who doesn’t use certain words. They wear on me when I hear them, because they cause a “yikes!” reaction in my head. What is one to do then? Decide they’re okay? But then I feel like I’m giving in somehow. Being what I don’t want to be. At what point do we decide that something’s so widespread in our culture that we just don’t care anymore? It used to be rude, but, well – now it’s just how things are? Occasionally, an older relative will say something to me like, “The world’s just a different place these days, I guess.” And I agree, but I always take it as a bit of an insult. Because I think what they mean is, “We’ve lost our moral compass,” or “we used to do things better.” Maybe I’m being too defensive. And, more likely – they’re probably right.
Okay, this started out as more of a joking-around entry, and has turned into something not so fun. So I’ll skip to the next example:
Spelling and grammar. A few people – I think they knew I was a copy editor – have said to me, “Why do we even care? If you know what I mean, who cares if I misspell something or use an apostrophe when it’s merely a plural word?” (I shudder just typing that.) I mean, yes. That is unlikely to kill anyone.
Maybe I have some German in me. I don’t know of any, but I could be wrong. When I was in Germany, one of the phrases of satisfaction they’d utter from time to time was, “Alles in Ordnung.” All is in order. Everything has a certain way to be, and we are happy and at rest if it is so. I think that’s how I feel about grammar, spelling, etc. But it sure feels like a losing battle.
(DISCLAIMER: I don’t much care, for the record, if I get an e-mail or see a blog entry with mistakes. It’s not important. But if you’re a business, and you’re making a sign, or writing something on a board for public display, etc., for pity’s sake, PLEASE do yourself the trouble of getting it right.)
I think the height of disturbing is when I see misspellings at my daughter’s day care. Signs on the wall, usually. This morning, I saw a cute display of photos of the toddler room making a “Ceasar Salad.” Awww! And then, ugh.
Or awhile back, when Lizzy’s class had a display of the various American bills on the wall. (George Washington is on the one-dollar bill; etc. I won’t continue and expose the fact that I would have to check to make sure who they actually are.) Which one is Ben Franklin on, anyway? Oddly enough, misplaced facts like these don’t trouble me so much. Just spell them right! So there goes my credibility.
But back to Ben Franklin – he was described as an American president. Ahem. The worst part was, Matt had to point out the error to me. I didn’t even notice.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Happy St. Paddy's, y'all
That's right -- it's one of those funny religious holidays when people get totally trashed to honor a saint, or other matter of religion.
This isn't where I was originally going with this post, but because what's on my mind is interesting only to me at the moment (wedding planning), and not even very interesting to me, at that ... let's take a walk down Ye Olde Memory Layne instead.
Let's cast our minds back to the B.L. era -- before Lizzy. The year is 2002; the date is mid-March. March 17, in fact. It's seven months after 9/11, and the poor souls at the FBI are still sorting through the World Trade Center wreckage for bits of, well, people. It's quite horrible work, or so I heard. Duffy's friend, whose name escapes me, was assigned to this gruesome task, and given a hotel room on LuwonGisland (Long Island, to those of us who don't hail from there). She invited Duffy to crash there, and Duffy invited me.
Actually, this isn't strictly B.L. -- the Lizzy embryo has already made itself known, but the life-changing news has only been realized for a few weeks. But, what the hey. Sure, I'll go on a road trip to Manhattan. Yes, I feel sick and tired all the time, but -- eh. It'll be a BLAST!
So we drive up there without incident, bum around a bit, try to stay warm (no easy task) and meet up with some of the Duffster's friends for dinner. I hope I don't offend anyone at this point by saying that the significant thing that sticks in my memory about them is that they are a) practicing Catholics, b) fully grown adults, and c) enthusiastic about their chosen faith. I have so rarely met this combination -- lapsed Catholics are a dime a dozen, at least in my experience -- but these guys were refreshing. So we have dinner. Everyone but me drinks wine. Etc.
Duffy and I checked out Ground Zero that day, we went to one of the big museums, we saw part of a parade, blah blah blah -- let's skip to the part where it's getting to be party time in the Big Apple, and everyone is out, bedecked in obnoxious colors. For some stupid reason, we jam ourselves into a few Irish pubs before realizing that, you know what, why. Because, it's miserable. Waaaay too crowded. As for me, I had yet to figure out what triggered the physical 'icks' of first-trimester pregnancy -- the shepherd's pie I had for dinner was quite festive, but perhaps not the best idea ever. Because, I feel quite sick. Not the hurl all over the place kind, but definitely the my stomach hurts badly, I feel completely antisocial, just go away and leave me alone kind. But my friend Duffy and I are in Manhattan, we are here to Have Fun, it's St. Patrick's Day, and our hotel room is a ferry ride away, so we press on. Her Catholic buds (I think it was them) find a not-so-crowded (sort of) pub across from Madison Square Garden. We go there. I slump at a table and try not to cry or be too big of a party pooper. Duffy dances and has fun. Eventually, feeling slightly not so horrible, I join her. Little Lizzy gets to jump up and down in utero to some random Irish tunes.
Finally, I feel it is late enough that I can beg her to leave. So, we leave. It must've been about 2 at that point. Or maybe the place closed. I dunno. The important thing to me right then was, we left. We managed to catch our ferry. We made it back to the waterfront at LuwonGisland. We try to start the car... Um. Car? It's a good time for you to start. It's now after 3, in a sketchy part of NYC, and we are two women who are tired and not feeling like being toyed with. Thanks!
The car kept stalling. As I recall, braking was part of what caused a stall. So we'd get it going, then try to coast as far as we could. Corners were fun! If you're Evil Knievel.
Finally, we come to our Waterloo -- an overpass that was too much to coast over. So, we slide to a stop. I get out and push, over Duffy's loud protestations. She steers. We go pretty much nowhere, not very fast.
Then, a pickup truck pulls up. Long Island -- 3-something a.m. -- what are the odds this will be a pretty scene? But, miraculously, it's two young guys who genuinely want to help us. Their names (this is so cute!) were Harry and Danny, and they are happy to bumper-push us several miles to Duffy's friend's motel. Earning us their everlasting gratitude.
We spent most of the next day (Duffy and I; not the Catholic guys or the pickup-truck guys, if that wasn't clear) hanging out in a slapped-together pizza shop on the island, watching people who looked like they'd jumped straight off the set of a gangster movie sashay in and out, while the car got worked on. About six hours and $800 later, we were on our way.
When I told my mom this story, I said, "Maybe Harry and Danny were angels!" She pointed out that they had the same names as my dad (Harry, but he goes by Ed) and my uncle (Dan). I got a kick out of that, for some reason.
This isn't where I was originally going with this post, but because what's on my mind is interesting only to me at the moment (wedding planning), and not even very interesting to me, at that ... let's take a walk down Ye Olde Memory Layne instead.
Let's cast our minds back to the B.L. era -- before Lizzy. The year is 2002; the date is mid-March. March 17, in fact. It's seven months after 9/11, and the poor souls at the FBI are still sorting through the World Trade Center wreckage for bits of, well, people. It's quite horrible work, or so I heard. Duffy's friend, whose name escapes me, was assigned to this gruesome task, and given a hotel room on LuwonGisland (Long Island, to those of us who don't hail from there). She invited Duffy to crash there, and Duffy invited me.
Actually, this isn't strictly B.L. -- the Lizzy embryo has already made itself known, but the life-changing news has only been realized for a few weeks. But, what the hey. Sure, I'll go on a road trip to Manhattan. Yes, I feel sick and tired all the time, but -- eh. It'll be a BLAST!
So we drive up there without incident, bum around a bit, try to stay warm (no easy task) and meet up with some of the Duffster's friends for dinner. I hope I don't offend anyone at this point by saying that the significant thing that sticks in my memory about them is that they are a) practicing Catholics, b) fully grown adults, and c) enthusiastic about their chosen faith. I have so rarely met this combination -- lapsed Catholics are a dime a dozen, at least in my experience -- but these guys were refreshing. So we have dinner. Everyone but me drinks wine. Etc.
Duffy and I checked out Ground Zero that day, we went to one of the big museums, we saw part of a parade, blah blah blah -- let's skip to the part where it's getting to be party time in the Big Apple, and everyone is out, bedecked in obnoxious colors. For some stupid reason, we jam ourselves into a few Irish pubs before realizing that, you know what, why. Because, it's miserable. Waaaay too crowded. As for me, I had yet to figure out what triggered the physical 'icks' of first-trimester pregnancy -- the shepherd's pie I had for dinner was quite festive, but perhaps not the best idea ever. Because, I feel quite sick. Not the hurl all over the place kind, but definitely the my stomach hurts badly, I feel completely antisocial, just go away and leave me alone kind. But my friend Duffy and I are in Manhattan, we are here to Have Fun, it's St. Patrick's Day, and our hotel room is a ferry ride away, so we press on. Her Catholic buds (I think it was them) find a not-so-crowded (sort of) pub across from Madison Square Garden. We go there. I slump at a table and try not to cry or be too big of a party pooper. Duffy dances and has fun. Eventually, feeling slightly not so horrible, I join her. Little Lizzy gets to jump up and down in utero to some random Irish tunes.
Finally, I feel it is late enough that I can beg her to leave. So, we leave. It must've been about 2 at that point. Or maybe the place closed. I dunno. The important thing to me right then was, we left. We managed to catch our ferry. We made it back to the waterfront at LuwonGisland. We try to start the car... Um. Car? It's a good time for you to start. It's now after 3, in a sketchy part of NYC, and we are two women who are tired and not feeling like being toyed with. Thanks!
The car kept stalling. As I recall, braking was part of what caused a stall. So we'd get it going, then try to coast as far as we could. Corners were fun! If you're Evil Knievel.
Finally, we come to our Waterloo -- an overpass that was too much to coast over. So, we slide to a stop. I get out and push, over Duffy's loud protestations. She steers. We go pretty much nowhere, not very fast.
Then, a pickup truck pulls up. Long Island -- 3-something a.m. -- what are the odds this will be a pretty scene? But, miraculously, it's two young guys who genuinely want to help us. Their names (this is so cute!) were Harry and Danny, and they are happy to bumper-push us several miles to Duffy's friend's motel. Earning us their everlasting gratitude.
We spent most of the next day (Duffy and I; not the Catholic guys or the pickup-truck guys, if that wasn't clear) hanging out in a slapped-together pizza shop on the island, watching people who looked like they'd jumped straight off the set of a gangster movie sashay in and out, while the car got worked on. About six hours and $800 later, we were on our way.
When I told my mom this story, I said, "Maybe Harry and Danny were angels!" She pointed out that they had the same names as my dad (Harry, but he goes by Ed) and my uncle (Dan). I got a kick out of that, for some reason.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
bodily fluids
Being a working parent sucks sometimes (news flash). I hate the sensation of my child's illnesses being an INCONVENIENCE for me. In fairness, I imagine they're an inconvenience for stay-at-home parents, also. I hate the fact that my first reaction when Lizzy tosses cookies, or I notice the telltale signs of an ear infection (I was going to spell them out, but I decided to spare you -- you owe me one), etc., is not a feeling of sympathy for my child. No, it's, "What is this going to cost me in terms of time off from work, effort in getting to the doc, pain and agony in getting my child to down a course or two of antibiotics, etc.?"
As I figure it, from talking to other parents of small 'uns, our child is among the healthier of her age set. But she has her own little health foibles. The biggest has been (thanks, day care!) ear infections. Mom says I got them frequently, as well, when I was small. I can vaguely remember the painful sensation of trying to fall asleep with that icky ache in the side of my head.
Lizzy's had, sheesh, I don't know how many. I'm not even sure we treated them all. If certain rather disgusting things didn't clue me in to the fact that she had an earful of pus, I didn't know to take her to the doc. She never told me her ears hurt. She's a pretty tough kid, I suspect, when it comes to pain.
So, on the advice of a doc, we had ear tubes put in about a year and a half ago. In theory, they maintain a hole in the kiddo's eardrums so fluid can't build up in there. Don't ask me how she can still hear that way... As it was, she had a near-constant pool of liquid -- a 'come and get me!' invitation for bacteria to camp out.
So, great. We got the plugs. That was fairly minimally freaky, considering they had to render my 2-year-old unconscious to do it. As the doc said, "At least when they're screaming, they're inhaling the anesthetic more rapidly!" How comforting.
We returned to the doc on Monday to see how the tubes were doing. Last I heard, one looked like it was coming out. Well, they're both out now. And, yep, fluid has once again settled into the back of her ear. Which makes me feel bad for assuming that all those times lately she's been saying, "What? What?" and making me repeat things three times, she was just messing with me. I mean, she talks pretty well; obviously, she can hear. Or used to be able to?
Now we're going to watch, and wait, and see if she still has le fluid buildup in six weeks. A doc is going to administer a hearing test. I can't imagine that this will go well. She will understand what they want of her, sure; but will she respond? Who can predict a 3-year-old's mood? She can be a perfect angel in the dentist's chair, and a little hellion at a restaurant when her favorite food (whatever it is that minute) is put in front of her. You just never know.
And yet, I'm grateful for her health in other ways. The leg that seemed, when she was born, to have a major circulatory issue, but now is hardly noticeable. Etc.
I hope to have another one sometime "soon" (whatever soon means). How the heck to keep up with the needs of two little petri dishes o' disease? Thank God for an understanding boss.
I was going to end the post here, but while I'm at it: What do two working parents do when their kids get to be primary school-aged, and then they're released for the summer? Yes, we've seriously considered having one of us stay home with the kiddo(s) -- I'd love that plan, in theory. Part of me would be driven slowly mad, but part of me would love it, etc. All the parts of me will never be happy at one time. That's just life... But, how then to pay a mortgage? How does everyone else do this?
I asked a friend with school-aged kids this recently, and she gave some vague answer about how there are "camps" -- riding camp, sports camps, what have you -- and how we parents can pack our kids off to one camp after another until school opens again. (why this should bother me more than day care, well, I don't know.) "But it's kinda tricky," she said. "You have to schedule them just right, or you have a few open weeks."
Or maybe you try to twist your neighbor's arm to watch your kid for you. I remember my mom doing that for a lady she knew -- she had a girl, Julie, spend the summer days with us one year. Julie was, as I recall, about three years older than me. I'm thinking we were maybe 8 and 11? Something like that. She taught me waaay more than I wanted to know about a few things, most memorably menstruation. I was terrified of the whole concept. She had me read "Dear God, It's Me, Margaret." (have I mentioned how much I loathe Judy Blume books? Coming-of-age tales have never, ever appealed to me.) I could never understand the character who was desperate to "become a woman" in that, er, way.
Oh, the compromises of life. The decisions. Oh for the halcyon pre-Starbucks days of $70,000 mortgages.
As I figure it, from talking to other parents of small 'uns, our child is among the healthier of her age set. But she has her own little health foibles. The biggest has been (thanks, day care!) ear infections. Mom says I got them frequently, as well, when I was small. I can vaguely remember the painful sensation of trying to fall asleep with that icky ache in the side of my head.
Lizzy's had, sheesh, I don't know how many. I'm not even sure we treated them all. If certain rather disgusting things didn't clue me in to the fact that she had an earful of pus, I didn't know to take her to the doc. She never told me her ears hurt. She's a pretty tough kid, I suspect, when it comes to pain.
So, on the advice of a doc, we had ear tubes put in about a year and a half ago. In theory, they maintain a hole in the kiddo's eardrums so fluid can't build up in there. Don't ask me how she can still hear that way... As it was, she had a near-constant pool of liquid -- a 'come and get me!' invitation for bacteria to camp out.
So, great. We got the plugs. That was fairly minimally freaky, considering they had to render my 2-year-old unconscious to do it. As the doc said, "At least when they're screaming, they're inhaling the anesthetic more rapidly!" How comforting.
We returned to the doc on Monday to see how the tubes were doing. Last I heard, one looked like it was coming out. Well, they're both out now. And, yep, fluid has once again settled into the back of her ear. Which makes me feel bad for assuming that all those times lately she's been saying, "What? What?" and making me repeat things three times, she was just messing with me. I mean, she talks pretty well; obviously, she can hear. Or used to be able to?
Now we're going to watch, and wait, and see if she still has le fluid buildup in six weeks. A doc is going to administer a hearing test. I can't imagine that this will go well. She will understand what they want of her, sure; but will she respond? Who can predict a 3-year-old's mood? She can be a perfect angel in the dentist's chair, and a little hellion at a restaurant when her favorite food (whatever it is that minute) is put in front of her. You just never know.
And yet, I'm grateful for her health in other ways. The leg that seemed, when she was born, to have a major circulatory issue, but now is hardly noticeable. Etc.
I hope to have another one sometime "soon" (whatever soon means). How the heck to keep up with the needs of two little petri dishes o' disease? Thank God for an understanding boss.
I was going to end the post here, but while I'm at it: What do two working parents do when their kids get to be primary school-aged, and then they're released for the summer? Yes, we've seriously considered having one of us stay home with the kiddo(s) -- I'd love that plan, in theory. Part of me would be driven slowly mad, but part of me would love it, etc. All the parts of me will never be happy at one time. That's just life... But, how then to pay a mortgage? How does everyone else do this?
I asked a friend with school-aged kids this recently, and she gave some vague answer about how there are "camps" -- riding camp, sports camps, what have you -- and how we parents can pack our kids off to one camp after another until school opens again. (why this should bother me more than day care, well, I don't know.) "But it's kinda tricky," she said. "You have to schedule them just right, or you have a few open weeks."
Or maybe you try to twist your neighbor's arm to watch your kid for you. I remember my mom doing that for a lady she knew -- she had a girl, Julie, spend the summer days with us one year. Julie was, as I recall, about three years older than me. I'm thinking we were maybe 8 and 11? Something like that. She taught me waaay more than I wanted to know about a few things, most memorably menstruation. I was terrified of the whole concept. She had me read "Dear God, It's Me, Margaret." (have I mentioned how much I loathe Judy Blume books? Coming-of-age tales have never, ever appealed to me.) I could never understand the character who was desperate to "become a woman" in that, er, way.
Oh, the compromises of life. The decisions. Oh for the halcyon pre-Starbucks days of $70,000 mortgages.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Lizzy at play
My child needs a little girl friend, pronto. I wonder if I can talk Matt into agreeing to adopt a child.
Because Matt and I are getting tired of role-playing. Perhaps I’m getting lazy as a parent. I will (mostly) happily have my train chased by Lizzy’s train, or draw photos that she can color, or play one of her card games, or practice writing letters (upon invitation), only to be told she wants to do it all by herself… But the role playing. Argghhh!
“I can be Woody and Buzz, and you can be Cinderella and Jessie.”
“I can be Junior, and you can be LauraCarrot.”
“I can be Lilo, and you can be Stitch.”
And then we hold the relevant stuffed animals, and pretend to interact.
You get the idea.
Because, our role-playing adventures don’t usually progress beyond, “Hi! How are you doing today?” “What do you want to do now?”
After a few pretend activities, Lizzy usually wants two of the characters to get married. This morning, in the car, she wanted two kid-aged characters to get married.
I said, (pretending to be my character,) “But I’m too young to get married!”
“Not YOU,” said Lizzy. “Junior Asparagus!”
So apparently the wedding’s off. I’m too young. I hope Matt’s not too disappointed.
I wonder how old I have to be. I’ll see what Lizzy has to say on the matter and let you know.
Because Matt and I are getting tired of role-playing. Perhaps I’m getting lazy as a parent. I will (mostly) happily have my train chased by Lizzy’s train, or draw photos that she can color, or play one of her card games, or practice writing letters (upon invitation), only to be told she wants to do it all by herself… But the role playing. Argghhh!
“I can be Woody and Buzz, and you can be Cinderella and Jessie.”
“I can be Junior, and you can be LauraCarrot.”
“I can be Lilo, and you can be Stitch.”
And then we hold the relevant stuffed animals, and pretend to interact.
You get the idea.
Because, our role-playing adventures don’t usually progress beyond, “Hi! How are you doing today?” “What do you want to do now?”
After a few pretend activities, Lizzy usually wants two of the characters to get married. This morning, in the car, she wanted two kid-aged characters to get married.
I said, (pretending to be my character,) “But I’m too young to get married!”
“Not YOU,” said Lizzy. “Junior Asparagus!”
So apparently the wedding’s off. I’m too young. I hope Matt’s not too disappointed.
I wonder how old I have to be. I’ll see what Lizzy has to say on the matter and let you know.
Goooooooaaaaaal(s)!
I am a wannabe list-making person. I love lists. And I love checking things off lists. But mostly, they’re to remind me of easily categorized stuff. Friend Erin has inspired me to carry a notebook wherever I go, but sadly, I rarely write in it. But it’s there if I ever WANT to!
One of my lists is a common one, I believe. Life Goals. Not major things, like, say, retire with that oft-estimated necessary one million dollars, or … I dunno, climb Mount Everest. Or make the world a better place in some undefinable way, thus defeating the purpose of setting measurable goals. I’m talking about the little things that you want to do one day, just to say you did. Stuff like, bungee jump off a crazy high bridge. That’s one of mine. But the bridge over the high ravine is an important element, because in my mind, I would be able to survive if the rope was too long, or broke, or something, if I did it over water. Yes! A 200-foot fall will be no biggie if only I can land in the water! In perfect swan dive formation, of course.
The list of places I want to see before I die – travel goals – are too lengthy to mention. It’s depressingly long. It’s like good books – there are some that are so well-loved, I’d like to read them about 10 times more. But there are so many out there I haven’t read yet at all! And now that I know Matt, I want to take him to all of the cool places I've ever been, so he can experience them, too. *sigh*
Back to today’s goal. It’s a great goal, because it’s totally achieveable: Someday, I want to sing karaoke while backed by a full band. They do this, you know. Somewhere. I don’t know where in D.C., and I don’t think of D.C. as a super fun place to do it. But … someday.
One of my lists is a common one, I believe. Life Goals. Not major things, like, say, retire with that oft-estimated necessary one million dollars, or … I dunno, climb Mount Everest. Or make the world a better place in some undefinable way, thus defeating the purpose of setting measurable goals. I’m talking about the little things that you want to do one day, just to say you did. Stuff like, bungee jump off a crazy high bridge. That’s one of mine. But the bridge over the high ravine is an important element, because in my mind, I would be able to survive if the rope was too long, or broke, or something, if I did it over water. Yes! A 200-foot fall will be no biggie if only I can land in the water! In perfect swan dive formation, of course.
The list of places I want to see before I die – travel goals – are too lengthy to mention. It’s depressingly long. It’s like good books – there are some that are so well-loved, I’d like to read them about 10 times more. But there are so many out there I haven’t read yet at all! And now that I know Matt, I want to take him to all of the cool places I've ever been, so he can experience them, too. *sigh*
Back to today’s goal. It’s a great goal, because it’s totally achieveable: Someday, I want to sing karaoke while backed by a full band. They do this, you know. Somewhere. I don’t know where in D.C., and I don’t think of D.C. as a super fun place to do it. But … someday.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Dance revolution
There's a advertisement for a new movie in the Rosslyn metro station, at the bottom of the escalator, that I've seen every day this week. It's called 'Take the Lead.' Apparently, it stars Antonio Banderas, not that it matters.
It amuses me daily, because it shows the silhouette of two people, dramatically dancing together, with the tagline: Never Follow.
Isn't the point of couples dancing that one -- generally the male -- leads, and the other follows? Isn't that how it works? Isn't that the beauty of it -- that these two become one in movement, appearing as though they have but one mind, through the skilled leading of one, and the skilled following of the other? (and some other things, such as coordination and dance skills in general, sure.)
This is one reason I've never been that great at couples dancing. I'd love to do more of it, but I have a really hard time NOT leading, especially when it's clear the guy I'm dancing with is not taking his cues from the music, or doing it the established way.
And I won't even get started on the idiocy of 'never following.' Because some of us should only ever LEAD!!! We are THAT awesome. Or, perhaps, that difficult to work with.
It's just such a dumb idea for a dance movie poster. I couldn't resist mocking it.
It amuses me daily, because it shows the silhouette of two people, dramatically dancing together, with the tagline: Never Follow.
Isn't the point of couples dancing that one -- generally the male -- leads, and the other follows? Isn't that how it works? Isn't that the beauty of it -- that these two become one in movement, appearing as though they have but one mind, through the skilled leading of one, and the skilled following of the other? (and some other things, such as coordination and dance skills in general, sure.)This is one reason I've never been that great at couples dancing. I'd love to do more of it, but I have a really hard time NOT leading, especially when it's clear the guy I'm dancing with is not taking his cues from the music, or doing it the established way.
And I won't even get started on the idiocy of 'never following.' Because some of us should only ever LEAD!!! We are THAT awesome. Or, perhaps, that difficult to work with.
It's just such a dumb idea for a dance movie poster. I couldn't resist mocking it.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
like gold. or was it silver?
I got to re-connect with some wonderful old friends on Sunday. Old by my D.C.-era standards, anyway. English Friend John was breezing through, so Friend Kelsey, who is off to Sudan for a year this week, of all places, threw together a little gathering so we old friends could convene. Dotty was there, and Ms. Duh, and the Parents-To-Be, and other fan favorites. Lizzy went along, and everyone politely sat through one of her songs that went on far too long, and admired her many other 3-year-old products and accomplishments, and John even swung her upside down by her legs (upon request) THREE TIMES, as Lizzy eagerly recounted in the car on the way home. Lizzy has always had a special place in her heart for John. He's just one of those kid-pleasing types.
I think we all got a kick out of seeing each other again. It's strange, though -- I take stock of these gatherings as we're driving away, and I think, was that as satisfying as I'd hoped? It never is, which I guess is a good thing. I always leave my friends wanting more. I guess that's why they're my friends -- they're just so darned fun to be with.
Earlier that day, we hung with our Mars Hill churchmates, whom I had not seen in what felt like forever. I guess it wasn't that long. Hm. Well, I have a hefty deficit to make up, darnit!
I love the folks in my "new" church. It's kinda frustrating to know that I'll never know them as well as many of my old friends, no matter how long a time we have, simply because of the nature of the time (single, easy scheduling, fancy-free lifestyle of bygone days). Thanks, City Lady, for hosting lunch!
There are always advantages and disadvantages when things change, I suppose. The relationships won't be the same, but there will be new kinds of sweetness about them. I hope!
I think we all got a kick out of seeing each other again. It's strange, though -- I take stock of these gatherings as we're driving away, and I think, was that as satisfying as I'd hoped? It never is, which I guess is a good thing. I always leave my friends wanting more. I guess that's why they're my friends -- they're just so darned fun to be with.
Earlier that day, we hung with our Mars Hill churchmates, whom I had not seen in what felt like forever. I guess it wasn't that long. Hm. Well, I have a hefty deficit to make up, darnit!
I love the folks in my "new" church. It's kinda frustrating to know that I'll never know them as well as many of my old friends, no matter how long a time we have, simply because of the nature of the time (single, easy scheduling, fancy-free lifestyle of bygone days). Thanks, City Lady, for hosting lunch!
There are always advantages and disadvantages when things change, I suppose. The relationships won't be the same, but there will be new kinds of sweetness about them. I hope!
Monday, March 06, 2006
Friday, March 03, 2006
Wonder what I do at work?
Apparently, I wear sweatshirts and taste chili all day.
Here I am in a photo that ran in this month's 'Stripes newsletter':
I'm NOT giving the peace sign, by the way. I'm indicating which chili I'm going to vote for. ... Out of the entire D.C. office branch of our company, only three of us would be persuaded to be chili judges. What's wrong with chili, man?
(the third judge requested to be cropped out of the left side of this photo. I don't really blame her. The lights in that conference room make everyone look like the undead.)
To double your viewing pleasure, at right is a photo of our esteemed publisher. We'll call him T.K., since those are his initials:
At first, I thought, "Wow! The lights gleaming off his hair look like a halo!" Then I saw the points of the star poking out from his head on the wall behind... Those look distinctly like something quite the opposite. Heh.
Here I am in a photo that ran in this month's 'Stripes newsletter':
I'm NOT giving the peace sign, by the way. I'm indicating which chili I'm going to vote for. ... Out of the entire D.C. office branch of our company, only three of us would be persuaded to be chili judges. What's wrong with chili, man?
(the third judge requested to be cropped out of the left side of this photo. I don't really blame her. The lights in that conference room make everyone look like the undead.)
To double your viewing pleasure, at right is a photo of our esteemed publisher. We'll call him T.K., since those are his initials:
At first, I thought, "Wow! The lights gleaming off his hair look like a halo!" Then I saw the points of the star poking out from his head on the wall behind... Those look distinctly like something quite the opposite. Heh.
day care
Yesterday, when Matt and I picked up the Lizzard -- which has been a long process recently, as she wants to stay and play a little more. I guess that's a good thing -- her teacher said, "Oh, I need to talk to you guys for a minute." This is rarely a good sign. And it wasn't yesterday. Ms. Sharline, who is an amazing woman -- so positive and cheerful and creative about teaching, and the kids -- said that Lizzy had whacked another kid that day, and was very vociferous. "Don't come over here! I don't WANT to play with you!" she'd yell at the offending friendly advance. Nice. Ms. Sharline was quick to point out that their naptime had been interrupted by a fire alarm, so maybe she was short on sleep. The truth is, Lizzy's been more of a stinker for the past week or two. Not sure why. I can only attribute these things to phases, because the attitudes seem to ebb and flow over weeks and months. We assured the teacher -- if it's an assurance -- that she was being a pickle at home recently, too. She actually gave the boy she considers her current best friend a BLOODY NOSE by busting him with an elephant toy. Ugh.
Ms. Sharline has asked each child what they want to learn more about. The class is going to take a week for each child and dive into the preferred topic. One wonders how they'll spend a week on things like 'sharks' or 'slippers.' 'Cars,' I can see that. And 'staying healthy.' (whose insightful child was THAT?) Lizzy's might be a challenge, too: 'Teddy bears.'
I blame Build-A-Bear for that one.
Ms. Sharline has asked each child what they want to learn more about. The class is going to take a week for each child and dive into the preferred topic. One wonders how they'll spend a week on things like 'sharks' or 'slippers.' 'Cars,' I can see that. And 'staying healthy.' (whose insightful child was THAT?) Lizzy's might be a challenge, too: 'Teddy bears.'
I blame Build-A-Bear for that one.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Jobs I've had, Part II
Some other stuff I’ve done, by way of making money:
I forgot to mention the first non-babysitting job: I worked once a week in a concession stand at the Ephrata Raceway. Yes, even I am amazed that Ephrata has a raceway. The weird thing was, it was fun! I normally groan when the phrase “customer service” is mentioned, but it was my first shot at ‘serving’ people on a job, and it was neat. It kind of gave me a high, to give people what they wanted, in a sense. And if they didn’t like the size of their elephant ear – which we actually made ourselves, whoop whoop – I’d give them another one. Problem solved. I did, however, live in fear after being told that occasionally the owners of the raceway would ask a concession stand chick to go down to the ‘winner’s circle’ or whatever and award the trophy. “And sometimes, they’re really excited! They’ll grab you and kiss you, but they don’t mean anything by it,” said the person who delivered this information. As I’d never before been kissed, or grabbed, for that matter, the task did not appeal. In any case, I was never asked.
The first night I worked there was notable because it was the date of “my” senior prom. April 22, I believe. To which, obviously, I did not go. I didn’t go to any formal dances in high school. I was quite a ways from being ready to go on a date. Boys were still kind of scary. I liked to debate sports with them and stuff, and I’d had secret crushes on a few, but no WAY did I want to actually date one, or go on a date with one. I considered myself to be mature for my age, in some ways, but not in a social sense.
In college, I don’t recall working much until, hm, my senior year? Is that possible? I do believe it is. I freaked out when my parents actually followed through on their draconian vow to fund only FOUR YEARS of higher education at an in-state, public school. My year in Wales, during which I took stuff that seemed fun, interesting and educational (Welsh language, Welsh history, a class on Dylan Thomas and an English class on, um, Jonathan Swift or satire or something) put me behind a bit in terms of credits. Also, not taking any core classes in my major until I was a senior put me behind a bit. Go figure… So I stuck around an extra semester – I was in no hurry to get out and have a Real Job, anyway – and borrowed a bit of money from Mom and Dad and (arm flung over eyes dramatically) Paid My Own Way.
(I must break here to point out that, honestly, I do realize how very very very lucky I was to have my college education paid for. I have run into so many people who are still toting around massive student loans, or who have busted their heinies to pay them off, or who didn’t end up going to college at all because they couldn’t figure out how to pay for it. I don’t think I was so very grateful at the time – entitled is more like it – but I surely am now.)
That senior year, before the year of Paying My Own Way, I got hooked up through a sorority “sister” (and an actual friend of mine! Yes, some of the sisters WERE actually my friends) at one of the sweetest, and yet most boring at times, jobs I’ve ever had: Ushering (is that a verb?) at the college’s coliseum. I either took tickets, or guarded a non-entry door (YAWN), or stood up high in the stands and guarded against Potential Trouble at such events as: Cougar basketball games, ballets, concerts, guest speakers, etc., etc. You could pretty much watch the event, if you weren’t doing the non-entry door thing. Man, that was a ghastly assignment. So, total crapshoot. Awesome job, or so boring you wanted to shoot yourself. I was super bitter about the basketball events because I was TOTALLY INTO the Cougar team – and even had a class with the star player, whoop whoop! – but my friend Jenny, who couldn’t have cared less if her life seriously did depend on it – wouldn’t have out of principle, in that case – had a permanent ‘floor’ assignment for basketball. Grossly unfair.
A list of the concerts I worked (and thus saw for free, or was subjected to, depending on your perspective): Def Leppard; Bryan Adams; George Strait; Alan Jackson; New Kids on the Block; and more that I can't recall.
The one really bad thing that happened at this job was that I met, and inexplicably befriended, a guy named Dean, who my parents are probably thanking God nightly to this day I did not run off with. (that was never EVER a possibility, Mom. Seriously.) But they were right to worry, because this guy was messed up with a capital M and U. I think most of my decision to hang out with him was a) I did not want to be back in the U.S.! I had seen the light. America sucked. I missed my little carefree student life, and my friends, in the U.K. and, b) I HATED, DESPISED and LOATHED being forced to live in the sorority with every fiber of my being at that point. So, hanging at the bars with Dean was escape. Also, I had hung at pubs with my friends in the U.K., and … well… that was different. But I didn’t quite get that yet. I was young and naïve, what can I say.
Dean, in case you’re curious, turned out to be my first kiss. When I was 22, or nearly so. I didn’t like him in that way, but I didn’t know if I’d ever have another male friend willing to kiss me (yes, I’m serious), so I said, okay! Do you mind? He, of course, did not mind. Stuck his tongue straight into my mouth. A completely disgusting experience. I sprang out of the car, right there in the parking lot of the Moscow (Idaho) mall, and spat on the ground. He was not impressed by my reaction.
So, to tie up the Dean saga, eventually, I learned my lesson and told him to get lost. It took awhile, though, and a very scary lecture from my dad about how, basically, I was better than that. About how my family was better than that. I am reminded of it sometimes, when I read The Lion King to Lizzy, and Mufasa, speaking from beyond the grave, says to Simba: Um, I don’t actually remember exactly. But something about how he’s born to live more of a life than he’s leading. How he must return and take his place in the circle of life, yadda yadda. I’ve always felt that it was very very brave of Dad to deliver that lecture. I’m quite sure he’d have rather chewed on nails than to have embarrassed us both that way. But, it was necessary. So that’s what a loving parent does.
Which brings me to the most ridiculous job I’ve ever had: I then took a turn as a bartender at a little sports bar in Pullman (the college town) called the Sports Page. Which, at that time, was still pretty run-down; the cheapskate owner since sold it and the new owner spruced it up and made it a lot more shiny and trendy. But at that time, it was beer on tap, beer in bottles and wine coolers, and maybe a bag of microwaved popcorn if you were hungry. The tips were okay; the smoke inhalation was horrendous. I probably got asked out an average of about once a shift. But, all in all, it was kind of fun. Again, my parents were horrified. The gal who made up the shifts didn’t like me much, I think, and I worked only two or three nights a month. So it wasn’t much of a job at all.
Ah, Dean: The last time I heard from him was after I’d moved to Spokane – the second time around at the Spokesman-Review – and he called me on my birthday (a coincidence; he hadn’t realized it), wanting me to bail him out of jail. Classic. And cathartic. I had the not very Christlike pleasure of telling him that, yes, 200 dollars was not so very much, but I would not bail you out of jail if it cost me only twenty cents. Goodbye, and good luck.
I forgot to mention the first non-babysitting job: I worked once a week in a concession stand at the Ephrata Raceway. Yes, even I am amazed that Ephrata has a raceway. The weird thing was, it was fun! I normally groan when the phrase “customer service” is mentioned, but it was my first shot at ‘serving’ people on a job, and it was neat. It kind of gave me a high, to give people what they wanted, in a sense. And if they didn’t like the size of their elephant ear – which we actually made ourselves, whoop whoop – I’d give them another one. Problem solved. I did, however, live in fear after being told that occasionally the owners of the raceway would ask a concession stand chick to go down to the ‘winner’s circle’ or whatever and award the trophy. “And sometimes, they’re really excited! They’ll grab you and kiss you, but they don’t mean anything by it,” said the person who delivered this information. As I’d never before been kissed, or grabbed, for that matter, the task did not appeal. In any case, I was never asked.
The first night I worked there was notable because it was the date of “my” senior prom. April 22, I believe. To which, obviously, I did not go. I didn’t go to any formal dances in high school. I was quite a ways from being ready to go on a date. Boys were still kind of scary. I liked to debate sports with them and stuff, and I’d had secret crushes on a few, but no WAY did I want to actually date one, or go on a date with one. I considered myself to be mature for my age, in some ways, but not in a social sense.
In college, I don’t recall working much until, hm, my senior year? Is that possible? I do believe it is. I freaked out when my parents actually followed through on their draconian vow to fund only FOUR YEARS of higher education at an in-state, public school. My year in Wales, during which I took stuff that seemed fun, interesting and educational (Welsh language, Welsh history, a class on Dylan Thomas and an English class on, um, Jonathan Swift or satire or something) put me behind a bit in terms of credits. Also, not taking any core classes in my major until I was a senior put me behind a bit. Go figure… So I stuck around an extra semester – I was in no hurry to get out and have a Real Job, anyway – and borrowed a bit of money from Mom and Dad and (arm flung over eyes dramatically) Paid My Own Way.
(I must break here to point out that, honestly, I do realize how very very very lucky I was to have my college education paid for. I have run into so many people who are still toting around massive student loans, or who have busted their heinies to pay them off, or who didn’t end up going to college at all because they couldn’t figure out how to pay for it. I don’t think I was so very grateful at the time – entitled is more like it – but I surely am now.)
That senior year, before the year of Paying My Own Way, I got hooked up through a sorority “sister” (and an actual friend of mine! Yes, some of the sisters WERE actually my friends) at one of the sweetest, and yet most boring at times, jobs I’ve ever had: Ushering (is that a verb?) at the college’s coliseum. I either took tickets, or guarded a non-entry door (YAWN), or stood up high in the stands and guarded against Potential Trouble at such events as: Cougar basketball games, ballets, concerts, guest speakers, etc., etc. You could pretty much watch the event, if you weren’t doing the non-entry door thing. Man, that was a ghastly assignment. So, total crapshoot. Awesome job, or so boring you wanted to shoot yourself. I was super bitter about the basketball events because I was TOTALLY INTO the Cougar team – and even had a class with the star player, whoop whoop! – but my friend Jenny, who couldn’t have cared less if her life seriously did depend on it – wouldn’t have out of principle, in that case – had a permanent ‘floor’ assignment for basketball. Grossly unfair.
A list of the concerts I worked (and thus saw for free, or was subjected to, depending on your perspective): Def Leppard; Bryan Adams; George Strait; Alan Jackson; New Kids on the Block; and more that I can't recall.
The one really bad thing that happened at this job was that I met, and inexplicably befriended, a guy named Dean, who my parents are probably thanking God nightly to this day I did not run off with. (that was never EVER a possibility, Mom. Seriously.) But they were right to worry, because this guy was messed up with a capital M and U. I think most of my decision to hang out with him was a) I did not want to be back in the U.S.! I had seen the light. America sucked. I missed my little carefree student life, and my friends, in the U.K. and, b) I HATED, DESPISED and LOATHED being forced to live in the sorority with every fiber of my being at that point. So, hanging at the bars with Dean was escape. Also, I had hung at pubs with my friends in the U.K., and … well… that was different. But I didn’t quite get that yet. I was young and naïve, what can I say.
Dean, in case you’re curious, turned out to be my first kiss. When I was 22, or nearly so. I didn’t like him in that way, but I didn’t know if I’d ever have another male friend willing to kiss me (yes, I’m serious), so I said, okay! Do you mind? He, of course, did not mind. Stuck his tongue straight into my mouth. A completely disgusting experience. I sprang out of the car, right there in the parking lot of the Moscow (Idaho) mall, and spat on the ground. He was not impressed by my reaction.
So, to tie up the Dean saga, eventually, I learned my lesson and told him to get lost. It took awhile, though, and a very scary lecture from my dad about how, basically, I was better than that. About how my family was better than that. I am reminded of it sometimes, when I read The Lion King to Lizzy, and Mufasa, speaking from beyond the grave, says to Simba: Um, I don’t actually remember exactly. But something about how he’s born to live more of a life than he’s leading. How he must return and take his place in the circle of life, yadda yadda. I’ve always felt that it was very very brave of Dad to deliver that lecture. I’m quite sure he’d have rather chewed on nails than to have embarrassed us both that way. But, it was necessary. So that’s what a loving parent does.
Which brings me to the most ridiculous job I’ve ever had: I then took a turn as a bartender at a little sports bar in Pullman (the college town) called the Sports Page. Which, at that time, was still pretty run-down; the cheapskate owner since sold it and the new owner spruced it up and made it a lot more shiny and trendy. But at that time, it was beer on tap, beer in bottles and wine coolers, and maybe a bag of microwaved popcorn if you were hungry. The tips were okay; the smoke inhalation was horrendous. I probably got asked out an average of about once a shift. But, all in all, it was kind of fun. Again, my parents were horrified. The gal who made up the shifts didn’t like me much, I think, and I worked only two or three nights a month. So it wasn’t much of a job at all.
Ah, Dean: The last time I heard from him was after I’d moved to Spokane – the second time around at the Spokesman-Review – and he called me on my birthday (a coincidence; he hadn’t realized it), wanting me to bail him out of jail. Classic. And cathartic. I had the not very Christlike pleasure of telling him that, yes, 200 dollars was not so very much, but I would not bail you out of jail if it cost me only twenty cents. Goodbye, and good luck.
Karma
I just ‘stepped out’ (where did that phrase come from, anyway?) for a few minutes – bank run, Starbucks run, Hecht’s run (I LOVE working at Metro Center!). On the way back to the office from Hecht’s, I felt ‘a bit peckish’ (that one comes from England; I know that much), so I dropped into Caribou Coffee. Or rather, I stepped into Caribou Coffee. Or something. Anyway, as I was in line, I heard a homeless guy working over (again – derivation?) the lady behind me. I’m not sure I fully got the gist – I’m not sure there was a full gist to get, is part of the problem – but I believe he was trying to get her to order him a drink using a ‘free drink’ coupon he had.
So, no big deal, right? No real skin off her nose (another weird phrase)! She’s in line anyway, and doesn’t have to pay a dime extra. The strange part was, the guy acted like he was doing her a huge favor. As if, by giving her his free drink gift certificate (so she could buy him a specified drink), he was granting a boon. He even said, “Well, I like to give back, you know?” He was outside hawking the homeless paper, by the way. Just to round out the scene.
After he went back outside, I asked the gal, “And in what way is he ‘giving back’ to you?” “I have no idea,” she said with a shrug. “But I figure, hey, it doesn’t hurt to have good karma. It’ll come back around.”
I pondered that on my walk back to the office. Granted, a length of two half-blocks. So: Karma, or at least this woman’s perception of karma, reduces even the most selfless act – except, perhaps, dying for someone, unless you believe that the specific act grants you something – to a selfish gesture. I do for you, because I want it done for me later. Similar to the Golden Rule, perhaps. Except that the Golden Rule doesn’t automatically dictate that you’ll be done back to.
Is the Christian perspective selfish like that? I am to love others in thoughts, words and deeds because Christ first loved me… No, I don’t think so. Because it doesn’t EARN me Christ’s love. It’s done out of gratitude. And because God commands it. Suggests it? Does he suggest, or command?
Wasn’t it one of y’all’s blogs that reminded some time ago that all acts are intrinsically selfish? I had never thought of that before. Kind of like the idea that all humor is painful to someone?
Enough not-so-deep thoughts for me. If anyone has a greater perception of Karma, I’d love to hear about it. Or where the concept fits in the Grand Scheme. Because, I’ll admit, whenever I smugly declare that “I’ve never gotten a speeding ticket!” despite the fact that I speed every time I drive somewhere, the phrase, “Pride goeth before a fall” rumbles through my head, and I frantically do some sort of inner penitence. So perhaps I am down with the whole Karma thing, too.
Except: Okay, one last thought: I don’t really do nice things for people in the hope or expectation that they’ll be done to me in return. I think I do them because it makes me feel good. Which, yes. Is intrinsically selfish. And, I want to please God. I want him to pat me on the head and say, “That’s my girl!” And perhaps forget about the 53 mean inner thoughts I had in the course of my commute just hours before.
Hm.
So, no big deal, right? No real skin off her nose (another weird phrase)! She’s in line anyway, and doesn’t have to pay a dime extra. The strange part was, the guy acted like he was doing her a huge favor. As if, by giving her his free drink gift certificate (so she could buy him a specified drink), he was granting a boon. He even said, “Well, I like to give back, you know?” He was outside hawking the homeless paper, by the way. Just to round out the scene.
After he went back outside, I asked the gal, “And in what way is he ‘giving back’ to you?” “I have no idea,” she said with a shrug. “But I figure, hey, it doesn’t hurt to have good karma. It’ll come back around.”
I pondered that on my walk back to the office. Granted, a length of two half-blocks. So: Karma, or at least this woman’s perception of karma, reduces even the most selfless act – except, perhaps, dying for someone, unless you believe that the specific act grants you something – to a selfish gesture. I do for you, because I want it done for me later. Similar to the Golden Rule, perhaps. Except that the Golden Rule doesn’t automatically dictate that you’ll be done back to.
Is the Christian perspective selfish like that? I am to love others in thoughts, words and deeds because Christ first loved me… No, I don’t think so. Because it doesn’t EARN me Christ’s love. It’s done out of gratitude. And because God commands it. Suggests it? Does he suggest, or command?
Wasn’t it one of y’all’s blogs that reminded some time ago that all acts are intrinsically selfish? I had never thought of that before. Kind of like the idea that all humor is painful to someone?
Enough not-so-deep thoughts for me. If anyone has a greater perception of Karma, I’d love to hear about it. Or where the concept fits in the Grand Scheme. Because, I’ll admit, whenever I smugly declare that “I’ve never gotten a speeding ticket!” despite the fact that I speed every time I drive somewhere, the phrase, “Pride goeth before a fall” rumbles through my head, and I frantically do some sort of inner penitence. So perhaps I am down with the whole Karma thing, too.
Except: Okay, one last thought: I don’t really do nice things for people in the hope or expectation that they’ll be done to me in return. I think I do them because it makes me feel good. Which, yes. Is intrinsically selfish. And, I want to please God. I want him to pat me on the head and say, “That’s my girl!” And perhaps forget about the 53 mean inner thoughts I had in the course of my commute just hours before.
Hm.
on sleep
Isn’t sleep weird?
I’ve been doing a lot of pondering about sleep since, well, always. I love sleep. Sleep loves me. Or so I’d like to believe. In reality, though, as long as I get about seven hours of sleep, getting more doesn’t make me feel any different. In fact, on the incredibly rare occasions that I get more than nine hours of sleep, I feel worse. Like I’ve been sledgehammered by tiny gnomes. Taking a break from stealing underpants, I guess. (probably the most recent South Park episode I’ve seen) Even I am willing to admit that no one really needs more than nine hours of sleep a night. Well, no adult. And my little girl has determined that she usually doesn’t, either, much to my chagrin.
Matt and I have radically different attitudes about sleep. I see sleep as an investment in your waking hours. I need a certain amount – at least, most nights – to feel ‘with it’ during the day. Otherwise, I’m some level of miserable. Coffee helps, but at some point, you JUST NEED SLEEP. This figures largely into why the first year of Lizzy’s life was not a great time for me. As you know, there were other factors, but sleep was a biggie.
Matt seems to perceive sleep as somewhat a waste of time. I try not to nag him about stuff – really, honestly, I do(n’t?); not that he’s any more ‘in need’ of nagging than anyone else – but, well, when someone I live with has a different perspective on things I deem important, it’s hard to keep my mouth shut. So I try to talk him into getting more sleep, appealing to concerns about his health, etc. He likes to have some wind-down time at night – time to pluck the ol’ guitar strings (not a euphemism, by the way), or flip around our very basic cable channels, or … well, that’s about all I’ve ever seen him do. I like to put Lizzy to bed (which he does sometimes, too), then probably crash myself because it’s after 10 p.m. when that little dervish finally drops off. Thus netting me exactly eight hours of sleep.
As I recall, my dad used to share Matt’s reluctance to hit hay. Perhaps he still does; I’m not sure. Mom and Dad would stay up past midnight, and Dad would get up at 6 or so to charge off to work. (the charge started slowly sometimes, I hear.) And Dad, like Matt, was none too fond of separating self from mattress on Saturday mornings.
It's almost as if they're saying, "We're going to suck the marrow out of life." Whereas I'm saying, "I'll do that marrow-sucking thing when I'm fully rested, and I'll be feeling good and ready for it!"
The first summer that I had the Willow Drive job, when I had to get up at 4 a.m., I remember whining to my parents at 8:30 p.m. the night before my first shift that I had to go to bed, but I didn’t want to. (Yes, I was 17 or 18 years old.) Dad gave me this look of disdaing tinged with mockery, and said, “You don’t NEED eight hours of sleep a night! You don’t ever need more than six.” (that’s how I remember it, Dad. You can deny it all you want.) I remember being horrified at the very thought!
College, of course, knocked this attitude right out of me. One time, I stayed up all night twice in a row because it was finals week, plus I wanted to go out and play darts, but needed to get some revisions done afterward. That was not so bright. But, hey. It was college.
Why am I rambling about sleep? This week’s Scene magazine feedback question, which I’m currently compiling, asks the servicemembers overseas the following:
“Are you a morning person, or a night owl?”
Since it is military folk being polled, most respond that they’re morning people. Because, as one ex-military friend of mine said (Hi, Jay!): "It's true that we get more done before 9 a.m. than most people do all day. But what they don't tell you is, we don't get much else done for the rest of the day!" Except coffee breaks, as I recall. Coffee breaks seemed to be key.
One notable exception among the stock 'morning person' responses was this young man, who replies:
“I'm a night person. I sleep about 3 hours a day, and I'm good with
that.”
What planet are you FROM, dude? How is that possible?
(I hope that this man never meets Matt. Or my dad.)
I’ve been doing a lot of pondering about sleep since, well, always. I love sleep. Sleep loves me. Or so I’d like to believe. In reality, though, as long as I get about seven hours of sleep, getting more doesn’t make me feel any different. In fact, on the incredibly rare occasions that I get more than nine hours of sleep, I feel worse. Like I’ve been sledgehammered by tiny gnomes. Taking a break from stealing underpants, I guess. (probably the most recent South Park episode I’ve seen) Even I am willing to admit that no one really needs more than nine hours of sleep a night. Well, no adult. And my little girl has determined that she usually doesn’t, either, much to my chagrin.
Matt and I have radically different attitudes about sleep. I see sleep as an investment in your waking hours. I need a certain amount – at least, most nights – to feel ‘with it’ during the day. Otherwise, I’m some level of miserable. Coffee helps, but at some point, you JUST NEED SLEEP. This figures largely into why the first year of Lizzy’s life was not a great time for me. As you know, there were other factors, but sleep was a biggie.
Matt seems to perceive sleep as somewhat a waste of time. I try not to nag him about stuff – really, honestly, I do(n’t?); not that he’s any more ‘in need’ of nagging than anyone else – but, well, when someone I live with has a different perspective on things I deem important, it’s hard to keep my mouth shut. So I try to talk him into getting more sleep, appealing to concerns about his health, etc. He likes to have some wind-down time at night – time to pluck the ol’ guitar strings (not a euphemism, by the way), or flip around our very basic cable channels, or … well, that’s about all I’ve ever seen him do. I like to put Lizzy to bed (which he does sometimes, too), then probably crash myself because it’s after 10 p.m. when that little dervish finally drops off. Thus netting me exactly eight hours of sleep.
As I recall, my dad used to share Matt’s reluctance to hit hay. Perhaps he still does; I’m not sure. Mom and Dad would stay up past midnight, and Dad would get up at 6 or so to charge off to work. (the charge started slowly sometimes, I hear.) And Dad, like Matt, was none too fond of separating self from mattress on Saturday mornings.
It's almost as if they're saying, "We're going to suck the marrow out of life." Whereas I'm saying, "I'll do that marrow-sucking thing when I'm fully rested, and I'll be feeling good and ready for it!"
The first summer that I had the Willow Drive job, when I had to get up at 4 a.m., I remember whining to my parents at 8:30 p.m. the night before my first shift that I had to go to bed, but I didn’t want to. (Yes, I was 17 or 18 years old.) Dad gave me this look of disdaing tinged with mockery, and said, “You don’t NEED eight hours of sleep a night! You don’t ever need more than six.” (that’s how I remember it, Dad. You can deny it all you want.) I remember being horrified at the very thought!
College, of course, knocked this attitude right out of me. One time, I stayed up all night twice in a row because it was finals week, plus I wanted to go out and play darts, but needed to get some revisions done afterward. That was not so bright. But, hey. It was college.
Why am I rambling about sleep? This week’s Scene magazine feedback question, which I’m currently compiling, asks the servicemembers overseas the following:
“Are you a morning person, or a night owl?”
Since it is military folk being polled, most respond that they’re morning people. Because, as one ex-military friend of mine said (Hi, Jay!): "It's true that we get more done before 9 a.m. than most people do all day. But what they don't tell you is, we don't get much else done for the rest of the day!" Except coffee breaks, as I recall. Coffee breaks seemed to be key.
One notable exception among the stock 'morning person' responses was this young man, who replies:
“I'm a night person. I sleep about 3 hours a day, and I'm good with
that.”
What planet are you FROM, dude? How is that possible?
(I hope that this man never meets Matt. Or my dad.)
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